Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (52 page)

Laurel shrugged. “Who knows?” she said. “You wanted my advice, and I gave—”

The ground shook, cutting her off. Dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling. The candles flickered, growing dimmer before dancing upward once more.

“What in a maiden’s twat is that?” shouted Danco.

Again the ground trembled, and this time half the candles went out. Screams split the silence and feet began to pound the floor above their heads as the people in the storehouse proper began to panic. The entire structure seemed to be creaking.

“Will it collapse?” asked Pulo.

Rodin glanced up. “Let’s not stay here and find out.”

Everyone in the small room leapt to their feet. They threw open the door and dashed down the hall, keeping King Eldrich between them. The other guards in the cellar waited by the ladder, hurriedly gesturing for them to climb.

One after another, they entered the storehouse’s main room. Laurel was the second one out, and she helped the others, still in pain from their injuries, get to their feet. She then gawked at the scene before her. The people were indeed panicking, shouting and clustering even more tightly together in the center of the wide space. A few fights broke out as others sought safety within the wall of flesh. Then a trumpeting sounded, like the loudest horn in all of Dezrel. Laurel’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest.

That’s when Laurel noticed Moira’s eyes were wide with terror. The silver-haired woman slowly turned to her and then walked right past her, heading for the barred door. The Movers were right on her heels, and Laurel and Lyana followed suit, King Eldrich and Pulo behind them. Danco and Rodin lifted the heavy bar and dropped it to the ground. The horn blew again. They all walked outside.

It was dark now, the night moonless. Laurel stared east, toward the heart of the city, in wonder. For the longest time, Veldaren had been quite dark during nighttime hours, but now there was a brilliant yellow glow that lit up the black. It was like the days before war, when taverns and inns saw business throughout the evening. Despite that deafening horn and the way the ground shook, Laurel felt a sliver of hope.

Then came a booming voice that shook her teeth, and that sliver disappeared.

“MY CHILDREN, COME TO ME!”

Those who had called the storehouses home before the arrival of the rebellion began to stream out of the buildings, wandering hesitantly toward the glowing center of the city.

“Karak has returned,” said King Vaelor, looking dead already.

“Oh shit,” said Pulo.

“We have never fought a god,” said Gull. “It might be
interesting
.”

Moira stared over at Laurel, her eyes rimmed with purple. “So much for your plan.” There was no humor at all in the statement.

All Laurel could say was, “I know.”

C
HAPTER

45

T
o Velixar’s eyes, Veldaren was a shadow of the city it had once been. It was dark and silent, save for the faint whimpering sounds that drifted along the wind like a cricket’s song. The streets were empty. The larger buildings were scored with giant claw marks; the thatched roofs of outlying homes were burned, leaving behind hollow stone shells. From darkened windows peered the weak and craven, unwilling to show their faces as their god’s army returned. Karak had told Velixar, before the fateful final attack on Mordeina, that the Final Judges now ruled the city, but he couldn’t have imagined what that meant.

If only Karak were with him now.

Velixar led the remaining four thousand of Karak’s Army onto the cobbled North Road. The barrenness of the city caused the soldiers’ moods, which had been high when they first caught sight of the Castle of the Lion’s three spires, to plummet. The only thing that brought them any sort of relief was the fact that they were now on solid ground. The journey through the Northern Plains had been harrowing; the untamed ground coated with thick mud from the thaw, sucking at booted feet and the horses’ hooves and making the nightly camp a dirty, uncomfortable affair. After such a long time away from home, fighting their Divinity’s war, the soldiers likely wished for nothing more than the warmth of a hearth and a soft bed to rest their bones. Velixar couldn’t blame them, though he doubted their comfort would last long. Ashhur would be here soon. And when that happened . . .

My Lord, where are you?

Karak had left them in Felwood, the deity walking away from Velixar and Lord Commander Gregorian in a huff one night and riding the shadows away. That had come after Velixar found the god overlooking what had once been the most populated village in the Plains. Felwood was now virtually abandoned, many of its homes crumbling from winter’s heavy winds and snows. Only a few stragglers remained, mostly starving women and their malnourished children. Just as the citizens of Veldaren now hid, so had they. The soldiers were left to plunder whatever stores were still available, which were paltry. It seemed as if most of the village had taken all they had and simply left.

“There is no faith in me here,” Karak had told him that night. His tone was odd, a mixture of anger and sadness.

“There are few people here, my Lord,” Velixar had replied.

The god shook his head and clenched his fists. “I am not speaking of this village, Prophet, but my
kingdom
. My ability to draw from my essence grows less and less potent each time one of my creations turns his back on me.”

“You are simply weakened, my Lord,” Velixar had replied. “You require time to heal.”

