Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (11 page)

“More barrels!” he called out. “They’re coming through!”

The remaining three barrels were hefted atop the inner wall. Down below, soldiers began to lurch through the fifteen-foot breach.

“Wait for more of them,” said Patrick. “The more in the gap, the more we burn!”

The arrows continued to soar, piercing men through the thigh, the chest, the face. Now the screams atop the wall matched those coming from without. Patrick was growing more and more infuriated by the moment. An arrow clanged off his helm, jostling it to the side. He righted it and chanced a peek into the narrow pathway below. He saw shapes moving in the darkness, packed tight together like fish in a crowded barrel.
“Now!”
he shouted. “Drop the barrels now!”

Drop them the bearers did. Two of the barrels burst, the pitch spreading, sliding over the shields and giving the passageway the look of some fiery abyss. The third barrel bounced off heavy, upraised iron shields, crushing the two soldiers that held them, its fat wick snuffing out as it rolled off to the side, disappearing beneath the invasive horde of humanity. The fires began to peter out, and there were very few screams. Patrick was left to look on in horror as the soldiers edged their way through the passageway, the last of the flames fizzling atop upraised shields. The soldiers that had fallen, either choked by the smoke or burned by the fire, were trampled.

Not enough dead. Not anywhere near enough. Their damn shields saved them.

Patrick whirled on Master Warden Ahaesarus. “I thought you said this would work!” he yelled. “I thought you said the fire would stave them off!”

Ahaesarus shook his head, appearing more annoyed than afraid. “It did. It slowed them.” He calmly backed out of the way of a zipping arrow and pointed down. “If their shields had been wood, it might have incinerated them all. However, iron is much more difficult to burn. But the pitch will still burn, and still bring them pain.”

Patrick stared into the passageway. The soldiers were at the inner gate now, and he heard the
clang
of those in front pounding on the bars. Another arrow flew by him, grazing his unprotected elbow. An angry red line appeared between the torn folds of his tunic.

“Someone,
please
stop those arrows,” he heard Ahaesarus say.

“How?” asked someone behind him.

“Return fire!” screamed the Warden.

The archers hurried across the gangplank in a crouching run. Four of them were struck with bolts, and they collapsed into the gap, bouncing off the upturned shields. Patrick took a deep breath, pleading for patience. It was only when the defending archers began returning volleys of their own that it seemed safe enough to move about. Patrick ran toward the low interior wall and peered over and to his left, where he saw men and Wardens with pikes defending the inner gate, lunging with pikes and swinging heavy stone hammers. He also saw the Drake spellcasters, all twenty-six of them, scruffy and bearded, running between the two fallen boulders and the wailing people gathered around them. They were headed for the stairwell, but still a hundred yards away.
Too far. Too damn far.

“Preston!” Patrick exclaimed. “Preston, where are you?”

The crowd around him had thinned, and the old soldier shoved his way through those who remained, his seven underlings beside him.

“What?” Preston asked, raising his voice to be heard over the ruckus.

“How are you at fighting in close quarters?”

“Why the Abyss do you care?”

Patrick gestured below. There had to be two hundred of Karak’s soldiers down there now, bottlenecked at the breach. The soldiers were intent on bashing down the gate and hadn’t spread out farther along the passageway, leaving no room for their compatriots to enter.

A smile formed on Preston’s lips. “Good enough . . . especially with a running start.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Patrick turned to the frightened people behind him, those who carried ropes and supplies. “You all—run along the wall. Fifty feet beyond the gate, I want you to fasten the ropes and throw them over the side.”

Ten young men took off, dragging their ropes behind them. The Master Warden stopped yelling instructions to the archers on the outer wall and turned his way.

“What are you planning, Patrick?”

Patrick grinned. “To stop the bastards from breaking down
our gate.”

“With just the nine of you?”

