Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (21 page)

She descended through sloping tunnel after sloping tunnel, passing the numerous alcoves where almost eight hundred men and women, nearly half of whom she had helped to save, rested their heads. She ran even when bedraggled people emerged from their nooks, looks of concern painting their faces as they backed away from the whirling demon in their midst. She ran ever downward until she left them all behind, until there was little to no light, and the air around her grew thick with moisture, dripping water the only noise other than her footsteps echoing off wide chamber walls.

She paused, placing her hand on a slick boulder and panting. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her thoughts waged war between acceptance and disbelief. She cried for her family, for their friends, for the entire township of Omnmount, all those frightened children who were now left rudderless. Alone. All alone. “What’s it all been for?” she cried out, hoping a god, any god, would a
nswer he
r.

None did.

Taking a deep breath, she moved toward a point of light in the near distance. She passed through a low hanging, natural archway, and suddenly there were three shimmering blue pools before her, lit by the flames from the torches embedded in the far wall. A laugh left her throat, the most miserable sound she could ever remember. She had run with abandon, hoping to get lost, hoping to lose her footing and plummet into the depths of some great pit and feel no pain ever again, and yet she’d come here, to the underground bathhouse, a place of cleanliness and rejuvenation. Laurel sank into a corner, hidden by a pair of outcroppings, drew her knees to her chest, and sobbed.

She didn’t know how long she cried, but by the time she was finished, she felt numb inside. Her tears had scoured her soul and burned away her emotions, leaving behind a useless shell of meat, blood, and bone. Without her family to protect, what reason did she have to go on? She considered jumping into one of the pools and holding herself underwater until she breathed no more.

That thought was ripped from her with the sound of shuffling footsteps. Laurel remained still, not wanting to be found, and peered through the darkness at the lone, slender figure that approached. It was Lyana Mori, stepping gingerly, wincing each time one of her feet touched the ground.

The girl was eighteen, and her hair had grown out now that she no longer wore the wrappings of the Sisters. The dark curls bounced above her shoulders, light as a feather, and her bright blue eyes shone with the same color as the water in the shimmering pools. The girl shrugged out of her frock and stood naked before the water. Cuts and scrapes covered Lyana’s arms and legs, and there was a nasty purple splotch above her small left breast. The girl’s feet were also bloodied, and when she sat on the edge of the center pool and dipped her toes in, she winced.

Laurel watched as the girl slipped fully into the water. Though the caverns were muggy, the pools were almost freezing, and Lyana wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. Yet she persevered, forcing her hands to dip into the water, cupping it with her palms and rubbing it over her skin. She looked so young then, so innocent. Laurel was mesmerized at the purity of the vision . . . until Lyana turned away.

Laurel had never seen Lyana Mori’s back before. It was
covered
with a mess of scars, like worms racing across her flesh from one shoulder blade to the other, from her hips to the base of her neck. The skin appeared red and raw, looking even more so in the
torchlight
. Horror filled Laurel’s gut. Not only had this girl been stripped of her freedom and forced to serve the most powerful men in the land, but she had been mercilessly beaten and whipped as well. That horror was soon replaced by hatred, and she remembered the smug look on Quester Billings’s face when he passed Lyana and
Harmony
off to her.
“Take care of my pets,”
he’d said. Only Lyana Mori wasn’t someone’s pet. She was a living, breathing girl, with dreams of her own and a soul just as worthy as that of any man who might
claim her.

But Lyana had believed otherwise. It was only with Laurel’s help that she’d cast aside the wrappings, the first of many to abandon the Sisters of the Cloth. With Laurel’s help, she’d begun to smile again, to live for herself, to believe her life meant something more than insult and servitude.

Laurel’s help . . .

She swallowed down the last of her grief and stood, walking slowly across the rutted, rocky ground. She shrugged out of her clothes as she moved, until she stood just as naked as Lyana. The girl in the pool turned around at the sound of her approach, covering her small breasts with her arms. Lyana saw who she was, and a relieved smile came over her.

“Laurel?” she said. “You frightened me.”

Laurel sat down on the stone, slid her legs into the cold water.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Lyana’s head cocked to the side. “Laurel, what’s wrong?” she asked, voice like a babe.

