Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (27 page)

“I will set their souls free,” he said. “Now let us bring some beauty to the world! The feast begins!”

The man reared back and brought the longsword across in a wide arc. Bardiya surged ahead, pulling against his chains, the ox harness, the wagons themselves. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he watched the blades, Clovis’s and the soldiers’, find purchase in innocent flesh. Keisha was the first to die, her head sheared clean from her neck. In a matter of seconds, there were seven corpses atop the dais.

Women shrieked, and the anger and dread of Bardiya’s people spread like a disease. Gordo shoved past a soldier and climbed onto the dais. Bardiya saw the parents of the other slain children emerge from the sea of humanity, and his massive heart thrummed so hard that it might have shaken the earth itself. He thrust his arms with such force that the four-inch-thick iron chains binding them shattered. His mind went blank, and he threw his head forward, splintering the ox harness about his neck. His vision went red as he watched Gordo cradle his daughter’s headless body, and when a pair of elves rushed Bardiya, he lashed out without thinking. He grabbed them each by the top of the head, even after one slashed at his wrist with his khandar, and slammed their heads together. Their skulls exploded into a bloody pulp that coated his hands even after he tossed their corpses aside.

“NO!”
he screamed, shaking his bloody fists before him. It seemed the very heavens echoed his call.

More soldiers charged, but Bardiya focused on Clovis. The skeletal man was hopping up and down in what appeared to be excitement, his gaze aimed somewhere to the side. Bardiya looked that way, his blood racing, and saw men sprinting down the
tall dun
e. They were dark skinned and brandished weapons of steel, and they bellowed their battle cry as they ran. He recognized every one
of them
.

Bardiya only looked away when a soldier stabbed him in the side. He reached down, grabbed the soldier by the leg, and then threw him as hard as he could against one of the wagons. The soldier’s body crumpled like a dried leaf, his head spinning around on his torso until it hung there by a single, gummy thread. Bardiya yanked the sword out of his side, such a tiny thing in his massive fingers, and flicked it away. Four more soldiers and two elves came at him next from all directions. He swung his arm, and the thick iron chains still locked around his wrists pulverized two men’s skulls. The rest he smashed with his fists until they were formless piles of flesh, bone, blood, and steel.

All around him was chaos now, his people fighting with their captors while the elves met the stampeding newcomers. Steel met steel with a
clang
, and the sounds of screams and the smell of blood filled the air. Bardiya jerked his foot, snapping the last chain binding him to the wagon, and hurled his body headlong into the fray.

In his rage his mind was on fire, his body young. There were none that could touch him, and though he was struck and prodded and stabbed from all sides, nothing could hurt him. Each time he saw one of his people put to the sword, his fury burst anew. He snatched up a Quellan, ripped his body in two, and used those two halves to beat the elf’s brethren to death before continuing toward his destination: the dais, and the emaciated man who still jumped and laughed atop it.

Blood was in his eyes, the salt making his vision blurry. He elbowed his way through the bedlam, tossing bodies into the air, stomping them underfoot. When he finally reached the dais, he stepped onto it as easily as one would walk up a stair. He towered over the deplorable, twisted human, who rubbed his hands together as he cackled.

“This feast has begun!” Clovis cried.

Bardiya said nothing. Instead, he reared back and brought his fist down on the man. Clovis never tried to defend himself, never even attempted to dodge. Instead, he took the brunt of the blow, the side of his head caving in, his teeth shattering. His body crumpled like a pile of dry bones, the red glow from his one remaining eye slowly going out.

In a fit of rage, Bardiya kicked the mangled, shrunken body off the rear edge of the dais. He threw his head back and roared, then turned about. The battle still waged below him, and as he looked over the combatants, he saw a cluster toward the center of the countless struggling forms gradually moving his way. The faces in the cluster were those from his past, faces he had not seen in months. There was Loom Umbridge swinging a two-handed sword; Gale Lumber coming down on an elf with a maul; Antar Fidoros using a large ax to lop the scalp off a helm-less soldier, and countless others wielding weapons of their own . . . including Ki-Nan Renald. Bardiya narrowed his eyes, watching his old friend fend off attackers with a long, curved blade.

They had returned to him, all of them, at the time when he needed them most.

