Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) (119 page)

Seth and Sara stood side by side upon the front lines of Valdadore’s army. Borrik and Jonas were with the pair and together the four of them watched the enemy across the battlefield. The enemy watched back. Seth smiled. He bet the gods were seething right now. If no one was fighting, no one was dying. This was even better than his plan.

For an hour they watched and nothing happened. Looking down the line he could see his brother pacing, even from here, and knew that being patient was not one of his brother’s strengths. Nor was it his own, but Seth was
loving
this. More time passed and still nothing. Seth, growing amused, thought it might be nice to sit in the grass and enjoy the view from another perspective for a while when he heard his brother’s booming voice echo across the field of battle.

Seth could not believe his brother was calling a charge. Who would they charge? The troops all had orders to leave the unblessed soldiers of the enemy alone, yet the enemy’s champions had not revealed themselves. Sadly, Seth watched as his brother and all of those blessed for melee battle charged into the fight. Turning, Seth nodded to Jonas and Borrik. The latter sprang into the air as the former placed his hand to his chest and muttered a simple prayer as he darted off across the open expanse. Boom after thunderous boom sounded as over a hundred men and woman blessed by Seth expanded in size faster than eyes could witness. The charge fanned out across the entire field of battle, but as expected it was wholly one-sided.

As Valdadore’s champions reached the opposing army, Seth watched as nothing happened. The defenders stared at the attackers and vice versa. Seth was embarrassed. Some of Sigrant’s troops began to spill between the larger opposition, but overall the battlefield remained calm and virtually empty.

As if sensing something was amiss, Sara began to stalk off slowly like a cat who had just located its prey. Seth, looking out from his deep cowl, saw naught but a line of odd looking soldiers slowly detaching themselves from the enemy troops. One moment these men were slowly wandering away, using the Valdadorians’ confusion to their advantage, the next they were openly sprinting as one by one they began doubling in size. Some of Seth’s troops began to notice, as their heads swiveled around, but without orders they simply stood their ground. Not Borrik; he realized the threat and began circling lower before tucking his wings and diving.

Seth was already at work and plucking the life from the strangely armored troops. Two vanished, then four more; a few seconds later nine turned to ash. Again and again Seth reached out, but the odd soldiers were already upon Valdadore’s common soldiers. They didn’t stand a chance. Hundreds were dying as their screams echoed across the battlefield.

Valdadore’s champions raced to save them and then the unthinkable happened.

Seth reached out and grasped two dozen of the odd auras belonging to the soldiers clad in bone. Then the world sped below him as a great explosion rocked the battleground. Feeling the impact like he had been smacked in the chest by a castle wall, Seth flew more than a dozen yards straight back through the air. Landing in a twisted heap, he disentangled his robes only enough to see what it was that had taken place. His heart stopped beating. Air fled his lungs. Seth choked.

Upon the battlefield James, the only father Seth had ever known, had called upon his blessing. So great was his size now that Seth had changed him, the explosion he produced when shifting was more than a hundred times stronger than it had been near his entire life. Standing beside James had been his life-long friend Jack. Like Seth, Jack had always looked up to James both literally and figuratively. Now Jack lay at James’s feet, a mangled mess of broken bones. Blood spewed from his ears, mouth, and nose. Even from here Seth knew he was dead.

From across the battlefield Seth watched as his father realized the same thing. Raising his four immense arms, the giant unlike any other upon the world screamed out in rage in a voice that shook the earth and echoed across the world for a hundred miles in all directions. Everywhere eardrums lay wasted from the initial explosion, yet all heard the mournful cry of the giant man. More or less he had just killed his own brother. It was Seth’s fault.

Tears streamed from Seth’s eyes as his heart broke time and again. He had just watched a man that helped raise him die. He had watched his father’s heart break, having killed his own best friend. None of it would have happened were it not for Seth’s meddling. Seth’s life meant nothing in that moment. He would have willingly given it to bring back Jack.

With strength to do nothing but watch the battle unfold before his eyes, Seth lay crying upon the ground, believing himself thoroughly broken. There he lay as James rushed across the field, his footfalls throwing all those who had risen back to the ground once again. Roaring in fury he flung the enemy like dolls across the field at the army who spawned them. Bodies rained down upon Sigrant’s forces killing those below in a symphony of crunches and screams.

James, having removed the threat to a man, turned and roared across the battlefield, unhinged by his rage, daring them to send another assault. The enemy responded.

