Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (2 page)

P
ROLOGUE

T
he skies burned red as men fell bleeding from above, and Ashhur watched it all with a shard of fear in his heart. His city of Allaketh was protected by a massive circular wall, the homes within dwarfed by a mountain of marble. Yet that mattered not when Thulos’s soldiers flew on crimson wings, their bronze armor glistening in the twilight of a fading sun as the light of a thousand fires consuming his beloved city.

“Trust our archers,” Karak said beside him, the two overlooking the battle from the steps of the Golden Castle. Ashhur glanced to his brother, bedecked in fine dark steel plate and resting an enormous ethereal sword across his broad shoulders. He looked confident, but Ashhur knew it for the lie it was. They could hold no confidence in their creations, for they were weak compared to Thulos. The humans had trusted in Justice and Order to prevail, for their allies in Love and Creation to hold back the tide, but against the God of War, they were all inferior. Humankind sought power, and the easiest way to achieve it was through their vengeful brother.

Giant balls of flaming pitch soared over the walls, accompanied by another wave of winged soldiers. The pitch smashed atop homes, setting them ablaze as Allaketh’s archers fired in vain from along the walls, downing foes with their deadly aim, yet unable to stem the tide. Ashhur drew his own sword as battle began atop those ramparts, their men quickly falling.

“We have no choice,” Ashhur said. “The gates will soon fall, and the footmen of Thulos will make their charge. We must meet them head on.”

Karak pulled the sword from his back and ran his other hand through his dark brown hair, for not a single strand would he allow to remain out of place.

“So be it,” he said. “If our followers cannot find victory, let us give it to them.”

The red haze blackened as the fire spread throughout the city. The two brother gods walked side by side down the road, leaving the castle behind them, listening to the screams of the dying. Every whisper, every groan was perfectly clear to their ears. For Ashhur, it was nearly overwhelming. There was no justice in what they witnessed, only betrayal and murder. He wished he could grant them comfort, even in their dying breaths, but there would be no time for that. The God of War came to their gates, and strength alone would defy him.

Ashhur readied his blade, its fine edge shimmering white and gold. Thirty of the winged soldiers—war demons, as Thulos had named them—approached from above in a diamond formation. Letting out a cry to their god, the demons dove with near suicidal speed. They’d give their lives for Thulos, if only to bring him a drop of blood closer to victory. Such devotion. Such loyalty. Ashhur wondered where he and his brother had gone so very wrong.

“Your very forms reek of chaos!” Karak shouted to them as they dove. “Come die and be cleansed.”

Fire wreathed his sword, and he swung in wide arcs, unafraid of the charge. Ashhur stepped aside, giving himself room to fight, and he met the assault with his own twirling blade of light. With each swing they cut down several demons at once, blasting through their
bronze armor, shattering their wings so that both blood and feathers
rained down from above.

Three demons flew past, slashing out with long halberds.
Ashhur
twisted, let his armor absorb the glancing hits, and then spun with sword raised high. As the third demon curved about, a great flash shone from the metal, blinding in its power. Unable to see, the three banked upward, failing to react in time. Into one of the tall marble homes they slammed. Ashhur heard every bone break, heard the drip of their blood, the crunch of their armor as the force of their impact bent its shape. A single step left, a pivot, and his sword swung through the air, the arc perfect, slicing in twain the first demon and removing the head of the second following behind. Their bodies crashed against Ashhur, but his feet remained planted, their weight bouncing off him as if he were made of stone.

“Chaos!” Karak screamed, seemingly overwhelmed by fury. Fire blasted from his sword, lashing into the air in great waves. Those demons unfortunate enough to be in its way were pulverized, screaming and plummeting, their skin blackening to ash, their armor melting. Around and around danced Karak’s sword, filling the sky with fire, until the last of the demons fled toward the outer wall to rejoin their god.

Their departure did little to calm Ashhur’s brother.

“Everywhere, chaos!” Karak roared. “The fields, the rivers, our cities and forests! Only the graveyards know peace.”

The ground rumbled, and from the far wall they both heard a loud
crack
.

“Blame our brother,” Ashhur said. “And save your fury. The siege engines roll forth.”

They ran faster, taking giant strides with their long legs. At either side cowered the women and children of Allaketh, taking to the streets to cry out their fear and grief to their gods.
Ashhur
did his best to ignore them, to focus on the task at hand. It was they he sought to defend, those powerless before the war machines of Thulos, his demons ruling the air, his paladins
overwhelming
the ground. At least the archers had done much to whittle down the fliers so that they were but a nuisance to Allaketh’s ground troops as they massed before the great double doors
protecting
the city. But without men on the walls, there was nothing to
slow the battering rams, and with another great tremble the
doors shook.