Bardiya got down on one knee, staring at the seven mutilated children on either side of him while swatting aside elf and soldier alike with his bare hands. He could feel Ceredon’s eyes on him, gaping at the carnage from his plank above the wagon. Men and elves died all around. Ki-Nan and his pack emerged from the swarm, panting and bleeding. The others formed a protective wall, allowing Ki-Nan and two others to approach the raised platform unharmed, holding above their heads a long crate. If not for the current of hatred flowing in Bardiya’s veins, he might have cried.

When they reached the dais, two of Ki-Nan’s men hefted the long wooden box they were carrying, sliding it onto the platform right in front of Bardiya. Ki-Nan leaned forward, his dark hand touching the giant’s massive foot. Behind him, the battle continued to rage. Ki-Nan said not a word. He didn’t need to. The determined look in his old friend’s eyes told Bardiya all he needed to know.

Slowly the giant reached down and unlatched the long, heavy box. He lifted the lid, and within he saw the gleaming steel of a seven-foot-long sword. It was the same blade that Aullienna Meln and the rest of the Stonewood Dezren had shown to him that day on the stony beachhead.

Ki-Nan stepped back. Bardiya grasped the sword’s handle and lifted the heavy blade from the box. The steel felt cold to the touch, but there was an underlying burn that seemed to leach into his skin and set his nerves afire. It was the first time he had so much as touched a weapon of this sort, and somewhere beneath his anger he was both amazed and saddened by how natural it felt in his grip. He took a swipe with it while still on his knees, getting a feel for it.

“No time, Bardiya!” shouted Ki-Nan, pulling him from his private trance. “We are breaking!”

The giant’s head shot up. To his right he saw small bands of his people scurrying away from the fighting, huddled together like a flock of kobo fleeing a diseased land. Wounded human soldiers were fleeing right behind them, casting aside their weapons as they ran. Bardiya watched as, to the left, the protective barrier formed by Ki-Nan’s men slowly crumbled beneath the attack of the combined elven forces. Men screamed and blood misted in the air.

Bardiya gritted his teeth and launched himself off the dais. He soared, sword held out to the side, and landed with a
thud
in the midst of the carnage. The elves and the few soldiers who remained in the fight turned his way, and in that brief opening, those left of his people made a dash for safety. The Dezren and humans looked fearful, ready to take flight as the Quellan sounded their battle cry. Bardiya let loose a cry of his own, one that sounded like the universe collapsing in on itself.

He swung his new sword with a single hand, as if it were the scythe he had used to cut wheat in the days when he was much younger and much smaller. The strength he possessed was enormous, and he hacked through five bodies at once before looping the blade up and over, ready to attack again. His second swipe killed eight more, his third another five. The bodies mounted around him, their blood pouring from severed arms, necks, and torsos, soaking into the sand.

All the while the Black Spire loomed above them like the God of Death himself.

Those who remained of Ki-Nan’s original large force followed behind Bardiya, picking off any who escaped the giant’s devastating slashes. At one point the soldier whose life Bardiya had saved, the one who, along with Clovis, had then butchered the children on the dais, crossed his path. The young soldier threw down his arms, pleading. Bardiya sliced him in half from head to groin, thinking nothing of it. His mind was focused on a single objective: Kill, kill, kill.

It was visceral. It was liberating. It was
pure
.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, the battle ended. In the aftermath Bardiya hovered over the heaped remains of his enemies. He shuddered and dropped his sword, marveling at the destruction. There had to be five hundred corpses strewn about the camp, and another two hundred injured, pulling themselves through the sand as they whimpered and gasped their dying breaths. The vast majority of the dead were elves, their perfect flesh hacked and shredded. Bardiya looked down at one of them, a Quellan who was still writhing, and stomped on his head, crushing it.

Dear Ashhur, has this always been my purpose? Is
this
what you made me for?

He flexed his hand, his elbow, his knee. Despite the sting of the many stab wounds and slashes that pierced his skin, he felt better than he had in ages. It made no sense, not when he had lived his life in constant agony from his forever growing body. Instead of making him feel vital, it only caused his newfound anger to rise.

“Bardiya,” said a tired voice. “Brother, I am sorry.”

The giant slowly turned, and there was Ki-Nan, kneeling with those who had arrived with him. Tuan was kneeling as well, and Yorn, and so many of the others who had remained in Ang. Bardiya looked down at his old friend, breathing heavily.

“Brother, we had to wait,” Ki-Nan said. “We have been wai—”

“It does . . . not . . . matter,” Bardiya growled.

