He sat up and forced himself to his feet. Winterbone lay in the grass, its tip black with soot, and it took all his effort to lift the damn thing up, slide it into its scabbard, and sling it over his shoulder. The leather bit into his flesh, and the added weight seemed to multiply the ache in his head. Grunting, he stumbled forward, using the closest tree for support, and began descending the hill.
More than once he slipped, nearly tumbling down the tree-dotted rise. By the grace of Ashhur, he kept his balance, and eventually he caught sight of cookfires interspersed between the trees on either side of a babbling brook, where the rest of Ashhur’s many, many children had set up camp.
He made his way through the maze of tents and people. Most paid him no mind, but others gave him curious glances as he wove his way through them, moaning. He was searching for Denton Noonan: Barclay’s father, a healer and master of herbal remedies. If anyone could fix his aching head, it was him.
“Where are the Noonans?” he asked a pretty, black-haired youth. The girl reminded him of Bethany-or was it Brittany? — the young woman who’d used him for his useless sperm in what felt like a different life. Patrick felt his cheeks flush as the girl’s wide, olive-shaped eyes widened as if he’d spoken elfish. He felt embarrassed, but at least his headache seemed to have lost some potency.
“Barclay Noonan,” he said, speaking more slowly this time. “Where’s the boy’s father?”
The girl pointed behind him but remained silent. Patrick followed her finger. She was gesturing toward Ashhur’s pavilion, which had been raised in the center of six widely spaced birch trees. He grumbled his thanks and lurched toward it.
The pavilion stood fifteen feet high and was so large that Barnabus, the Warden in charge of its care, usually did not bother to erect it. Looks like Barney thought we might be staying awhile. He thought of Ashhur’s ceaseless sobbing, and he spun around, listening for it. He was shocked to realize it had stopped.
He came to the pavilion’s entrance, where a pair of felled tree limbs held up the flap like a canopy. When he entered, he stopped short, nearly toppling over in the process.
Ashhur was sitting on a great oaken chair, one giant leg thrown over the other. The god’s golden eyes were intent on a small piece of parchment that stretched between his pinched thumb and forefinger. A great hawk perched on his shoulder.
“My Grace,” Patrick said, almost tripping over his words.
Ashhur glanced up, his eyes focused and intense. There were no tears, there was no flush in his cheeks; there was nothing to indicate that the deity had spent the better part of two days sobbing over the brutal murder of his children.
“Patrick, why are you staring at me so? What is the matter?”
Patrick shrugged. “Nothing’s the matter. Got good and drunk last night is all. My head’s pounding.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Well…actually, I was looking for Denton to cure my aches, but you always heal much better than he does.”
Ashhur squinted, shook his head, and returned his attention to the parchment in his lap.
Patrick let out a moan. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shuffling from foot to foot, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m glad you are feeling better, my Grace.”
To that the deity nodded slightly. “I am.”
“And who is your friend?”
Ashhur’s posture seemed to grow more relaxed now that Patrick had assumed a more practiced tone. “A messenger bird. It arrived early this morning while I was still weeping in front of the scorched barn.”
“What does the message say?” Patrick asked, though deep down he already knew.
“It has begun,” the deity replied. “Karak is here.”
“How far along is he?”
“I have no way of knowing, but it is as I feared. Warden Ezekai sent the hawk from Lerder, saying that Karak created a bridge and crossed into Paradise. No doubt another force of his crossed the bridges erected by us, which means we have at least two separate factions of to deal with. And others may have crossed still elsewhere.”
Patrick felt a lump form in his throat. “They might not be very far behind us,” he said. “What are we going to do?”
“We need to leave,” answered his god. “Now. As it is, the elves who burned this settlement are still lingering. I can feel them in the trees, though they probably hesitate to quarrel with a god.”
“So above and behind, we have enemies. The Wooden Bridge is only a two-day hike from here. If we depart now and march through the night, we can get there before sunset tomorrow-”
“No,” said Ashhur.
“What, my Grace?”
“No. That will not do. We travel with thirty thousand of my children. It would be impossible to march with such haste without leaving many behind, and that is something I will not do. I fear my sacrifices have been for naught. My children must be made safe, no matter what the risk.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“We will delay my brother. We will fight him.”
Patrick threw his hands up. “We can’t fight him, my Grace. He has trained soldiers, and we have…you, a few dozen Wardens, and me, I guess. We’d be slaughtered.”
At that Ashhur grinned, and his smile was full of cold cunning. “Who says we must do the fighting?”
Without further explanation, Ashhur rose from his oaken chair and walked to the entryway. The hawk on his shoulder took flight, darting upward through the thick canopy. The god then began to walk away, gesturing for Patrick to follow. They curled around the camp and started up the rise. Headache all but forgotten, Patrick felt ill at ease, and it had nothing to do with the odd glances they garnered from those they passed. He did not like the look in Ashhur’s glowing yellow eyes.
They reached the top of the hill where Patrick had slept the previous night, and kept on climbing. Three hundred yards farther up was the tattered settlement, and farther still was the clearing where the horror-filled barn stood. Patrick exited the copse of trees behind his god, and Ashhur marched right up to the blackened structure.
“What are you doing, my Grace?” Patrick asked.
Ashhur sighed and bowed his head. “They are gone now,” he said. “They have found their way to the afterlife. What resides here are but their shells, pale reminders of the people they were. I have no more reason to grieve.”
With those words, the deity placed his palm against the side of the barn. The wall began to glow, black being replaced by a brilliant orange, and then the whole structure was alight with blinding white flame. The weakened boards creaked and snapped, and the roof began to crumple. With a mighty groan, the barn caved in on itself, the wood crackling and dissolving, becoming wisps of ash that spiraled up in a funnel. A dome of bluish light formed over the crumbling ruins, pulsing, spreading, and then all sound seemed to be swallowed. A single whoosh followed, and what remained of the barn became a pile of blackened flakes that the wind picked up and carried into the sky.
When it was over, the only sign that there had been a structure there at all was a darkened rectangular depression. Ashhur walked to the center of the depression and stopped there. Patrick stayed by his side, afraid to do anything else. Ashhur closed his godly eyes, then lifted his chin. His lips parted ever so slightly, and his throat began to vibrate. Patrick couldn’t hear a sound, but a moment later the whole of the forest erupted with a cacophony of animalistic howls. They came from every direction, from near and far, from the high ground and the low ground, and their approach was so loud that he was sure it could be heard for miles. Beneath the howling he noticed frightened shouts from their people far below. They must have been terrified. Patrick sure as shit was.