Seth sobbed as a magical attack that would destroy battalions of men lanced through the cold air where it crashed into this father. Mere seconds later James cried out in pain, but even with his body ruined, he stood defiant. Ignoring his own suffering James opened his mouth again and from it came the unimaginable.

No scream split the air, no howl of defiance. Instead a deep, rumbling, mournful battle hymn issued out of his father’s mouth singing of the glory of Valdadore.

Another wave of magical blasts split the air roaring, snapping, and crackling. The battle hymn ended abruptly. James staggered, his body obliterated. Blood ran from him like water from a bucket without a bottom. Bones were visible where flesh had been blasted away. Organs smoldered within the giant where the attack had penetrated him. James opened and closed his mouth and eyes, lost to the world. He staggered again and began to lean backwards, his shadow falling upon the very troops of Valdadore he had just saved. His toes began to rise off the ground.

From above, Borrik swooped out of the air and struck the giant between the shoulder blades. James rocked forward. His eyes focused a moment and he staggered forward. Snagging a rut in the ground with his toe his center of gravity changed, and over the giant toppled.

Seth watched his father’s massive body crash down upon the ground as if in slow motion. His body seemed to bounce once before settling. For an instant James was lost from sight as a cloud of dust filled the air where he fell. The dust clearing, Seth watched as his father’s mouth moved and came open. Copious amounts of blood spilled from it, drenching the ground. His father worked his four arms as if to rise, but only managed to lift one shoulder off the ground. Both armies stood enthralled.

With his chest off the ground, twisting to one side, James turned his face towards the heavens.

There upon the field of battle, James spoke his last words. So loud were they and with such force, they echoed off the Rancor Mountains over three hundred miles away to be heard again four hours later. James made sure the gods would hear him.

“Gorandor, spare my sons this burden; let them live in peace.”

Slumping to the ground again, his body gave out. The man who had raised the two most powerful men in Valdadore had fallen.

Seth fought for breath. The world closed in upon him. Suffocating, he blacked out.

The army led by King Sigrant charged. Champions, mages, and common men clashed. Valdadore replied in kind, singing the battle hymn James had begun. They would honor him by finishing it for him.

Ishanya had felt the shift, and looking into the future she could see how things had changed. Her plan had veered off track. Worse than that, whatever the event had been that altered the collective possibilities of the future, if she did not correct it soon, it could take ages to set right again. If that were not enough already, the shift was not going to go unnoticed in the plane of the immortals. If her brethren had not yet realized she walked among them again, they surely would now.

Ishanya, an immortal being living beyond the confines of flesh and bone, would have trembled were it possible. She was not yet ready to face her peers. The thought of returning to her miserable existence frightened her. The others, together, could silence her once and for all. Her plan would have to change. Ishanya decided to take a risk.

* * * * *

For three long hours Zorbin followed his lifelong friend down the stone corridors leading to Boulder Gate. Though he knew the passages just as well as Gumbi, it was required that he was escorted. He was now considered an outsider to his race. In an event that was virtually unheard of, Zorbin Ironfist, a dwarf born of a family with high station, had left his home and sworn his life and his honor to a human king. More or less he was considered a traitor. Not to his king, but to his race.

Even so, Zorbin was here as an emissary from the human kingdom, and as such had been allowed entry. Dwarves were a race with honor engraved in their bones, and as such he knew he would be treated with the respect due his station. He doubted seriously, however, that this trip would be successful. The king was old and weary of ruling. He was not a man who would be gathering up the citizens of his realm and marching them out to a war they had no business in.

Rounding a turn in the corridor Gumbi stopped abruptly, and waiting for Linaya and Zorbin to join him, he turned and spread his arms.

“Welcome, Lady Linaya, to Boulder Gate, our humble home,” Gumbi smiled.

* * * * *

Linaya stared ahead, her jaw falling slack. She had not known what to expect, but it certainly was not this. Where they stood could only be described as a balcony. Before them a vast chamber, miles in circumference, had been carved out of the mountain’s core. Together Linaya stood with her two dwarven companions looking down upon a huge city of pillars and spires. It was magnificent, a view unrivaled anywhere else in the world.

Carved entirely of the very stone they stood upon, the whole city appeared as an artist’s masterpiece. The giant chamber that contained the city alone was a feat that Linaya imagined had to have been generations in the making. Great ribs of stone started at the base of the outer wall of the city, and, narrowing as they rose, they connected at the pinnacle of the chamber in a large circle. Inside the circle a flawless vein of quartz was cut into millions of facets. Light shone out of the quartz in every color of the rainbow, sending millions of rays of colored light to dance among the thousands of masterpieces below.

