The blood of god, p.1
The Blood of God, page 1
The Blood of God
In the Shadow of Sin:
Book Three
By
Alan Harrison
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Alan Harrison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: AlanHarrisonAuthor@gmail.com.
Cover design by MiblArt
Map by Cornelia Yoder
ISBN 9781838132842 (paperback):
ISBN 9781838132859 (ebook):
I
For those who fight anyway
Contents
Prologue: The Coward’s War
Chapter 1: In the Eyes of Seletoth
Chapter 2: The Last Carríga
Chapter 3: What is Right
Chapter 4: What Must Be Done
Chapter 5: From His Lips
Chapter 6: The Majestic
Chapter 7: In the Light of the Lady
Chapter 8: The Light Fades
Chapter 9: The Grey Plague
Chapter 10: The Blood of God
Chapter 11: Incarnate
Chapter 12: Hunter’s Den
Chapter 13: The White Rose
Chapter 14: God’s Spine
Chapter 15: Scarlet Robes
Chapter 16: The Silverback’s Reach
Chapter 17: As It Was Written
Chapter 18: At Mount Selyth’s Peak
Chapter 19: Heresy
Chapter 20: The Truth
Chapter 21: Omniscience
Chapter 22: Our New World
Epilogue: Journal of Padraig Tuathil
Guide to Alabach, Her Places, and Her People
Prologue:
The Coward’s War
Earthmaster Seán held his tongue. It wasn’t something he was used to doing. From the classrooms of the Academy to the council hall of the Triad, and even within the inner circles of the Silverback’s dissident movement, Seán had always spoken his mind, caring little for who he contradicted.
But tonight, in the throne room of Keep Carríga, standing before the Earl of the Midlands, he kept his thoughts to himself. Even as the undead horde slew the townsfolk of Rosca Umhír outside and threw their bodies against the castle walls, Seán remained silent.
I am a visitor, he reminded himself. It is not my place to question his lordship, no matter how questionable his actions may be.
“Sire, please you must reconsider!” cried the crystallographer who had brought the dire news that Ardh Sidhe to the north had fallen. “We cannot assume help is on the way.”
“I assume nothing!” said Earl Carríga, with a voice that once commanded an army of a thousand strong. Several of his councilmen and advisors shrank back in fear. “How dare you seek refuge in my keep, then demand I open my doors to let in those… creatures!”
To Seán’s surprise, the crystallographer stood his ground. “But the townsfolk, your highness. If fighting back against this enemy is not an option, then please, lower the drawbridge for them.”
“The town is already lost,” said Earl Carríga. “We are all who remain.”
A concerned mutter ran through the room. Indeed, the faint sounds of screaming and shouting amidst the slaughter outside implied the very opposite.
Pathetic, thought Seán. A whole life cultivating an image of a war-leader, only to die sitting on his arse as his castle is breached.
Seán sighed. He too would likely die alongside the fool.
Only a few short days ago, everything was in place. Seán had arrived at Rosca Umhír to be Earl Carríga’s arcane advisor, and the Silverback’s rebellion was days from being set in motion. The Simian’s plan was a simple one: Nicole and her Reapers would take Point Grey, holding the Clifflands as Argyll gave his demands to the Crown. Fair demands, in Seán’s eyes. First to establish an independent Simian state throughout the Northern Reach of Alabach, and second to destroy the wicked Church of the Trinity, redistributing the opulent wealth of the Basilica of Penance to the needy.
In the event that King Diarmuid did not capitulate, choosing instead to engage with the separatist forces in Point Grey, the Silverback had another plan.
Though a plan no more, now that a different enemy threatened the kingdom.
Seán looked up to a great stained-glass window that stood behind the earl’s throne. It bore the image of King Móráin the First during his alleged “apotheosis,” with his bright, golden wings that blinded the Simian natives with their radiance. More lies of the Church, conceived to shield the world from the Truth, just as the garish stained-glass image obscured the flames of the burning city outside.
None had spoken up since the earl’s last outburst. Across the room, two noblemen in robes hung their heads in silence, while a younger man prayed in frantic whispers, hands clasped. The others formed tight huddles, weeping quietly together.
Hopeless, thought Seán, his fingers slowly forming a fist. How did it all become so….
A knock boomed through the room, causing many to jump in fright. It came from the entrance to the throne room, where a mighty oaken door sealed those within from the horrors unfolding without.
When the knock came a second time, one guard set aside his pike to open the door slightly. It seemed that he was ready to dismiss whoever was on the other side, but once the door was ajar, it abruptly burst inward.
A women strode in, a mass of dark plate-mail clinking with each of her steps. She held a great helm under one arm, with a swan crest atop its head, its wings outstretched, its golden bill open as if shrieking.
“Father,” she said, taking a knee. “Our marksmen are fatigued and ineffective against this enemy. I sought to lead a vanguard out across the drawbridge. Light cavalry to clear the way for armoured knights. Lord-Lieutenant Torloch said he could rally those guarding the halls to join, but none will act without your command.”
