The feral thing hovered over him, cackling in an odd, callous way. The sun glimmered over his black scale armor as he held both swords out to his sides, the blades dripping with Patrick’s blood. The elf’s muscles tensed as he prepared to strike. Patrick showed the beast his neck, hoping it would be quick. The twisted elf then paused for some reason, his head tilting to the side. It didn’t stop tilting until the head came loose from the neck and tumbled over his shoulder. The body fell, collapsing next to Patrick on the gore-stained cobbles with a sickening splat. The elf’s swords clattered away.
Patrick looked up at the gigantic image of a god looming above him, a halo of light shimmering around its body. The figure then leaned on a sword and crouched down beside Patrick, his silky golden hair just as soaked with blood as everything else in this godsforsaken place. Patrick looked into those intense blue eyes and laughed, causing a coughing fit to overtake him. That was no god.
“Ahaesarus,” he said between painful chuckles. “You made it.”
“Barely,” the Master Warden said.
“Couldn’t you see he was going to kill me? I would think you’d have at least given me that before you cut off his head.”
Ahaesarus patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry. Today was not your day to die, Patrick. After what just happened, you are needed.”
“Too bad I’m gutted.”
The Warden laid down his sword and rubbed his hands together. “Let us see what we can do about that.”
Another form then appeared above him, blocking the sun. Patrick raised his eyes and saw the man with one eye. His sword was sheathed, the horned helm wedged beneath his arm. The man gazed down at him, his lips pursed.
“You saved my life,” he said coldly. “For that I am thankful.”
Patrick went to reply, only the man turned away before he could say anything. He picked up the twisted elf’s two black swords and headed toward a small gathering of soldiers without another word.
“Charming fellow,” Patrick said.
“He is one of Karak’s most faithful,” said Ahaesarus, watching the man as he and his mates wandered away. “It drips off him.”
“Good for him,” Patrick said. His vision began to get blurry. “But say, Ahaesarus, did you come to save me or let me slowly die?”
The Master Warden chuckled and placed his hands on Patrick’s midsection. “To tell you the truth, I am not certain this will work,” he said, his eyes peering at the spot where the gods had warred.
“Well try, anyway, or let me go.”
Ahaesarus nodded and began to whisper words of prayer. His hands glowed with holy light. Patrick felt the warmth and comfort of Ashhur’s healing magics course through him and leaned his head back on the soaked cobbles. He began to grow tired, but before he closed his eyes, he looked one last time at the place where Ashhur and Karak had fought, where the blood of gods had been spilled before a bolt of lightning swallowed them both, along with Jacob Eveningstar, the child of two gods.
“Ashhur, where did you go?” he asked aloud before he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 52
Rachida’s surviving band of sellswords tried to scale the stumpy new hillock as the winged horses approached, but the steep incline and their armor made them clumsy. Her men slid down the rocks or tumbled head over heels. Rachida herself attempted no such foolish measure. She had just seen a demon turn into a precipitous pile of rocks, elves stare up at the sky as if listening to some unheard diatribe and then half of them fall screaming to the ground, and now winged horses flew over the horizon. No, she was going to stay ready for whatever came next.
“Quester!” she shouted over the din of flapping wings and shrieking elves. “Pox Jon, Turock-get the men moving! Forget the winged horses. We have our own.”
The Crimson Sword was but a few feet away, gazing undecidedly at the writhing, warping elves, and the brash young sellsword began barking orders to the others wearing Karak’s armor. Pox Jon and Decker, who’d been trying-and failing-to scale the mountain, ran past her to where the few horses they had remaining lingered, held six reins per hand by others of their party. Turock and his spellcasters gave the collapsed elves as wide a berth as they could. She was impressed by the restraint they all showed, not gawking in awe at the flying horses.
But then again, the earth itself had just risen up and swallowed a demon. Dark wonders were becoming surprisingly commonplace.
The others began hustling after her, armor clanking and boots stomping the ground. Rachida waved them past, keeping a wary eye constantly on the fallen elves. There were so many, possibly more than a thousand, both males and females among them. Their bodies swelled and twisted, their skin changing color. Rachida didn’t like that one bit.
She liked it even less when they stood up.
Her men were still filing past when they did so. With the new hillock creating an obstruction on one side, the cliff on the other, and so many forms packed in the two-hundred-foot area in between, the soldiers who had yet to cross the threshold stood no chance. The altered elves, their upper bodies bulky, their incisors sharp, shook their heads as if waking from a dream. That only lasted a brief moment. They roared in voices raspy and bestial and proceeded to lash out at the closest things to them-her men.
Her soldiers had weapons, whereas most of the beasts didn’t, but the men were vastly outnumbered and ill prepared for the brutality of these new, savage things. The beasts leapt at their prey two, three, four at a time, biting faces, ripping at necks, bludgeoning with their fists. “No!” Rachida exclaimed. She went to draw her Twins but came away with only one. She’d forgotten that she’d given one to the Quellan who had taken charge during the demon’s attack. One would have to do. “Quester-with me!” she screamed. With the shortsword in hand, she charged into the melee.
In the art of swordplay, if Moira was the gymnast, Rachida was the dancer. She flowed like water through the madness, on her toes, each part of her body moving in harmony. She spun away from greedy claws, ducked beneath snapping mouths, pirouetted around her would-be murderers. Her sword was an extension of her hand, its blade going exactly where she wished it. She flicked her wrist, severing a throat, then slid to the side, raised her free hand up, and brought her other arm around, spearing a female beast in the chest. Each time she twirled, she grabbed the collar of one of her men, shoving him toward safety. Some of her men made it; others were swallowed by the riotous horde of gray flesh.
Quester appeared by her side, the young man’s forked beard colored red now, but not with dye. He was elegant in his own right, his longsword looping around, easily cutting away at the unprotected creatures. “There are too many,” he called out. Strangely enough, he almost sounded gleeful about it.
“I know!” said Rachida, dipping her shoulder and stabbing upward, impaling a beastly elf through the chin.
“Retreat or die fighting?”
“Retreat,” she called back.
The two of them backed away slowly, a constant flurry of motion as they kept space between them and the beasts that wanted them dead. They were soon joined by Talon Blackwolfe, who hacked away in his own special, belligerent style, his greasy, dark hair flopping about him. The three of them gathered up men as they went, until it was a group of twenty that cut their way through the homicidal host. The beasts surrounded them, pressing in on all sides. Their strength seemed to grow with each passing moment, as did their threshold for pain. Rachida slashed one across the belly, only to have it run at her again while its intestines trailed behind.
“I’m sorry, Moira,” she muttered as she gutted yet another former elf.
“Get down!” she heard Turock scream.
The largest fireball Rachida had seen since Karak decimated the Temple of the Flesh soared over her head just as she ducked. It struck the ground and detonated, sending dead soldiers and flailing gray-skinned beasts tumbling into the air. The smell of scorched flesh filled her nostrils. Smoke began to choke out the space they fought in.