“No. I require
faith
.” The god had gazed down at him, golden eyes ablaze. “All deities draw strength from their faithful. It is what gives us purpose, what gives our existence meaning. Without devotion, we would fade away to nothingness, re-entering the heavens a speck of what we were, eventually forgotten.”

“Yet you still have power, my Lord. You are still mighty.”

“That is only because of you, my son. Your faith is great; it builds upon my own. As does the Lord Commander’s, and that of others like him.” The deity sighed. “Alas, that is not enough. I will require more, and swiftly, if my vision is to come true.”

“What will you do, my Lord? How will you make the downtrodden love you once more?”

At that, the deity had laughed. “I do not require love, High Prophet. I require
faith
. And there is more than one way to bring that about.”

And then he was gone.

Velixar grunted at the memory, guiding his horse onto the North Road and the city proper. To his left rose the spire of the Tower Keep. Simply laying eyes on the keep had once filled him with pride, but he felt none of that now. It was an empty structure, devoid of meaning—a partially completed dream, just like this war had become. He thought then of Mordeina, of the walls surrounding Ashhur’s prized settlement, and again felt disgusted with himself. The seventeen years he had spent forming the groundwork for this war could have been put to better use. He should have waited, worked to build up Veldaren instead, raising a wall around the city like the one surrounding Port Lancaster in the south. He should have assisted the First Families instead of undermining them, helping to build Karak’s children into something fearsome, something powerful. He glanced behind him, at the rows of soldiers that marched and rode solemnly through the street. It was entirely possible that these four thousand were the last men in all of Neldar. What future was there if that were the case?

“Something troubles you?” asked the Lord Commander.

Velixar glanced to the right. Malcolm now rode beside him, looking proud in his scratched black armor. He wore his horned helm, its visor down, his milky left eye glimmering in the starlight. That eye was dead, Velixar knew, but it still seemed vibrant more times than not. It was as if all his love for Karak shone out of that single, pale orb.

“I am simply thinking,” Velixar said.

“Fear not, High Prophet,” said Malcolm. “Karak will not abandon us.”

“I know this,” he said with a sigh. “I fear for him.”

“Fear for him?” Malcolm said, frowning. “Why would you fear for a god?”

“Because he is greatly weakened, Lord Commander.”

The one-eyed man scoffed. “Weakened? Karak is never weakened. He is the purest image of vitality and wisdom.”

Velixar hesitated. He wanted to inform the man of Karak nearly losing his head to the giant Gorgoros’s glowing sword. He wanted to tell him how if he himself had not dragged the monster of a man off their god, giving Karak the opportunity he needed to end the fight, everything they had fought for would have been lost. But he said none of that. He remained silent.

Malcolm reached over and squeezed his shoulder while the horses beneath them continued to trot along the North Road. “You are doubtful of that,” he said. “Your expression reveals as much. I know, for I have felt the same. But no longer. I have seen the glory of Karak’s supremacy, as I have seen yours. With the strength of the righteous behind us, we cannot lose.”

“Your faith is admirable, Lord Commander.”

Malcolm released his shoulder. “As is yours.”

After that they fell silent as they led the soldiers farther into the city. They passed by the road leading into the slums of the Black Bend, entering a densely built district lined with gray stone abodes with slanted clay roofs. This was the region of the city that Karak had built, with his own hands, before the creation of man, a span that stretched a mile from the central fountain in every direction. Although drab, the structures on either side of the road were formed into an exacting, gridlike pattern—the purest illustration of architectural order that anyone in Dezrel had ever seen. Finally, confronted with an example of Karak’s true vision, Velixar sensed his spirits begin to rise.

They rose further when a glow appeared in the distance, rising like a dome from Veldaren’s central fountain. A lion’s roar split the night. A charge seemed to fill the air, and columns of soldiers marching behind gasped. Even Aerland Shen and the Ekreissar rangers seemed awed. The glow on the horizon became brighter, the dome growing ever larger.

“I told you, High Prophet,” said Malcolm with a hearty laugh. “Karak has not abandoned us!”

And so he hadn’t. Karak waited at the city hub, kneeling in front of the massive fountain guarded by his life-sized likeness. The dome of light that had been cast seemed to come from the fountain itself; the water inside glowed and sparkled. The Final Judges were with the deity, Kayne to Karak’s right and Lilah to his left. They purred as the god ran his fingers through their golden fur. Velixar felt taken aback by the sight of them. The Judges had always been large, bigger than any wild cat he had ever seen, but the closer he drew, the more he saw how truly
massive
they were. When Karak noticed their approach and stood, so did the lions. Even on four legs, they rose higher than the deity’s waist. It was awe inspiring.

Whimpers could be heard beneath the lions’ droning. That was when Velixar noticed there were gallows erected just behind the fountain. Nine people were strung from the wooden scaffolding, one old man and eight younger women, their wrists bound and hanging from the upper plank, their feet roped to the lower. They all writhed in their bonds, their flesh bruised and gashed, tears flowing down their cheeks.