Earl Carríga leaned forward, eyes open and wide, as if scarcely believing what he could see.
“And no command shall be given,” he rasped. “The royal guard and the city guard and the Lord-Lieutenant’s knights have all been ordered to guard this keep. They shall do nothing else.”
The armoured woman stood, mouth ajar. Seán knew her as Lady Aislinn Carríga, though she looked like no lady tonight. She was the last heir of the Carríga dynasty, with Sir Bearach dead and Cathal in Penance, soon to join him.
“Father, they’re slaughtering our people freely out there! Lord-Lieutenant Torloch was readying his men to ride out, but someone raised the drawbridge.”
“I gave the order to raise it,” said Earl Carríga. “And anyone who dares leave shall be hung as a deserter.”
“Deserter?!” Aislinn cried. “If anyone is deserting their post, Father, it’s you.”
“Treason!” roared the earl. “How dare you stand before me, wearing my son’s armour like a play-acting child!”
“My brother would never hide while innocents are in danger. It’s only a matter of time before the dead are upon us too. Why are you so content in waiting for that time to come?”
“Because Keep Carríga has never been breached,” said the earl. “These walls have thrown back worse enemies in the past. This dead horde have brought no siege engines or towers to take this castle. So here we shall stay!”
Aislinn’s mouth quivered, unable to find the words to respond. She turned her back to her father and left the throne room, her stride more confident than her entrance.
After the guards closed the door gently behind her, the room went back into its mild stir, as if nothing had happened.
Seán glanced up at the earl.
Keep Carríga has never been breached because Keep Carríga has never seen real war. And no castle in the kingdom has seen a war quite like this.
Seán smiled, seeing the irony that even if this horde never came, Keep Carríga would have seen a fate far worse than a siege.
This was part of the Silverback’s master plan, to be executed after Point Grey was taken by the Reapers. Once the Crown’s forces were focused north, Seán was to retrieve a small device from a safe house within Rosca Umhír. This device, invented by the genius of Chief Engineer Nicole, was said to be capable of destroying an entire castle with a single blast. Meanwhile, other loyal dissidents would do the same to other castles throughout the kingdom.
And that was how the Silverback would wage his war. One big display in Point Grey to draw King Diarmuid’s full attention northwards. Then His Grace would receive word that Keep Carríga of the Midlands was destroyed without siege. The Crown could respond in one of two ways: by pulling out of the Clifflands entirely, or splitting their forces. Either way, another castle elsewhere in the kingdom would be blown to rubble, without any visible cause. And the Silverback would make it clear that these attacks would not stop unless the Crown met his demands.
A coward’s war, mused Seán. But an effective one. Indeed, what force could possibly stop a tactic like this?
Though despite all the planning and preparations Seán, the Silverback, and all the other dissidents had made these past twelve moons, the dead rising from their graves had never been considered.
So, when Se
All we can do now is wait.
For a moment, Seán’s mind drifted outside of the throne room, across the burning moat and through the city streets. If the dissident safe house was still intact, perhaps Nicole’s device would still be there. Seán cursed himself. If only he had the foresight to bring it. Then, if the dead were to storm the walls with their full might, he could use it to destroy the castle and everyone inside. Sure, it would see him dead, but what better death was there than wiping out much of this enemy at the same time?
Seán shook his head. It was a futile thought. Of course, things would be different if he had brought the weapon with him. Things would be different too if he had never joined the Silverback, or if he had just ignored his Seeing of Seletoth.
“Seletoth,” he whispered, clasping his hands together. The One and True, he thought, not daring to say that part aloud. “Hear us. Help us.”
He had always kept his faith to himself, acting the part of loyal mage and servant of the Church. His Earthmaster’s robes were earned not only through hard work and study, but through careful politicking and positioning with the brothers of the Academy and the nobility of the many courts of Alabach. And that required him keep his beliefs a secret. How much easier it would have been, to have just murdered his old tutor, like the young Pyromancer Fionn had done back in Penance to become Firemaster? Seán found himself smiling, wondering how Fionn was faring now within the Triad, dealing with all the chaos that had erupted throughout the Seachtú. The dead had taken Point Grey and Ardh Sidhe, and it was only a matter of time before they tried to take Dromán too. Hopefully the mages there could fight them back, but if not… would Penance, or even Cruachan come next?
Seán leaned against a stone wall, exhaling deeply. The others in the hall whispered among themselves, pacing backwards and forwards while the earl sat in silence, staring blankly ahead.
Contemplating what you’ve done? thought Seán. Regretting condemning your whole city to death?
“Look!” came a voice from across the room. A noblewoman pointed towards a narrow window overlooking the northern castle walls. “The drawbridge, it’s opening!”
Many in the hall shrieked. Seán darted over. The great drawbridge was indeed lowering, like the jaw of a great beast, light spilling forth from its mouth.
Across the moat, the undead soldiers sacking and burning the north ward of Rosca Umhír stopped their butchery. One by one, their attention turned towards the descending mass of steel and wood and chains.