Laurel couldn’t think where to start, how to reveal the annihilation of her family line. The words died in her throat, and she felt her tears swell anew. She’d thought her soul emptied, but her grief was not yet done. When she opened her mouth, only a soft sob came forth, and then Lyana was there, arms about her, holding her as she broke.

“I’m so sorry,” Laurel said, holding her tight.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Not that,” she said, her fingers tracing the scars marring the girl’s back. If only she could take them, make them her own. But girls like Lyana, they were legion. And despite their sorrow, their humiliation, they endured. They survived. Laurel drew back, wiped the tears from her eyes, and stared at the girl with her head inclined.

No more tears. Never again. If they endure, so will I. My family may be dead, but I have another, and right now, they are all in chains.

“Laurel?” Lyana asked, clearly worried. “Are you all right?”

“I am now,” Laurel said, and despite her sorrow, she smiled.

C
HAPTER

17

W
hen the first snowflakes fell, the barrage began. As had happened the past twenty-three nights, boulders pounded Mordeina’s walls as arrows sailed over the parapets. Only this time, the thousands lurking inside the settlement were ready. Ashhur had helped erect a massive stone bunker fifty yards from the walls, proclaiming the land between the bunker and the wall a dead zone. None but those assigned as watchmen were allowed to climb the stairs. All the rest were put to work crafting weapons and raising countless domiciles with the last of their timber. It was arduous work, but none complained, not when Ashhur marched among them, an expression of icy determination burning in his glowing yellow stare.

“Karak is baiting us,” the deity had said the week before, after
allowing his children to cry and shriek praises to the heavens
when he
exited Manse DuTaureau alive. “He wishes us frightened and helpless. When he thinks us broken, and his strength at its greatest, he will come. When he does, he will not find sheep waiting for him, but wolves.”

Patrick should have been happy with this new change in attitude, but he was not. When the nightly bombardments began, he was a man conflicted: Part of him wished to climb the walls, drop down on the other side, and surge against the soldiers as he had when they’d penetrated the outer wall; another part wished to dash into Manse DuTaureau, climb into his mother’s bed, and hide.

The fear he now felt as he slogged through the freezing muck on this first dark, wintry evening, carrying a heavy block of ore, was entirely due to the nightmares. They’d begun days ago, assaulting him whenever he shut his eyes to get some much-needed rest. In the dreams he was a man haunted. Nessa came to him, her flesh torn and leaking pus, her hair falling out in clumps, and maggots writhing in the shallow black holes of her eyes. His dead sister hurled insults at him, casting blame his way.
“You are a monster,”
she cried in a voice that was always too far away.
“You never truly loved me. If you loved me, why did you never come looking for me, big brother? Why didn’t you search for me? Why didn’t you save me?”

Every time, he woke up screaming.

The worst of it, though, was that of late the nightmares had begun to follow him into the waking hours. Exhausted as he was, he did his best to fulfill his daily duties to Ashhur. But no matter where he looked, he swore he saw Nessa, always just out of sight, mocking him, tormenting him. His head began to grow heavy as exhaustion took its toll. He stopped training his young warriors, for sleep-deprived as he was, he could hardly concentrate. Instead, he performed mindless tasks, moving this and that, gathering water, even spending time in the fields, dragging a plow behind him through the frozen earth, so Ashhur’s magic could help bring food up through the soil.

Men and women ducked beneath the stone bunker as arrows
plinked
off the top. They were hard at work, pounding with crude hammers on the blocks of ore Ashhur had lifted from deep within the ground in the northwest corner of the settlement. Some busied themselves stoking the fires that would heat the ore, while still others formed branches into slender rods and passed those rods to others to be fletched with crow feathers. The deity did his part as always, demonstrating to a large group of his children how to work with the ore, before using his godly magic to bend it to his will, stretching it, thickening it, forming it into blades of steel. Patrick watched his god, and when he dropped the heavy block he was carrying, it landed on his toe. In the ever-worsening cold, his thick leather boots did little to soften the blow.

“Fuck!” he shouted, hopping on one foot and squeezing his injured digit. He hated the cold, hated the winter. The only saving grace to the change in seasons was the fact that the corpses stacked on the other side of the stone walkway didn’t stink any longer.