“They will not last,” Ashhur said.

“Thulos will lead their charge,” said Karak. “Let us meet him and end this now. This world has no need for a God of War. Let Order and Justice be all that reigns.”

“We’ll reign over only corpses,” Ashhur said, thinking of the conquest Thulos had waged across the continent, devastating city after city.

Karak’s sword lifted higher.

“I can imagine worse fates,” he said. “Stand tall before our soldiers. We are their gods, their source of strength and courage. Do not fail them.”

Toward the crumbling gate they dashed, and their soldiers moved aside so their path remained unblocked. Rumble after rumble,
crack
after
crack
, multiple battering rams hammered into the steel-reinforced wood. Ashhur felt his focus narrowing, saw the sheen across his sword reach blinding levels. All his rage he focused into his weapon. With it, he could cleave stone and steel like warm butter. With it, he could even pierce the flesh of a god. A great bellowing cry left his throat, drowning out the cacophony unleashed by the shattering of the gates. Ashhur led the way, Karak a mere footstep behind, as Thulos’s paladins came surging forth. They held their radiant weapons, hammers and swords and axes, and their armor was the finest in the land, bronze-tinted steel that shimmered red with the power of their faith.

Against the rage of gods, that armor meant nothing.

Karak and Ashhur waded into them, and if the onslaught of paladins was a river, they were the dam. Blood soaked their armor, and every swing of their weapons brought down dozens. At either side were Allaketh’s defenders, forming an enclosing ring so that any who somehow survived were quickly cut down. Soon the door was sealed with the bodies of the dead. His weapon heavy in his hand, Ashhur took a step back to survey all they’d done. Hundreds of paladins, Thulos’s finest, broken by their fury.

But Thulos was not there.

“We have been played for fools,” Karak said, and Ashhur heard the trace of fear buried in his anger.

To the far west came a new rumble, deeper, longer. With it came an ear-splitting
snap
, and there was no doubt as to what Ashhur heard. The very wall itself was crumbling.

“Let none pass!” Ashhur ordered the defenders before running back up the road, needing to get higher, to climb the hill of the Golden Castle if he must. It didn’t take long to find a vantage point, a sturdily built house of marble that, with his long arms and
legs, he
climbed with ease. Once atop it, he towered over the homes, and with dread growing in his heart, he watched the
western
wall crumble, fire and stone exploding in all directions. Ashhur could only guess as to what weapon his brother wielded, but in the end it didn’t matter. Their wall was breached, and there were no defenders there to protect the gap, to stem the tide of millions pledged to Thulos’s banner.

And in the heart of those millions of swords and shields, their brother would walk, towering over the humans, soaking in the power of their faith.

“Brother . . .
 
” Ashhur said, but the words of surrender, of hope
lessness, seemed impossible to form on his tongue.

“No,” Karak said. “Follow me to the castle. All is not lost.”

As they ran, the ground shook beneath their feet, vibrating from the river of flesh and armor that poured in from the west. Screams of fear joined them, and Ashhur could hear cries of surrender, men and women kneeling and begging to be spared. None were. The time for surrender was before the walls were breached, before the demons filled the air and dumped burning pitch onto the great city.

At the door to the castle gathered the last of the defenders, a paltry hundred. There was no hiding the fear in their eyes, but they stood tall. Even at the end they had faith in him, Ashhur realized. Had faith there would be salvation for them, a way their god would protect them. But there wasn’t. The end had come, for all of them, for against Thulos’s blade, even gods could die.

“We need time,” Karak shouted as they arrived. “Descend the hill, and hold it with your lives. Even a single heartbeat may decide our life or death!”

They saluted and rushed down the hill. Ashhur watched them run with pride. Karak, however, put his hands on the doors of the castle and closed his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Ashhur said. “What is it . . . ”

“Quiet,” Karak said. “There is a way, but only if she hears us.”

“She? Who?”

“Celestia.”

Ashhur could not believe it. That was his brother’s last and
only plan?

“What makes you think she would aid us?” he asked. “When we were there last, we destroyed her world, nearly ripped it asunder.”

“We were whole then,” Karak said. “Now we are but broken pieces of Kaurthulos. She will know this. She will understand. Where else have we to go?”

“There are thousands of other worlds,” Ashhur said.

“And we only know the way to one.”

Karak closed his eyes again and murmured prayers loaded with magic and power. The door shimmered, turned translucent for a moment, then returned to normal.

