Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (46 page)

She didn’t need to answer, for a half second later the separate groups of people bellowed at the tops of their lungs and charged toward the lions. Danco and Tabar followed suit, taking off at a run in opposite directions, their swords held up high, their feet pounding the gore-soaked cobbles. The lions ceased their pacing and looked ahead and behind before rushing Moira’s sworn men. Moira kept her eyes on the male, watching in horror as the beast shook his head, his sodden mane like a ring of snakes,
and then
hunkered down on his haunches. Tabar flew past Gull and lashed out at the lion. A paw came up, absorbing the blow, and when Tabar streaked past, Kayne pounced. The lion’s powerful jaws clamped down on the man’s left arm, halting his momentum, snapping his head to the side. Tabar howled in pain. Kayne drove forward, forcing Tabar to his knees. There was a pop as his shoulder dislodged from its socket.

Without making a sound, Gull strode forward, moving quickly and easily across the square, and brought his longsword down on one of the lion’s legs. Kayne released Tabar’s arm, which was now dangling as it bled, and roared. When Gull’s sword looped back around, there was only a smattering of blood on the blade. The other charging men and women then reached his side, hacking and slashing in vain at the lion.

“Moira, we must go!”

A strong hand clasped around Moira’s injured forearm, and she was nearly yanked off her feet. She spun, batting the hand away, and caught a glimpse of Danco as he danced around the lioness, joined now by another thirteen combatants. It was difficult to see in the spreading darkness, but she swore Danco was limping.
He ha
d placed himself between the buildings and the open space of the center square, severely restricting his opportunities to flee. People pressed in around him. Lilah bore down, ready to strike.

Again Rodin grabbed at her. “We must leave while we have the chance! No harm can come to you!”

“No!” Moira yelled at him. Her teeth gritted and she glowered. “I am Moira Elren. I fought Karak’s Army in Haven. I do . . . not . . . run.”

She drove her elbow into Rodin’s chest, knocking him aside, and then charged toward the faltering Danco. Danco now favored his left side, his free arm pressed against his own waist as blood turned his breeches red. Moira leapt at Lilah, plunging both her swords into the lioness’s flank. The lioness whirled around with a quickness that should have been impossible for so large a creature. Moira landed and flattened herself on the ground, barely avoiding the giant claws that soared over her head. She then rolled beneath the lioness’s torso and jammed one of her swords into Lilah’s
gut. Th
e beast howled and rose up on her hind legs as a gush of blood left the wound. But Moira watched in horror as the cut closed, fur overlapping the gash until it disappeared.

Danco grabbed her ankle, dragging her across the ground and nudging aside the swarm of people that surrounded them, before the lioness dropped back down on all fours. She heard Tabar swear somewhere behind her. Moira kicked Danco away, scampered back to her feet, and went to charge the lioness again, knocking a man in a rusty helm in the back of his head with the butt of her sword in the process. This time Rodin snatched her around the waist, pulling her tight to his own body while Danco fought Lilah off.

“Do you want to die?” Rodin growled into her ear.

She kicked him in the shin, eliciting a yelp, and then flung her head back as hard as she could, striking him square in the nose. The hands around her released, and she charged back toward the fighting lioness, flinging herself into the air to stab down with her twin blades, soaring over six new corpses.

She never had the chance.

The lioness turned at the last moment, lashing out with a heavy paw. Moira managed to slip one of her blades into the thick webbing between the beast’s toes, but that wasn’t enough to stop the large, sharp claws from piercing her padded leathers, shearing her armor and flesh at once. Her breasts were scored over, ripping nearly to her ribs. She lost hold of her blades and tumbled back to earth, her forehead smacking against the cobbles. For a moment she blacked out, and then the world and all its pain came rushing back at once. Moira screamed as blood flowed from her wounds.

“Everyone, back!” she heard someone order. “Now, to the alleys!”

Gull shouted to her, and then the
whoosh
of countless arrows sounded. The ground shook as the lioness tramped past her. Moira opened her eyes, but there was blood in them. An explosion rocked the square, much too close to her, and the sudden light drove into her brain like hurled spears. She shrieked and covered her face with her arms. Something heavy approached her, and she knew she was done for. She reached out with desperate fingers for her swords, but then she heard steel slide across stone nearby and knew someone else had picked them up. She cursed to the heavens as loudly as she could.

“Calm yourself, Lady Moira.”

Hands slid beneath her back, lifting her from the ground. Her life became a cavalcade of pain as whoever carried her ran across the square.

“Now, do it now!” she heard a man’s agony-filled voice shout.

The cascade of arrows continued, the
twang
of bowstrings nearly constant, as was the
thud
and
clomp
of many retreating feet. The lions began to roar and screech behind her. She could actually hear the arrowheads embedding themselves in the creatures’ thick hides. Though she was in agony, a smile stretched her lips.

