The Demigod Proving (31 page)

He took one step aside and dodged most of the blades. Their rapid chopping sound thumped in his ears. They spun fast enough that he had to make sure than none severed an arm or leg, or hit him in the neck. So he turned enough that the one blade that hit him would glance at an angle off of his side, just above his hip. It cut through his clothing and flesh with a sharp noise, and continued flying off past him along with the rest of the blades.

He applied a gush of Thew to the wound.

Thirty feet out from him, the blades slowed, stopped, and came back toward him, still spinning. The demigods who’d thrown them controlled them with Flux, and would keep them airborne as long as possible. They would alter the path of the spinning blades, try to make them unpredictable so that they came at him from unusual angles, or curved in midair so he couldn’t predict their paths.

And at the same time, they would attack him with their swords.

He would take many wounds, but as long as he didn’t lose a limb or his head, he would be fine.

They leapt at him even as the blades whirred around and past him, like little insects buzzing at his head and chest. He worked with patience, killing his attackers one at a time. He crushed one priest’s head with a fist, and the spirit lifted out of the body. He picked another and bent him in half, backward, so that his spine shattered and he went limp. The spirit rose up and away, emanating a floral scent.

He tossed the man’s shell aside, and it slid to a stop in the dirt, right in front of the demigods atop the hill—his loyal children, who loved him enough to not join the fray. They kept their faces toward him even when they bowed and beat the ground. Their eyes shone with dedication, an eager willingness to save him from the swarm. But he didn’t call them forward. They knew their places and his philosophy, and understood that as god he had to overcome this challenge on his own.

Except, even as he smashed the life out of a priest, he realized that these renegades still had power over his heart. They’d killed his wives and children at the nursery. They’d slaughtered some of his other children and betrayed his trust. Like so many before him, his greatest weakness was not himself, but his connection to others.

Perhaps he deserved it. He’d used the same tactics during the time of chaos, when taking down his brothers one at a time. He’d first killed those they loved, driven them to rage and rashness, and killed them.

From behind him, beneath the chanting and the chopping of the air by the blades, he heard the sound of footsteps—barely audible, yet unmistakable. Someone was coming up the hill.

A demigod—Planen, thirty-six years old and living for the past sixteen years in the border town of Arad—lifted into the air and brought a sword down toward Athanaric’s head. Athanaric leaned to the left and forward, also dodging a blade that spun from behind. In the same motion, he caught the demigod in both hands and squeezed his torso. Before Planen could raise his sword for another blow, the air rushed from his lungs. His ribs cracked. His body collapsed. His spirit, shimmering white, floated in the air before Athanaric, pushing out the smell of flowers.

He couldn’t look at it except with sorrow. Such a good son, so faithful in so many things, had let pride enter his heart and he’d thought to make himself god. Athanaric had cherished this son as much as any other, and had poured years of his life into teaching him the right. He pushed the tears down as the soul lifted heavenward and a priest drove a blade into his left side. Another spinning blade dug into his right thigh.

The person coming up the hill continued. Athanaric heard his footsteps and even the sound of his hands pushing people aside. He could smell him. It was Wrend.

He bound Thew to the newest wounds and addressed the attack by swinging Planen’s body down on the priest, who screamed and fell away, but lost his grip on the dagger in Athanaric’s side. So Athanaric pulled the dagger out and threw it at its owner as three more traitors came at him from the right. He didn’t wait to see if the dagger struck home, although he heard it penetrate flesh.

Wrend had nearly reached the altar. What was he doing? He knew he shouldn’t interrupt the ceremony.

Athanaric kicked the priest coming at him, collapsing the man’s chest. He bound Flux to the heads of two demigods flying toward him. As they swung their blades, he applied a gush of Ichor so their heads halted and slammed together, crushing each other like two melons. Their legs swung out before them. Their blades flew out of their hands. Using Flux to speed his own hands, Athanaric twisted his wrists and caught the two swords. His sons’ spirits separated from their bodies.

The spinning blades they’d controlled flew out of control and plowed into the crowd of worshipers.

Asan and Reddick. Once good children. As a twelve-year old, Asan had cracked a joke about priests and serving girls that had made several pregnant mothers wet themselves. Reddick had been an expert woodworker, and had carved several detailed draegons for Athanaric. They occupied a place of honor on a shelf in Athanaric’s chambers back at the Seraglio.

And his sons had gone bad. Athanaric had done all he could to train them and love them, and they repaid him like this.

He ducked under a whirring blade, but couldn’t avoid another. It struck his back and dug into him, sticking in. Just a few inches over, and it would have severed his spine. He roared in agony and rage, and with a burst of Flux forced it out of his body. He applied Thew to the wound.

Twisting his hands back so the swords pointed upward, Athanaric turned to the altar. Wrend was there, climbing the stairs, an unreadable fire burning in his eyes.

“Wrend,” Athanaric said in warning, but couldn’t say any more as the three remaining demigods converged on him from behind. Their spinning blades whirred past him in quick succession, just missing an arm, a leg, and his neck.

He turned back to them and brought one sword parallel to the ground, at the level of his thighs. He applied Flux to it, moving it faster, and it severed the head of one demigod and a priest. Blood gushed in acrid fountains. Their spirits lifted out of their bodies as they collapsed, producing the scent of roses.