“Make that ten,” said Judarius. The black-haired Warden lumbered from the back of the pack, holding a giant stone club in his hands. A stray arrow flew by, almost taking him in the throat.

Up stepped the Wardens Grendel and Olympus. “Eleven and twelve.”

“Twelve’s a good number,” said Patrick.

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You cannot hope to fend off so many with only twelve.”

“No, but
you
can.”

“How?”

“Gather up all the casks of purified water you can. Wait until Turock’s spellcasters crest the stairs. When they do, dump every single cask onto the soldiers, and then tell the casters to give them a good shock.” He winced. “And please make sure we’re nowhere nearby when lightning strikes.”

Ahaesarus shook his head. “You are all insane.”

“We do what we can. Now excuse me, Master Warden, but we have men to kill.”

Patrick turned on his heels and sprinted the other way, leading Judarius, Grendel, Olympus, and the Turncloaks along the wall. They passed over the gate, and he could hear the grunts and banging and shrieks coming from both those trying to get in and those fending them off. “Help will be there soon,” muttered Patrick, and he pushed his stunted legs faster.

The ten youngsters were almost done tying off the ropes when Patrick and his band of cutthroats arrived at the spot fifty feet past the gate. They backed away silently, giving the fighting men room to maneuver. Patrick, Preston, and Judarius tested the ropes, making sure they would hold. It seemed they would.

“Ready?” Patrick asked the Turncloaks.

“Ready,” said Preston.

“Ready,” echoed his sons with far less confidence. Of the rest of them, only Big and Little Flick seemed truly ready to dole out some punishment.

That best be enough.

Over the wall they went. Patrick descended at a rapid pace, the roar of the soldiers a deafening clamor. The passageway was almost pitch black when his feet hit the ground. He gave a quick glance down the corridor and saw the flurry of activity fifty feet away as the soldiers continued their assault on the inner gate. They were so intent on their task that none of them bothered to glance in his direction. He swore he saw one of the bars bend to the point of breaking. Drawing Winterbone from its sheath, he took in a deep breath as those around him readied their own weapons. Though it was dark he could see the gleam of violence in Judarius’s green-gold eyes.

“Wardens, stay behind us,” Patrick whispered to the tall, elegant creatures. “Use your height to your advantage. Let our armor take the hits.”

The three of them nodded. Turning back to the fight, Patrick lifted his sword high and murmured a prayer to Ashhur.

“No better time than now, you laggard. You best keep us safe.”

Useful as surprise might have been, they really wanted intimidation and shock, and with the greatest roar he could manage
Patrick
led the way, sword raised high as his party joined in with their own hollering. Those on the outskirts of the packed-together mass started, heads whipping in their direction, eyes wide with fear. The distance between them vanished in a heartbeat, and Patrick thrust Winterbone forward like a spear, driving into their ranks, stabbing upward, thrusting backward, and swinging his elbows to smash jaws, allowing room for those behind him to make good with their weapons. There were grunts and shrieks all around him as the soldiers tried to counterattack, but he was too strong and the space too cramped. Most couldn’t even get their weapons drawn. The few that succeeded did more damage to their fellow soldiers then to him. Alongside him crashed the rest, a chaos of dying, the Wardens finding their weak spots and smashing them with their giant clubs and mauls.

Someone collided with Patrick from behind, and he felt cold steel slip beneath the armor on his back. A hollow
clang
followed, and the steel disappeared, gashing him in the process. Patrick stumbled, his wound leaking, tackling a pair of struggling soldiers in the process. Before a swinging sword could halve him, he rolled to the side. The blade buried in the face of the one of the prone soldiers, eliciting a furious cry from the attacker.

Patrick tugged on Winterbone’s handle, but there was a body on top of the sword, pinning it down. He rolled from one side to another, trapped by an ever-closing wall of armored legs. In the darkness of the passageway, it was chaos. He couldn’t tell friend from foe. He glanced up and saw a shadowy, sneering face press in on him before that face exploded in a rain of saliva, blood, and teeth. The soldier collapsed atop him, and Patrick saw a large figure looming above the crowd, swinging away with a club, shadowy swirls of hair dancing behind him. Never before did Patrick think Judarius could have appeared so vicious, so deadly.

