David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

You are powerful, yet a fool. The Beast of a Thousand Faces laughed. You consumed memories and echoes, nothing more. And souls themselves are not power, but merely vessels for power, which stems from the gods. We have always known this; we are surprised you do not.

“But what of a world where the gods do not exist?” he asked the beast. “Where does power stem from then?”

The gods exist everywhere, human. In every rock, in every ocean, in the very air of any habitable world. Everywhere there is life, there are the gods, for all life was created by them. Their power lingers, shadows imbued into the fabric of everything, lurking in wait for one who knows how to wield it. Draw from it if you desire, or draw from the deities themselves; it is no difference.

Velixar felt his frustration growing. “I have channeled the essence of my god, demanded power of him, and felt it flow through me. . yet it is not enough. There must be another way.”

You know nothing, said the demon, just as Karak had told him so many times before. The well you draw from is as infinite as the universe itself, yet you mewl it is not enough. The gods’ power is greater than even the gods themselves. We channeled our creator, the grand Kaurthulos, and became so potent, we almost slew the goddess. You can do the same, Velixar. We can show you how.

It seemed a promise too good to be true, and he instinctively distrusted it.

“Wielding such power would break me,” he said. “My mortal form would not endure.”

The beast laughed, and the endless space seemed to ripple along with it.

The soul is limitless. With our help, you will become as mighty as the gods themselves.

Velixar found his consciousness assaulted by tiny pinpricks of light that gradually built up within his ethereal form, expanding it, filling him with knowledge. The pain was exquisite, and when he screamed, his voice seemed to rip through the heavens, pulverizing stars, exploding galaxies, causing time to fold in on itself.

“Why!” he screamed amid it. “Why would you help me?”

Laughter was his only answer, and then he opened his eyes. He was back in his pavilion, the head of Donnell Frost a heap of liquefied flesh and bone stuck to his fingers. He fell back, his rump splashing in the puddle of melted snow behind him. Rising to his feet, heart pounding, mind racing, he pulled the pendant from beneath his tunic and watched the bas-relief of the lion atop the mountain pulse and throb with a dark purple glow.

The soul is limitless. Velixar gritted his teeth and squeezed the pendant, feeling its warmth thump in his hand like a heartbeat.

“As mighty as the gods themselves,” he whispered.

Not much farther now,” said Nole, one of the soldiers leading Rachida Gemcroft and her band of six hundred sellswords through the frozen white north. Nole and his six mates were thin to the point of malnourishment, their flesh pale and covered with ugly purple splotches and raised veins. Despite being young-Nole in particular looked to be barely out of his teens-they moved with the awkward gait of much older men. Each time their feet touched the ground, breaking through the thin sheen of ice and into the powdery snow beneath, it looked as if they might fall over.

Rachida shivered against the cold as she sat atop her horse, pulling her cloak tight around her. For fifteen days she and her legion had marched through cliffs and valleys, circling the bases of mountains, the last half of the journey spent trudging through snow, ice, and freezing rain while hungry wolves haunted their nights. At last they had arrived on the outskirts of Drake. Only instead of the people of Paradise, they’d happened upon this small band of Karak’s soldiers. The soldiers’ eyes had widened with what looked like relief when they’d emerged from the frozen wilderness, greeting her and her men as saviors. Rachida had introduced herself as Commander Mori, breathing a sigh of relief that her hired army still bore the standard of the lion on their chests.

Quester sidled up to her, pulling at his blond beard and appearing amused. “So what do we do now, milady?” he asked. “Draw swords?”

“Not yet,” Rachida whispered back. “Our enemy thinks us their ally still. Best we see the state of our opponent before we act.”

“Yes, milady,” Quester said with a grin before falling back into line with the others.

The snowy path they traveled veered into the forest, revealing the soldiers’ camp. There were numerous tents scattered about, and though a great many cookfires burned, the scent of food was noticeably lacking. It was the middle of the day, yet there was a gloom in the air. The tree branches above were weighed down by a thick coat of ice, glimmering in the murk like crystalline, skeletal fingers.

Men emerged from their tents as they rode through the center of the camp. There were so many of them. Countless eyes, deep-set and bloodshot, gazed hungrily in Rachida’s direction. She felt a chill and shivered once more, pulling her cloak even tighter around herself. Many of the men were hunched over as if their spines weren’t strong enough to hold up their bodies any longer. Others simply stood with their mouths hanging open, revealing rotting teeth and blackened gums. Still others sucked on handfuls of snow like sweet combs of honey.

It was one of the more frightening sights she’d ever seen.

At the head of the camp, set against a backdrop of trees with thick, imposing trunks, was a large pavilion. “Dismount here,” said Nole as they approached it. The young soldier then disappeared into the pavilion. Rachida patted her horse and swung out of the saddle, then looked back the way they had come. The sellswords formed a line through the trees, the rear of the procession concealed by fog. Her men eyed the soldiers warily, fingers dancing on the hilts of the swords on their belts. They dismounted and gathered around the wagons they’d brought with them, those containing what was left of the provisions harvested in Conch. Karak’s soldiers ogled the wagons, wantonness showing in their eyes.

Quester appeared beside her. His air was serious, much different from the flippancy he usually displayed.

“Get the captains,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“All of them?”

“Yes. And be prepared for the worst.”

The Crimson Sword nodded.

The captains of the other five sellsword companies gathered, nary a word spoken between them. A moment later Nole stepped out of the pavilion.

“Captain Blackwolfe will see you now,” he said, gesturing to the tent flap. Rachida took a deep breath, then stepped into the pavilion, Quester and the other captains on her heels.

The men awaiting them inside looked like death warmed over. Their flesh was pale, eyes rimmed with purple, hair snarled into oily tendrils. The plate and mail armor they wore was rusting at the joints, and the roaring lion sigil on their chests appeared somber, not threatening. They looked like men who’d been lost in the wilderness for an age.

Despite their downtrodden appearance, the one in the center, a tall, lanky sort with a matted beard and intense eyes, smiled. “You came,” he said. “You actually came.”

“We did,” Rachida said, though she had no clue what he was talking about.

The man stood boldly upright, as if he’d just remembered protocol, and bowed to her.

“Captain Talon Blackwolfe at your service,” he said. “It is an honor to receive you, Commander Mori.”

“It is an honor to be received,” Rachida answered. Behind her, the sellsword captains fidgeted.

“Please know we appreciate your arrival,” the man told her. “It wasn’t expected. To say we’re relieved would be an understatement.”