David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Stars filled his vision, and Patrick felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.

There was murmuring above him, but he could see nothing but blackness. Inside that blackness lurked Nessa. He clutched Winterbone tightly to his chest, like a lifeline. Why was he holding it so tightly? He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to force himself back to reality. It worked, at least a little. He chanced opening his eyelids just a tad and saw Preston kneeling opposite him, blood trickling over his lips and drenching his gray beard. Patrick rose up on his elbows. Every inch of him felt tight yet dulled, as if he were a guest in his own body. I know you’re in there, you bastard, he told the invader in his head. No one answered, but he felt the presence nonetheless. It was wary now. Patrick sat up with a grunt, his world wavering. It took a great effort to stand. His knees felt stiff, unresponsive. It took an even greater effort to lurch toward the wall and snatch Winterbone’s sheath. He shoved the sword inside, shaking all the while, and held the scabbard out to Little Flick. The large young soldier hesitated for a moment, then took it from him before handing the blade to Preston.

The whole time, the other Turncloaks watched him in silence.

“What do we do?” Joffrey finally asked.

“Take me to Azariah,” Patrick said, meeting Preston’s worried gaze. “Fucking carry me if you have to.”

Everything was a daze as Patrick’s friends guided him through the cold night. It was everything he could do to stay upright on his horse, Big and Little Flick riding on either side of him in case he fell over.

There was pressure behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. You won’t see, he told the invader in his head. I won’t let you. Eventually the pressure relented, and he allowed himself to look at his surroundings once more. Even the darkness seemed much too dark, and he caught a flash of red in the distance, dashing through the black.

Not this time. Not. . this. . time.

Preston led the group up Manse DuTaureau’s high hill, and the Flicks helped Patrick out of the saddle once they reached the top. The two large boys supported him on either side, nearly carrying him through the front doors after Preston opened them. The rest of the Turncloaks followed behind them in silence. Patrick could almost feel their concern.

“Azariah!” Preston bellowed as they walked through the manse. The old soldier had Winterbone balanced across his arms, and Patrick eyed the sword greedily. “Azariah, come quickly! You’re needed!”

Patrick heard a few people yelp from somewhere deep in the manse, obviously surprised by the sudden intrusion at such a late hour. Patrick hoped his other sisters had the good sense to stay in their rooms. In no way did he want them to see him in such a state.

Finally, the short Warden appeared as they approached the makeshift throne room at the far end of the manse. Azariah stood watching them, a look of bemusement on his face, the white robes that he now always wore draped around him. Patrick eyed him weakly, feeling drunk, his head bobbing from side to side.

“What happened?” Azariah asked.

“I. . we’re not sure,” said Preston. “Patrick wants you to look him over.”

Azariah leaned over Patrick, hesitated a moment, and then stepped back, eyes widening. “Quickly, bring him inside.”

The Flicks lugged him through the doors and set him down on the slab upon which Ashhur had once been laid. The Turncloaks stepped back as Azariah went to work, checking Patrick’s pulse, feeling his neck. The Warden’s lips twisted into a grimace. Patrick felt a wave of hatred rising up in him, followed by a desperate desire to kill Azariah where he stood.

“Flicks,” he murmured. “You might want to hold me down. . ”

The next time Azariah went to touch him, Patrick’s fist flung for his face. Thankfully for the Warden’s sake, the two big boys were faster.

“He’s feverish,” Azariah said, seemingly nonplussed by the outburst. “How long has he been like this?”

“Weeks,” said Preston. “Maybe as long as two months. He’s not certain.”

“Sickness?”

Patrick vehemently shook his head, which made Azariah’s mouth tighten.

“He’s been seeing his dead sister,” Preston said. “Visions, nightmares-things like that. It’s strange because. . he said he thinks someone’s in there with him. Is that possible? Ahaesarus looked him over a couple weeks ago but saw nothing.”

Azariah gazed down at Patrick. “And you thought I could see what he could not?”

Patrick nodded fervidly. The Warden allowed himself a smile.

“I suppose I should feel proud of your confidence,” he said touching him. This time when the revulsion came, Patrick fought it down without need of the Flicks. “And something is awry, I’m certain of it. It’s subtle, though. I’m not surprised Ahaesarus failed to notice it, especially if you weren’t as bad then.”

“What is it?” Ryann asked. “What do you see?”

Azariah’s eyes were closed as he spoke.

“It’s like smoke coming from his eyes,” the Warden said. “Little tendrils of it, so faint. . but not connected to anyone afar. No curse, no ancient wards, just tendrils. . connected to. . ”

Suddenly every single warning instinct in Patrick flared. He surged to his feet, flooded with strength he never knew he had. Both Flicks hurled themselves against him, each holding an arm, and even then it was not enough to keep Patrick from ramming his head into Azariah’s chest. As the Warden stumbled back, more men grabbed hold of Patrick, slamming him down onto the slab. His every muscle tensed, Patrick struggled, screaming out mindlessly.

Azariah whirled around, still clutching his chest. “Give me his sword!” he screamed. Without another word he leapt at Preston. The old soldier almost threw Patrick’s massive blade at the Warden. Azariah snatched up the scabbard and hastily threw it down on the slab beside Patrick.

“A hammer!” the short Warden shouted. “Anything! Something hard and heavy! Now!”

Ryann Matheson released Patrick’s arm to hand him the undersized maul the young soldier kept hitched to his belt. Azariah quickly grabbed it and lifted it above Winterbone’s handle. Patrick watched it all happen, and in his heart he knew-he knew what would happen.

“Don’t!” he shrieked. “It’ll kill me, you bastard! It’ll kill me! ”

Azariah brought down the maul. The dragonglass crystal adorning Winterbone’s handle shattered.

A puff of smoke rose from the splintered crystal, and Patrick snapped back into himself. His hand recoiled, the strain in his muscles gone just like that. The fog in his mind lifted, and the dullness of his muscles faded away. For the first time in a very long while, he felt like himself. He glanced nervously to the side, searching for Nessa’s ghastly image, but she was nowhere to be found.

“It’s gone,” he said, turning to the short Warden. “Praise Ashhur, it’s gone!”

Azariah remained leaning over Patrick’s sword and the broken crystal, his expression one of pure dread. “Dragonglass is a powerful mineral. Within it is a bit of the fire that created it, and within that fire is the very power that made the dragons. Two large pieces of it could create a gateway of sorts, and it can be useful in communicating over long distances. Also, if a piece is close by, it can be used to manipulate the mind of another.” Azariah let out a disgusted grumble. “I allowed an old friend of mine to experiment with it on me once.”

“Let me guess,” said Patrick, sliding off the slab. “Would that friend be our beloved Jacob Eveningstar?”

Azariah nodded. Patrick grunted, squeezing fingers into fists until his nails bit into his palms. His anger made his neck grow hot.