Finally able to wrench Winterbone free, he plunged the blade into another belly, legs driving to give him power. He kept his legs pumping, shoving the body backward as far as he could. A sudden surge of panic hit him as he wrenched the weapon free. In the bedlam he’d lost track of where he was.

A second later came a deafening crash of thunder and a flash of light so intense he was momentarily blinded. Men screamed, flesh sizzled. Patrick fell backward, crashing into an unknown soldier and eventually slamming the back of his helmed head against something hard. A hollow
twang
rang in his ears. When the stars cleared from his vision, he glanced behind him and saw that he sat atop a bleeding Joffrey Goldenrod. Quickly he brought his eyes forward, seeing the soldiers who had been nearest to the gate stumbling about in panic while countless of their compatriots hollered and shook. Still more bolts of lightning and energy flew from above, though their flash was not quite as bright or powerful.

About damn time.

In their panic, the surviving soldiers attempted to flee back the way they came, scampering over the soaked and shuddering pile of dead soldiers in search of the chasm in the wall. They too perished, their bodies thrown into convulsions while the smallclothes beneath their armor caught fire. Those who didn’t flee were cut down by the Wardens and Turncloaks. Patrick looked on in wonder, not able to believe his plan had worked. Even more surprising was just how terrifying the spellcasters could be, naked power killing without chance of defense or retaliation.

The putrid stenches of smoke and roasting meat reached Patrick’s nose, and he gagged. This time he did empty his stomach . . . right on top of Joffrey.

“Had enough, old boy?” asked a hoarse, tired voice.

Patrick rolled off Joffrey, who scampered away from him, retching. He looked up at a bloodied and limping Preston. When the older man smiled, his teeth were stained red.

“I dare say I have,” Patrick said.

“What do we do now?” asked Ragnar Ender, just as bloody as his father.

Patrick himself was covered with nasty cuts, and now that he’d vomited, he could feel every stab of pain that covered him.

“Now we have someone open the gate and let us in,” he said, spitting out his words. His head tilted to the side, and he looked beyond the sodden bodies of the dead soldiers to the hole in the wall beside the massive trunk of Celestia’s tree. Several hundred of Karak’s men were dead, but how long until thousands more rushed through the gap? “Actually, strike that,” he said, struggling to his feet. “First we need to get someone down here to fix that wall.”

“No need,” shouted Potrel Longshanks, the eldest of the spellcasters, from up on top of the wall. Frowning, Patrick looked up to where the men from Drake gathered. They were working on something, and he could see the magic flicking off them like the light of tiny stars. Then, without warning, the ground shook. The broken pieces of the wall rumbled as if alive, and then they rolled toward the gap. One atop the other they piled, groaning and
shifting
.
Soldiers
still trying to get inside were crushed by the ascending stones. It was hardly even, nor a third of the height it had originally been, but when the noise stopped, and the spellcasters lowered their arms, the breach had been sealed.

Potrel laughed down from the rampart.

“Celestia’s not the only one who can fill a hole,” he shouted.

“Bloody Abyss,” Patrick shouted up to the wall. “Why in the name of Karak’s hairy ass did you not do that earlier?”

Potrel shrugged. “I thought you wanted to kill a few of them first.”

Patrick shook his head as Judarius clapped him on the shoulder, laughing.

“Damn spellcasters,” Patrick muttered.

