Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 82

The dead need no sustenance.

And thus, three days since the fall of the gates, Pertheran remained the same as he was. The corrupt magic holding him together was all he needed, and naught else.

But what of...him? Was he not a being of divine life? Did he not need rest or food?

Pertheran wondered as Xenro struck down yet another Vasaen, tearing the creature from limb to limb, scattering the blackened organs so far apart across the wrecked concourse they stood upon, no form of necromancy could re-raise its remains. Many Midaelian soldiers they encountered employed the same vicious tactics, of complete destruction of their enemies' corpses.

But still there were so many, ever flooding in through the ruined gates. The enormity of the task was equal to scooping water from a drowning vessel with a spoon. Hope seemed bleak.

Xenro looked as though he'd been dragged through tar, eyes sunken and the smell of death clinging to him like blood. In his hands was a Sacred Blade, salvaged from the piles of the dead.

But when he spoke, his voice was strangely...calm. The sense of peacefulness in him scared Perth a little. A being capable of such relentless slaughter and gentleness at the same time was one to be feared.

Xenro looked back over his shoulder at him. "Step lively, now. I must get you to the safety of the palace."

Safety? Where am I ever truly safe, trapped within this corpse of a body?

"Coming," he said and followed in his footsteps nonetheless. Another firemount went off somewhere. Pertheran had stopped counting since the second night.

He did not know how much longer they would have to keep trudging on. Roads were inaccessible, barricaded in some places, others simply blown up to bits. The ramp to the upper district was broken off a third from the bottom, cutting off contact from the lower district invaded by the enemy forces. The City Watch, the Midaelian army and battlemages had put up a strong front, but were soon made to retreat to higher ground, with the rearguard taking charge of escorting the common folk out of their homes.

Word was, King Krugmann was on his way with an elite troop of four hundred Vasaeni, coming riding to watch his victory from the very front lines.

Far above, its tallest spires gleaming in the firelight stood the palace, like a warrior who refused to accept defeat. Pertheran prayed for the newly crowned queen, whom he had seen not, but heard her name chanted in the dying breaths and war cries of the Midaelians. How vast was the burden of a kingdom in shambles?

At first, Xenro had tried to establish contact with the Captain of the mercenaries. All such efforts went to vain and he could not discern a familiar face in the sea of mayhem that was the besieged city. Ravens circled overhead, ominous croaks ringing out into the air.

Byton was trapped beneath the great black shadow. The remains of my Mistress, so full of hatred that she refuses to die.

Pulling his gaze from the sky, Pertheran sped along through the path cloven by the weary god.

Ever since rising to his feet, Xenro had not slept a wink, nor touched a morsel of food. Three nights and three days, he had walked the streets, seized by the spirit of a bestial rampage, but let not fall on Pertheran a single scratch. A foolish kindness, that. My wounds will heal, but yours won't.

When Xenro had fallen to a kneel upon first setting foot within Byton, turning into a miserable wreck in lament, clutching a golden circlet and howling the same name to himself over and over-- Pertheran did not think he would ever get up. He thought that would be his final resting place, for where else did a fallen God of War belong if not in the middle of battle?