A spinning blade flew at the crowd of worshiping demigods. One of the demigods leapt in front of his siblings, and with his sacrificial knife knocked the spinning blade down to the ground.

As Athanaric brought his other blade around to the remaining demigods, he heard Wrend take up Steffan’s sacrificial knife. It made a quiet sound, inaudible to most people—just the brush of a hand closing over a blade, and the slight hiss of azure steel rubbing against clothing as it lifted up and away.

For a moment everything stopped for Athanaric. The chanting and bowing worshipers and demigods froze. Sparkling gray souls, churning over their bodies, paused. Headless bodies hung in the air, blood spouting from their necks in crimson pillars.

One of Athanaric’s most beloved sons, one that he’d thought might assume godhood, had betrayed him. He’d lifted the sacrificial blade to commit patricide.

Was there no end to this torment? If even his draegon son would raise a blade against him—if evil sons had snared even him—was it ever possible to find someone worthy of his throne? Would Teirn, with his scaella’s soul, prove nobler and truer than a draegon? Athanaric could only hope.

The moment passed, and the world snapped back into motion. His swords cut through the two remaining Caretakers, and he let the momentum of the blow spin him back around to the altar. The final two chopping blades flew out over the crowd of worshipers. Athanaric extended an arm and sword, so that the metal would slice Wrend in half.

He had no choice. His beloved draegon son had betrayed him. He needed to die. Athanaric’s heart seemed about to burst. How could this be? How could this precious son turn on him?

Wrend had raised the sacrificial blade, but his eyes were not focused on Athanaric. And the weapon was not aimed at his god. Wrend wasn’t trying to kill him.

He was attacking Steffan.

In an instant of panic, Athanaric feared he would kill Wrend. The momentum of the blade was too great for him to stop.

He bound Flux to the metal and applied it.

The blade halted as if it had hit an invisible wall just outside Wrend’s body. It bounced back and away.

Wrend lowered the blue knife toward Steffan’s neck. Why? Why would he do that to an honorable sibling? Steffan had lived true to his duties and deserved to die as a sacrifice to the people. Even as Wrend attacked him, he didn’t move, but kept his eyes looking up at Athanaric in adoration, his body still.

Athanaric bound Flux to Wrend’s chest and applied a torrent—that was what it took to move something not part of his own body. As Wrend flew backward off the altar, the knife pierced Steffan’s arm, slicing deep. A dozen feet back, Wrend collapsed with a grunt onto the ground. Blood oozed from Steffan’s wound.

Enraged at injury of his faithful son, Athanaric leapt over the altar toward Wrend. He may have been a favored son, but he’d dishonored Steffan, who’d lived faithfully for fifty years. Wrend had tainted the greatest moment of Steffan’s life, with thousands of people watching. At Athanaric’s display and movement away from the altar, the bowing and chanting faltered again. Those people nearest him, close to where Wrend had fallen, started to scatter away from his fury.

Athanaric, almost blind in his rage, lifted his sword over Wrend.

“Father!” Wrend said. He raised an arm over his face, to protect himself. “I wanted to protect you!”

The plea made Athanaric falter. He looked back at Steffan, who still lay on the altar, with one hand covering the gash as the precious blood oozed out from between his fingers. He looked at Athanaric with tearful eyes and resolved countenance.

Athanaric’s love swelled.

“Athan, help!”

The cry filtered through the din to his ears. He heard it over the scrambling of the people and the chanting of those who still held to the ceremony. It sounded over the thundering of blood in his head.

He knew that voice. Only one person called him Athan.

Rashel.

He cast his gaze out over the crowd, across the ravine to the top of the opposite ridge. In the midst of the kneeling crowd, a redheaded girl—the draegon in a human’s body—had pulled Rashel to her feet and now tried to drag her away. Rashel struggled against her, trying to escape and looking across the space to Athanaric. Even at the distance, he clearly saw the fear in Rashel’s eyes. Those beautiful green eyes.

Paladins clambered up the ridge behind the redhead, bearing down on her with halberds. She looked back at the paladins and clopped Rashel over the head with a fist.

Rage burned anew in Athanaric as his precious wife went limp. The redhead lifted Rashel over her shoulder, and after a few running steps leapt into the air. She soared over the paladins and disappeared down the opposite side of the ridge.

Athanaric faltered in indecision. But only for a moment. He had a sacred ceremony to complete, a son to punish, and a wife to save. Which to choose?

The decision came quickly. He turned back to the altar.

“My son,” he said to Steffan, placing a hand on Steffan’s chest. “Fear not. You will have your honorable death.”

Steffan, ever silent, nodded. Tears filled his eyes.

Athanaric motioned to his demigod children who still knelt across the hilltop, beyond corpses of priests and demigods. With a sweep of his eyes, he selected a handful of them.

“Come heal your brother,” he said, motioning at Steffan. He pointed back at Wrend, who still lay panting on the ground. “And bind this one until I return.”

A part of him was thankful that Rashel had distracted him from Wrend, for now he saw he would’ve killed Wrend in his rage. And he didn’t want to do that until he had a chance to question the boy.

The demigods obeyed, standing and rushing forward.

Satisfied that his children would maintain order until he returned, he threw the swords down, bound his Thew and Flux, and started off after the serving girl.