As the drawbridge met the far side of the moat, the undead gathered to cross it. Some wights had the appearance of simple farmhands, waving tools of their trade overhead. Others were soldiers, wearing the colours of Point Grey or Ardh Sidhe. Perhaps they once fought the horde, falling only to serve the enemy that felled them.
Will the same fate await us, should we perish too?
“They’re coming!” cried a young man to Seán’s side. “Why would they lower it? Why would they let them in?”
Suddenly, a large figure came bursting from the light of the keep. A warhorse, clad in thick armour, galloped across the bridge. Thunderous hooves pounded against the oak. As it approached the few undead soldiers crossing, the steed’s rider lowered a lance. And they accelerated, rider and horse moving as one.
With a crash, they collided with the undead. One soldier met the lance head-first. Another fell, trampled under the destrier’s hooves, while the rest were knocked aside from the impact, falling with muffled splashes into the black water below. The knight circled back to finish the rest, wielding the warhorse as a weapon just as much as the lance that struck down all who stood before them.
The rider paused and held up their lance. Fires from the burning city glimmered against its tip. The crest upon the knight’s head shimmered too; a black swan, with two wings outspread.
“Cathal Carríga!” cried one of the councilmen. “The Black Swan of Rosca Umhír has returned to save us!”
“Not Cathal,” said Seán. He threw a glance towards the earl. “Lady Aislinn.”
The earl did not respond. He leaned his head against one hand: a balled fist pressed against his temple. His eyes, glazed over and staring, were fixated towards the window where the scene was unfolding.
Seán looked back outside again. Aislinn still pointed her lance high and forward; a signal for cavalry to charge. But no charge came. More undead nearby began to take notice, plodding and stumbling towards her.
Aislinn lowered her lance and rode into the burning city. And the drawbridge began to rise behind her.
“No!” cried Seán. He turned towards the earl. “She’s out there alone! Send out the foreriders, the infantry, whatever you have!”
“A noble death she chose herself,” said the earl, shaking his head. “Her father shall die a coward tonight, but she shall do so a hero. A fool, of course, but a hero nonetheless.”
“What is wrong with you?” said Seán. “It’s a siege we’re unlikely to survive, but you insist on giving up without a fight!”
“I thought the king would save us….” muttered the earl. “Dromán and Cruachan still stand, with forces enough to throw the enemy back. I wanted to spare my life, my men… my family.”
Tears welled in the earl’s eyes. Seán swore under his breath, then looked to the battle outside. The undead were crowding into the North Ward now, with Lady Carríga nowhere to be seen beneath the broken, decaying bodies that filled the streets.
Such a waste. Unbridled bravery makes many a martyr.
He looked on as more undead swarmed the area, crawling over the rubble of broken buildings and shattered cobblestones.
To go out without a plan, dying for nothing more than an empty statement. His mind went back to the ridiculous idea he had earlier, of using Nicole’s weapon to blow Keep Carríga to the Holy Hell, taking half the horde with it. That, at least, would be a sacrifice worth a damn.
But the weapon was hidden away in a cache, in a safe house in the South Ward; an old store house, derelict and bordered up.
The horde continued to surge in the streets; possibly the bulk of them had come here now, drawn by Aislinn’s act of defiance. The would-be-knight was still nowhere to be seen.
Then, the most peculiarly thought crossed Seán’s mind. He glanced behind him, past the sobbing earl in his throne, towards the stained-glass effigy of the false god-king.
Southwards.
She’s drawn their attention, he realised. I may not have another chance.
He broke into a sprint across the throne room.
I’ll make her sacrifice count.
He raised both hands as he passed the bewildered earl, pointing towards the window.
Sand cast in flames. He forced his power into the glass. Ancient stone, crushed to dust and forged anew.
With a screech, the stained-glass window shattered. And amidst the broken fragments of azure and gold that burst forth, Earthmaster Seán leapt into the night.
Everything slowed as he fell through the air, four stories separating him from the black waters of the moat. Ignoring the gasps and shouts from those back up in the throne room, Seán focused his attention on the shards of glass, pulling on their elementary components. Silicon and iron of rocks and stone, shattered to sand, then boiled to glass. But there was more. Other minerals that gave it colour. As Seán plummeted to the ground, studies once long forgotten began to return to the surface of his mind.
Metal oxides… one for each colour.
The power of his soul reached for cobalt oxide, comprising the blue fragments that had formed the sky of the image before he shattered it. Copper oxide had given the hills of the northern reach their vibrant greens. The golden skin, hair, and wings of Móráin had come from gold itself.
Enough gold used here to house a family, thought Seán, focusing on each element within the shards that surrounded him as he fell.
Once he had a grasp on each, a slight tug on the power of his soul pulled each piece of glass beneath him. There, he shaped them under his feet, rounding their edges like a bowl. As the moat rushed up to meet him, Seán pulled on the cobblestones of a street across the water. These were much easier to grasp, far closer to their fundamental form than the stained glass. Abruptly, dozens of individual cobblestones flew up towards him, forming a crooked slope from the bank of the moat to an empty space just beneath his feet.
