David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Preston!” Patrick exclaimed. “Preston, where are you?”

The crowd around him had thinned, and the old soldier shoved his way through those who remained, his seven underlings beside him.

“What?” Preston asked, raising his voice to be heard over the ruckus.

“How are you at fighting in close quarters?”

“Why the Abyss do you care?”

Patrick gestured below. There had to be two hundred of Karak’s soldiers down there now, bottlenecked at the breach. The soldiers were intent on bashing down the gate and hadn’t spread out farther along the passageway, leaving no room for their compatriots to enter.

A smile formed on Preston’s lips. “Good enough. . especially with a running start.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Patrick turned to the frightened people behind him, those who carried ropes and supplies. “You all-run along the wall. Fifty feet beyond the gate, I want you to fasten the ropes and throw them over the side.”

Ten young men took off, dragging their ropes behind them. The Master Warden stopped yelling instructions to the archers on the outer wall and turned his way.

“What are you planning, Patrick?”

Patrick grinned. “To stop the bastards from breaking down our gate.”

“With just the nine of you?”

“Make that ten,” said Judarius. The black-haired Warden lumbered from the back of the pack, holding a giant stone club in his hands. A stray arrow flew by, almost taking him in the throat.

Up stepped the Wardens Grendel and Olympus. “Eleven and twelve.”

“Twelve’s a good number,” said Patrick.

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You cannot hope to fend off so many with only twelve.”

“No, but you can.”

“How?”

“Gather up all the casks of purified water you can. Wait until Turock’s spellcasters crest the stairs. When they do, dump every single cask onto the soldiers, and then tell the casters to give them a good shock.” He winced. “And please make sure we’re nowhere nearby when lightning strikes.”

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You are all insane.”

“We do what we can. Now excuse me, Master Warden, but we have men to kill.”

Patrick turned on his heels and sprinted the other way, leading Judarius, Grendel, Olympus, and the Turncloaks along the wall. They passed over the gate, and he could hear the grunts and banging and shrieks coming from both those trying to get in and those fending them off. “Help will be there soon,” muttered Patrick, and he pushed his stunted legs faster.

The ten youngsters were almost done tying off the ropes when Patrick and his band of cutthroats arrived at the spot fifty feet past the gate. They backed away silently, giving the fighting men room to maneuver. Patrick, Preston, and Judarius tested the ropes, making sure they would hold. It seemed they would.

“Ready?” Patrick asked the Turncloaks.

“Ready,” said Preston.

“Ready,” echoed his sons with far less confidence. Of the rest of them, only Big and Little Flick seemed truly ready to dole out some punishment.

That best be enough.

Over the wall they went. Patrick descended at a rapid pace, the roar of the soldiers a deafening clamor. The passageway was almost pitch black when his feet hit the ground. He gave a quick glance down the corridor and saw the flurry of activity fifty feet away as the soldiers continued their assault on the inner gate. They were so intent on their task that none of them bothered to glance in his direction. He swore he saw one of the bars bend to the point of breaking. Drawing Winterbone from its sheath, he took in a deep breath as those around him readied their own weapons. Though it was dark he could see the gleam of violence in Judarius’s green-gold eyes.

“Wardens, stay behind us,” Patrick whispered to the tall, elegant creatures. “Use your height to your advantage. Let our armor take the hits.”

The three of them nodded. Turning back to the fight, Patrick lifted his sword high and murmured a prayer to Ashhur.

“No better time than now, you laggard. You best keep us safe.”

Useful as surprise might have been, they really wanted intimidation and shock, and with the greatest roar he could manage Patrick led the way, sword raised high as his party joined in with their own hollering. Those on the outskirts of the packed-together mass started, heads whipping in their direction, eyes wide with fear. The distance between them vanished in a heartbeat, and Patrick thrust Winterbone forward like a spear, driving into their ranks, stabbing upward, thrusting backward, and swinging his elbows to smash jaws, allowing room for those behind him to make good with their weapons. There were grunts and shrieks all around him as the soldiers tried to counterattack, but he was too strong and the space too cramped. Most couldn’t even get their weapons drawn. The few that succeeded did more damage to their fellow soldiers then to him. Alongside him crashed the rest, a chaos of dying, the Wardens finding their weak spots and smashing them with their giant clubs and mauls.

Someone collided with Patrick from behind, and he felt cold steel slip beneath the armor on his back. A hollow clang followed, and the steel disappeared, gashing him in the process. Patrick stumbled, his wound leaking, tackling a pair of struggling soldiers in the process. Before a swinging sword could halve him, he rolled to the side. The blade buried in the face of the one of the prone soldiers, eliciting a furious cry from the attacker.

Patrick tugged on Winterbone’s handle, but there was a body on top of the sword, pinning it down. He rolled from one side to another, trapped by an ever-closing wall of armored legs. In the darkness of the passageway, it was chaos. He couldn’t tell friend from foe. He glanced up and saw a shadowy, sneering face press in on him before that face exploded in a rain of saliva, blood, and teeth. The soldier collapsed atop him, and Patrick saw a large figure looming above the crowd, swinging away with a club, shadowy swirls of hair dancing behind him. Never before did Patrick think Judarius could have appeared so vicious, so deadly.

Finally able to wrench Winterbone free, he plunged the blade into another belly, legs driving to give him power. He kept his legs pumping, shoving the body backward as far as he could. A sudden surge of panic hit him as he wrenched the weapon free. In the bedlam he’d lost track of where he was.

A second later came a deafening crash of thunder and a flash of light so intense he was momentarily blinded. Men screamed, flesh sizzled. Patrick fell backward, crashing into an unknown soldier and eventually slamming the back of his helmed head against something hard. A hollow twang rang in his ears. When the stars cleared from his vision, he glanced behind him and saw that he sat atop a bleeding Joffrey Goldenrod. Quickly he brought his eyes forward, seeing the soldiers who had been nearest to the gate stumbling about in panic while countless of their compatriots hollered and shook. Still more bolts of lightning and energy flew from above, though their flash was not quite as bright or powerful.

About damn time.

In their panic, the surviving soldiers attempted to flee back the way they came, scampering over the soaked and shuddering pile of dead soldiers in search of the chasm in the wall. They too perished, their bodies thrown into convulsions while the smallclothes beneath their armor caught fire. Those who didn’t flee were cut down by the Wardens and Turncloaks. Patrick looked on in wonder, not able to believe his plan had worked. Even more surprising was just how terrifying the spellcasters could be, naked power killing without chance of defense or retaliation.

The putrid stenches of smoke and roasting meat reached Patrick’s nose, and he gagged. This time he did empty his stomach. . right on top of Joffrey.