The Blue God

By Nicholas McAuliff

Rolon of New Avalon is branded with the sigil of the leaf after fleeing from battle against the all-powerful Order of the Awakened, soldiers of the king of the Jinn.

Rolon, son of a renowned pearl trader, is banished from his coastal homelands and cursed to wander for the rest of his days. The mark of the leaf is known throughout the unnamed lands - those lands which are ruled by the unseen Jinn. Rolon takes the pilgrimage to the altar of Urak, king of the Jinn - a pilgrimage that may offer redemption for those guilty of cowardice, which is seen as the worst sin in the eyes of the omnipresent Jinn.

The Crimson Order, under command of the brutal warlord turned general Axar, has mustered an army to rival that of the golden-clad Order of the Awakened. General Axar sweeps northward with an army of heavy cavalry and hired swords, leaving a path of fire in his wake. Fire that he hopes will be noticed by the elusive king of the Jinn, who is said to be thousands of years old.

Rolon hears a song in the north winds as he wanders, a song that has nearly driven him mad. But as the altar of fire appears on the distant horizon, the wanderer sees his only chance at redemption - and freedom from the Jinns' curse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas McAuliff
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227379832

Nicholas McAuliff

Nicholas McAuliff is the author of the Heracles series. The author lives in the heart of the rockies and he enjoys prospecting and fishing and gardening whenever there is a lull in his work. 

Book preview

I

Over the parched plains east and west the horizon simmered with a haze thick and foreboding. Cicadas and katydids and crickets sang in an endless chorus of summer and from that haze would be seen glinting mirages of metal and ghostly apparitions of two armies marching toward one another in silence. All silence, save for the insects and the huffing of horses and the heavy trod of oxen, heads down and swaying this way and that, as if in the throes of some war frenzy. Heard now was iron and steel shifting, the steady cadence of the march, the ordered procession of these ghost soldiers until through that haze it would be seen for what it was only by the crows who watched infinitely patient from skeletal trees.

Thus an army of scarcely two thousand would march dead center through this valley. Exposed and open, most wielding spears of mere willow. And flanking them in a pincer movement would be five hundred horsemen, two hundred fifty to the westward pines, two hundred fifty to the eastward meadow, overgrown and cluttered with ivy and thorn and blackberry. Yet as one still they slunk through the trees as wisps of death, black shadows atop black mounts.

Archers would come up the rear of the spearmen, supporting with curved short bows which though lacking in range offered devastating stopping power in their recurve torque. It wasn’t enough to counter the Order of the Awakened’s legion of five thousand strong, one of their smaller contingents at that. All pledged to the Jinn, all donning gold and white garb with a golden flame, some who could afford it in armor, some with planks tied to their chests, whether forcefully or in faith.

For hours this went on, the occasional bullhorn blowing, the occasional cadence screamed gutturally by some bearded veteran. When the leagues had closed, without pomp the armies met and a din of metal on metal was heard rising. The dawn of this battle was oddly devoid of screaming for the first instant; murders of those same spying crows now circling the thousands below.

From this growing cacophony of battle rose scrambled voices, vague attempts at order amidst chaos, that summer haze now intermixed with a grey curtain of war. Out of that deathly fog fleeing men were cut down by swift arrows from both curved and long bows. Cut down from hidden archers in the deciduous forest that hid also the baggage train and reserve army. Mostly fleeing were the spearmen, scarcely armored and finding their weapons and numbers obsolete in the face of the enemies’ heavy cavalry; mounted riders with chain mail and plumed helmets and long swords of steel. Those too who were supported by longbowmen lining the hills flanking the valley and mustered three deep, so that when one volley loosed, two more followed that.

An army of peasants, wave after wave, met this contingent of armored soldiers and arrow-fire, hollow eyed and malnourished. They who without war cry marched wearily against this army of metal and order and plenty. The front line of whom laughed in chorus as those of this great peasant army who had not fled approached, gaunt and skeletal.

