David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“My prince, are you alive?” Boris Marchant asked.

It took Ceredon a moment to remember that human eyes could see nowhere near as well as his own. “I am. And I believe I told you not to call me prince.”

Boris chuckled.

“Aye, that you did. I hope, given today’s circumstances, you’ll forgive me for the blunder.”

Ceredon slowly climbed down off the wagon, standing uneasily on tired legs as Boris joined his side.

“You took your time freeing me,” he said. “In fact, I dare say you never did.”

“Apparently not. Again I apologize. I told you, I needed to wait until the moment was right, until it was safe.”

“So you waited until the demon set off the giant and got his entire regiment slaughtered?”

The human laughed. “Well, let’s just say that I didn’t know when it would be safe. I had hoped it would be before my friends from the west launched their assault, but I had no way of knowing Darakken would be so. . careless.”

“You knew of the humans trailing us?”

“I did,” Boris said with a nod. “The one who led them I’ve known for quite some time. He is a pupil of my uncle and a very capable man. He and his people have been following the convoy since we departed Ang, waiting for their opportunity.”

Ceredon shook his head, trying to push through the cobwebs in his mind. Something wasn’t adding up.

“They can’t have followed us for so long without my brothers spotting them.”

“They were spotted,” Boris said, shrugging. “Darakken didn’t seem to care. He laughed and told the elves to ignore them.”

Ceredon turned his attention to the thirteen men of Karak still bound and gagged. Boris’s eyes followed, and the scarred man frowned deeply.

“Give me a moment,” he said, drawing a dagger. “I’ll take care of them.”

“No,” Ceredon said, grabbing the man’s arm. “The crows and sandcats will be here soon. Let vermin die by vermin.”

Boris raised an eyebrow, hesitated a moment as if in disbelief, and then sheathed his dagger.

“Damn,” he said. “I thought I was cold. So what now?”

“I was hoping you would tell me. So far you have been the one with the plan.”

“That I am.” Boris clapped the elf on the shoulder. Ceredon knew he should be insulted by such familiarity between a human and himself, but at the moment, he decided he didn’t care. “Well, you’re free to go, Ceredon. Return to your home and tell your people of the need for cooperation with the humans who share your land. My Connington uncles will be more than receptive to any talk of compromise between our peoples.”

“We’ve lost so many,” Ceredon said, casting his eyes to the dead. “Perhaps it is finally time we sought peace instead of bloodshed.”

“I’m thinking that time was months ago,” Boris said, winking. “But as they say, better late than. . ”

Boris’s voice was cut off by a loud cackle that shook the sand beneath their feet. A blinding purple light followed, shining from the Black Spire and causing both Ceredon and the human to cover their eyes and turn away. The cackling eventually died down, the light dimming, but not completely flickering out.

“What was that ?” asked Boris, his voice frantic.

Ceredon spun around and gazed in horror at the Black Spire. It was black no more, its surface a swirling cavalcade of dark colors that covered the surface like water over a stone. The stone rippled, and then a slender human figure emerged, dressed in a blood-splattered white robe. He walked unevenly at first, but slowly gained his balance as he climbed to the top of the wrecked dais. Ceredon and Boris were still standing beside the wagon Ceredon had been tied to, toward the rear of scene of battle, but even though he was a hundred yards away from the dais, Ceredon knew who the being was. Darakken laughed once more and threw back his hood, and Ceredon could hear no trace of humanity in the demon’s tone. He watched as Darakken hefted a large bag from the wreckage, reached inside, and lifted out a giant tome, the same book that the beast had shown him the night he’d murdered Ceredon’s father, the very same book that Boris had given to Darakken.

“Oh, shit,” said Boris.

Ceredon picked up a discarded khandar and began to stalk toward the beast, slowly, cautiously. Behind him, Boris stood frozen.

The demon in its faltering human shell knelt on the pile of debris, the swirling light from the Spire making it seem like a wraith made flesh. The side of its face the giant had pulverized knitted back together, the jaw snapped back into place. It flexed its mouth, eyes burning with such brightness that it seemed to blot out the glow coming from the hunk of black stone behind him. Those eyes bore into Ceredon, a wicked smile coming over the demon’s maw.

“The feast has begun,” Darakken said.

Ceredon took another step forward, his insides burning with both anger and terror. Finally he’d had enough; he bellowed and began to sprint, khandar held above his head. The demon glanced up at him and raised its hand, and Ceredon was hurled backward as if struck by a boulder. He hit the ground hard and rolled, his momentum stopped by a mound of dead elves. His side ached, and Ceredon got up on his elbows, staring once more toward the remains of the dais. His thoughts were a muddle of confusion, and his vision shook.

“There is no interrupting the feast,” Darakken said, scowling. The demon then placed the book down and whispered incoherent words of magic. The tome flopped open, its pages rifling all on their own until they fell still. The demon’s gaze remained fixed on Ceredon, its rotten-toothed grin growing all the wider. It then lowered its glowing gaze to the book.

“ ‘In order to create worlds of their own, the gods require self-sacrifice,’ ” the creature read, its voice like a bear trying to mimic speech. “ ‘Celestia placed a piece of her essence into the heavens, forming the heart of Dezrel. The world spun around that piece of the goddess, taking shape, growing outward, giving birth to the land, the mountains, the oceans, the rivers, the trees. Yet when the eon passed, that piece remained. Small, slender, it is most sacred.’ ” Darakken lifted his glowing eyes to Ceredon and Boris. “So wrote the elves of ancient times; so wrote the man who penned this very tome.”

Ceredon struggled to his feet, his fingers finding the dropped khandar and lifting it once more. He looked to the side, searching for Boris, but the human was nowhere to be found.

“Coward,” Ceredon whispered. “What have you done?”

“He has given me a chance at new life!” the beast laughed. “The Black Spire is a piece of Celestia herself. Within that crystal lie the secrets of the universe, a gateway to realms long forgotten, a portal into the very heart of creation.” The demon pounded a withered fist against its human chest. “Within lies the power to recreate the truest beauty that ever roamed this land, a beauty created by the great Kaurthulos himself!”

Ceredon took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He then took off at a run once more, careening toward the kneeling creature.

Darakken watched him approach, eager. The thing looked like a child given a present, barely able to contain himself before opening it. The distance shrinking, it began reading from the book once more.

“ ‘Antidrok lakkath!’ With the blood of the children of the goddess that banished me, I shall be reborn!”

The beast continued to chant, its words becoming more and more desperate. Ceredon reached the edge of the smashed dais, let out a guttural cry, and leapt over the debris. He jammed the khandar into Darakken’s chest. The beast threw its head back, its mouth opening wide, and a spiraling tube of shadow erupted from its maw with such force that Ceredon was thrown backward. He landed hard atop the corpse of an elf, knocking the wind from his lungs.