He glanced up at the remains of the camp, at Ceredon, who still remained, motionless, atop his wagon, at men and women dressing the wounds of the injured, at fathers and mothers crying; tears of agony for their slain children, tears of joy for those who survived. There was sound all around him, but it was wailing and moans and the final breaths of the dying that he heard. There was no singing. Somewhere inside him, he knew the songs of joy and love and life had died, possibly forever.

“If I am but your tool, your Grace, I do not belong here,” he whispered.

“What was that?” asked Ki-Nan.

“Gather up all who can still fight,” Bardiya said. There was ice in his veins. “Scan the dying for Karak’s soldiers, find out what they know about the whereabouts of the eastern army.”

“I will, but why?”

Bardiya cast his eyes to the north.

“Because I’m going to kill a god.”

C
HAPTER

22

T
he sun set over the desert, revealing a wide, cloudless sky filled with millions of twinkling stars. The Black Spire shimmered in the faint light, though its glow seemed strange, unnatural, as if the great and mysterious obelisk were somehow lit from within.

Ashhur’s dark-skinned children were making preparations for
their journeys ahead. The women, the old, and the infirm were given
carts and horses to assist them on the trip back to their home by the sea, while the healthiest of the men—both those who had been marched as prisoners and the horde that had arrived later, bearing weapons of steel—mounted their own borrowed steeds to begin their march north.

Ceredon watched it all, still strapped onto the plank above the wagon. Everyone ignored him, even when the very cart his plank was affixed to was pilfered of useful goods. The Quellan prince’s befuddlement grew. Unable to free himself, he struggled in his bonds as Darakken butchered the children, the demon instigating the spiritual leader of the Kerrians until the giant lost his mind and revolted. He’d been helpless when even more western men descended on the standing army, taking them by surprise, their ferocity and force of will helping to counteract the elves’ and soldiers’ far superior skill with sword and maul. He’d had no choice but to look on while the demon’s decrepit human shell jumped and cheered atop his dais, seemingly overjoyed by the massacre going on below him until the giant confronted him and smashed the demon’s skull.

It loosed a monster upon the land,
he thought as he stared at Bardiya.
A creature powerful enough to decimate two hundred men on his own. Why would the demon do that?

While all items of use were being packed away, Ceredon kept his eye on Bardiya as the giant worked his way through those who suffered with grave injuries, offering each one a healing touch before moving on to the next. The glow of his hands seemed faint, the healing not as potent as it had been when Ceredon watched him stitch back together the soldier he had gutted the day they’d arrived at the site of the Spire. Those who received his touch would struggle to their feet, still in obvious pain, and limp along until they joined their brethren. It was a gloomy spectacle, the cold yet determined expression on the giant’s face. Just as in Dezerea, Ceredon felt guilty for how harshly he had judged these tortured people, and even guiltier for the harsh words he had shouted from his slab.

Why must there be such suffering?

“Such is the way of life, the way of the universe,”
came the reply. He wasn’t sure if it was the goddess or his conscience answering.

In the end he received his penance. When the carts were filled and the horses bridled, the two separate groups complete, the Kerrians began their separate journeys. One of Bardiya’s men pointed Ceredon’s way, the giant having to bend down to hear the whispered question. He then stood up straight, gazing at the bound elf.

“Let him free,” the giant said in a rasping voice that echoed throughout the sandy dell. “It was his voice we should have listened to long ago.”

One of the soldiers came and scaled the side of the wagon, stood on the rickety roof, and cut his bonds. Ceredon slumped to his knees, throat parched, back and arms aching from his imprisonment.

“Water?” he asked the man who’d freed him.

“Bardiya said to let you free. Didn’t hear nothin’ about water.”

At that the man joined his brethren, leaving Ceredon alone among the carnage. A silent command given, the humans departed the area, leaving Ceredon alone among the shattered wagons, innumerous corpses, and thirteen bound and dying soldiers of Karak who had failed to flee. Glittering above them all was the Black Spire. With the din of civilization now departed, he could hear the throaty purring of the sandcats as they stalked the area, drawn by the scent of blood and the promise of an easy meal. A cold wind blew, and a violent shiver rocked his bones.

A metallic
clank
reached his ears, and his adept eyes caught movement along the ruins of the collapsed dais. Instead of the sandcat Ceredon expected, a human form emerged from the wreckage. The man stood tall, cracked his back, and then brushed himself off. When he turned his way, Ceredon saw the man’s face; the long, dark hair; the diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek.

