David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Or it will cause her to loathe this war all the more,” Velixar dared suggest.

Karak slowly shook his head.

“If she seeks to end it, then let her end it. I will not let fear of her guide my actions. All around us, this entire world is filled with chaos, but within the chaos I am learning to see threads of order. We can cling to this still, find opportunity even in the worst of hardships. This is one such opportunity, my friend, and one we must take advantage of immediately.”

Velixar stood, his entire body shaking with anticipation. “What do we do now?”

“Everything has aligned, the threads coming together, with Darakken’s creation the final knot. We have an army that will soon go hungry, yet despite our lack of resources, they have worked diligently. Though the magical barrier my brother raised still stands, I now have thirty-six towers and twenty-nine catapults, along with as many ladders and rams as we could possibly utilize. The time to attack is now , my prophet. Once inside Mordeina’s walls, that barrier will be useless. Once inside those walls, the might of the demon you swallowed will at last be put to the test.”

Velixar grinned. “I look forward to that, my Lord.”

“Our strike will be quick and deadly. Before the sun rises, I want all divisions mobilized. Inform the Lord Commander of everything you have learned from the mutant’s mind, of all defensive positions and resources my brother has at his disposal.”

There it was, the mention of the malformed DuTaureau. Velixar opened his mouth to admit yet another failure to his chosen god, but Karak continued.

“This will be our day in the sun,” said the deity. “This is the day that will usher forth a united Dezrel. Do not dwell on your failures or what you feel was lost. When Ashhur falls, when his people bear witness to my might and bend their knees, all shall be forgotten. Now go forth and ready the soldiers for what lies ahead.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

The sky above him was dark as Velixar withdrew from the tent, the type of deepened black that comes just before sunrise. He walked a straight line through the snow, the walled settlement of Mordeina a faint outline in the distance. No longer did those walls seem unassailable. Karak’s approval had steeled him, had let him see that the outcome of the coming battle had already been written. They would storm those walls, and they would conquer the people within. For Karak was the god with vision-the deity willing to risk everything to bring about that vision-whereas Ashhur was a sentimental fool. It was that timidity, that naïve trust in feeble, foolish humankind that had led Velixar to choose the god of the east. Karak was the stronger. Strength led to destruction and chaos, and from destruction and chaos would emerge creation and true order. Might was visceral, real ; compassion was a belief and nothing more.

Heart soaring, Velixar marched through the sprawling camp, seeking out the Lord Commander. The day of reckoning was at hand.

The attack began as the sun crept above the horizon.

It started with boulders smashing against Mordeina’s walls from all sides, pounding and pulverizing the thick stone. Ahaesarus raced along the western wall, shouting out orders, the warning Azariah had given him coming too late, the assault beginning too quickly for him to get all of his charges to safety. Though the walls remained standing, cracks soon formed. Just like the many times before, many of the heavy boulders soared over the walls as well, only this time, just as Azariah had said, they were not flung blindly. Each falling chunk of rock landed much too close to the defensive formations Ahaesarus had formed. The defenders scattered, Warden and human alike. The huts where weapons were hammered out and stored were pulverized. Boulders fell onto the fields in the north of the settlement, crushing the weak crops; smashed into their horse stables; dropped onto their dwindling livestock. Animals fled the destruction of their habitats, horses, cattle, pigs, and goats tramping through the settlement to avoid the death raining from above. Snow and mist filled the air. The people were thrown into a panic. All was chaos.

With one final boom , an eerie calm descended on the settlement. It had been by far the most extensive attack yet, with what seemed like five hundred boulders. When it ceased, Ahaesarus rushed up the stairs to the top of the wall, sprinting along the ramparts with Judarius by his side as they examined the damage. A great many cracks lined the interior of the outer wall, a few of them large enough to fit a man or even three through, but those would be easily defended. Karak, you have misjudged your brother once more, Ahaesarus thought with a smile. He then crossed the plank to the outer wall itself, gazing out at the forest that lay a mere quarter mile away, and his heart froze in his chest.

Skeletal branches snapped as giant wooden towers emerged from the frozen, dead forest. Soldiers of Karak, bundled in furs and grouped in clusters of fifty, shouted as they shoved their wheeled towers through the packed snow toward the wall. The five regiments he saw were evenly spaced, with at least three thousand feet between them. The archers among the soldiers raised their bows, pulled back the strings, and loosed their arrows. Ahaesarus ducked behind a merlon, eyes wide. The bombardment had been a brutal distraction, forcing those inside to cower while the soldiers moved their towers into position and approached the walls. Karak had spread out his force, presumably coming at them from all sides. So far as Ahaesarus could guess, the tall towers would be close enough to mount an assault in a half hour at most. Given the size of the settlement, he had no opportunity to fully organize their defenders, most of whom were positioned by the southern portcullis. By the time he gathered the archers and climbed back to the top of the wall, the soldiers would already be here, and given how much space was between them, the pitiful two hundred archers would be less than useless.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

“Ahaesarus!” shouted Judarius. “We need orders!”

The Master Warden gazed over at his compatriot and saw anger boiling over in his green-gold eyes. Judarius was breathing heavily, his elegant hand held firm over the giant maul fastened to his belt. For a moment he thought Judarius would leap over the wall, the sixty-foot fall be damned, and charge the approaching clusters himself, but instead his expression stiffened. Arrows continued to fly over their heads. Down below, the people of Mordeina, their wards, were screaming and running for cover.

“What is your command, Master Warden?” asked Judarius, and strangely enough, he seemed suddenly calm. “Do I fetch the archers?”

Ahaesarus tapped his fingers on the parapet’s compacted stone. “How many towers did Leviticus report at last count?” he asked.

“Over thirty.”

Ahaesarus chanced another look around the merlon and saw the wobbling tower growing ever closer.

“There is no time for archers,” Ahaesarus said. “No time for anything but melee weapons and pikes. Judarius, go down to the people. Find the bravest men and make them lead. Have them gather as many as they can and bring whatever they have at their disposal-old tent posts, rocks, buckets of grease, anything-up here. Tell them they must delay the soldiers as best they can.”

“They will die,” Judarius said, his tone devoid of emotion. “These people are not properly trained.”

“Does it matter? Delay Karak’s men, Judarius; that is all I ask.”

Judarius nodded. “Stay safe, my friend.”

The black-haired Warden sprinted back across the plank connecting the two walls, ducking to the left and right to avoid the flying arrows, until he disappeared over the stairs. Ahaesarus took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then began to run south along the wall walk. He stayed as low as he could, but it was difficult to stay below the merlons and move at a decent speed. A sharpened arrowhead grazed his back, slicing through his thick leather surcoat and opening a small wound across his spine. He barely felt it. His booted feet crunched on the snow packed on the wall walk. Sweat poured down his face despite the cold.