One raised his archaic spear skyward and let out a wild battle cry. A minority followed that example. Spears swaying and shaking in the heat. Atop an army of great horses and great stags the greater enemy rolled toward them, like a sea of shimmering silver glinting in the sun.

For nearly an hour yet there were bullhorns blowing. From the forest now marched swordsmen on foot, scarcely five hundred in number. They knelt on the treeline and one grey soldier led them in some prayer of fire.

Now iron on steel clanged, rising and consistent in the murk and haze of summer battle, that mixed with sweat and insects and dust which hung like a veil of battle over the two armies. Horses neighed in terror as they met walls of swordsmen, the latter giving way but not without bringing one in four of the horses to the ground so that two sides of heavily armored men now met in a catastrophe of desperate combat, some still wielding sword and axe, others pummeling in desperation with their broken chain mail wrapped around their fists, others fleeing, others looking for any way through the haze only to be met with morning star and lance. Still others stabbing wildly with daggers and long shanks, as would a cornered wolf with no egress.

One man slashed the air in front of him and screamed high at two approaching riders, in fear or battle joy none would know. The two calmly rode him down in little more than a trot and one circled back and trampled him a second, third time, neither horse nor rider suffering wounds.

A man-at-arms tried to muster a contingent of spearmen, about ninety in number. One of the few on horseback, he circled them and waved the banner of crimson and let loose a battle cry and a few echoed that cry meekly and followed. They made way to flank the Order’s archers over the western pines, heading into the trees under the cover of smoke caused by enemy trebuchet. He led them by a stretch, yet that same trebuchet in two barrages rendered that attempt futile and forgotten.

Madness, growled a captain from the weaker army. He was perched on the crags of the rear cliffs. He was overlooking the battle.

Behind him atop the gorge were three trebuchets loosing grapeshot onto both friend and foe indiscriminately. Flanking him were two hawk-faced soldiers of lesser rank, all in red: greaves, bracers, breastplates and helmets of red iron.

Riding up the rear and mounting the hill now was a giant of a man. Brown bearded and grey eyed and donned in armor that was not only red but gold.

The man’s armor was a mockery of the greater foe they faced on the field of Venraven today: the Order of the Awakened. That army of the king of the Jinn, that thing unseen and untouchable save for in nightmares. That thing of fire and filth and plasma which decreed once to man that no other king nor lord shall exist save for it in these unnamed lands. That thing ancient and incomprehensible and never once glimpsed by its subjects.

Subjects never relieved of burden. But punished for disobedience or weakness, always punished.

General Axar, said the captain.

A line of men followed the salutation and made way, leaving an opening on the hill which the general rode through on his heavy draft horse like some prophet of war.

Our swordsmen die, uttered the captain.

He looked like a lesser version of the general now by his side.

The general said nothing. He scanned the horizon where the Order’s mounted knights cut through his ranks with stunning efficiency. Supported from the rear by seemingly infinite volleys which allowed no reprieve for the lesser army to reform lines.

The general didn’t seem concerned.

General? the captain whispered.

Send it, is all the general said.

The captain turned and raised a great banner of red.

Down the ranks another rose the same banner.

A soldier or an officer of some kind knocked on the tiny wicket on the wagon and after a space it drew open slowly. The man stepped back. He said something, then another space. He nodded. He turned and raised both hands skyward.

General, came a gruff voice. Sound the retreat for our swordsmen, I implore you.

The general said nothing. His eyes scanned the battlefield.

Watch me use your power. Watch.

Into a crater made by trebuchet fire was the wagon pulled by a soldier who sang as he rode. And instantly the horses and rider were obliterated by that same trebuchet.

The next missile fired in midair turned into a crumbling ball of orange, falling to pieces like a comet above the firmament and fading harmlessly into the ether.

Men gasped in awe.

Men started loosing their armor, the fighting slowing.

