David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

The wall was long, the distance far, and Ahaesarus forced his legs to churn. He gave up on his hunched run and stood up straight, allowing his long, loping strides to carry him farther and faster. Ashhur’s booming voice filled his head, the god magnifying his voice to relay commands to his children spread throughout the settlement. Ahead and behind he saw people climbing to the top of the wall, men with tall wooden shields protecting the spellcasters from Drake in their drooping furs. Strangely, he didn’t see an archer among them. Arrows thunked into the shields, causing those bearing them to waver. Ahaesarus then looked on as the hands of the spellcasters began to glow. One by one, the stone planks connecting the inner and outer walls exploded in a rain of pebble and dust.

Ahaesarus ran faster.

An arrow passed in front of his eyes, startling him and causing him to lose his footing. He slid forward on his hands and knees, the sword on his hip dragging through the snow behind him. His mind racing, he scampered back to his feet and kept on going. Celestia’s tree, rising above the wall like a broken guardian with half its branches snapped off by hurled boulders, was a half mile ahead of him. If he simply kept his feet moving and was lucky, he would be there in minutes.

Minutes are all we have. He chanced a look out at the valley outside Mordeina. He had passed by the dead forest, and now the sprawling white world to the south opened up before him. Thousands of soldiers, like black ants on a white backdrop, rushed the walls. Their camp stretched from one corner of the land to the other on the horizon. Over the rush of blood in his ears, he heard the soldiers chanting their warbling battle cries. He was once more reminded of the winged demons descending on Algrahar, the memory filling him with crushing hopelessness. Death from above or death from below-it didn’t matter. Both ended in the same way: with the destruction of everything he knew and loved.

No! he told himself, catching a glimpse of Ashhur pacing in front of the lengthy bunker, instructing his children to defend. This time they could fight back. This time, there is a god on our side.

Past a chunked and crumbling section of the wall he flew, Celestia’s tree growing larger and larger in his sight. The inner rampart was now crowded with people, his wards and fellow Wardens alike, working feverishly at lugging heavy pots of bubbling grease along the slippery walk or hammering away at the stone planks the spellcasters had yet to destroy.

The arrows had ceased flying once he finally reached Celestia’s tree. He nearly separated his shoulder when he collided with its steel-hard trunk. He immediately climbed to the top of the nearest merlon, grabbing a thick branch for support. He had been correct: From this vantage point, he could see eight towers approaching, each pushed by regiments of fifty. A massive phalanx of what looked to be five thousand soldiers marched behind the towers. He heard a heavy thud from below and leaned over the wall. His breath caught in his throat. There was a veritable hive of soldiers pressing against the base of the outer wall, some hammering away with large mallets at the weakened sections while others nailed differing lengths of ladder together. His gaze shifted, and just below him he saw at least a hundred elves on horseback. Their leader, the largest elf he had ever seen, with scaly black armor and a pair of wicked swords crisscrossed on his back, shouted orders. Thirty of the elves dismounted, snatching ropes from their saddlebags. One by one, they tossed the ropes over the lowest branches of Celestia’s tree, pulling them taut.

And then they began to climb.

“Warden!” he heard a man’s voice shout over the din of crashing hammers and jangling armor. Ahaesarus lifted his gaze. Right in front of him, fifty feet away and slowly closing in, was a wobbling tower. The cloaked man standing atop it had glowing red eyes and black hair that seemed to whip about like writhing snakes. Ahaesarus recognized the man’s slender jaw, his easy posture, the intensity of his stare.

“Jacob.” Ahaesarus’s voice was a wisp.

The First Man smiled and lifted his hands. Shadow oozed from his fingers, forming a swirling ball before him, growing larger and larger by the moment. Jacob then thrust his hands forward, and the ball shot through the air, straight for Ahaesarus’s head.

The ball of shadow was thick, its surface shiny and rippling like oil. Ahaesarus saw faces in the sphere, those of his long-dead wife and children, and their screaming visages held him fast. A loud hum shook him as the sphere collided with the invisible barrier Ashhur had raised. A sound like the shrieking of a thousand murdered souls filled the air as the ball of shadow exploded outward, creating a web of writhing black smears that hovered in mid-air before gradually fading into nothingness. Ahaesarus took a step backward, his heart pounding, his thoughts awash with revulsion.

Atop the approaching tower, Jacob Eveningstar laughed.

“Master Warden!” someone called out from behind him, and Ahaesarus whirled around. A crowd had gathered on the inner wall walk, their expressions just as horrified as he felt. A spellcaster was standing there among them-Potrel Longshanks, one of the original four from Drake. The man inclined his head at Ahaesarus, tugging on his thick, bushy beard.

“Master Warden,” he said again, pointing at the stone plank he stood before.

Ahaesarus needed no further instruction. He dashed across the plank; it was not even a second after his feet left it that Potrel decimated the stone catwalk with a flash of blinding blue light. Ahaesarus shook his head, trying to dismiss the stars in his vision as he weaved in and out of the frightened cluster of defenders who busied themselves on the wall walk. Then the first of the towers collided with the outer wall, and soldiers began climbing over the ramparts, steel drawn. All around him, people screamed. Ahaesarus grabbed the handle of his sword, and torn, he struggled with what he should do. He heard Wardens shouting orders, Mennon and Florio among them. Ashhur then called out his name from somewhere down below, and Ahaesarus spun around.

Down the steps he flew, his feet slipping on the ice-slathered stone. When he reached the bottom, he hastened across the long section where the thousands of dead bodies had been laid out in a macabre display. His stomach cramped, doubling him over, but still he kept his eye on his destination: the long bunker, and the god who stood with hands on hips, his golden eyes aglow, behind it.

Ahaesarus leapt over the stone barricade, landing on both feet on the other side, glancing to the right and the left. Hundreds of people were hustling about, bundles of freshly fletched arrows in their arms and steel slung over their shoulders. Nearly to a man, their eyes were wide with fright. Ahaesarus turned to the side and saw Ashhur a hundred feet away, staring at him. The god nodded. The Master Warden righted himself, standing tall and throwing his shoulders back while he stared at the masses huddled in the trench.

“Stand your ground!” Ahaesarus bellowed. “No matter what occurs, remember what we are here for! We must defend the innocents with our very lives!”

“We can’t stand against all that!” someone cried.

Ahaesarus gestured to the side, where Ashhur stood, larger than life. “Your god is here to protect you,” he said, spittle flying from his lips as he paced the line. “Accept his strength, and know that nothing is impossible when we stand with him. Karak may come at us from all directions. His soldiers may wield the sharper steel. But we have righteousness on our side! We have glory! We have Ashhur ! For the sake of him, we will stand tall, and should death come to us, we will be well met in the Golden Forever, drinking our fill for eternity!”