Behind Velixar, the soldiers began praising their god’s name.

Karak gestured for the soldiers to fan out to either side as they approached. Velixar led them to the left, Malcolm to the right, and the four thousand men fell in line. The Judges watched them with intelligent, scrutinizing eyes the whole while. The soldiers gathered in six even rows beside the gallows, curving around the sides of the fountain. Though the hub was large, it was still cramped with so many gathered on only one side of the fountain. The air was filled with those praising Karak. Velixar and Malcolm led the way.

“Glory be to Karak! Glory be to Karak!”

The god turned to face them and lifted his hand, and the chanting ceased. Karak reached to the side, his palm open, and a large, thick staff at least twenty feet high formed from the mist. He slammed the staff into the ground once, twice, three times. Each time it struck, the earth shook. A giant horn, its likeness never seen before by human eyes, materialized in his other hand. Karak lifted it to his lips and blew. The sound it made was deep and ominous, echoing throughout the city and beyond, loud enough to form cracks in the fountain. The soldiers covered their ears and fell to their knees. The horses reared back, nearly tossing their riders.

When he was done, the horn disappeared into mist. Karak, staff held firmly in his right hand, lifted his chin to the sky.

“MY CHILDREN, COME TO ME!”
he cried, almost as loudly as the horn. After that a deep silence fell over the throng.
Anticipation
made Velixar’s heart beat out of control.

They came from all around; Sisters of the Cloth first, then young women with frightened children, and then the bedraggled, old, and infirm. For almost an hour the soldiers and elves stood there at attention while the citizens of this once-great city gathered. The Final Judges grumbled and snarled, but Karak stilled them with a glance. The people fell to their knees before the fountain, thousands of them, squeezing in like the fish in a lucky fisherman’s bucket after an ample catch. All the while, those strung up on the gallows wriggled and begged.

As the last trickle of humanity fell to their knees, Karak gestured for Velixar to join his side. Velixar climbed down off his horse and walked, head down, around the fountain. He neared Kayne, and the lion’s nose sniffed the air. Velixar felt no fear. A throaty gurgle sounded, and amazingly, just like the beast-men Karak had created, the lion spoke.

“Prophet,”
he said in his rumbling, inhuman baritone.

“Faithful,”
Lilah answered.

The gathered mob gasped, a sound like a million fissures spouting steam around a volcano.

Velixar rubbed the flesh beneath Kayne’s bloodstained maw, and the gigantic cat purred. He nodded to the beast and took his place at Karak’s side. Only then did Karak speak.

“My children, my creations, the moment of judgment is upon
us!” cried the deity. It seemed like the wind picked up in that
moment, blowing back the hair of the kneeling women present. “I have been gone too long, and the war I have righteously waged against my sinful brother has not gone as planned. Whose fault is that, I ask you now? Is it the fault of your creator, he who put breath in your lungs and vibrancy in your limbs? Or is it the fault of you, his wayward children, who do not love their Divinity as they should?”

A collective, frightened murmur raced through the thousands of kneeling onlookers.

“It is you, the faithless, who have thwarted me!” the deity bellowed. Feminine voices shrieked. “You have turned your back on your creator. You have turned against
order itself
! I come to this city now, and all I see is chaos. What kind of children would repay their father for his kindness by betraying his very ideals? I look upon you now, a mass of swarming cowardice that only show love for their next meal, and not for the god who provided it for them!”

Velixar felt a shiver run through him, the burgeoning fear of thousands being chastised by a rage-filled deity lingering in the air like fog. The pendant grew hot against his chest, his nerve endings tingling. His eyes widened as he gazed up at the deity.

I require faith. There is more than one way to bring that about.

Karak’s voice lowered in volume, becoming nearly sympathetic in tone.

“All is not lost, my children,” he said. “Even now my brother marches on this city, along with a legion of walking dead, bent on bringing an end to all I have created. We can defend that which is mine. We can stop Ashhur, demonstrate for him the true meaning of virtue. It is up to you now, my children. You must show faith in me. You must give to me the very souls I gave you. Betrayal will no longer be tolerated.” The god shifted to the side, extending his hand toward the nine dangling people. “Those you see are the faithless. This man, Jinkin Heelswool, and his daughters have turned their backs on my glory, as many of you have. You know them as the ones who offered sustenance to this great city when it was most needed, but the gift they offered was tainted. In their hearts there is blackness; there is chaos. They have consorted with those who wish to bring down their own architect. The Final Judges have deemed them guilty, and so have I. They must be punished.”

“Fuck you!” shouted the old man as he thrashed. “You are no true god! You are a
liar
!” The other eight, his daughters, simply cried and pleaded for their lives.

Karak ignored them. “In the quest for order, there is no mercy. Those who blaspheme against my name shall be punished with fire.”