More voices, hushed and urgent, directed those who carried her. Hands shifted beneath her a few moments later, and her body was lowered. Moira heard a door slam, and everything went hazy. She felt like she was close to vomiting.

Another door slammed, more hands lifted her, and this time she did heave, pitching the contents of her stomach all over herself. She heard a man and woman grunt in disapproval, but her forward progress didn’t halt.

“Put her there,” a woman said. It was the same voice as the woman from the roof.

“And you four, over there. You, over there, find someone to tend their wounds.”

“And what of her?” asked Rodin.

“She’s in good hands.”

Again, Moira felt herself being lowered. This time when her back touched the ground, a warm, wet cloth pressed against her forehead, wiping the blood from her brow. She opened her eyes. Sure enough, the young woman who’d been standing on the
rooftop
was above her, lips drawn downward in a frown. Gull was beside her, the side of his neck bleeding, but otherwise not the worse
for wear
.

“That was very foolish,” Gull said, though there was no disappointment in his tone.

The young woman nodded. “We found your men watching the battle from the mouth of an alley. They offered to help guide the lions to the center of the square so that our archers could buy our people enough time to flee.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “They seemed certain they would make it out alive, even though we lose five or six good soldiers every time we attempt the same trick. Looks like they were right.”

“The fire,” gasped Moira. “What started . . . the fire?”

“A special powder King Eldrich’s advisors came up with. Fire seems to be the only thing the Judges are afraid of.”

“Did it . . . kill them?” she wheezed.

The woman’s face twisted into a frown. “Unfortunately, no.”

She then put comforting hands on Moira’s shoulders, dabbing her cheeks with the cloth. The wound in Moira’s chest flared, and she gritted her teeth. The young woman grimaced, then reached behind her, producing a bowl.

“Here, drink this,” she said, lowering the bowl to Moira’s lips. The liquid was thick and bitter, and it stung going down her throat. She threw her head to the side and coughed, causing the pain to flare up once more.

“Bryan, get over here; she needs help quickly,” the woman said. She then looked back at Moira. “I know the poppy is disgusting, but in a few moments you’ll sleep. Don’t worry. You have the king’s own physician here to assist you. You’ll be fine. Scarred, but fine.”

Moira’s vision started to go hazy, her defenses dropping. The woman above her was beautiful. “Who . . . are . . . you?” she asked.

“Laurel,” said the woman. “Laurel Lawrence.”

Moira burst into a fit of laughter that didn’t cease until the tincture did its job and she lost consciousness.

C
HAPTER

39

I
n the north, the Rigon wasn’t the gentle and majestic river it became farther south. No, up toward the border of the
Tinderlands
it was a raging rapid seven hundred feet wide. This massive swell of water was created by the Gihon River that flowed from the mountains in the northwest corner of Dezrel, dumping its contents into the larger Rigon. The constant churn of liquid wore away at the banks, creating treacherous sandstone cliffs fifty feet high that regularly crumbled under the weight of time and erosion. Ice still clung to the crags, forming deadly downward-facing spires nearly three feet in length. Up here, even with the sun high in the sky, it was bitterly cold. There was still ample snow on the ground.

It was in this location that Karak wanted to build a bridge for what remained of his army to cross the massive waters. The terrain was rocky with shale and granite on the other side of the river; yet the trees were plentiful and hearty with wildlife. With spring nearly upon them, they could march through the Northern Plains and feed the soldiers with deer or hedgebeasts, massive, elklike creatures three-quarters the size of a grayhorn, with deadly antlers that could grow up to twenty feet wide. With sustenance, the men would be able to pick up their pace. With a greater speed, they could reach Veldaren in a week and a half.

Velixar stood on the edge of the river, Malcolm Gregorian beside him, kicking at pebbles and watching them drop fifty feet to the rapids below. He remembered a time when he had done the same thing along the banks of the southern portion of this very river, back when he was pretending to be Ashhur’s most trusted, when Martin Harrow was newly deceased and Geris Felhorn still had his sanity. So much had changed since then, himself more than anything. He was powerful now, nearly as powerful as a god. But he doubted he was strong enough to do what Karak desired.

The remnants of Karak’s Army spread out behind him, fidgeting and moaning. They had lost forty-three horses during their trek through the dense forests and steep hills of northern Paradise. Most had to be put down, snapping limbs on the uneven terrain, but a few had simply disappeared, along with their riders and precious supplies. If he had been an optimistic man, Velixar might have guessed the culprits to be wolves. But more likely they had taken their horses and deserted into the night.

It was becoming a common occurrence.

“It is time,” Karak said.

Velixar turned and examined the deity. Somehow, Karak looked smaller than usual. Black veins traced across his too-pale flesh, climbing up his neck and spreading like webs across his cheeks. He had a mad gleam in his golden eyes as well. It was that gleam that made Velixar nervous.