“It matters not if she heard you,” Ashhur said when his brother’s prayers halted. “What creature or army could she send to us to aid in our battle?”

“I do not seek aid,” Karak said. “I seek sanctuary.”

With that, he pulled open the doors to the Golden Castle. Instead of the fine hall within, filled with paintings and lined with a vibrant red carpet, there stood a swirling portal of violet and shadow. In its heart Ashhur saw stars twirling, planets and moons revolving in a constant dance. A cold wind blew from the portal’s center, and even through his armor he felt its chill.

“You would have us flee?” he asked.

“What other choice do we have?” Karak asked. He looked to the portal, and Ashhur joined him. From within he saw a feminine shape, a hand beckoning. Celestia would accept them even after all they had done? It seemed bewildering to him, but she was a goddess herself, and her actions were her own. But to leave their world, their people, his beloved city of Allaketh?

“We failed here,” Karak insisted as Thulos’s army converged from all directions. “We let humankind grow unchecked. We thought our teachings would be enough. But it will never be enough, not unless we keep a close hand. Not unless we ensure loyalty with every breath we take. Let us go. Let us make amends in a world where Order and Justice may still have a home.”

Without waiting for an answer, Karak stepped into the portal and vanished.

Ashhur looked back, gazing upon his burning city. He listened to the cries of the fearful, the crackling flames, the soldiers dying at the bottom of the hill. And then he saw his brother marching through their ranks, face hidden with a great horned helm. The God of War. The conqueror of all.

“Never again,” Ashhur swore. “And my people . . . please,
forgive me.
”

With that, he turned and stepped into the portal, felt reality shift around him, slipping him through the stars, to the realm of the goddess Celestia and the land she called Dezrel.

C
HAPTER

1

K
arak’s eyes shone with liquid fire that burned through the morning mist. The god paced across the dead brown earth covering the valley in which his army camped, his gaze constantly returning to the walled township that loomed in the distance. Velixar saw anger in his stare; anger that grew even more pronounced whenever he looked at the massive tree that had risen from the ground, sealing the gap in the wall his fireball had created. The deity’s giant hands curled into fists, and the brightness of his eyes intensified. It was only when he turned his head to see his near fifteen thousand children busy at work that his stern expression softened even the tiniest bit.

The morning air was crisp, and the evening dew still lingered, causing Velixar’s cloak to cling to his flesh. Though a cool wind blew, the High Prophet felt no chill. The fire burning inside him, stoked by the demon whose essence he had swallowed, was all the warmth he needed.

He had risen before sunrise along with Lord Commander
Malcolm
Gregorian, joining the one-eyed man in awakening more than two hundred of the soldiers who had been sleeping fitfully in their tents. There was much work to do: bark that needed to be stripped, stakes that required sharpening, sanded timber that had to be fastened together with twine and iron nails. It all filled the wide expanse of the valley with a bustle of activity as saws ripped through wood and hammers
thumped
.

Yet despite the soldiers’ work, despite all the lessons Karak taught them, progress was maddeningly slow. They’d built sixty ladders, stacked neatly in twelve piles to the left of the construction site, but they had only managed to finish three meager siege engines over the eleven days since their initial attack on
Mordeina’s
walls: two solid towers and a single catapult. The rest of the partially formed engines sat useless throughout the valley, half-formed giants awaiting the necessary materials to complete them.

It wasn’t the soldiers’ fault, Velixar knew; when Ashhur, Karak’s brother god, had created a legion of grayhorn men to defend his people, he had stripped the land of life, which accounted for the dead grass crunching beneath their feet. The trees of the nearby forest were brittle as spent tindersticks, crumbling away in a rain of dust when struck by an ax. A weakened Karak had tried to raise more trees from deep within the soil, but it seemed Ashhur had decimated the land to such an extent that nothing could grow there any longer.

“It will be years until this earth is fertile again,” Karak had told him with a growl. “I have no time for this.” And so the soldiers carried their axes a mile toward the Gods’ Road, chopped down the trees in the healthy forest, and lugged the trunks all the way back to the camp, where they could be stripped and quartered and assembled into tools of war.

Velixar eyed the workers, sweat dripping off their brows as they slaved away. He did not like the weariness in their expressions, or the labor in their movements. Each hammer seemed to weigh a hundred pounds; each plank lifted with a grunt as if it weighed ten times that much. The soldiers were tired and hungry, and each morning he noticed that a handful who had been working dutifully the day before had disappeared in the night. The previous evening he’d ordered the Lord Commander to have the camp watched while it slept, and Malcolm’s sentries caught six soldiers attempting to tiptoe out of the valley under the cover of darkness. Those six were now fastened to a post in front of the camp, beaten and bound by throat, wrist, and ankle, pleading for mercy with any who passed within earshot.

