David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“What happened?”

“I know only that he has taken life.”

Ahaesarus shook his head, confused. “But what does that matter? We have all taken lives here, even you, your Grace. Why should the son of Gorgoros be any different?”

“Because he was different,” the god said. “Of all men in this world, he stood the tallest, and now he has fallen. I can sense his fury, his confusion. It may lead him to greatness, or it may consume him completely, leaving me nothing of the beloved child whose father I once lifted from the dust. Tragedy or triumph; is that not what all great risks leave us with in the end?”

His god fell silent, an aura of melancholy hovering over him. Ahaesarus looked to the rows and rows of corpses, knew he could stand the uncertainty no longer.

“Why are they here?” he finally asked. “This is wrong, all of it wrong, I sense it in my bones. What is it you plan?”

Ashhur met his eye, and in the depths of the god’s stare, Ahaesarus realized there was an ocean of knowledge of which he knew nothing, and a debate fearful in its ferocity.

“My path is set,” Ashhur said, his face darkening. “Do you ask for your own information or in hopes of dissuading me should the path be one that frightens you?”

The Warden felt so small, so humiliated. He lowered his gaze, wondering what had happened to the being of justice and grace that had saved him and his people.

“Forgive me. What are your orders?”

Ashhur turned to face Manse DuTaureau, and Ahaesarus saw Azariah was hurrying down the hill toward them.

“Prepare our soldiers,” Ashhur said. “I sense my brother’s fury. It should not be long now.”

Not an hour after that, the final onslaught on Mordeina began.

" Where is it?” Nessa hissed. Her red hair danced around her head like snakes. “Tell me where it is.”

“I don’t know!” Patrick shouted back at her. “You’re not real! Leave me alone!”

The wraith pressed forward, pus dripping from her eyes, her rotting teeth gnashing together. Patrick turned, but there was nowhere to go. He was surrounded on three sides by black cliffs that rose high into the heavens above him, cliffs whose surface seemed soft and malleable, expanding and contracting as if the very stone were alive. He backed up against one of the walls, and a stream of stinking fluid poured over his shoulder.

“Get away from me!” he screamed.

“You would forsake me?” Nessa asked. “You never loved me. Look at what you have created, you with your malformed body and black heart.”

Patrick lashed out, his fingernails digging into her flesh. The skin tore away with ease, exposing the white of her skull. Maggots crawled over his fingers. With a primal howl, the wraith shoved him backward. Patrick’s feet tangled in the muck, and he toppled over. Nessa landed atop him, pinning him, vomiting putrid slime all over his face.

“Stop! Please stop!”

“The second gate,” the vile image of his sister asked. “No walls have but one door. There must be another. Tell me where it is, dear brother, and I’ll leave you be. Tell me where. . ”

Something heavy struck him in the cheek.

“DuTaureau, snap out of it, dammit!”

Patrick blinked, and it wasn’t the wraith he was seeing, but Preston Ender. He glanced around. He sat on his bedroll in the long shack that had recently been built in their camp next to the Birch Forest. Sweat beaded up on his brow, and the whole of him was shaking. Preston knelt before him, hands on his shoulders. Behind the older man, the rest of the Turncloaks looked on with tired yet concerned eyes.

“Patrick, how do I look to you?” Preston asked him. “Am I myself or someone else?”

“You’re you,” Patrick said, shaking. “Ugly as sin, but you.”

“Good.”

“Was I asleep this time?”

The man ground his teeth together and grimaced. “Not exactly. Tell me. . what do you remember before your delusion?”

Patrick breathed deeply, trying to gather his thoughts, but nothing would come to him. All he saw was Nessa’s decaying flesh; all he heard was her voice, her pointed questions. .

“Nothing,” he said. “Last I remember, you were helping me into the shack after I collapsed.”

“That was two days ago,” said Preston. “You’ve been in here ever since.”

“I have?”

Preston nodded. “You were rife with fever. Ryann and Joff took turns wetting you down.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You weren’t. You awoke after we returned from supping with the others. You seemed in good spirits. You told us about the time you took your sister to the delta and ran across the bandits attacking Crian Crestwell’s wagon, the day he handed you your sword.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” Patrick said in disgust. “What happened after?”

“You just. . drifted away. Began mumbling, but your eyes were open. An hour ago you started thrashing, and I tried to restrain you, but you shoved me off. Then you started asking me nonsense about hidden gates. What is it that you remember?”

Patrick frowned, straining his memory. To have been out for so long, surely he’d dreamed many dreams, but it had gone by so quickly .

“I was being chased,” he said. “By Nessa’s spirit again. She asked me about a hidden gate.” He looked at Preston gravely. “This isn’t random, Preston. This isn’t my subconscious or guilt haunting me.”

“No?”

He shook his head vehemently, rapping his forehead with his knuckles. “Something is. . in here, damn it. Something, someone, I don’t know who or how, but Ahaesarus was wrong, he had to have been wrong. . ”

Little Flick stepped forward. “Mister Patrick? Are you gonna be all right?”

“Shut it, you halfwit,” snapped his brother Big Flick. He yanked the large youth backward. “Leave the man be!”

“Enough, both of you!” Preston roared before turning back to Patrick. “These delusions have gone on for weeks. You need to speak with Ashhur. I’ll go to him if you won’t.”

“Um,” said Tristan with a frown, “I think that might not be possible. The god organized some big deal for tonight. Something about the bodies in the nook. He’ll be busy.”

“Then we interrupt him,” snapped Preston. “This is more important than corpses, I’d say.”

Patrick watched the conversation, his mind wavering once more. “We might not have to. I know of. . of someone. . who might. . be of. . Az. . Az will. . go away !”

Nessa stepped out from behind Preston, grinning her skeletal grin. Preston grinned along with her. Patrick’s vision began to swim. Not real, not real! Get out of my head! But his brain reacted on its instinctual fear. His fist lashed out, catching Preston square in the face. The man fell backward, clutching at his nose as blood seeped between his fingers. Patrick rolled to the side, avoiding his sister’s ghost when she lunged for him. His fingers found Winterbone’s handle, the sword resting beside his bedroll. He yanked the blade from its sheath, shrieking as if a demon infested his soul. Stop it, stop it! his mind screamed, but he couldn’t control his actions. It felt like he was being compressed, driven into himself by some potent outer force. His vision slowly darkened.

At last! an ethereal voice proclaimed inside his skull.

He felt his body turn, and he sensed words on his lips. It’s all right, his mouth was about to say, words his brain didn’t believe, but the Turncloaks were on him before he could make a sound. They shoved him to the ground while he thrashed, Patrick cuffing Preston’s son Ragnar on the side of the head and kicking Joff Goldenrod in the groin. In payment for that, Big Flick clouted his misshapen jaw.