Storm of War, page 11
Fenris too wades into the enemy, trying to follow close behind his brother as he bashes men aside with his heavy shield and cleaves through others using his broadsword. After a few minutes the bodies pile up around him and he loses track of both Garack and Zun in the chaos. Confident that they are more than a match for any of Runk’s mercenary soldiers he returns his attention to the battle. He revels in the martial combat that has so long denied him, the thrill of the melee. The wolfish smile of his helm mirrors the one beneath. All the while, the whistle of his sword as it cleaves through the air is like music to his ears. Each stinging impact reverberates down his arm and drives him like an addict to acquire more of the same.
For hours, the battle rages until the field begins to thin. Fenris looks up from his most recent kill and looks about for the next one, the blood of many others splattered and running crimson over his armored suit. With a disappointed grunt, he realizes that he and his men have cleared this flank, leaving him no one to slay. He looks across the field to see that Zun has defeated all of his opponents as well. With adrenaline still roaring inside, Fenris searches for Garack and spies him just as the general closes in on Runk and his personal guard. The king rallies his men to his side and races over the littered ground to assist his brother in the death of the backstabbing warlord.
As he nears their position, he sees Garack engage the lanky warlord, his axe held overhead as he readies a swing. Distracted by a Tollen soldier that emerges from the crowd to attack him, Fenris looks away from his brother to focus on his own fight. He parries the incoming swing and a quick flick of his wrist pushes the mercenary’s blade to the side, countering the blow. With his opponent’s weapon out of the way, the Wolf King slams the edge of his shield into the man’s unarmored chin. A loud crack sounds as the bone of his jaw breaks. His eyes roll back into his head in unconsciousness while his legs give way and he begins to collapse. Fenris spins his sword, disengaging it from the mercenary’s guard, and in a windmill-like swing, he chops deep into the man’s neck, ending the fight along with the man’s life. Turning away from the body, he looks up to search for Garack again and sees him facing off with one of Runk’s guard. The warlord closes in on him from the right side.
Fenris shouts a warning across the field just as Garack’s axe slams home into the shoulder of the guard, its blade busting through the collarbone and sinking deep into the chest cavity. Before the general can free his weapon to defend himself from the stalking warlord, Runk steps in and plunges a dagger deep into his side. In agony, Garack cries out but swings his hand backward to strike the warlord along the side of his head. Runk stumbles backwards from the blow. Zun reaches him before he has a chance to recover. The stocky warlord’s first attack lands in the joint between forearm and biceps, cleaving through and severing Runk’s arm. A stream of blood shoots from the wound as Runk looks on in shock. Zun then thrusts his other short blade up underneath the wounded arm where it pierces the ribs and runs through to the other side of his chest. Its point ends inside the warlord’s treacherous heart. Immediately, Runk’s eyes go wide and the dead weight of his body drops to the ground pulling Zun’s blades out for him. Zun snarls and delivers a vicious kick to the fallen warlord’s face, his hatred of him obvious.
Fenris races over to his brother where he finds the general down on his knees clutching at the short blade that sticks out from his side; a river of blood runs down his leg. He looks up at Fenris and gives him an apologetic look.
“I’m okay.” He gestures to the location of the embedded dagger. “He didn’t hit anything vital, just stuck it in the meat. Hurts like all Helio, though.”
He grunts in pain as Fenris helps him to his feet. Always in command no matter the circumstance, Garack tries to ignore the pain and examines the battlefield so that he can check the status of his forces. He motions for a nearby commander to attend him and then gives the man last minute cleanup orders. Assured that his men can mop up the few remaining enemies that linger on the field, the general turns to look at Fenris. His face is flushed and his eyes are moist.
“Help me get this thing out.”
Fenris looks at the dagger and sees that its ornate hilt, which protrudes from Garack’s side, is made to resemble a serpent with its tail twisting along the length of the grip. Noting the odd crimson color of the blade itself, he examines the wound closer and sees reddish-black striations that spread out several inches from the wound. He presses against the flesh and Garack twitches and growls in complaint.