Someone snickered behind him, but when he wheeled around to scream at the offender, he saw most everyone was hard at work. Even those whose attention was on him had words of compassion on their lips. Then he caught sight of a demonic, red-haired sprite from the corner of his eye, teeth bared behind rotten lips. When he whipped his head around to look, the vision was gone.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, and he almost reached for
Winterbone
, which still hung in its scabbard on his back. He breathed deeply, calming his nerves, and turned around to see Judarius standing there, a quizzical look on his face.

“What is wrong with you?” the brawny Warden asked.

Patrick shrugged. “Nothing for you to worry your ugly mug about. What are you doing off the wall anyway?”

If Judarius was insulted by the slight, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned over and whispered to one of the women fletching the arrows. The woman nodded, handing the Warden a crate made from birch bark and filled with at least a hundred finished arrows. The crate was heavy in her hands, but when Judarius snatched it from her, it looked as small as a breadbox. The Warden tucked it beneath his arm and lifted out one of the arrows, examining the sharpened steel arrowhead, running the pad of his thumb over the tip. Patrick felt confused as he watched him, and wavered on his
feet. He suddenly found it so interesting and unbelievable that
Ashhur
had succeeded in creating nearly a complete armory in little more than three weeks.

“We needed more arrows,” Judarius said. “I am not much for archery myself, so I volunteered to retrieve them.”

“Oh,” Patrick said in a daze.

The Warden cocked his head. “Patrick, something is not right with you. More than usual, at any rate.”

“I know. Nightmares. Not feeling well.”

“Are you eating?”

“Eating what? There isn’t much food to go around, and there are over two hundred thousand people here who would gladly accept my portion. I can go without. I probably wouldn’t be able to keep it down anyhow.”

“Why? Are you sick?”

Patrick’s head grew fuzzy again, his vision doubling. He blinked, trying to get the two Judariuses that stood before him to merge into one image. The one on the left then began to bulge and warp, developing blackened eyes and familiar, slimmer features. The fires burning all around blinded him. His eyes rolled back, and he teetered forward. With his free hand, the Warden snatched Patrick by the arm before he fell.

“Patrick, this is starting to worry me.”

“Don’t,” Patrick said. His thoughts began to wander, his mouth moving as if on its own. “Forget me. Let’s talk about something useful. Where have you stationed the other Wardens?”

He didn’t know why, but he felt instantly engrossed in
hearing
the answer. Judarius released his arm and positioned the crate of arrows to be more stable. “There are three hundred assisting with preparations at the south wall. Another hundred patrol the
citizens
, assisting the people with anything they require. The rest are working the grounds, trying to coax crops from the soil. Why do
you ask?
”

It was a good question, actually, and strangely enough Patrick didn’t have an answer. Something about what Judarius said piqued his interest.

“Is no one guarding the western settlement?” he asked.

“Just the barest of skeleton crews,” Judarius said. The way the Warden was looking at him was strange. “There aren’t enough people on that side of the settlement, but you already know that.”

“And are they all armed?”

“Of course they are.”

“Stone or steel?”

“Mostly steel.”

Patrick shook his head, cursing silently to himself. His vision righted, and there was just Judarius there now, staring down at him while snowflakes fell in the background. He thought he saw that red-haired devil again, but he refused to believe it.
It’s all in your head. Just stop it already.

“Doesn’t hurt to double-check these things,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as Judarius.

“Patrick, you don’t look well, and I think I know why,” the
Warden
said in a flat tone. “You need a good, violent fuck. And you could rip the bitch’s throat out afterward.”

Patrick stumbled back a step. “What?”

The Warden inclined his head. “I asked why such interest in the Wardens?”

“Wait. You didn’t . . . ” Patrick shook his head. “I’m sorry,
Judarius
.
Might be best if you head back to the archers. I’m not even making
sense to myself.”

“Are you sure you do not wish—”

A low
thud
sounded, followed by another, and Judarius’s mouth snapped shut. The Warden stepped out from beneath the bunker and gazed at the wall. Patrick followed his stare. The rain of arrows had ceased, at least for the moment. Snow fell on his forehead, and the cold drove a spike of pain between his eyes.

Judarius turned around and faced north just as another muted thump rumbled the air. Patrick stood confused. The noise sounded like far-off thunder, which was rare during a snowstorm as light as this one. Even stranger was the pattering of rain he heard next.

