David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

He swung his new sword with a single hand, as if it were the scythe he had used to cut wheat in the days when he was much younger and much smaller. The strength he possessed was enormous, and he hacked through five bodies at once before looping the blade up and over, ready to attack again. His second swipe killed eight more, his third another five. The bodies mounted around him, their blood pouring from severed arms, necks, and torsos, soaking into the sand.

All the while the Black Spire loomed above them like the God of Death himself.

Those who remained of Ki-Nan’s original large force followed behind Bardiya, picking off any who escaped the giant’s devastating slashes. At one point the soldier whose life Bardiya had saved, the one who, along with Clovis, had then butchered the children on the dais, crossed his path. The young soldier threw down his arms, pleading. Bardiya sliced him in half from head to groin, thinking nothing of it. His mind was focused on a single objective: Kill, kill, kill.

It was visceral. It was liberating. It was pure .

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, the battle ended. In the aftermath Bardiya hovered over the heaped remains of his enemies. He shuddered and dropped his sword, marveling at the destruction. There had to be five hundred corpses strewn about the camp, and another two hundred injured, pulling themselves through the sand as they whimpered and gasped their dying breaths. The vast majority of the dead were elves, their perfect flesh hacked and shredded. Bardiya looked down at one of them, a Quellan who was still writhing, and stomped on his head, crushing it.

Dear Ashhur, has this always been my purpose? Is this what you made me for?

He flexed his hand, his elbow, his knee. Despite the sting of the many stab wounds and slashes that pierced his skin, he felt better than he had in ages. It made no sense, not when he had lived his life in constant agony from his forever growing body. Instead of making him feel vital, it only caused his newfound anger to rise.

“Bardiya,” said a tired voice. “Brother, I am sorry.”

The giant slowly turned, and there was Ki-Nan, kneeling with those who had arrived with him. Tuan was kneeling as well, and Yorn, and so many of the others who had remained in Ang. Bardiya looked down at his old friend, breathing heavily.

“Brother, we had to wait,” Ki-Nan said. “We have been wai-”

“It does. . not. . matter,” Bardiya growled.

He glanced up at the remains of the camp, at Ceredon, who still remained, motionless, atop his wagon, at men and women dressing the wounds of the injured, at fathers and mothers crying; tears of agony for their slain children, tears of joy for those who survived. There was sound all around him, but it was wailing and moans and the final breaths of the dying that he heard. There was no singing. Somewhere inside him, he knew the songs of joy and love and life had died, possibly forever.

“If I am but your tool, your Grace, I do not belong here,” he whispered.

“What was that?” asked Ki-Nan.

“Gather up all who can still fight,” Bardiya said. There was ice in his veins. “Scan the dying for Karak’s soldiers, find out what they know about the whereabouts of the eastern army.”

“I will, but why?”

Bardiya cast his eyes to the north.

“Because I’m going to kill a god.”

The sun set over the desert, revealing a wide, cloudless sky filled with millions of twinkling stars. The Black Spire shimmered in the faint light, though its glow seemed strange, unnatural, as if the great and mysterious obelisk were somehow lit from within.

Ashhur’s dark-skinned children were making preparations for their journeys ahead. The women, the old, and the infirm were given carts and horses to assist them on the trip back to their home by the sea, while the healthiest of the men-both those who had been marched as prisoners and the horde that had arrived later, bearing weapons of steel-mounted their own borrowed steeds to begin their march north.

Ceredon watched it all, still strapped onto the plank above the wagon. Everyone ignored him, even when the very cart his plank was affixed to was pilfered of useful goods. The Quellan prince’s befuddlement grew. Unable to free himself, he struggled in his bonds as Darakken butchered the children, the demon instigating the spiritual leader of the Kerrians until the giant lost his mind and revolted. He’d been helpless when even more western men descended on the standing army, taking them by surprise, their ferocity and force of will helping to counteract the elves’ and soldiers’ far superior skill with sword and maul. He’d had no choice but to look on while the demon’s decrepit human shell jumped and cheered atop his dais, seemingly overjoyed by the massacre going on below him until the giant confronted him and smashed the demon’s skull.

It loosed a monster upon the land, he thought as he stared at Bardiya. A creature powerful enough to decimate two hundred men on his own. Why would the demon do that?

While all items of use were being packed away, Ceredon kept his eye on Bardiya as the giant worked his way through those who suffered with grave injuries, offering each one a healing touch before moving on to the next. The glow of his hands seemed faint, the healing not as potent as it had been when Ceredon watched him stitch back together the soldier he had gutted the day they’d arrived at the site of the Spire. Those who received his touch would struggle to their feet, still in obvious pain, and limp along until they joined their brethren. It was a gloomy spectacle, the cold yet determined expression on the giant’s face. Just as in Dezerea, Ceredon felt guilty for how harshly he had judged these tortured people, and even guiltier for the harsh words he had shouted from his slab.

Why must there be such suffering?

“Such is the way of life, the way of the universe,” came the reply. He wasn’t sure if it was the goddess or his conscience answering.

In the end he received his penance. When the carts were filled and the horses bridled, the two separate groups complete, the Kerrians began their separate journeys. One of Bardiya’s men pointed Ceredon’s way, the giant having to bend down to hear the whispered question. He then stood up straight, gazing at the bound elf.

“Let him free,” the giant said in a rasping voice that echoed throughout the sandy dell. “It was his voice we should have listened to long ago.”

One of the soldiers came and scaled the side of the wagon, stood on the rickety roof, and cut his bonds. Ceredon slumped to his knees, throat parched, back and arms aching from his imprisonment.

“Water?” he asked the man who’d freed him.

“Bardiya said to let you free. Didn’t hear nothin’ about water.”

At that the man joined his brethren, leaving Ceredon alone among the carnage. A silent command given, the humans departed the area, leaving Ceredon alone among the shattered wagons, innumerous corpses, and thirteen bound and dying soldiers of Karak who had failed to flee. Glittering above them all was the Black Spire. With the din of civilization now departed, he could hear the throaty purring of the sandcats as they stalked the area, drawn by the scent of blood and the promise of an easy meal. A cold wind blew, and a violent shiver rocked his bones.

A metallic clank reached his ears, and his adept eyes caught movement along the ruins of the collapsed dais. Instead of the sandcat Ceredon expected, a human form emerged from the wreckage. The man stood tall, cracked his back, and then brushed himself off. When he turned his way, Ceredon saw the man’s face; the long, dark hair; the diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.