David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Patrick scampered after him, picking Winterbone up along the way, and watched as Ludwig hopped over the bunker and re-entered the fray. Another bright flash came, momentarily bringing stars to his vision, and he blinked and turned around. There he saw Ashhur, standing not two hundred feet away from him and surrounded by a crowd of bleeding humans and Wardens. Ashhur looked imposing, a scowl on his face and his hair fluttering behind him like golden smoke. The light coming from his eyes was so intense that Patrick couldn’t gaze at it directly. He turned his head slightly and squinted, watching as the deity raised his hand. Another whoosh ensued, and a massive spiral of dark matter detonated not ten feet in front of the god, sending streamers of dissipating energy in all directions. Patrick had to duck before one of those streamers struck him in the side of the head.

“We have failed this day, but we must live to fight again!”

He recognized that voice. How could he not? It had been seared into his brain in the aftermath of the attack on Haven. In a daze, he took a step backward and peered over the low wall. Sure enough, there in the distance he saw Karak, the deity just as imposing as Ashhur in his black armor and with his flaming ethereal sword. The god was backing away through the horde of vicious dead things, fending off dozens of them at a time. And beside him, his eyes alight with crimson, was Jacob Eveningstar. God and man both then lifted their hands, and a massive sheet of flame rose into the air. The flames raced across the ground, becoming a wall all their own, blotting out Patrick’s vision. A good number of the walking dead were set alight, but that didn’t stop their forward momentum. They continued to pursue even though their skin charred and smoked.

Then, not ten minutes later, it was over. The wall of flame fizzled away. A few hundred living soldiers remained within the walls, dashing this way and that, trying to escape any way they could. He even saw a score of them along the far wall to his right, tiny from such a great distance, attempting to climb the staircase. A cluster of men and women wearing burlap chased after them, fists pumping as they shouted. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, for the sound of weeping and moaning drowned out all else.

There were wide patches of muddy earth all around him, littered with discarded bits of armor and even a few wriggling limbs. There were also the corpses of at least two hundred horses out there, somewhere among them his own mare. Yet though the dead horses stayed on the ground, the human corpses persisted in walking. There were thousands of them streaming out the gap in the wall, but they didn’t pursue Karak and his soldiers across the snowy field. Instead, they spread out once they exited the outer wall, lining up in a formation of living death. Patrick felt disgusted just to look at them. . and his horror peaked when he saw Denton hobbling among them, his right arm dangling by a thread, his gait lurching. Patrick closed his eyes. Barclay would be overcome with grief, if the boy still lived.

Finally, he allowed himself to consider the battlefield again. Dazed people were moving about all around him, appearing almost as mindless as the living dead. The wounded were tended to, and he even saw a young man wandering among the numbers of the walking corpses, eyes brimmed with tears as he scanned every face. Patrick turned away from the sight, but in doing so he was forced to look at his childhood home as it sat atop its hill. There was a crowd packed around Manse DuTaureau, more people than he had seen in a single place in all his life. For a moment he wondered if they were cheering or sobbing over what had just transpired, or if they were like Patrick and felt nothing but revulsion.

War makes monsters of us all.

“Fuck that,” Patrick muttered.

He jammed Winterbone into the earth, turned on his heels, and marched toward Ashhur, farther along the bunker. His sorrow bloomed, even though he caught sight of Preston and Edward assisting with the injured. He also saw Tristan, and the youth raised a weary hand to him in greeting. Patrick ignored him and picked up his pace. Just as the soldiers had done when he rode through the walls, the multitude of weary people gave him a wide berth as he walked. When he reached Ashhur, he found the god on one knee, hovering over Master Warden Ahaesarus. Ashhur touched the Master Warden’s chest, his hands lighting up a brilliant white, and Ahaesarus cried out. A chorus of snaps and pops followed, and Patrick watched the Warden’s nearly severed leg gradually stitch back together. There had been many times in the past when Patrick had felt awed by such a spectacle. Now was not one of those times.

When the deed was done, three Wardens helped Ahaesarus to his feet and supported him as he limped away. Other men and women began approaching the god, but immediately retracted when they spotted Patrick coming up from the rear. Ashhur turned around and looked at him. The deity wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked more exhausted than he had back in Haven.

“My son,” Ashhur said.

“Your Grace,” Patrick said softly. He spoke his next words without thought. “Does that name even fit any longer?”

“How dare you?” shouted an injured Warden flanking Ashhur. Patrick recognized Judah, one of Ahaesarus’s closest confidants.

“Leave, Judah,” the deity said.

“I cannot, your Grace. He has-”

“Leave.”

Judah, his eyes showing hurt, gradually bowed and backed away. Ashhur turned his attention back to Patrick.

“What in the ever-living fuck did you do?” Patrick asked coldly.

“I did what was necessary,” answered Ashhur, even more coldly. “There are no more rules now, my son. I must protect my children.”

“This. . ” Patrick waved his hand at the undead streaming out of the wall. “This is an abomination.”

“Is it any greater an abomination than the thousands of my dead children Karak has laid at my feet?”

Patrick felt his righteous fury beginning to falter.

“But at what price?” he asked. “What of allowing your children to mourn their dead? There is supposed to be peace after death. That’s what you always told us. Not. . not this !”

“Their souls are safe in the afterlife,” said Ashhur. “I have raised their earthly bodies and nothing more. What you witness are empty shells.”

“But what about your children? What of their grief? How do you think they feel watching the corpses of their loved ones strolling about? Did you think of that ?”

The deity looked disappointed. “One cannot grieve if one is dead.”

Patrick went to retort but held his tongue. Good point. Finally, after a long pause, he said, “But what happens when Karak returns? You know he will. Will your army of corpses help us then?”

“Karak will not have a chance to return. We will pursue him , even if we must chase him all the way to his own pathetic kingdom.” For a moment, it seemed like smoke curled out of Ashhur’s eyes, a sight that made Patrick shiver. “His army is in shambles, his lines broken.”

“But how can we, with all we’ve lost?” asked Patrick. He glanced over his shoulder at the decimation of Mordeina to prove his point.

Finally, Ashhur’s expression softened, and his massive fingers wrapped around Patrick’s shoulder.

“It is true we have lost much,” he told him wearily. “But should we allow my brother to gather himself and come back at us, we will lose everything . Karak began this war, and I will end it, even if I must empty every grave in all of Dezrel.”

It was risky to linger outside the Castle of the Lion, even during daylight hours. Sisters of the Cloth were constantly about, keeping close watch on the weary female populace as they shuffled through their daily routines. The Sisters seemed on edge now, presumably because over a hundred of their numbers had disappeared in previous months. They eyed everyone with suspicion. Civilians who appeared the slightest bit dubious were grabbed and dragged pleading into the castle for interrogation.