Every façade of every building and spire was a carved scene of past dwarven glories. Buttresses and bridges were held upon the shoulders of massive statues, and fountains made of carved creatures foreign to Linaya were a frequent spectacle between and even atop the buildings. How a city could exist below the ground was a marvel to Linaya. She knew the dwarves had lived here for as long as human histories were told, but she imagined them living in caves, in the dark. Here there was neither dark nor cave, and without even a momentary pause to make comparison she knew that Boulder Gate put Valdadore to shame.

The city of Valdadore was built out of military need for defensibility. Boulder Gate had been born of love. The very buildings spoke of dwarven pride. Linaya was ashamed. In her home she was the most beautiful feature, but here she was but another blemish. Dwarves, it seemed, had learned how to become a part of their home, whereas humans simply took from theirs.

No wonder the dwarves did not care to mingle with humans.

* * * * *

Screams of dismay mixed with grunts of exertion as blood-curdling howls and shouts attempted to drown out the ancient battle hymn of Valdadore. The two armies clashed, sparing neither champion nor common soldier. Both were out for blood, though only one was defending its home.

Garret’s world had altered in a moment, growing smaller, insubstantial, and dark. Though moving, and striking, and dodging blows, his mind had shut itself down and was blank. There was nothing but killing and moving on to kill some more. Action fed reaction and thought was not an option. Garret mindlessly killed anything that entered his path.

Sweeping low with his blade, Garret separated seven torsos from their legs and chuckled as blood was slung through the air off the trailing edge of his sword. Moving forward, as if to keep up his momentum, he smashed the men he had just killed beneath his feet, their blood and entrails squeezing up between his great metallic toes. He located his next target.

Rolling in the gore before Garret, a champion of Sigrant sprang to his feet before the King of Valdadore. He was large, though a full head shorter than Garret, and his skin glowed from an inner light. The corpses beneath his body steamed as he trod upon them. Stepping closer to Garret, closing the distance between them, the man raised his fists. Upon his hands and wrists were what appeared to be polished copper gloves. Each of them hummed unnaturally, and Garret could not suppress yet another chuckle. Garret raised his huge sword to attack the man who came to war wearing gauntlets. Fool. Garret, letting his rage lead him, swung his massive blade in an overhead arc intending to cleave his opponent in two. Nothing could have prepared him for his blessed foe’s reaction.

Reaching up to deflect the blow with one of his armored hands, the blessed man caught it in his grasp. As the metal of Garret’s blade touched the gauntlet of his opponent, a loud ringing sang down the length of his blade as an electric charge raced down the metal. Garret, in his blessed form, was helpless against the magic. His steel flesh was instantly overcome by the jolting power. Twitching uncontrollably, Garret was rendered immobile.

Inwardly panicking, Garret watched as his blade flared to life, becoming engulfed in magical fire. Even his brother’s enchantment seemed to have no effect against his enemy. Ignoring the fire, the electrically charged warrior closed the distance between himself and the King of Valdadore, careful not to release his sword.

Unable to turn his head, Garret hoped someone would see his predicament and come to his aid. From his vantage point, however, only common troops surrounded the two giants. His body locked into position by the electricity passing through him, Garret was sure that his predicament could not get any worse. Sadly he realized quickly that he was mistaken.

As his opponent closed in on him, the man pulled back his free, copper-gloved hand as if to punch Garret. Hesitating a moment, the electrical warrior seemed to focus his power as his hand began to pulse and his natural humming increased in volume. Then he attacked. Swinging with all his might, the warrior drove his fist into Garret’s ribcage. Though his flesh was that of steel, as fist met flesh and the enemy released his charge, Garret’s flesh became molten at the same instant he was thrown backwards by the blow.

His muscles relaxing as he careened backwards, Garret knew without even seeing the wound that he needed a healer. The air itself caused immeasurable pain, and when he landed upon his back amongst the screams of those he crushed beneath him, he could smell the burnt flesh of the wound. Reality claimed the king once again, awakening his mind from the rage.

Twisting to see the extent of the damage, Garret was immediately appalled by what he saw. His flesh, like heated steel, had become molten and run down off his ribs to cool again further down his torso. His entire ribcage now lay exposed beneath one arm, and between the ribs the muscle and flesh was charred or burned away altogether. From the gaps between his ribs small plumes of smoke escaped the void within his body with each breath. His organs themselves had become burned and still smoldered. Garret retched. If he did not retreat back to the healers quickly, he would die upon the field as his injured organs began to shut down. The sound of humming began to grow and Garret turned and raised his head to see his opponent making his way towards him.