“My prince, are you alive?” Boris Marchant asked.

It took Ceredon a moment to remember that human eyes could see nowhere near as well as his own. “I am. And I believe I told you not to call me prince.”

Boris chuckled.

“Aye, that you did. I hope, given today’s circumstances, you’ll forgive me for the blunder.”

Ceredon slowly climbed down off the wagon, standing uneasily on tired legs as Boris joined his side.

“You took your time freeing me,” he said. “In fact, I dare say you never did.”

“Apparently not. Again I apologize. I told you, I needed to wait until the moment was right, until it was safe.”

“So you waited until the demon set off the giant and got his entire regiment slaughtered?”

The human laughed. “Well, let’s just say that I didn’t know
when
it would be safe. I had hoped it would be before my friends from the west launched their assault, but I had no way of knowing Darakken would be so . . . careless.”

“You knew of the humans trailing us?”

“I did,” Boris said with a nod. “The one who led them I’ve known for quite some time. He is a pupil of my uncle and a very capable man. He and his people have been following the convoy since we departed Ang, waiting for their opportunity.”

Ceredon shook his head, trying to push through the cobwebs in his mind. Something wasn’t adding up.

“They can’t have followed us for so long without my brothers spotting them.”

“They
were
spotted,” Boris said, shrugging. “Darakken didn’t seem to care. He laughed and told the elves to ignore them.”

Ceredon turned his attention to the thirteen men of Karak still bound and gagged. Boris’s eyes followed, and the scarred man frowned deeply.

“Give me a moment,” he said, drawing a dagger. “I’ll take care of them.”

“No,” Ceredon said, grabbing the man’s arm. “The crows and sandcats will be here soon. Let vermin die by vermin.”

Boris raised an eyebrow, hesitated a moment as if in disbelief, and then sheathed his dagger.

“Damn,” he said. “I thought I was cold. So what now?”

“I was hoping you would tell me. So far you have been the one with the plan.”

“That I am.” Boris clapped the elf on the shoulder. Ceredon knew he should be insulted by such familiarity between a human and himself, but at the moment, he decided he didn’t care. “Well, you’re free to go, Ceredon. Return to your home and tell your
people
of the need for cooperation with the humans who share your land. My Connington uncles will be more than receptive to any talk of compromise between our peoples.”

“We’ve lost so many,” Ceredon said, casting his eyes to the dead. “Perhaps it is finally time we sought peace instead of bloodshed.”

“I’m thinking that time was months ago,” Boris said, winking. “But as they say, better late than . . . ”

Boris’s voice was cut off by a loud cackle that shook the sand beneath their feet. A blinding purple light followed, shining from the Black Spire and causing both Ceredon and the human to cover their eyes and turn away. The cackling eventually died down, the light dimming, but not completely flickering out.

“What was
that
?” asked Boris, his voice frantic.

Ceredon spun around and gazed in horror at the Black Spire. It was black no more, its surface a swirling cavalcade of dark colors that covered the surface like water over a stone. The stone rippled,
and then a slender human figure emerged, dressed in a blood-
splattered
white robe. He walked unevenly at first, but slowly gained
his
balance
as he climbed to the top of the wrecked dais. Ceredon and Boris were still standing beside the wagon Ceredon had been tied to, toward the rear of scene of battle, but even though he was a hundred yards away from the dais, Ceredon knew who the being was. Darakken laughed once more and threw back his hood, and Ceredon could hear no trace of humanity in the demon’s tone. He watched as Darakken hefted a large bag from the wreckage, reached inside, and lifted out a giant tome, the same book that the beast had shown him the night he’d murdered Ceredon’s father, the very same book that Boris had given to Darakken.

“Oh, shit,” said Boris.

Ceredon picked up a discarded khandar and began to stalk toward the beast, slowly, cautiously. Behind him, Boris stood frozen.

The demon in its faltering human shell knelt on the pile of debris, the swirling light from the Spire making it seem like a wraith made flesh. The side of its face the giant had pulverized knitted back together, the jaw snapped back into place. It flexed its mouth, eyes burning with such brightness that it seemed to blot out the glow coming from the hunk of black stone behind him. Those eyes bore into Ceredon, a wicked smile coming over the demon’s maw.

“The feast has begun,” Darakken said.