C
HAPTER

9

A
haesarus watched Karak’s soldiers retreat back from the wall, clearly frustrated by the wizards’ sealing of the breach. Knowing it was only a matter of time before the siege towers approached and the catapults resumed their barrage, the Warden descended into the pit. He had witnessed the carnage in the narrow corridor between the walls, seen the bloody, charred remains of the soldiers who had entered the breach, smelled their cooking flesh. He and Warden Judah took on the task of counting their dead foes while other Wardens and the human healers mended Patrick DuTaureau and his eleven brave companions who were injured but alive. In the end neither he nor Judah could come to an exact number, but they both agreed that number was greater than two hundred.
Two hundred soldiers dead, while we lost thirty. So why do I feel we came out the losers?

Thirty was too many. After the interior gate was opened, the corpses of Mordeina’s fallen were separated from those of the soldiers and carried to the ever-growing rows of dead that littered the far grove, an open mass grave that was barely hidden by a makeshift wall of twigs and bed sheets. Given the rot that was beginning to infest nearly every corner of the
sixteen-square-mile
settlement, he knew those bodies would have to be dealt with soon, though he also understood it would be difficult to
convince
Isabel and the fat young king to take action.
Mordeina buries their dead, and all that.
Ahaesarus let out a disgusted grunt at the thought.

The next order of business was to fix the damage left behind by the boulders that had crashed down inside the settlement. There were another sixty dead there, fragile bodies crushed by the immense stones, and many more injured. Broken bones healed easily enough, but for some there was no choice but to remove their mangled arms and legs. Mothers cried for their children; husbands sobbed for their wives; sons and daughters wailed for their lost parents. For Ahaesarus, trying to soothe these people was worse than the carnage of battle. There was nothing he could say that could take away their pain. He could only hold them, caress them, tell them how their loved ones were in a better place now and that there was no reason for tears.

It was an act of kindness no one had offered him after the winged demons invaded his home world of Algrahar. Though it hurt, he was happy to give it.

All of this left him exhausted, and with the sky brightening as daylight returned to the world, he eagerly anticipated lying down in his bed and getting some rest. Even if the nightmares came, he would welcome them with open arms so long as he could put up his sore feet. But that respite still had to wait until he fulfilled the last of his duties.

“What next?” asked Judarius. The black-haired, green-eyed Warden walked beside him on Mordeina’s main throughway, passing between row after row of campsites packed with restless and frightened people.

“The Manse,” said Ahaesarus. “I’ve been ordered to keep your former student abreast of what happens during my watch, and so I must obey.”

“My student?” snorted Judarius. “
My
student, the one who
should
have been king, died two years ago. The whelp who wears the crown now in no way resembles the boy I trained.”

“So you claim no responsibility for Benjamin’s behavior?”

“I would had I been allowed to continue my tutelage. But Lady Isabel has taken him from me, molded him into whatever she wishes. As if Jacob did not soil him enough.”

Ahaesarus sighed.

“He seems to have put back on all the weight you made him lose. He also is prone to crying fits, more so now that our god is indisposed.” He passed his fellow Warden an inquisitive look,
eyebrows
raised. “Judarius, Benjamin was served rightly by your wisdom. He demonstrated potential for greatness when you
mentored
him.”

Judarius hawked a wad of spit to the ground. “Ben Maryll was
never
destined for greatness. I tried convincing myself otherwise, but the more I trained him, the more I wondered why Jacob picked the boy. The strength he showed when under my tutelage? A farce. A mirage, brought on by fear of my wrath. Without someone strong to keep him in line, he’s backslid into frailty.”

“What if you resumed your tutelage?” It was an idea Ahaesarus had been contemplating for some time, and with Isabel finally seeming to have conquered her grief over Nessa DuTaureau’s death, it grew stronger by the moment. Isabel was more protective of the boy king than even before, tugging him deeper and deeper into her protective bosom. Now Benjamin was so deep that he seemed to be an infant living in a body moving rapidly toward manhood.

“No, that would not do,” said Judarius with a grave shake of his head. “A true leader does not need someone above him to pull his strings. A true leader learns, a true leader
leads
. Benjamin will never be that. All that I could give him is the false strength I offered him before.”