As morning progressed and the clouds passed over the sun, the pleading of those captured intensified. Velixar stood back and watched with interest as a soldier approached the bound men, offering a cup of mulled wine. Malcolm was on the soldier a second later, yanking him backward by the hair and tossing him to the ground. The Lord Commander pressed his boot into the man’s throat, his one good eye watching the young soldier struggle. None of the other soldiers came forward to aid their distressed comrade; despite the fact that his left arm was still in a sling, every soldier knew Malcolm Gregorian was not to be trifled with. Finally the soldier’s protests dwindled, and Malcolm removed his foot before giving him a swift kick in the side and demanding he get back to work.

Velixar felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder, and he gazed up at Karak’s face.

“Yes, my Lord?” he asked quietly.

The god knelt beside him. “There is unrest among my children,” he said.

“They are hungry, my Lord, and exhausted. Our caches of salted meats and vegetables have dwindled. We haven’t enough to sustain so many men.”

That was the second price of the dead land they camped on; the quest for food had become as trying as the quest for lumber, and required just as many men to retrieve, which further slowed progress. Their only other recourse was to wait for the next train of supply wagons to arrive from Neldar, but they could be waiting for those supplies for a week, if not a month. To alleviate the stresses on his god’s men, Velixar had dumped the foraging duties onto the elf Aerland Shen and his band of a hundred Ekreissar, the best warriors the Quellan elves had to offer. Though proficient with bows, the elves were fighters, not hunters, and the provisions they returned with proved dissatisfying. In the end Velixar could only hope that the people of Mordeina, trapped as they were inside their walls,
suffered
far worse.

“They are human,” Karak said. “They will persevere if their love for me is true.”

“Love does not fill an empty stomach, my Lord.”

Karak’s glowing eyes turned to the six bound men.

“Why are the deserters tied up in view of all?”

“To strip them of their freedom, to teach the others that abandonment will be punished harshly.”

Karak grunted. “You disappoint me. Losing freedom is a paltry reprimand, High Prophet. Think of a more effective method to teach my children.”

“I will, my Lord,” Velixar said with a bow.

Karak stood and turned away, loping back to his massive pavilion. Velixar threw open his cloak and marched through the throng of laborers, making his way toward the deserters. They saw him approach, and six sets of eyes widened in fear.

“Have mercy!” one of them begged. “We were starving and only wished to find food!”

The captive closest to the post lifted his head to the heavens. “Listen to your prophet,” he said loudly. He had straight, silvery hair, copper eyes, and a firm square jaw, as if he had sprouted equally from both the Crestwell and Mori lines. “We were caught; now we pay the price like men.”

The others fell silent. By then, the sounds of construction had died away behind Velixar as the working soldiers stepped forward to watch the spectacle.

Velixar tilted his head at the man. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Donnell Frost,” he said, dipping his head in respect.

“And where are you from?”

“Felwood, High Prophet.”

“I see.” Velixar looked down the line at the pathetic, whimpering men. “And the rest of them, as well?”

The man nodded. “We all worked in the armory.”

“And did your cohort speak the truth? Was your party foraging for food?”

Donnell’s staid expression never changed.

“We were not, High Prophet.”

“Shut up, Donnell!” shouted a captive with a scar running across his brow.

Velixar squinted, the red glow of his eyes intensifying, and the scarred captive sank back in his restraints, clutching at his throat. “Go on, soldier,” Velixar told Donnell. “Tell it, and tell it true.”

Donnell’s eyes brimmed with tears even though his manner remained strong. “We thought the situation hopeless. With the goddess defending Ashhur, what chance is there of victory? She would strike us down the moment we tried to scale those walls.”

“Is that so?” asked Velixar, his heart sinking in his chest at the words.

“It is.” Donnell’s eyes glanced toward his cohorts. “It’s been months since we laid eyes on our families and bedded our wives, so we thought—
all of us
—that we should return home.”

Velixar took a deep breath, gathering his strength. “And was this the correct choice?”

Once more, Donnell dipped his head. “It was not, High Prophet. We succumbed to weakness.”

“Asshole,” one of the other captives muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Velixar took a step backward and turned to face the massive crowd gathered behind him.

“These men are guilty of blasphemy of the highest order!” he shouted. “The greatest sin we children of Karak may commit is to turn away from the one who created us. The love of your god fills your lungs with breath, your muscles with strength, your minds with knowledge. Without that love . . . ” He spun back around and faced the captives.