Now opposing armies were unified in their threat against something unseen. Weapons were dropped. Soldier from the Jinns’ Order feverishly unclamped the armor of the soldier he had just been trying to fell. Screams of fury transitioned to screams of panic and desperation, brief attempts at orders were made, captains from either side working now as one amidst the fields of smoldering embers. Naked men and men in only loincloths ran about the field, ran upwards in futility towards the higher red cliffs which by this point too were smoldering. Soon all was crimson flame: the sward, lit up like a cottonfield in a wildfire, the trees which once held battle ready calvary, now orange timbers and smolden, swaying dogwoods and naked firs. Even the boulders rooted in place for eons glowed and cracked and from the hills past the valley more boulders aflame rolled down onto ally and enemy the same. Soon all was silent, the insects ceasing their song. A field of black ash covered the formerly green one and sparks danced on the horizon to and fro.

When the fires had died and dusk had fallen, still the wagon sat undisturbed on the dead field of battle.

The general approached the wagon on foot and the men following him were on horseback. He approached the wagon and the captain went to knock but the general shook his head and motioned to two soldiers to pry open the door and they did easily. A stench came from within and the captain held his cuff to his nose though General Axar did not.

There in filth sat a thing of red, veins rising like red varicose veins. Eyes twice the size of a man’s, blood red and staring forward. Its hairless skull was red, its filthy gown was red and its body beneath that gown slight and frail.

There was silence for a space. The crows now called overhead from the grey murk of after-battle.

General Axar looked into the carriage. He was studying it. I will have this power, he said. As I live and breathe, I will have it. This wagon will be your tomb until I turn grey, I swear to you. Speak to it, commune with it. Tell it I am the one. Find a way.

The thing sat unblinking.

Lock it in.

The men closed the wagon door and a heavy iron lock was clamped.

II

From the mists northward there fell a rain sulfuric and warm so that all below its spell, artisan and farmer, husband and wife, child and dog, a slew of mercenaries absent a lord, would question their conviction in undertaking the journey to the altar of Urak, king of the Jinn. Scores of pilgrims walked as one entity under the amber sky and so did their shadows too cast upon the crags, making weird phantasmal shapes on the red feldspar so that they seemed to be mimics of the living ones who walked alongside those cliffs.

And four thousand souls would constitute that wandering train, four thousand souls, most walking, only a few riding atop spent mounts, fewer still carried on roughly hewn travois of dead date palms. No song was sung, no laughter or wordplay on the long days, those which were almost always marred by grey and rain and wet heat. The only sounds there be were the rattle and clank of leather, iron tools shifting in girdles, and steel against iron and the sniffling of exhausted pilgrims, those who already wore chapped and cracked faces from a lifetime of toil and want.

Two marched at a steady pace.

One wore a brand on the left side of his face, a leaf. Breathing briskly, yet not winded. Eyes blue and eyes green shifted suspiciously. About them were children eating cold cornmeal, their eyes white amidst black soot. They looked at the two passing, chewing. An old woman with a headwrap slowly lowered herself onto a flattened rock, her hand bracing behind her, her mouth opening and closing as she lowered herself until a sigh of relief came from that mouth. Two men knelt flanking a young woman of golden hair, her eyes jovial and bright. One lay a folded and tattered linen under her head, stroking her hair and she sang softly and mid song she stopped and her eyes never closed and neither cried.

Ahead, said the darker one with green eyes. He pointed to a low hill of mud. Not here.

With a nod the other acknowledged. His blue eyes still darting this way and that.

There atop a low cliff they sat overlooking the resting train and fires did sprout from low coals as would dew from the grass in the morning. Until all was a glowing orange hue and they lit no fire but simply sat and watched and the dark one doled out hard biscuits and bits of brittle cheese and dried dates.

Eat, the green eyed one said.

They ate in silence and soon everything was quiet.

Blue eyes looked at the moon which came and went behind a sliding curtain of clouds. The other sleeping soundlessly.

Why won’t you speak to me?

The morning was dark and still the rain fell, a fine cold mist with no wind and unceasing it fell so that the tents were all but saturated. Their clothes too were saturated, despite having been folded and placed in their shared oaken chest, that