“Sometimes the people need to see strength, even if it is false.”

“I refuse to believe that, Ahaesarus. And to be honest, I would not take him under my wing again even if I could. For nearly ninety-five years I have been something I am not, playing a game I was ill suited to play. I was a warrior in our past life. It is time I became that again.”

They paused at the base of the hill leading up to Manse
DuTaureau
, and Ahaesarus glanced over to see a gleam in his fellow
Warden’s
eye, a smile playing on his lips. Strangely enough, given what had transpired that night, Judarius seemed
relieved
.

“You look quite pleased with yourself,” Ahaesarus said.

“I am,” the black-haired Warden replied. He waved his hand at the Manse dismissively. “You can play politics all you like,
Ahaesarus
. Azariah can pray and practice his spells with his
students
. For me, for the rest of our kind . . . we’re warriors now. Protectors. Innocent lives depend on us to kill, and so we kill. Is there not purity in that simplicity? Is there not an order that even Karak could appreciate?”

Ahaesarus understood completely. Though he was not the fearless and eager warrior Judarius had proven himself to be, he still had to admit there was a certain clarity about the battlefield that made him feel alive. Much more alive than the hours he was required to spend with the king and Lady Isabel.

“You were a sight to behold tonight, my friend,” he told
Judarius
. “Because of you, and Patrick and his Turncloaks, we can sleep this morning away, knowing we are safe.”

“We’re not safe,” Judarius said. “Not yet. But you may sleep without fear. I dare say that’s close enough.”

The Warden loped off, and Ahaesarus took a deep breath, trying to clear his muddled thoughts before climbing the hill. What had once been mild irritation became full-on dread once he reached the Manse itself. Isabel DuTaureau was outside waiting for him, wearing a satin nightdress, rouge painting her cheeks, her fiery red hair set just so. He let out a sigh of frustration. Mordeina was a place of war, of heartache and pain. Yet this woman still looked as if she lived in luxury without a care in the world. Had she learned nothing from the death of her daughter?

“Lady DuTaureau,” Ahaesarus said, inclining his head to her.

“We must talk, Ahaesarus,” said Isabel. Her voice was cold and full of disdain. She had been this way ever since she’d reemerged from her bedchamber, refusing to call him Master Warden and treating him more like a nuisance than a friend.
She will never forgive me for releasing Geris against her will,
he thought. That was one decision that Ahaesarus would never regret, no matter how much abuse the small but influential woman heaped on him for it. Geris Felhorn was hopefully far away from Mordeina by now, safe and with the young girl he loved by his side. If anyone in Paradise deserved a chance at happiness, it was he.

“What is it?” Ahaesarus asked.

“Your presence is not required. Go home.”

“Go home? I have duties to attend to. I must speak with t
he boy.”

“No. I forbid it.”

Ahaesarus felt flustered and angry.
I tire of the games as well, Judarius,
he thought. “Where is Howard?” he asked, a cruel edge to his voice.

“I gave him the morning to rest.
Sir
Howard spent the evening calming your frightened wards and taking complaints. He was
quite tired.”

“Yes, and we did nothing but stand around all evening,” he said sarcastically. “In case it failed to wake you, our walls were attacked last night. Karak’s children almost broke down our gate. If not for those of us on the wall, if not for Patrick, we—”

She snapped her fingers in his face, cutting him off. “Do
not
take that tone with me, Warden, nor mention my son in my presence again. I am not blind to what goes on in my home, to
my people
.”

“So they are
your
people now, are they?” he shot back, his anger melting away his exhaustion. “I thought they were Ashhur’s—and after him, our noble King Benjamin’s?”

Isabel looked as if she was about to scream, but she snapped her mouth shut. Her whole body shuddered for a moment, like she were trying to rid her body of an invading demon, and when she looked up at him once more, her manner was calm.