“Without that love, you deserve none of it.”

Velixar raised his hands above his head and reached down deep within himself, accessing the demon’s ancient knowledge. Shadows swirled around his fingertips, black lightning sparked, and the red glow from his eyes heightened tenfold. He felt power surge through him, making his every hair stand on end. He then lowered his gaze to the deserters, imagined their bodies undone, their insides boiling, their tissue and fibers dissolving.

And then it came to pass.

The screams of the bound men were deafening before they died. All but Donnell. The copper-eyed, silver-haired man remained unharmed, though he silently shook.

This one is nearly as faithful as Malcolm,
Velixar thought.
Such a shame.

“The others were undeserving of Karak’s mercy,” Velixar said, addressing the bloodstained man but ensuring his voice was loud enough for those gathered to hear. “You, Donnell Frost, have shown wisdom even when facing death, and courage before fear. Your punishment shall be swift, your death painless, your soul made pure for the eternity to follow.”

Despite his constraints, the man bowed low. “Thank you, High Prophet.”

The heavily scarred Lord Commander Malcolm was the one to unfasten Donnell’s restraints and lead him to the edge of the construction site, in the shadow of a completed siege tower. As Velixar watched, the doomed man knelt and presented his neck. A young soldier helped Malcolm out of his sling. Malcolm winced as he reached behind his back and slid Darkfall, his giant sword, from its sheath. The Lord Commander held the sword above his head with both hands. “For Karak!” he shouted. A moment later Donnell’s head rolled across the dead grass, his lifeless copper eyes open, staring heavenward.

After the body was disposed of and the head was carried away to Velixar’s tent, the soldiers went back to work on the engines with renewed, fear-fueled vigor. Troubled, Velixar climbed the low hill on which Karak’s pavilion sat. His eyes kept turning toward
Mordeina
, its massive walls, and the tree Celestia had brought up from the earth to thwart them. In his mind, he heard Donnell’s words endlessly looping:
“With the goddess defending Ashhur, what chance is there of victory?”

“Have you taught my children a lesson, High Prophet?” Karak asked when Velixar stepped through the flap and entered the pavilion. The god’s back was to him as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the tent’s empty expanse. It was a pose Velixar often found the god in whenever he came calling.

“I have, my Lord.” He hesitated before adding, “I also learned a lesson myself.”

That piqued Karak’s interest, and the deity turned about to face him. “Yes?”

“We seem to have a problem, my Lord. A problem of perception.” Velixar’s heart raced faster with every word he spoke.

Karak’s glowing eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Some of your children fear the goddess.” He began pacing a circle around the deity, hesitant to look Karak in the eye. “Though Chief Shen and the Quellan try to convince them otherwise, they all witnessed Celestia raise that damn tree to protect Ashhur, as well as crush your second meteor of fire.”

“They do not believe in the righteousness of my quest?”

“Your righteousness is not in question. It is that they doubt our army can be victorious if the goddess has sided with Ashhur.”

“Doubt is fear’s insidious brother, and much harder to defeat,” said Karak, and his suddenly wistful, reflective tone eased Velixar’s nerves. “Once given life, it spreads like a disease, forever growing stronger. We must crush it early and with due haste.”

“I know this,” Velixar said, and despite his trepidation, he voiced his own fear. “But my Lord . . . are they right? Can we find victory if Celestia fights alongside Ashhur?”

Karak shook his head. “Once more you disappoint me, High Prophet. If Celestia truly fought alongside my brother, none of us—myself, you, this entire force we have gathered—would be here any longer. She is cosmic, she is eternal. My brother and myself were like that once, when we were whole, but no longer. We shattered ourselves to pieces, thinking that if we walked among humankind our leadership would be more potent, our relationship like a father to a child. Foolish, perhaps, but there is nothing to be done about it now. Until we once again rise to the heavens, we are weaker than she. Celestia could eliminate each and every one of us in a single human heartbeat.”

“But she defended Ashhur. She
protected
him.”

“She did, but not for the reasons you might think,” the deity said with an impatient grunt. “Celestia may love my brother, but she desires balance and carries a deep sense of fairness in her breast. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks Ashhur was unfairly pushed to war, or unprepared for this conflict. But more than anything, she will protect her world, and that is why we must be patient. We must be calm. We must show, not just to our own people but the very heavens itself, that we act in righteousness, that our war was inevitable, our victory a necessary.”

“As you say, I believe,” Velixar said with a bow. “But how do we know she will not interfere again? So long as our children believe the goddess is against us, their doubt will foster and grow.”