“Are you certain, my Lord?” he asked.

“Are you questioning our god, High Prophet?” snapped Lord Commander Malcolm Gregorian.

Velixar ignored him. “My Lord, it is rather high here, very wide. Should we not travel farther north, closer to the fork where the cliffs are lower and the river narrower?”

“No. It is here that the deed must be done.”

Velixar started to argue more, but stilled his tongue. If Karak said this was the place, this was the place. Karak was confident in his abilities, and so Velixar should be as well. Velixar ought to trust him; Karak was the deity, after all.

“Very well, my Lord,” he said, bowing.

Karak stepped toward the edge of the cliff and held out his hand. Malcolm backed away, joining the remaining seventy-seven
Ekreissar
, who hovered near the front of the mass of soldiers.
Aerland
Shen looked on with a distrustful eye. The Ekreissar Chief seemed to have recaptured his bearings over the last four and a half days. Even though the square-faced elf had witnessed Karak’s power when the army of beast-men was created, he was still doubtful. But then again, it wasn’t the god’s power they were relying on now, and Chief Shen knew it.

Velixar scowled at the elf before turning back to the river.
He will see. They all will.
Karak held out his hand and Velixar took it. His cloak billowed in the stiff wind; the pendant on his chest grew so hot, it nearly seared his flesh.

“Are you ready, High Prophet?” Karak asked.

Velixar nodded.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, allowing the energy to wash over him. Still, he couldn’t erase his doubt. This was nothing like the trick that god and prophet had performed before, when the army crossed from Neldar and into Paradise; the Rigon was slimmer at that point, its banks more traversable. And all they had done in that instance was build stone columns within the river, allowing the soldiers to lay down heavy planks to form the bridge. Those planks had washed down the river after the god demolished the bridge; which meant they now had to use the barest of elements to create the passage, all while Karak was very weak. Velixar’s uncertainty caused his strength to waver.

“You are able, my son,” said Karak. The god’s eyes were closed, and he looked almost contemplative.

“I will try.”

“You will not fail me, Velixar.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Karak began chanting, and Velixar joined him. He felt heat on his cheeks as the glow of his eyes intensified. Rocks shimmied on the edge of the cliff, and a few of the weak saplings that sprouted between the cracks twisted and writhed. A fissure then formed on the lip of the cliff, snaking along the ground and running between him and Karak. The earth on either side of the fissure folded upward and over. The soldiers behind them gasped.

Yet for all the men’s wonder at the display, it was just that—a display. With Karak in his current condition, it was up to Velixar to create the foundation of what was to come . . . and he had no idea how.

“The soul is limitless. With our help, you will become as mighty as the gods themselves.”

This best be true,
he thought.

Slipping his free hand beneath his cloak, he grasped his pendant, felt it throb in his fingers. With one hand in Karak’s and one clutching Karak’s gift, he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth radiate off his flesh. The connection between himself and Karak’s internal well was made stronger. All sound, but for the thrum of his heart in his ears, washed away. Once more he ventured through the empty, ethereal plain of creation, becoming a pinprick of light barely perceptible among the stars. The pendant funneled him toward the blazing sun that was Karak; only this time that sun was wreathed in shadow. Portions of its surface appeared frozen and cracked, the darkness slowly spreading toward the center, the very core of the deity himself.

Yet when he made contact with the sun, it instantly brightened, the chinks sealing shut, the inferno reignited. With the link made stronger by his physical contact with Karak, energy pulsed into him in greater quantities than it had before. He felt himself growing larger, more powerful, until he became a small star himself.

I am infinite! I am one with everything!

And still he should not stop, for Karak’s power would not be enough. The words of the demon from the void came back to him, and he focused his energy deeper within Karak’s soul, seeking connection after connection.
The universe created the gods; the gods are the universe.
He soared down hundreds of individual threads, from Karak to the supreme god that spawned him, Kaurthulos, the one made many, and then to the multitudes that came before. He bathed in the gases of the cosmos, waded through the glowing particles of a dying sun. His essence swelled and swelled, until it seemed he would absorb it all, Dezrel and beyond.

Then pain struck him behind the eyes, making him scream. He fell to his knees, releasing Karak’s hand in the process. His whole body quaked, and smoke rose from his chest. He opened his eyes, and his vision was boiling in a red haze. When he lifted his hands and stared at them, he saw his flesh split, tiny fractures that wound along his palms, releasing puffs of shadow and licks of purple flame. The ground on which he knelt sizzled, the rocks melting and becoming magma that flowed around his knees. He felt close to bursting.

The mind restricts you, for the soul is limitless,
he tried to tell himself, but the scope of what he experienced overwhelmed him. He was a god and a man, all at once, and the contradiction threatened to tear him to pieces.