“I will not fight with you, Ahaesarus,” she said, her tone once again devoid of emotion. “As much as I wish it weren’t so, you still hold your position within our society. We must work together to cure the ills of our people. Go to them. Leave here.”

She turned on her heels and stormed into the manse.

Clenching his fists, Ahaesarus followed after her.

“I told you to leave!” Isabel snapped.

“No!” he shot back at her. “You cannot stop me from speaking with the boy.”

Isabel cursed and stomped along the corridor. Ahaesarus remained by her side, refusing to walk ahead of her or trail behind. He took a perverse sort of pleasure in the way that made her fume. They passed the manse’s central hub in an uncomfortable silence. It was not until the double doors leading into the makeshift throne room came into view that Ahaesarus spoke.

“You do the boy a disservice, Isabel,” he said calmly, breaking the silence. “He needs to be among the populace. His people—
your
people—are hurting. It would do them good to see their king among them, talking to them, helping to quell their fears. It is what a king is supposed to do. It is what Ashhur wanted of us.”

Isabel smirked. “There will be no need of that,” she said. Gone was her anger, replaced by the coldness Ahaesarus had come to know so well. “Young King Benjamin has no need to hear what has happened, nor does he need to see the horror of its aftermath.”

Ahaesarus stopped short. “Then whatever would you have
him do?”

“What a king is
supposed
to do—whatever is best for his kingdom.” A sick sort of smile came over Isabel’s face. “There have been many complaints coming in over the past few days that the rations are not enough to adequately feed the many families outside. King
Benjamin
is going to stop the rationing and allow all to have their share.”

The Master Warden stepped back, his anger overtaken by
horror
.

“Are you insane? Our stores are almost empty! Even with rationing they will last two weeks at most. Winter is fast approaching; plants are not taking root in the soil; and there are entire communities forced to camp on much of our farmland. And you wish to give everyone what they ask for? What would you have us do when our food runs out?”

She huffed at him. “You think this war will last long enough for that to occur?” she asked. The venom had returned. “Our god, my creator, is useless. He is already defeated. Karak will overpower us, and all you see before you will be no more.”

Ahaesarus couldn’t respond. He didn’t know how to.

“Do you not see, Warden?” Isabel continued. “We have lost. We are done for. Let the people drink and eat to their hearts’ content before they die.”

“You . . . you’ve given up.” He couldn’t believe how sure the woman sounded, how resolute.

“I have accepted reality. Karak is the stronger, Ashhur the weaker. If Nessa had been Karak’s child, he never would have allowed her to perish the way she did. He would have put those who ended her to the sword. While Ashhur lies on a slab, doing nothing, Karak brings forth the justice our god claims to represent.”

Ahaesarus’s mouth dropped open. It seemed Isabel was enjoying how much horror he expressed at her words.

Isabel laughed. “Do not look so shocked, Warden. I know you have thought the same.”

“I have not. I would never surrender my people to die as
you have.”

“We shall see. In three days, you will have your wish. Ben will exit the manse as you desire. He will walk among the people, and he will convince them to throw open the gates of Mordeina to Karak and his army. The Eastern Deity desires order? We will give it to him. All our people will bow before his grace.” She huffed and turned around, storming toward the double doors.

He stepped up to her as her hands fell on the handle.

“We will stop you,” he warned. “We will not let you defame Ashhur so.”

Isabel’s green eyes bore into his. “There is nothing your fellow Wardens can do about this, nor my monster of a son.
You
serve
us
, Warden, not the other way around. If my people demand this course of action, you will step aside.
Humans
were given free will in this land, not your kind. Now leave me and my king be.”

With that, Isabel shoved open the doors. They swung wide, slamming against the walls on either side, the echo reverberating down the long hall. When she stepped into the old dining hall, Ahaesarus still kept pace with her. She was so tiny compared to him, so frail. He could snap her in two if he so desired. A strong part of him wanted to do just that.