“I said for you to pull it out not torture me.”
“This is no ordinary blade.” Fenris points out the strange appearance of the flesh around the injury, the skin discolored and unhealthy looking. “We need to get you to the healer.”
“Then pull the blade out so we can return to the castle,” he growls, the pain of his wound increasing with each passing second.
Fenris nods, understanding his brother’s impatience. He looks around for a clean piece of cloth and reaches down to tear a sleeve off of one of the dead men lying nearby. He wads the cloth and grabs a hold of the hilt of the dagger with his free hand. Without warning, he yanks the blade free and presses the rag against the wound to stanch the flow of blood. Garack moans and places his hand on Fenris’ shoulder to keep from falling over as waves of nausea strike him. Streams of sweat roll down his face. Zun walks up from behind and lends his strength when he sees the general’s condition. Fenris slips the questionable blade under his belt so that he can take it with them. Then, with their arms wrapped around the weakening Garack, they walk him back to the portal.
Fourteen
Delphos creeps silently down the steep stairs, the magical torches on the wall flaring up as he nears them, illuminating the steep steps beneath his feet. The cloaked figure that walks into the room behind him chuckles in amusement.
“What’s the point of stealth if the torches are going to give away your presence?” Lyllwren asks, her quiet voice just loud enough for him to hear. Her smile gleams as bright as the torches.
The assassin snarls back at her. “It’s all about having passion for your work.” He gestures to the room that lay before them. “We’re in the enemy’s castle, so I sneak. It’s what assassins do.”
Lyllwren rolls her eyes, which are glazed over by the use of her powers, and pushes past Delphos to stroll down the stairwell toward the room below. “And as a scryer, I block our presence from others who might spy us here. And since there are no guards here to notice our illicit entrance, there is no need for clandestine creeping.”
Irritated by the woman’s logic and lack of pride in her profession, but yet seeing her point, Delphos straightens up and follows her down the staircase, the fun gone from his evening. With an irritated look plastered across his face, he pauses at the archway and glances about as torches set upon the walls further inside the room ignite and light the crypt. As he sees row upon row of sarcophaguses that line the tomb, all the way to the back wall, he sighs. In frustration, he looks over at his companion.
“How are we supposed to know which one it is?”
“That’s the easy part.” She stops for a moment to listen to something Delphos cannot hear then a sly smile crosses her lips. “The dead cannot be trusted to keep their secrets to themselves.” Without hesitation or explanation regarding her comment, she turns and walks down the aisle of coffins.
The assassin, trusting the woman knows where she’s going, rushes to catch up. He falls in step behind her until she comes to a halt near the center of the room. He looks down at the sarcophagus she points out but cannot read the worn inscription.
“This him?” he asks.
“It is.” Lyllwren pushes against the stone lid and it slides open; the grating of stone on stone sets Delphos nerves on edge.
He looks about in annoyed anticipation expecting a guard to walk in on them at any moment. After a moment, satisfied that no one heard the sound, he turns back to the woman and sneers at her. She shrugs and motions toward the sarcophagus. As they both look inside, they see an old corpse of a man, rather well maintained, lying inside. His body is surrounded by clusters of eye-sized gems that glitter in the bright light of the room, some a deep green, the majority a silvery-white.
“So it is you, the power of whom the dead speak,” Taloran says to his uninvited scryer visitor. His ethereal words go unheard by the assassin.
Lyllwren smiles as she hears the crackled mind-speak of the fellow scryer lord. She comments to Delphos, “He speaks to me.”
Turning back to Taloran, she responds, “It is an honor to meet one of the few masters that has graced our short line of lords.” She bows before the coffin despite knowing he cannot see her actions.
“Is it truly? One would think that honor would carry with it a certain measure of respect. If that were the case, you would not be here to do what you intend nor would you be accompanied by an assassin.”