“Do it now,” he heard Karak say from somewhere behind him, and he swore he heard awe in the deity’s voice.

Velixar finally understood. He rose to his feet and stepped closer to the cliff’s edge. There were no more words of magic, no more chanting. All he needed was the power of creation that boiled within his swelling body. He held out his hands, focusing on the red, rocky soil. In his mind he pictured the land extending across the deep chasm. The light from his eyes outshone even the sun above, and the whole cliff began to rumble. Boulders a thousand years old shuddered and split, the dense core of them extending outward in snaking tendrils. Reddish sediment from the river that raged below climbed up the side of the cliff, attaching to the narrow protrusions, combining them, giving them solidity and form. Velixar felt the power flow out of him in red-hot waves, making the air in front of him hazy. The stone melted and cooled, melted and cooled, thickening as it grew. He then gazed across the river, to the other side of the cliff, and amazingly it seemed he could see two places at once. He watched the ledge before him expand on itself, and at the same time observed the process beginning anew on the other side.

Soon there were two spires pointed outward from either cliff, racing toward each other. Velixar twirled his hands, and a spiral of shadow appeared between the two rapidly growing sections, pulling them, stretching them. The particles in the air itself were condensed, adding to the thickness of the stone and sediment augmenting its sides, its surface, flattening it. The two pointed spires then touched, became liquid, and melded like one snake swallowing another. The whole of the new structure bulged, widened, and then bulged again. Velixar clapped his hands together, releasing one final wave of heat. He felt his core lessening, all the power he had gathered poured into the completed bridge. The funnel of shadow dissipated into the air.

When it was done, Velixar collapsed, panting. His mind swam and his vision wavered. And the pain,
the pain
! He sat back on his calves and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Though it was indeed frightening to wield that much godlike power, now that it was gone, he missed it terribly. When he felt mostly normal again, he looked upon his creation. A sturdy earthen bridge now spanned the gap between the cliffs, seven hundred feet long, twenty feet wide, and at least fifteen feet thick at its thinnest
section
. Stray granules of dirt skimmed across the top and dropped over the side, raining on the furious river below. He glanced at his hands. There were no cracks there any longer. His skin was smooth and flawless.

“I did it,” he said, in awe of himself.

“Indeed you did, High Prophet,” said Karak.

The deity was beside him once again, holding out his hand. Velixar took it, allowing Karak to assist him in standing. He turned around, gazing with a painful sort of pride at the soldiers gathered behind him. Eyes were opened wide, jaws hung agape, hands were pressed to chests. Even Chief Shen seemed overcome. Velixar wanted to laugh at them, to strut before them and proclaim them in the presence of two gods, not one, but he stayed his tongue.
That path leads to blasphemy.

The army crossed. The earthen bridge groaned and creaked beneath the feet of four thousand soldiers and a hundred horses, but it remained stable. They gathered on the grass-covered granite of the opposite bank, a collection of men too exhausted to continue on, yet too overcome by the powerful forces that guided them to do anything but continue.

It was only when the feet of the last soldier left the bridge that Velixar and Karak crossed. Deity and prophet walked side by side, and Velixar’s delight in his accomplishments began to leave him. Karak still looked like a shell of himself, and there was a sort of frustration in his stare that was disturbing to see.

“You are not a god,” Karak said, breaking the silence between them.

“I know, my Lord,” said Velixar, and he felt a chill at the reminder of how in tune his god was to his own private thoughts.

“You best remember. The demon you swallowed is but a parasite, siphoning the power of others more deserving. You will never be as strong as a true child of the heavens.”

“I will do my best, my Lord. Though the draw of such power is . . . tempting.”

Karak nodded. “I imagine it would be. But simply remember this—when my soul recaptures its former glory, when I become the deity I was before my brother and I arrived on this world, you will witness feats that will drop you to your knees. You must keep your head, High Prophet, for when that happens I want you by my side. Although you will never truly be a god, what you accomplished this day proves you are worthy of something much greater than what simple humanity can offer you. Is this something you desire?”

“Yes, my Lord. Very much so.”

“Good.”

When they finally reached the other side of the bridge, Karak ordered Lord Commander Gregorian to march the troops east. Malcolm did as he was told, like the faithful man he was, barking out commands. Nine thousand booted feet stomped the granite-infused soil, the army forming into three columns as they marched into the trees, heading for the Northern Plains. The Ekreissar were in the lead, with the horsemen taking up the rear.

Soon they were gone, leaving Velixar alone with his god. Karak looked down at him, his eyes narrowing. The god’s shoulders were still hunched, his flesh still cracked. He seemed sorrowful somehow as well, and when he spoke, his tone swelled with compassion.

“High Prophet, I apologize that I require your strength so much as I do,” the deity said.

“There is no need for an apology, my Lord.”