David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“And are they all armed?”

“Of course they are.”

“Stone or steel?”

“Mostly steel.”

Patrick shook his head, cursing silently to himself. His vision righted, and there was just Judarius there now, staring down at him while snowflakes fell in the background. He thought he saw that red-haired devil again, but he refused to believe it. It’s all in your head. Just stop it already.

“Doesn’t hurt to double-check these things,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as Judarius.

“Patrick, you don’t look well, and I think I know why,” the Warden said in a flat tone. “You need a good, violent fuck. And you could rip the bitch’s throat out afterward.”

Patrick stumbled back a step. “What?”

The Warden inclined his head. “I asked why such interest in the Wardens?”

“Wait. You didn’t. . ” Patrick shook his head. “I’m sorry, Judarius. Might be best if you head back to the archers. I’m not even making sense to myself.”

“Are you sure you do not wish-”

A low thud sounded, followed by another, and Judarius’s mouth snapped shut. The Warden stepped out from beneath the bunker and gazed at the wall. Patrick followed his stare. The rain of arrows had ceased, at least for the moment. Snow fell on his forehead, and the cold drove a spike of pain between his eyes.

Judarius turned around and faced north just as another muted thump rumbled the air. Patrick stood confused. The noise sounded like far-off thunder, which was rare during a snowstorm as light as this one. Even stranger was the pattering of rain he heard next.

Only it wasn’t rain, for a few moments later eight horses raced around the hill on which Manse DuTaureau sat. Each rider carried a torch, and the faces those torches illuminated were filled with fear.

“They are bombarding from the north!” one of the riders screamed. “Come, hurry!”

“Damn,” Judarius growled. He gazed down at Patrick, obviously angry with himself. “You were right. We should have had more men guarding all along the wall, not just here. Rosler told me he thought he counted fewer catapults than yesterday, but there was liquor on his breath, and I did not listen. Damn, damn, damn.” He slammed the crate of arrows into Patrick’s chest, almost knocking him over. “Take these to the archers. I will head up the new defenses.” Then he turned about face and began running along the ranks of confused people who stood outside the bunker. “Come, Marius! Grendel, Bosipherus, Ariel-to me! Karak is attacking to the north!”

At least twenty Wardens and another fifty humans joined Judarius in his mad sprint as he chased after the now-retreating eight horsemen. Soon they disappeared into the darkness, and a hush fell over all of those standing around watching. It seemed the only sounds to be heard were the crackling torches and the howl of the wind, until a ping rang out, and something whistled past Patrick’s ear. He started, stumbling in place, almost knocked over by the weight of his own sword.

“The arrows are falling!” called out a booming voice, and Patrick pivoted to see Ashhur marching along the long bunker, shoving people beneath it. “Take shelter now. Get yourselves-”

The god’s words were drowned out by a giant crash. Patrick whirled around and saw a boulder sailing over the wall, carrying with it bits of parapet. Nessa’s face was imprinted on the boulder, staring down at him with a wicked grin. He was frozen in place, too confounded to move, too frightened to do anything but watch as the huge chunk of rock began its descent. People screamed, trying to scamper out of the way of the flying boulder before it crushed them like the others had so many nights before. The scene was pure bedlam.

Something large flashed by him, knocking him over. He landed face first in the snow as arrows fell like rain on the white-sheathed ground. With great effort he lifted his head and looked on as Ashhur collided with the boulder. Patrick’s ears ached from the ensuing crack . Shards of rock rained down, and people shouted Ashhur’s name. Yet as the dust settled, Ashhur remained standing, hatred shining in his glowing eyes, making the area in front of him appear as bright as day.

Ashhur ordered his children to retrieve whatever weapons they could in the lull that followed. Patrick stood up, watching as myriad forms scurried to and fro in the space between the bunker and the wall. He shook himself out of his stupor and looked at the ground around him, seeing the birch bark crate smashed and arrows strewn about in the snow. Cursing, he snatched a large square of burlap from inside the bunker and laid it out on the ground, then proceeded to toss as many arrows as he could find atop it. He rolled the blanket and picked it up. It was heavy, but he didn’t care. He climbed atop the bunker and hopped down on the other side, heading for the wall.

It was difficult with his mismatched legs to maneuver through the slippery muck. All the people frantically trying to collect the enemy’s arrows made it even more difficult. Finally, he slipped, colliding with someone and sending them both to the ground. Rage burned inside him, and when he shook the snow from his eyes, he saw Nessa getting to her feet opposite him, inhumanly tall, her gray tongue dangling out, her lipless mouth smiling. Maggots tumbled from her eye sockets, only to turn into smoke when they touched the air.

Patrick forgot all about the arrows, about the archers atop the wall. All that mattered was the demon ghost. It hefted a large ax and stared at him.

“You aren’t Nessa!” Patrick shouted. “Stop fucking haunting me!”

He reached behind his back and grabbed Winterbone by the handle. In a single yank it was in his hands and he charged. His hatred gave him strength as he rumbled forward, sword held by his ear. The demon Nessa’s face contorted as she raised the ax in defense. Patrick screamed at the top of his lungs and leapt into the air, ready to split the beast in half with one mighty hew.

A large body collided with him from the side, sending him tumbling. He lost grip of Winterbone, the sword disappearing into the snow. He heard a crunch and shrieked. Needles of pain assaulted him from his neck down to his groin, and he curled into a ball and writhed.

“What is wrong with you?” asked a roaring voice.

Patrick looked up. Ahaesarus stood above him, shoulders rising and falling as he huffed. Patrick shifted, looking around the Master Warden to the crouching figure beyond. It was another Warden, Judah, holding his ax tight to his chest.

“I asked you a question,” demanded Ahaesarus.

Patrick rolled over, slumped onto his rear, and rubbed the sides of his head. His whole body was sore, his anger gone. For the first time in a while, his thoughts seemed clear despite his fatigue.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he glanced about for the bundle of arrows he’d dropped. “I didn’t know that was Judah. . ”

“Who else could it be?” Judah asked while he stood and shook himself off.

“I don’t know. . it’s just that. . Judarius asked me to bring arrows to the archers while he rushed off to the northern side of the wall. . and. . and I’ve been seeing things. . I’m sorry again. . ”

Patrick puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, closing his eyes.

“He called me ‘Nessa,’ ” he heard Judah say.

A moment later soft fingers touched Patrick’s misshapen cheek. He opened his eyes to see Ahaesarus squatting before him. The Master Warden looked at him with concern, almost pity, instead of anger. To Patrick, that was worse.

“Patrick, what is happening?” he asked.

“I. . don’t. . know. . ”

“Are you thinking clearly?”

He shook his head. “I seem to be now.”