David Dalglish: Blood Of Gods

The prayers ceased and all eyes lifted to him. “Master Warden,” said Denton, offering a bow. The other young men did the same.

“Praying with Ashhur is truly a humbling experience,” Ahaesarus said. “I applaud you, Azariah, for teaching his children humility.”

“We weren’t praying with Ashhur,” said Barclay.

One of the other youths smiled proudly and added, “We were praying for him.”

Ahaesarus furrowed his brow, confused. “For him?”

Azariah stepped out from behind the prone deity, hands held out in supplication. Gone were his usual deep brown leather breeches and jerkin, replaced by a white, flowing ensemble spun from fine cotton, made for him by Denton’s wife. The outfit was very similar to those the priests of Rana had worn back on the Wardens’ home world before it was destroyed. It was odd that Azariah had taken to wearing such a thing, as of all the Wardens he was the most carefree and adventurous, often disregarding prayer as unnecessary. Judarius had often guessed this was because Azariah’s stature was closer to that of the humans than his fellow Wardens. “Ashhur gave us his healing gifts when we were brought here,” Azariah said. “And he gave it to his children as well, if they are strong enough to access it. What better way to thank the god we owe so much to than to try and mend his wounds?”

“A noble thought,” said Ahaesarus, “but unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” said Barclay.

“Ashhur is a god, boy. The talents you have were given to you by him. It is folly to think that human hands-or those of a Warden, for that matter-could ever heal one of heavenly descent with his own gifted power.”

“It never hurts to try,” insisted Azariah.

“It might,” the Master Warden said. “Especially when such attempts make one think himself of higher importance than he truly is.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He watched as Azariah’s calm veneer shattered, the Warden’s cheeks flushing red and his fingers curling into fists. Denton, Barclay, Astin, and Yarin backed up a step, their lips pressed into tense white lines.

“I am sorry, Azariah,” Ahaesarus said. “I did not mean to insult.”

“Yet you did.”

“I did, and again I apologize.” Hoping to ease the tension in the room, he reached down and lifted the bucket of water. “And if I am to be honest, I have spent the last hour searching for you. The waters beneath the city have been fouled again and need to be purified.”

Azariah chuckled and stepped toward him, waving for his four students to follow. They gathered around the Master Warden, their eyes suddenly alive with excitement. Azariah reached into the satchel hanging from the rope around his waist and pulled out a pinch of some sort of powder.

“Many spells require a physical catalyst,” he told his students. “And all materials, no matter how small or seemingly useless, contain mystical properties. Take granite dust as an example. The particles are tiny and barbed, and there have been many a man and woman whose lungs the Wardens and healers have had to set right because of the bleeding sores the dust can cause. And yet the granite that forms that dust is only created through pressure and time, and represents the purity of the land on which we live. When using the correct words, it is the one element that can distill the water we might wish to drink, removing salt, sediment, bacteria, fungus. . and animal waste.”

Azariah worked his fingers together above the bucket, dropping dust particles into it while his lips mouthed the spell. Just as with every time before that Ahaesarus had seen this process carried out, he was enthralled by its simplicity; something magical made to seem ordinary. There were no bright lights, no eerie sounds carried on the wind; only the water, slowly brightening as the granite dust and Azariah’s words did their work.

Soon the water was clear, the putrid odor that had infused it gone. Ahaesarus looked down at the shorter Warden, and noticed that although the expressions on the four humans were awash with wonder, Azariah did not look satisfied. Ahaesarus placed his hand on his shoulder and dismissed the others.

“I need to speak with your teacher in private,” he told them. “Gather several other Wardens at the well near the manse, and have them wait for us to come purify the water.”

The others bowed to him and filed out of the throne room, Astin’s young eyes glancing at the empty wicker throne on his way by. Ahaesarus’s frustration with Benjamin bubbled anew. The boy could be a huge help if only he would cease being a sniveling little child and become the leader he was chosen and trained to be. Picking up the discarded cloth beside the throne, Ahaesarus made his way back to Ashhur’s side and resumed wetting the god’s scalding flesh. All the while Azariah stood there in silence. Ahaesarus realized how silly it was that he should berate Azariah for attempting to heal Ashhur while he himself sat there and bathed him for hours on end. At least Azariah was attempting to be proactive.

“Why aren’t you out on the wall with your brother?” Ahaesarus asked as the quiet stretched on. “You have never struck me as one to remain still and away from a conflict.”

The Warden’s shoulders slumped. “You have me confused with someone else,” he replied, and he sounded so tired, so broken down. “Before our world ended, I was a quiet man. I loved books and working with wood; adventure was something that belonged to the bards who traveled and sang their tales.”

Ahaesarus watched steam rise from his god’s chest, the moisture from the cloth evaporating almost as soon as it touched him. “What changed?”

“Ashhur and the goddess saved us,” Azariah said with a shrug. “We witnessed the end of our world and the birth of a new one. It seemed a chance to become someone new as well. My older brother was always the brave one, so why not behave as he did?”

Azariah reached out and touched his hand, and Ahaesarus released the wet cloth. The smaller Warden took over bathing the god, seeming to find catharsis in the simple act.

“The young man. Roland Norsman. You miss him.”

“I do. And it makes it worse that I killed him.”

Ahaesarus cocked his head and stared at him, confused. Azariah let out a bitter laugh, not taking his eyes off his god.

“Jacob Eveningstar was my friend. At least, I always thought he was. I had a chance to kill him, Ahaesarus. At the Wooden Bridge, before we crossed, we were attacked by a group of soldiers from Neldar. We all would have perished had I not sensed Ashhur’s wolf-children lingering nearby and called them to our defense. During the skirmish, I struck Jacob with a maul. He was unconscious on the ground before me, and I could have ended his life right there, but I did not. Even though he swore Jacob Eveningstar was dead, even though he had tried to murder Roland, I hesitated. I couldn’t kill him. Instead, I fled, taking Roland with me. That’s when the arrow pierced his back. If I’d been stronger, if I’d done what needed to be done. . ”

Ahaesarus shook his head. “Life ends, it always has and always will. Think of how much of our own brethren we have lost since Karak began the march west.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, Ahaesarus. They died by my side. Just as Roland and Brienna did while I was unable to help. I am tired of it. I want to be helpful .”

“You need to be strong,” said Ahaesarus, taking hold of his arm. “We’re needed, each and every one of us. Every morning I walk that wall and try to keep spirits high, even as death looms in the valley below. You have a gift, Azariah, an understanding of humankind surpassing mine. You know what to say, how to say it. Your presence would be much better served out there with the fighting men than in here wallowing over your loss and teaching humans religious rite. Let Daniel Nefram perform those duties. When Karak’s Army finishes their siege weapons, we will need all hands to help hold them off, especially if our god remains. . indisposed.”