Only it wasn’t rain, for a few moments later eight horses raced around the hill on which Manse DuTaureau sat. Each rider carried a torch, and the faces those torches illuminated were filled with fear.

“They are bombarding from the north!” one of the riders screamed. “Come, hurry!”

“Damn,” Judarius growled. He gazed down at Patrick, obviously angry with himself. “You were right. We should have had more men guarding all along the wall, not just here. Rosler told me he thought he counted fewer catapults than yesterday, but there was liquor on his breath, and I did not listen. Damn, damn, damn.” He slammed the crate of arrows into Patrick’s chest, almost knocking him over. “Take these to the archers. I will head up the new defenses.” Then he turned about face and began running along the ranks of confused people who stood outside the bunker. “Come, Marius!
Grendel
, Bosipherus, Ariel—to me! Karak is attacking to the north!”

At least twenty Wardens and another fifty humans joined
Judarius
in his mad sprint as he chased after the now-retreating eight horsemen. Soon they disappeared into the darkness, and a hush fell over all of those standing around watching. It seemed the only sounds to be heard were the crackling torches and the howl of the wind, until a
ping
rang out, and something whistled past
Patrick’s
ear. He started, stumbling in place, almost knocked over by the weight of his own sword.

“The arrows are falling!” called out a booming voice, and Patrick pivoted to see Ashhur marching along the long bunker, shoving people beneath it. “Take shelter now. Get yourselves—”

The god’s words were drowned out by a giant crash. Patrick whirled around and saw a boulder sailing over the wall, carrying with it bits of parapet. Nessa’s face was imprinted on the boulder, staring down at him with a wicked grin. He was frozen in place, too confounded to move, too frightened to do anything but watch as the huge chunk of rock began its descent. People screamed, trying to scamper out of the way of the flying boulder before it crushed them like the others had so many nights before. The scene was pure bedlam.

Something large flashed by him, knocking him over. He landed face first in the snow as arrows fell like rain on the white-sheathed
ground. With great effort he lifted his head and looked on as
Ashhur
collided with the boulder. Patrick’s ears ached from the ensuing
crack
. Shards of rock rained down, and people shouted Ashhur’s name. Yet as the dust settled, Ashhur remained standing, hatred shining in his glowing eyes, making the area in front of him appear as bright as day.

Ashhur ordered his children to retrieve whatever weapons they could in the lull that followed. Patrick stood up, watching as myriad forms scurried to and fro in the space between the bunker and the wall. He shook himself out of his stupor and looked at the ground around him, seeing the birch bark crate smashed and arrows strewn about in the snow. Cursing, he snatched a large square of burlap from inside the bunker and laid it out on the ground, then proceeded to toss as many arrows as he could find atop it. He rolled the blanket and picked it up. It was heavy, but he didn’t care. He climbed atop the bunker and hopped down on the other side, heading for the wall.

It was difficult with his mismatched legs to maneuver through the slippery muck. All the people frantically trying to collect the enemy’s arrows made it even more difficult. Finally, he slipped, colliding with someone and sending them both to the ground. Rage burned inside him, and when he shook the snow from his eyes, he saw Nessa getting to her feet opposite him, inhumanly tall, her gray tongue dangling out, her lipless mouth smiling. Maggots tumbled from her eye sockets, only to turn into smoke when they touched the air.

Patrick forgot all about the arrows, about the archers atop the wall. All that mattered was the demon ghost. It hefted a large ax and stared at him.

“You aren’t Nessa!” Patrick shouted. “Stop fucking ha
unting me
!”

He reached behind his back and grabbed Winterbone by the handle. In a single yank it was in his hands and he charged. His hatred gave him strength as he rumbled forward, sword held by his ear. The demon Nessa’s face contorted as she raised the ax in defense. Patrick screamed at the top of his lungs and leapt into the air, ready to split the beast in half with one mighty hew.

A large body collided with him from the side, sending him tumbling. He lost grip of Winterbone, the sword disappearing into the snow. He heard a crunch and shrieked. Needles of pain assaulted him from his neck down to his groin, and he curled into a ball and writhed.

“What is
wrong
with you?” asked a roaring voice.

Patrick looked up. Ahaesarus stood above him, shoulders rising and falling as he huffed. Patrick shifted, looking around the Master Warden to the crouching figure beyond. It was another Warden, Judah, holding his ax tight to his chest.