David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

He shoved his way through the throng, stabbing at those in armor to try and keep them at a safe distance. He took a nasty slash to the bare flesh of his left wrist between his vambrace and his mailed glove, but he couldn’t turn enough to see who delivered it. Instead, he put his head down and churned his uneven legs, bulling his way through.

Finally, he reached a gap in the fighting, nearly falling when suddenly there were no obstacles blocking him. Ahead of him was the bunker, but in front of that were two soldiers locked in battle with a Warden with long auburn hair. Patrick recognized him as Ludwig, and he was badly hurt. The soldiers hacked away mercilessly at him, and though Ludwig was much larger than they were, he was not nearly as good with a sword. It was all he could do to bat aside every third blow. Two of the fingers on his left hand were gone, a massive gash yawned on his chest, and innumerable other tiny cuts covered him.

Patrick charged, relishing the freedom of not being crushed by countless bodies, and came down hard with Winterbone. In the clamor, the soldiers never heard him coming. His blade sliced through steel, flesh, and bone alike, severing the arm of one of the men. It flopped uselessly on the ground. He then drove the tip of his sword through the slit in the soldier’s helm, and the man fell backward. The second had turned when he realized his partner no longer fought with him, giving Warden Ludwig a chance to stab him through the neck from behind.

With both soldiers down, yet more approaching, Patrick rushed to the Warden and drove his shoulder into him, forcing the injured being against the outside of the bunker. “Climb, dammit!” he shouted, and Ludwig complied, albeit weakly. Patrick pushed and prodded until the Warden had reached the top of the five-foot curved wall. Only when he disappeared over the other side did Patrick’s fingers find a crevice in the stone. With bodies beginning to flail toward him once more, he pulled himself up.

For a moment he stood atop the bunker and gawked at the carnage, but a second later he began running along the curved surface, slashing at the soldiers standing below. He noticed a Warden with a wide back and thick black hair, carving his way through a group of Karak’s men. Patrick hacked off a soldier’s sword-wielding hand as he tried to climb the bunker, then looked back up at Judarius and smiled. The Warden was a beast with his maul, an animal of single-minded fury. He crushed three skulls before turning around, and when Patrick saw his face, he stopped in his tracks. The Warden was horrific, his jaw dangling, his loose-fitting tan leathers saturated with red. Yet it was his eyes that riveted Patrick. Judarius’s eyes had been green, but now they were pale and glowing slightly. His expression was blank.

That’s when Patrick noticed that he himself was being mostly ignored. He looked this way and that, his eyes growing wider as he took in the battle scene around him. Soldiers were fighting soldiers. Soldiers were fighting men and women whose flesh was every shade from gray to blue. Soldiers were fighting attackers missing one or both of their limbs.

“What the fuck. .?”

Velixar swung Lionsbane, taking half the head off a naked dead woman, and slid to the snow-and-gore-covered ground when five more reached for him. Fingers snagged his cloak, and he lifted his arms, allowing it to be torn from his body. He almost lost Lionsbane in the process, but his grip on the sword’s handle was true. He scampered to his feet, his pendant bouncing against his chest as the undead descended upon the cloak as if he were still in it. Without protection from the elements, the cold hit his sweat-soaked body like an icy wave. He shivered but kept running.

He was almost to Karak when the deity raised his hand and a gush of purple flame and shadow, eight feet wide and spiraling, leapt from his palm. The spinning shaft decimated all in its path, living and dead alike, as it careened toward Ashhur. The God of Justice locked both arms in front of his face and lowered his head, and Karak’s magic hit an invisible wall a few feet in front of him, sending tendrils of destructive energy flying in all direction, killing even more soldiers.

Those soldiers, their bodies smoking but still intact, rose a second later.

“COWARD!” Karak roared.

Velixar reached his chosen god’s side, shoving Lionsbane through the chin of yet another grasping undead. The blade exited the top of its skull with a pop . He yanked it free and turned to Karak. The god sent another magical attack Ashhur’s way, only to see his brother deflect it once more. The anger in the deity’s eyes was so great, Velixar thought his god would set the whole world on fire if it led to Ashhur’s defeat, consequences be damned.

“My Lord!” he screamed.

Karak’s glowing eyes turned to him, and for a moment it seemed the deity might burn him to a cinder. Velixar kept his gaze intent on the god’s, using his elbow to smash away another dead attacker.

“It is lost, my Lord,” he said, his voice ragged and gasping to his own ears.

“It cannot be! I will not let it!” snarled Karak, turning back to Ashhur and sending another blast of energy his way.

“It is, but not forever,” Velixar said. “My Lord, we must fall back. When next we come for him, we will be ready!”

Another undead slammed into Velixar. He kicked the thing to the ground and removed its head with two frustrated hacks.

Karak looked at him once more, his gaze softening. Velixar swore he saw not only rage behind those divine eyes, but embarrassment as well. The deity nodded to him, then leapt forward, gathering twelve grasping, snapping beasts in his arms. He hurled them straight ahead, toppling the hundred now approaching like so many saplings.

“Soldiers of Karak, my brave warriors,” his god called out. “We must retreat. We have failed this day, but we must live to fight again!”

His voice carried throughout the settlement, and the remaining Eastern soldiers turned tail and sprinted for the hole in the wall. Karak placed his hand on Velixar’s shoulder, and the strength that had previously left him returned tenfold. The pendant on his chest pulsed as he slid Lionsbane back into its sheath. Together, the god and the First Man raised a wall of fire, shielding the retreating soldiers from the advancing undead. Grunting, he poured all his anger into the spell, heightening the flames. Finally, the last brave stragglers limped through the gate, and the god and his prophet followed suit, Karak having to duck beneath the jagged opening.

Once outside, Velixar saw thousands of soldiers tramping across the snow-covered valley toward their distant camp, where black smoke billowed. No. The last of their supplies were burning. He shot one last glance behind him, saw the undead pouring out of the gap in the wall, but noticed they didn’t pursue. They stopped the moment they emerged, forming a wall of decaying flesh, their dimly shining eyes staring straight ahead. Not wanting to see any more, Velixar turned away, quickening his pace to keep up with Karak’s much longer strides. Where once there was confidence, frustration now simmered.

“All this time. . for nothing,” Velixar said. “How did this happen? Victory was there, we held it in our hands. . ”

Karak gazed down at him, and the pendant on his chest throbbed.

“I made a mistake, High Prophet,” the god said. “And now all of Dezrel shall suffer for it. I offered mercy, yet only death will suffice for my brother and his people. So be it. If he will turn his own dead into soldiers, then let us make soldiers of his entire kingdom as we burn it to the ground.”

A bright flash came from Patrick’s left, followed by a gust of hot wind that knocked him off the wall. He lost hold of Winterbone and landed on the ground on the other side with a thud , then rolled down into the bunker. His head rattled and he shook it. Lying just in front of him was Warden Ludwig. The Warden’s eyes were open and unblinking, already gone milky in death. Patrick watched in horror as a faint light began to shine deep within those unblinking eyes. The body shuddered once, and Ludwig lifted his head. He looked right at Patrick, though there was no recognition in his gaze. The Warden slowly hauled his body off the cold ground and walked, hunched over, out of the bunker. The flap of flesh on his chest sagged like a panting tongue.