There were bodies everywhere, far more than had been stacked beside the fire in the camp outside Drake. They littered the ground like nettles, dark shapes bulging from the grass, unmoving. In the near distance there was a large mass of people locked in battle. It all took place in the shadow of a monstrous construction of stone that hovered over everything less than a mile away. The combatants looked like a pulsating group of flesh and steel, the particulars of the fight indiscernible to him. Even so, he could see a steady mist hovering above the mass, a pinkish fog that grew sometimes thicker, sometimes thinner, but never completely dissipated. He thought of the way the blood had spurted when the mad priest slit the throats of those poor innocent souls in the ravine and was overcome by the urge to flee.
Something brushed past him, and Roland shifted to see that Jacob was close by, his eyes suddenly more alert as he took in the awful scene. His lips moved as if on their own accord, forming words Roland couldn’t hear, and his hands were shoved into the front pouch of his dirty tunic. Roland felt for him. His master looked completely horrified.
Ashhur stepped forward as well, standing alongside Roland. His face a mask of disbelief and resignation, the god shook his head.
“Such madness,” he said. “Such unnecessary bloodshed.”
“We are too far away,” Jacob said. “Do you see Karak?”
Roland was shocked by his master’s voice, which didn’t match his expression; it sounded more curious than sad.
“I do,” the deity replied. “I sense that he is here, but hidden.”
“How about Patrick?”
“I see him on the battlefield. He is injured, but still alive.”
“Do we go retrieve him?” asked Loen the Warden.
“No,” said Ashhur. “It was his choice to join this conflict.”
“What of the people?” asked Jacob. “The children, the elderly? Did they flee?”
Ashhur closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He rocked back and forth as if listening to a song only he could hear. When he opened them again, his lips stretched into a smile that looked heavy with relief.
“They did not,” he said. “I sense them in the temple. They are afraid, but they are safe.”
Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. His unseen hands clutched at the fabric of his tunic.
“Should we get closer?” he heard Azariah ask.
“I think not,” Ashhur replied. “We will watch from here. I trust my brother. Those in the temple will be allowed another chance to kneel, to turn their hearts back to the deity who loves them with all his-”
The sky suddenly lit up, a supernova of blinding yellows and reds that burned through the canopy, illuminating the forest like the brightest day. All but Ashhur shielded their eyes from the intensity; the god’s gaze was lifted upward, watching the white-hot column of fire blaze overhead. Roland could hear nothing but the roar of flames and an insufferably loud yawning sound, but he could see his god’s mouth open and close, screaming unheard admonitions at the heavens.
The center of the fireball was black like obsidian, and the tail trailing behind it shimmered as if it were cooking the air itself. Then it picked up speed, fell straight downward, and struck the earth.
Right into the center of the temple, that strange edifice that had stood so proud behind its wall.
The explosion was so loud, it was as if no other sound had ever existed. The ground quaked with such ferocity, it knocked Roland to his knees. An extreme flash of light turned the world temporarily translucent, and then came the wind. It was a stiff, hot breeze that carried with it the scent of sulfur and scorched meat, pummeling Roland’s face with such force that he covered it in his hands lest his eyeballs roast in their sockets. He was momentarily deaf, dumb, and blind; the only thing that existed in his awareness was overwhelming, sweeping, paralyzing fear.
When it was over, a muddy silence followed, as if the delta had been plunged into the depths of the ocean. Roland risked a glance over his elbow, and through the starbursts in his vision he saw the rubble that remained of the distant temple. Stones were pulverized, scattered across the battlefield, some large enough to crush a man-and many of them had. A thick column of smoke rose from the ruins, the moonlight making it look like a billowing manifestation of all the nightmares that had ever disturbed Roland’s sleep. An inferno blazed around that column, burning bright as the sun. It was all too horrible to be real, and in a daze Roland stumbled from their hidden spot in the forest, emerging onto the far end of the clearing. He glanced over the sprawling meadow, where warriors from both sides of the conflict were standing around, staring at the blaze. They all seemed as horrified and dumbstruck as he was.
That was when he learned that sound did still exist, for a thunderous crack reverberated from behind him. A tree came crashing to the ground. Ashhur was the one who had felled it, and the deity leapt over the fallen trunk, landing so hard on his feet that he formed a shallow crater in the grass. The expression on his godly face was one of pure rage.
“KARAK!” he bellowed. His golden eyes burned just as bright as the temple inferno, his jaw stretched wider than Roland had ever seen it as he roared. The veins in his neck bulged so prominently that for a moment it seemed as though his head would extend away from the rest of him, devouring everything in his path.
It wasn’t far from the truth.
Ashhur began to run. As his legs and arms pumped, his body shimmered, and his fine white robe began to transform itself-hardening and melding to his body until he was wearing a full array of shining silver plate. His every footfall was like a sledge striking the soil. Roland stepped forward, still disbelieving, wondering who had taken the place of his calm, forgiving Ashhur. He felt himself close to blacking out when a pair of hands grabbed him on either side.
“Come!” shouted Azariah in one ear.
“Yes, move your feet, boy!” Jacob screamed into the other.
He had no choice but to obey, as the First Man and the Warden seemed intent on dragging him with them. They were far behind the god now, but still he dominated their field of vision. Roland looked on as Ashhur approached a group of Karak’s soldiers. They cowered before him, some fleeing, others tossing aside their weapons and falling to their knees. Ashhur pulled his arm back. From his fist came a great iridescent light that grew outward and upward, forming a thick shaft that ended in a point. When he swung downward, the glowing object, now fully recognizable as a sword, hacked the soldiers to pieces. With a single blow, seven men died in an instant. Their bodies caught fire as they fell to the ground, burning bright blue, consumed by the flames of Ashhur’s wrath.
Jacob urged the group to stop once they reached the site of the first massacre. There they stood, not more than two hundred feet away from the carnage, with little to do but watch Ashhur work his way from unit to unit. The god was a hulking figure that towered over every man he killed, his sword-massive, radiant, and blue-making quick work of them all. Roland thought it the most horrible thing he had ever seen: his creator, who had preached always of love and forgiveness, was now taking the lives of dozens in what appeared to be a thoughtless rage. One glance at Azariah showed Roland that the Warden felt the same way, but when he looked at Jacob, a chill came over him. His master appeared fascinated. A hint of a smile played on the corners of the First Man’s lips.
“What’s wrong with you?” Roland gasped.