“Go!” Rachida shouted, sensing his delay.
Patrick followed her command, pushing his feet beneath him and rising shakily from the ground. He looked out at the battle that raged around him and was amazed to see just how far it had spread in all directions. He began to run at a limping trot, dragging Winterbone behind him because he didn’t even have the energy to sheathe it on his back.
“Retreat!” he yelled, his voice hoarse and weak. “Come on now, re-”
He stopped short, standing alone in the middle of the grass. There…in the sky…
Patrick fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror while his mouth shrieked, “No, no, no, no, NO!”
The battle was going quite well. Better than Clovis had expected as a matter of fact. He chuckled at his own foolishness for thinking that the DuTaureau boy might spur the enemy on to greatness. No matter how charismatic a leader might be, numbers always mattered more, and Karak’s two thousand trained soldiers would crush three hundred ruffians every time.
Peering through his looking glass, he could see that perhaps fifty or sixty of the Haven traitors were left, and though they battled diligently, killing hundreds, they would soon be finished. He leaned back in his saddle, another wave of pain knifing his side. Then he glanced at Karak, who seemed disinterested in the events down below, and smiled. Perhaps he didn’t need the help of his Whisperer after all.
As if in answer to that thought, he felt a gentle vibration against his chest. He leaned forward with a start, grimacing with pain, and stared at the pendant. There it was, swirling with mist blacker than night. He clutched it tight in his palm, closed his eyes, and listened.
And the Whisperer spoke.
Clovis’s eyes snapped open. He felt a moment of intense guilt, thinking of the instructions he’d given Deacon, but he stubbornly shoved his weakness aside.
“My Divinity,” he said, “it is time to end this.”
Karak stirred like a statue coming to life.
“It is,” his god said. “They will soon be crushed. When they are, we will move inland and set the town ablaze. No one who resides in the crook of the rivers shall live.”
“Yes, we will crush their bodies, but do you not think it best to crush their spirits as well?”
Karak’s glowing eyes turned to him.
Clovis pointed to his right. “The temple. It is the source of their mutiny, the insult they spit in your face. Let us send a message to any who might survive or flee to Ashhur’s Paradise. This blasphemy will never be allowed ever again.”
Karak inhaled deeply, then let the breath out.
“You are right,” he said. “A message must be given.”
“However, you must know-”
“Do not think me a fool, Lord Commander. I see more than you do.”
The deity raised a single hand, pointing two fingers at the heavens. His mouth began to utter words of magic, strange and powerful phrases Clovis had never heard before. Karak’s voice grew louder, more insistent, and then, with a final, demanding bellow, he clenched his giant fist and sent it crashing down onto his opposite palm.
Clovis’s eyes lifted, and he stared up in disbelief as a giant ball of flaming rock lit up the night sky, screaming in toward the township of Haven as if from the very heavens.
CHAPTER 36
The sounds of battle could be heard from a mile away. The clanking steel, the bloodcurdling screams, the thudding of horse’s hooves-all of it. It was the first time Roland had ever heard such a thing, and it chilled him to the bone. He wanted to turn around, to flee in the direction he’d come from. And when he reached Paradise, he’d snatch Mary Ulmer from her tent and tell her how much he thought of her, how beautiful she was to him-everything he feared he would never have the chance to say again, for no matter how strong the impulse, he would not turn around. He would not abandon Jacob.
They had crossed Ashhur’s Bridge not two hours before and had been following the edge of the Clubfoot Mountains ever since. The moon shone brightly overhead, casting a ghostly pallor on everything around him. The path ahead was like a milky river they might sink into, the forest to their right a dead place filled with monsters. Roland shivered and closed his eyes, squeezing his legs tight around his horse’s body, trying to force away the images that haunted him. It did no good, for he kept seeing Brienna’s reanimated face, staring blankly ahead and dripping blackened rot from her lips.
He wished Ashhur had not agreed to come. He wished Ashhur had not listened to Jacob. He wished that after thinking it over, the god had simply declined to abide by the First Man’s dire words. But mostly, he wished he could be anywhere but here.
There were twenty in their party-himself; Jacob; Azariah; Master Steward Clegman along with two more Wardens, Loen and Shonorah; and sixteen other capable men and women, including Stoke and Tori Harrow, who wished to finally set sight upon the structure for which their son had needlessly perished. When Roland had asked why they wanted to do such a thing, Ashhur had told him they required closure. Roland did not know what closure meant, but he thought the idea itself sounded stupid.
Ashhur walked alongside the group, his long, tireless strides easily keeping pace with the horses. His white robe billowed whenever a cool breeze gusted, revealing the powerful form of the god-made-flesh beneath. He had stayed silent for the entirety of their two-day journey, and everyone in their group seemed to know instinctively that silence was what the god wanted. None asked him questions, none asked for blessings. Roland wasn’t sure if they knew what they were in for when they reached Haven. He knew he surely didn’t, and that, after all the unexpected horrors that had befallen him over the last couple months, was what frightened him the most.
They rounded a bend in the path, the rocky base of the mountain jutting out, forcing them closer to the forest. A sudden, intense cavalcade of sound emerged from the trees, a chorus of mad tweeting and chirping that put his hair on end.
Azariah guided his horse-the largest steed Safeway had at its disposal-over to him.
“That is the song of the whippoorwills,” he said. “They are but birds, despite how sinister they sound.”
“They sound sad,” Roland said, his body wracked with shivers.
“They often do,” Azariah replied.
Roland looked past the Warden to his master. Just like Ashhur, Jacob had kept silent for most of their journey. At times he seemed outwardly angry, and at times contemplative and sad. But mostly he looked detached, his gaze empty, as if there weren’t a thought in his head that wasn’t well guarded. The few times Roland tried to speak with him, the First Man shooed him away. That might have been the most difficult part of all of this. During a time of inner turmoil, when the horrors he’d witnessed haunted him and his innocent view of the world had been shattered, the man he respected more than his own father wasn’t there to pull him back to safety.
Now, as they drew ever closer to the battle at Haven, Jacob looked like a man simmering in conflict. His lips were puckered, his head tilted forward, his eyes narrowed, and his forehead creased. Roland glanced back at Azariah, and the Warden placed a large, comforting hand on his knee.
“He will come around,” Azariah said, sensing his concern.
The words didn’t help.
Their path narrowed, steering them up a slight incline, and the convoy soldiered on. The horrific sounds of combat grew ever louder, drowning out the somber cries of the whippoorwills. When they crested the hill, the land flattened out and the path ended. A dense thatch of trees stood before them. They spread out in a line and wandered in. The forest was thin, only a hundred feet deep at most, and soon they reached its end. One by one they dismounted their horses and peered through the foliage at the vast clearing on the other side, each gasping when their eyes alighted on the horrible scene that awaited them. When it was Roland’s turn, his jaw fell open.