Ceredon took another step forward, his insides burning with both anger and terror. Finally he’d had enough; he bellowed and began to sprint, khandar held above his head. The demon glanced up at him and raised its hand, and Ceredon was hurled backward as if struck by a boulder. He hit the ground hard and rolled, his momentum stopped by a mound of dead elves. His side ached, and Ceredon got up on his elbows, staring once more toward the remains of the dais. His thoughts were a muddle of confusion, and his vision shook.

“There is no interrupting the feast,” Darakken said, scowling. The demon then placed the book down and whispered incoherent words of magic. The tome flopped open, its pages rifling all on their own until they fell still. The demon’s gaze remained fixed on Ceredon, its rotten-toothed grin growing all the wider. It then lowered its glowing gaze to the book.

“ ‘In order to create worlds of their own, the gods require self-
sacrifice
,’ ”
the creature read, its voice like a bear trying to mimic speech.
“ ‘Celestia placed a piece of her essence into the heavens, forming the heart of Dezrel. The world spun around that piece of the goddess, taking shape, growing outward, giving birth to the land, the
mountains
, the oceans, the rivers, the trees. Yet when the eon passed, that piece remained. Small, slender, it is most sacred.’ ”
Darakken lifted his glowing eyes to Ceredon and Boris. “So wrote the elves of ancient times; so wrote the man who penned this very tome.”

Ceredon struggled to his feet, his fingers finding the dropped khandar and lifting it once more. He looked to the side, searching for Boris, but the human was nowhere to be found.

“Coward,” Ceredon whispered. “What have you done?”

“He has given me a chance at new life!” the beast laughed. “The Black Spire is a piece of Celestia herself. Within that crystal lie the secrets of the universe, a gateway to realms long forgotten, a portal into the very heart of creation.” The demon pounded a withered fist against its human chest. “Within lies the power to recreate the truest beauty that ever roamed this land, a beauty created by the great Kaurthulos himself!”

Ceredon took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He then took off at a run once more, careening toward the kneeling creature.

Darakken watched him approach, eager. The thing looked like a child given a present, barely able to contain himself before opening it. The distance shrinking, it began reading from the book
once mor
e.

“ ‘Antidrok lakkath!’
With the blood of the children of the goddess that banished me, I shall be reborn!”

The beast continued to chant, its words becoming more and more desperate. Ceredon reached the edge of the smashed dais, let out a guttural cry, and leapt over the debris. He jammed the khandar into Darakken’s chest. The beast threw its head back, its mouth opening wide, and a spiraling tube of shadow erupted from its maw with such force that Ceredon was thrown backward. He landed hard atop the corpse of an elf, knocking the wind from his lungs.

He rolled off the corpse and onto his hands and knees, looking on as the body of Clovis Crestwell deflated and then collapsed as if there were nothing left within it to keep its form. The living shadow that had been trapped within it writhed and billowed in the night sky, forming a giant cloud above the thrumming Black Spire.

So huge,
Ceredon thought.
How did that frail body ever
contain it?

A primal scream seemed to emanate from the very air. The light from the Spire was bright, so bright it hurt to look; yet despite the pain, Ceredon watched as the living cloud stabbed into the
pulsating
rock. The Spire began to shake, fissures forming along its surface like cracks in thin ice. The corpse of the elf beside Ceredon quivered, as if something inside were trying to escape. Ceredon backed away from it on his hands and knees, watching in horror as the corpse’s eyes exploded. Thick, coagulated blood seeped from its every orifice, flowing along the sand in thin streams.

Ceredon struggled to his feet, panic making it difficult to think. All around him the lifeless bodies of Dezren and Quellan elves performed the same perverted dance as the first, their blood spewing from their bodies until the combined streams became a great river flowing in the direction of the Black Spire. The thirteen human soldiers left bound by Bardiya’s men writhed against their chains, screaming in agony as their blood burst from their eyes, mouths, and nostrils. Only instead of it joining the flowing river, it flew backward, as if the Black Spire deemed it unworthy.

The wreckage of the dais collapsed further as the river of elven blood surged over it. The dark fluid pooled around the base of the Spire, and the tall, pulsing formation of dark crystal began to drink it
in. Its glow became darker and yet more forceful. The book
Darakken
had read from lifted into the air, rotating on an invisible axis, itself bathed in a strange light. A deep rumbling shook the ground.