David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Had enough, old boy?” asked a hoarse, tired voice.

Patrick rolled off Joffrey, who scampered away from him, retching. He looked up at a bloodied and limping Preston. When the older man smiled, his teeth were stained red.

“I dare say I have,” Patrick said.

“What do we do now?” asked Ragnar Ender, just as bloody as his father.

Patrick himself was covered with nasty cuts, and now that he’d vomited, he could feel every stab of pain that covered him.

“Now we have someone open the gate and let us in,” he said, spitting out his words. His head tilted to the side, and he looked beyond the sodden bodies of the dead soldiers to the hole in the wall beside the massive trunk of Celestia’s tree. Several hundred of Karak’s men were dead, but how long until thousands more rushed through the gap? “Actually, strike that,” he said, struggling to his feet. “First we need to get someone down here to fix that wall.”

“No need,” shouted Potrel Longshanks, the eldest of the spellcasters, from up on top of the wall. Frowning, Patrick looked up to where the men from Drake gathered. They were working on something, and he could see the magic flicking off them like the light of tiny stars. Then, without warning, the ground shook. The broken pieces of the wall rumbled as if alive, and then they rolled toward the gap. One atop the other they piled, groaning and shifting. Soldiers still trying to get inside were crushed by the ascending stones. It was hardly even, nor a third of the height it had originally been, but when the noise stopped, and the spellcasters lowered their arms, the breach had been sealed.

Potrel laughed down from the rampart.

“Celestia’s not the only one who can fill a hole,” he shouted.

“Bloody Abyss,” Patrick shouted up to the wall. “Why in the name of Karak’s hairy ass did you not do that earlier?”

Potrel shrugged. “I thought you wanted to kill a few of them first.”

Patrick shook his head as Judarius clapped him on the shoulder, laughing.

“Damn spellcasters,” Patrick muttered.

Ahaesarus watched Karak’s soldiers retreat back from the wall, clearly frustrated by the wizards’ sealing of the breach. Knowing it was only a matter of time before the siege towers approached and the catapults resumed their barrage, the Warden descended into the pit. He had witnessed the carnage in the narrow corridor between the walls, seen the bloody, charred remains of the soldiers who had entered the breach, smelled their cooking flesh. He and Warden Judah took on the task of counting their dead foes while other Wardens and the human healers mended Patrick DuTaureau and his eleven brave companions who were injured but alive. In the end neither he nor Judah could come to an exact number, but they both agreed that number was greater than two hundred. Two hundred soldiers dead, while we lost thirty. So why do I feel we came out the losers?

Thirty was too many. After the interior gate was opened, the corpses of Mordeina’s fallen were separated from those of the soldiers and carried to the ever-growing rows of dead that littered the far grove, an open mass grave that was barely hidden by a makeshift wall of twigs and bed sheets. Given the rot that was beginning to infest nearly every corner of the sixteen-square-mile settlement, he knew those bodies would have to be dealt with soon, though he also understood it would be difficult to convince Isabel and the fat young king to take action. Mordeina buries their dead, and all that. Ahaesarus let out a disgusted grunt at the thought.

The next order of business was to fix the damage left behind by the boulders that had crashed down inside the settlement. There were another sixty dead there, fragile bodies crushed by the immense stones, and many more injured. Broken bones healed easily enough, but for some there was no choice but to remove their mangled arms and legs. Mothers cried for their children; husbands sobbed for their wives; sons and daughters wailed for their lost parents. For Ahaesarus, trying to soothe these people was worse than the carnage of battle. There was nothing he could say that could take away their pain. He could only hold them, caress them, tell them how their loved ones were in a better place now and that there was no reason for tears.

It was an act of kindness no one had offered him after the winged demons invaded his home world of Algrahar. Though it hurt, he was happy to give it.

All of this left him exhausted, and with the sky brightening as daylight returned to the world, he eagerly anticipated lying down in his bed and getting some rest. Even if the nightmares came, he would welcome them with open arms so long as he could put up his sore feet. But that respite still had to wait until he fulfilled the last of his duties.

“What next?” asked Judarius. The black-haired, green-eyed Warden walked beside him on Mordeina’s main throughway, passing between row after row of campsites packed with restless and frightened people.

“The Manse,” said Ahaesarus. “I’ve been ordered to keep your former student abreast of what happens during my watch, and so I must obey.”

“My student?” snorted Judarius. “ My student, the one who should have been king, died two years ago. The whelp who wears the crown now in no way resembles the boy I trained.”

“So you claim no responsibility for Benjamin’s behavior?”

“I would had I been allowed to continue my tutelage. But Lady Isabel has taken him from me, molded him into whatever she wishes. As if Jacob did not soil him enough.”

Ahaesarus sighed.

“He seems to have put back on all the weight you made him lose. He also is prone to crying fits, more so now that our god is indisposed.” He passed his fellow Warden an inquisitive look, eyebrows raised. “Judarius, Benjamin was served rightly by your wisdom. He demonstrated potential for greatness when you mentored him.”

Judarius hawked a wad of spit to the ground. “Ben Maryll was never destined for greatness. I tried convincing myself otherwise, but the more I trained him, the more I wondered why Jacob picked the boy. The strength he showed when under my tutelage? A farce. A mirage, brought on by fear of my wrath. Without someone strong to keep him in line, he’s backslid into frailty.”

“What if you resumed your tutelage?” It was an idea Ahaesarus had been contemplating for some time, and with Isabel finally seeming to have conquered her grief over Nessa DuTaureau’s death, it grew stronger by the moment. Isabel was more protective of the boy king than even before, tugging him deeper and deeper into her protective bosom. Now Benjamin was so deep that he seemed to be an infant living in a body moving rapidly toward manhood.

“No, that would not do,” said Judarius with a grave shake of his head. “A true leader does not need someone above him to pull his strings. A true leader learns, a true leader leads . Benjamin will never be that. All that I could give him is the false strength I offered him before.”

“Sometimes the people need to see strength, even if it is false.”

“I refuse to believe that, Ahaesarus. And to be honest, I would not take him under my wing again even if I could. For nearly ninety-five years I have been something I am not, playing a game I was ill suited to play. I was a warrior in our past life. It is time I became that again.”

They paused at the base of the hill leading up to Manse DuTaureau, and Ahaesarus glanced over to see a gleam in his fellow Warden’s eye, a smile playing on his lips. Strangely enough, given what had transpired that night, Judarius seemed relieved .

“You look quite pleased with yourself,” Ahaesarus said.