David Dalglish: Blood Of Gods

Velixar eyed the workers, sweat dripping off their brows as they slaved away. He did not like the weariness in their expressions, or the labor in their movements. Each hammer seemed to weigh a hundred pounds; each plank lifted with a grunt as if it weighed ten times that much. The soldiers were tired and hungry, and each morning he noticed that a handful who had been working dutifully the day before had disappeared in the night. The previous evening he’d ordered the Lord Commander to have the camp watched while it slept, and Malcolm’s sentries caught six soldiers attempting to tiptoe out of the valley under the cover of darkness. Those six were now fastened to a post in front of the camp, beaten and bound by throat, wrist, and ankle, pleading for mercy with any who passed within earshot.

As morning progressed and the clouds passed over the sun, the pleading of those captured intensified. Velixar stood back and watched with interest as a soldier approached the bound men, offering a cup of mulled wine. Malcolm was on the soldier a second later, yanking him backward by the hair and tossing him to the ground. The Lord Commander pressed his boot into the man’s throat, his one good eye watching the young soldier struggle. None of the other soldiers came forward to aid their distressed comrade; despite the fact that his left arm was still in a sling, every soldier knew Malcolm Gregorian was not to be trifled with. Finally the soldier’s protests dwindled, and Malcolm removed his foot before giving him a swift kick in the side and demanding he get back to work.

Velixar felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, and he gazed up at Karak’s face.

“Yes, my Lord?” he asked quietly.

The god knelt beside him. “There is unrest among my children,” he said.

“They are hungry, my Lord, and exhausted. Our caches of salted meats and vegetables have dwindled. We haven’t enough to sustain so many men.”

That was the second price of the dead land they camped on; the quest for food had become as trying as the quest for lumber, and required just as many men to retrieve, which further slowed progress. Their only other recourse was to wait for the next train of supply wagons to arrive from Neldar, but they could be waiting for those supplies for a week, if not a month. To alleviate the stresses on his god’s men, Velixar had dumped the foraging duties onto the elf Aerland Shen and his band of a hundred Ekreissar, the best warriors the Quellan elves had to offer. Though proficient with bows, the elves were fighters, not hunters, and the provisions they returned with proved dissatisfying. In the end Velixar could only hope that the people of Mordeina, trapped as they were inside their walls, suffered far worse.

“They are human,” Karak said. “They will persevere if their love for me is true.”

“Love does not fill an empty stomach, my Lord.”

Karak’s glowing eyes turned to the six bound men.

“Why are the deserters tied up in view of all?”

“To strip them of their freedom, to teach the others that abandonment will be punished harshly.”

Karak grunted. “You disappoint me. Losing freedom is a paltry reprimand, High Prophet. Think of a more effective method to teach my children.”

“I will, my Lord,” Velixar said with a bow.

Karak stood and turned away, loping back to his massive pavilion. Velixar threw open his cloak and marched through the throng of laborers, making his way toward the deserters. They saw him approach, and six sets of eyes widened in fear.

“Have mercy!” one of them begged. “We were starving and only wished to find food!”

The captive closest to the post lifted his head to the heavens. “Listen to your prophet,” he said loudly. He had straight, silvery hair, copper eyes, and a firm square jaw, as if he had sprouted equally from both the Crestwell and Mori lines. “We were caught; now we pay the price like men.”

The others fell silent. By then, the sounds of construction had died away behind Velixar as the working soldiers stepped forward to watch the spectacle.

Velixar tilted his head at the man. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Donnell Frost,” he said, dipping his head in respect.

“And where are you from?”

“Felwood, High Prophet.”

“I see.” Velixar looked down the line at the pathetic, whimpering men. “And the rest of them, as well?”

The man nodded. “We all worked in the armory.”

“And did your cohort speak the truth? Was your party foraging for food?”

Donnell’s staid expression never changed.

“We were not, High Prophet.”

“Shut up, Donnell!” shouted a captive with a scar running across his brow.

Velixar squinted, the red glow of his eyes intensifying, and the scarred captive sank back in his restraints, clutching at his throat. “Go on, soldier,” Velixar told Donnell. “Tell it, and tell it true.”

Donnell’s eyes brimmed with tears even though his manner remained strong. “We thought the situation hopeless. With the goddess defending Ashhur, what chance is there of victory? She would strike us down the moment we tried to scale those walls.”

“Is that so?” asked Velixar, his heart sinking in his chest at the words.

“It is.” Donnell’s eyes glanced toward his cohorts. “It’s been months since we laid eyes on our families and bedded our wives, so we thought- all of us -that we should return home.”

Velixar took a deep breath, gathering his strength. “And was this the correct choice?”

Once more, Donnell dipped his head. “It was not, High Prophet. We succumbed to weakness.”

“Asshole,” one of the other captives muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Velixar took a step backward and turned to face the massive crowd gathered behind him.

“These men are guilty of blasphemy of the highest order!” he shouted. “The greatest sin we children of Karak may commit is to turn away from the one who created us. The love of your god fills your lungs with breath, your muscles with strength, your minds with knowledge. Without that love. . ” He spun back around and faced the captives.

“Without that love, you deserve none of it.”

Velixar raised his hands above his head and reached down deep within himself, accessing the demon’s ancient knowledge. Shadows swirled around his fingertips, black lightning sparked, and the red glow from his eyes heightened tenfold. He felt power surge through him, making his every hair stand on end. He then lowered his gaze to the deserters, imagined their bodies undone, their insides boiling, their tissue and fibers dissolving.

And then it came to pass.

The screams of the bound men were deafening before they died. All but Donnell. The copper-eyed, silver-haired man remained unharmed, though he silently shook.

This one is nearly as faithful as Malcolm, Velixar thought. Such a shame.

“The others were undeserving of Karak’s mercy,” Velixar said, addressing the bloodstained man but ensuring his voice was loud enough for those gathered to hear. “You, Donnell Frost, have shown wisdom even when facing death, and courage before fear. Your punishment shall be swift, your death painless, your soul made pure for the eternity to follow.”

Despite his constraints, the man bowed low. “Thank you, High Prophet.”

The heavily scarred Lord Commander Malcolm was the one to unfasten Donnell’s restraints and lead him to the edge of the construction site, in the shadow of a completed siege tower. As Velixar watched, the doomed man knelt and presented his neck. A young soldier helped Malcolm out of his sling. Malcolm winced as he reached behind his back and slid Darkfall, his giant sword, from its sheath. The Lord Commander held the sword above his head with both hands. “For Karak!” he shouted. A moment later Donnell’s head rolled across the dead grass, his lifeless copper eyes open, staring heavenward.