David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Bedlam ensued as the walking corpses lashed out at the soldiers with whatever weapons they still held; those that had nothing bit with their teeth and scratched with pale bleeding fingers. Men fell, their bodies torn asunder, while Ashhur’s children fled in all directions, looks of abject terror painting their faces.

Velixar couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d seen images like this in the memory of the demon he’d swallowed-the Beast of a Thousand Faces had raised an army of undead elves to march against Kal’droth during the great war-but he had never expected Ashhur to take such an extreme measure himself. But no. . that wasn’t right. He’d seen this before. His thoughts retreated to the moment when the western deity had animated the corpse of Brienna Meln, the elf Jacob Eveningstar had loved. Terror filled his soul.

A cold hand grabbed him around the neck, ripping him from the painful memory. In desperation he whirled around, flailing violently, and the hand fell away. When he pushed back his hood, he saw a staggering dead man with a slit throat before him, the symbol of the roaring lion embossed on his breastplate. The walking corpse righted itself and stared at him with eyes that shone with soft yellow light. The dead thing reached out for him again, fingers curled into claws, and Velixar stepped back. His horror and disbelief made him weak; the link funneling the power from Karak into him vanished. Still, he was strong enough to take out a single undead monster. Words of magic spat from his lips and the thing crumpled into a mound of useless flesh and bone.

When he turned, everywhere he looked there were undead. Thousands of them, men, women, and children from Paradise, along with a great many dead soldiers of Karak. They fought with mindless intensity, even those who appeared to be long deceased, their movements forceful but erratic. The living soldiers were thrown into panic, unsure of whom they should defend themselves against. Whenever one of their brethren fell, a moment later he stood again, eyes shimmering with that sick yellow light.

The whole time, Ashhur conducted the chaos, glancing this way and that, steering his undead horde.

Velixar desperately searched for Karak as the battle raged around him, found his god flinging the walking corpses left and right as he shouted for his army to remain strong. None were listening. Soldiers fled for the hole in the wall, first a few, then many. Even Aerland Shen and his Ekreissar, though they handled the undead with relative ease, retreated toward the opening. Velixar wanted to scream at them, to pulverize their bodies with a word, but a group of seven corpses lurched toward him, their jaws chattering wordlessly. He impaled one with a lance of living shadow, crushed another’s skull, set a third aflame, but that didn’t stop their advance. They knew no fear, no pain. Even the one he’d impaled with shadow continued on despite a gaping hole in its chest and the entrails spilling out around its knees.

Four more continued on, so close now. Velixar fled, the shame of it burning in his chest. Toward Karak he ran, veering side to side, nearly having his head lopped off by a cluster of living, terrified soldiers. He ducked beneath the attempt and kept on going, his gaze focused on his beloved deity.

Karak seethed as he stared at his brother, looking like he was ready to leap into the air and pounce on him had it not been for the undead that clawed at his godly form. “Face me!” he shouted, his words aimed at Ashhur, who still played puppet master behind the stone bunker. “Come face me yourself!”

The undead pressed even harder as Ashhur watched from across a sea of writhing corpses.

The hiss and clink of his fellow warriors drawing their weapons was music to Patrick’s ears. He raised Winterbone, holding it steady despite its great weight, and prepared to strike. He was on the first soldier in moments and drew back, ready to slash with all his might. But when he caught sight of the soldier’s expression, his eyes bulging with fear, Patrick faltered. Instead of lopping off the man’s head, his blade glanced off his helm, raising a flurry of sparks, and the soldier rushed right past him. Patrick pulled up on the reins, forcing his mare to rear and nearly pitch him from the saddle. When he spun the horse around, he saw that the soldier had simply kept on running, his feet trudging desperately through the snow.

He heard the ring of steel meeting steel, and he whirled in a circle. The Turncloaks and Denton’s brave civilians had followed his lead and halted their horses as well, randomly hacking at the charging soldiers, yet meeting no resistance. None of the running men wearing Karak’s sigil tried to assail them. They aren’t charging. They’re fleeing.

“STOP!”

Hesitantly, his mates ceased lashing out at the soldiers, Big Flick punctuating the stillness when he brought the hilt of his longsword down on a soldier’s head with a clang . All twenty-three sat slack-jawed and bewildered, their horses fidgeting nervously as hundreds of terrified men hurried past. They were like stones in the middle of a surge of water.

“What’s happening?” yelled Tristan over the din.

Patrick grinned, his heart rate quickened.

“He’s winning! Ashhur is winning!” he proclaimed. “Come on, follow me!”

Patrick urged his horse forward, working his way through the fleeing soldiers. Their numbers parted like the knees of a wanton maid after too much wine, allowing them uninhibited passage through the holes in the walls. He could smell blood and smoke in the air, as well as the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh. He crossed through the break in the outer wall, followed closely by his compatriots. He was past the ten-foot chasm between the two walls in the blink of an eye.

When he charged through the second fissure and into Mordeina, he found himself surrounded by absolute madness.

There were people fighting everywhere, tight-knit clusters swinging swords, mauls, axes, rods, and even hands and fists. It was so crowded that the hordes pushed up against both sides of his mare, sealing off any possible escape. A helmeted head collided with his knee, and something heavy shoved at him from the other side. A spray of blood caught him in the face, momentarily blinding him. Invasive fingers grabbed at Winterbone, trying to pry it from his grasp. For a moment he thought he heard someone shout his name, but it was impossible to tell. There was so much conflict, so many voices, that it was as if nothing existed save screams and clashing steel. He glanced about him in a panic, but couldn’t make out anything except the flurry of bodies locked in struggle. He couldn’t see Preston, Big Flick, Edward, Denton-anyone. It was all confusion.

It was like the night he had led the Turncloaks against Karak’s soldiers in the chasm, only a hundred times worse.

Another stream of blood splashed against his cheek, and his mare shrieked in pain. The beast reared back, this time far enough that Patrick tumbled out of the saddle. He threw his arms up as he plummeted, keeping Winterbone high in the air. His back collided with a seemingly solid wall of humanity, but the force of his fall carried him, and those he crashed into, to the ground. Someone gasped-the first distinguishable sound he’d heard since entering the settlement-and he rolled over, his elbow splashing in gore-soaked muck. The man who had broken his fall writhed, face down, arms and legs pounding the sodden ground, weighed down by his heavy plated armor.

Even though a swarm of bodies crushed in on him from above, seeing the struggling soldier caused Patrick’s head to clear. He glanced at his right hand, saw that he still held his sword, his fingers clenched so tightly they had turned white. Quickly, he scampered to his feet, seeking higher ground. As he had learned that night in the chasm, Winterbone was nearly useless in close quarters.