Garret climbed to his feet as the copper-clad brawler neared once again. The closer the enemy came, the louder his inner humming sounded as the pitch of the sound rose incrementally. Getting his bearings, the King of Valdadore realized he was now surrounded by common enemy troops. Grinning wickedly, Garret raised his large broadsword in one hand and gripped the shield Seth had enchanted for him tightly. The injured king began chuckling as he began to stride towards his foe. Sigrant’s troops cleared a wide path for him. They were wise, for even injured as he was, Garret was a formidable foe who still had a surprise in his arsenal.

Watching his opponent come into range Garret swung his blade in a wide arc, expecting at the very least to remove his arm. Instead, before the blow landed the brawler reached out again and grasped at the blade with his copper hand. The steel bit deep into the copper and blood sprayed out from around the conductive glove, and Garret was sure the brawler’s hand had shattered within its metallic cocoon. Unfortunately for Garret, the injury to his enemy mattered little, for the King of Valdadore would forever be changed after the brawler’s next assault.

* * * * *

Seth watched as his remaining creations did their best to take the brunt of the battle to spare Valdadore’s common troops. His champions were the only reason Valdadore was even still in the fight. Time and again Seth wiped out hundreds of human beings, feeling the guilt of each death. It could not be helped. Seth needed the power to feed into his champions. He needed it to use his abilities. He needed it to know the world was real and he was still alive. With the tremendous strain upon his soul of the burdens he had chosen or been chosen to bear, the magic inside him was all that kept him afloat. The thrill of stolen life within his veins kept him alert when his mind would have otherwise been numb. Seth had no choice but to stay sharp; everyone he loved was upon the battlefield. Some had already fallen. It was his fault they had, and Seth could not withstand the thought of losing another.

Focusing himself upon his surroundings he watched as his werewolf troops bounded through the enemy, their blessed sizes making them readily visible. Hacking and clawing they worked with precision, killing as a pack, driven by one consciousness. From above Borrik commanded the werewolves, swooping low again and again to cleave men in two by the dozens. Rising he would throw fireballs into the massive armies controlled by the fallen King Sigrant.

Seth saw Sara leap above the enemy troops, her twin blades spraying fountains of blood with each bound. Again and again she fell amongst the enemy to rise into the air once more bearing blood or parts of enemy troops with her. From her blades death was administered to all that stood before her. Seth wondered if Sara would ever want to go back to what she had been once, seeing the warrior she had become. He knew she had worries of her own as of late but so filled with his own burdens, he had not bothered to ask her what it was that was causing her pain. He promised himself to ask her as soon as they had the chance to speak, if they would find that chance again. Seth closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled loudly.

Focusing with his vision of the gods he watched as a change crept over the battlefield. None but Seth could see what was happening; none could prepare for what was about to take place. Seth saw no way to protect his fellow Valdadorians as hundreds of blessed troops filtered in from behind the enemy’s force. Seth tasted their auras and knew at once they were mages. He also knew immediately that the battle would be over soon if something were not done. He turned to the giant, mottled colored werewolf at his side and shouted above the battle.

“Jonas, tell Borrik to recall the troops back to our lines and get Sara out of there!”

Jonas nodded and within seconds it was obvious Seth’s orders had been received amongst his werewolves as they all began to turn and bite and claw their way back in the direction they had come. All over the battlefield auras began to swell as the blessed mages of Sigrant’s army began to pray to their chosen gods. Borrik dove from the heavens and landed among the enemy, growling and barking as he tore soldiers to pieces within his four giant, clawed hands. Though Seth could not hear Borrik’s words to Sara, he saw his wife turn and begin bounding back towards him, droplets of blood raining off her armor and weapons with each leap. If Seth had seen the danger sooner it might have made a difference, but as it was, his fate had already been sealed.

* * * * *

Ishanya stood within the heavens feeling the changes to her plan. It was a plan she had been preparing for eons, and set into motion after a great deal of thought and preparation. Ishanya was not willing to let her plan fail, and as such decided to act directly to influence the flow of time. It was a move born by desperation, and one her peers would not miss. It would take them time to feel the change, though, and more time still to thwart her. In that time she would become strong enough to face them if she needed to. Ishanya decided to risk it all. Focusing her immense mind she pushed her consciousness across time and space, to the very world of Thurr itself. She ventured then into the kingdom of Valdadore and further still to the battle raging on its western border. Ishanya pushed still and, unnoticed by all mortals but one upon the field of battle, she shoved the soul of a man she helped to create aside and took control of his body.