“You confuse necessity with willfulness. I intend no disrespect with my actions. I only do what has been asked of me.”
“And so you must sneak into a burial chamber to steal from a man that is not your enemy, to please a master that you should not serve?”
Lyllwren looks over at Delphos who, having only heard her half of the conversation, looks back in confusion. She returns her gaze to Taloran without informing the assassin of what the deceased lord has said. “Fate has already declared a victor in this conflict between the emperor and your king. We are all bound by her will to play the part to which we are assigned.”
“You speak in riddles to hide your true motives from the ears of those whose company you keep. Perhaps I give you too little credit for your understanding of your role in this world.”
“Mayhap.”
“Then go about your task. But know this; the dead have a long memory for those that have wronged them,” Taloran warns her. “Be wary of what you do in this life for one day you will be down amongst the deceased and it will be a maddening eternity for one such as yourself should they choose to abandon you.”
The cloaked scryer lord shivers as she hears the subtle threat behind his words, knowing full well how horrible that future would be for her. “I will do only what I must. Farewell, Taloran.” Her salutation meets only silence.
Understanding that she will not be spoken to again, she goes about the deed that has brought her here. She reaches inside the coffin and begins to pull out handfuls of the gems that grow around Taloran’s body. She stuffs them inside a hide pouch at her waist. With concerted effort, she sorts through the growths and plucks out as many of the emerald color gems as she can find, placing them in a second bag. Once she is finished, she ties the pouches and turns to the assassin, her mood somber.
“We’re done here.” Lyllwren steps away from the coffin and begins to walk back toward the stairwell. After a moment, she notices that Delphos is not behind her so she stops to see what is delaying him. Horror engulfs her as she realizes why he remained behind. She cries out in defiance as she sees him pour a small flask of liquid into the casket of the dead scryer lord.
“What are you doing?” She shouts with no concern that anyone else might hear her.
“I’m ensuring that the source of the Wolf King’s transport gems is no more.” With that he tosses a small red stone into the coffin. The moment it touches the liquid, it casts off sparks and the entire casket bursts into flames. He steps back and watches as the roaring fire immediately begins to consume the body of Taloran along with the gems that grow from his corpse.
Lyllwren rushes back to the sarcophagus but it is too late to stop the flame’s destructive touch. Sadness wells up in her eyes as she sees the contents of the crypt as it melts away. The wood, flesh, and crystal all meld together to become a sickening sea of blackened goo. She turns and glares at Delphos, her anger seethes.
“I do only what I must,” he tells her, mocking her earlier comment to Taloran. “Come woman, fate is not the only master we serve.” He grins malevolently as he turns away from the coffin, assured that the flame has done its work. He moves off down the aisle not bothering to glance back to see if she follows him.
“All deeds shall be remembered in both this life and the next,” Taloran’s voice speaks to her from the world beyond life, reminding her of his earlier warning.
A tear runs down her sculptured cheek as she steps back from the blaze, grateful that the fire has not destroyed the lord’s connection to this plane. Unable to look at the sarcophagus any longer, she walks away and follows the assassin from the room.
Fifteen
Returned to the sanctuary of his temple, Azrael waves away the priests who clamor for news of his trip to Alberia. He slams the doors closed, ending their curious entreaties, and walks down the aisle to the raised dais that rests at the far end of the room. He scrambles up the stairs pulling at the clasp of his outer robes. Once it’s unfastened, he slips it over his head and shoulders and tosses it behind him where it lands in a purple heap. Removing the rest of his undergarments, he throws them into the same pile.
Now naked, he kneels down before the ten foot, circular pool that sits centrally upon the dais. The pool is filled with crimson-black blood, its aroma fills the room with the scent of burnt copper. Drawing in the odor, he picks up an inscribed dagger that lies on the stone floor beside him. With it held in his hand he begins to chant a quiet prayer, his voice barely above a whisper. Still reciting the invocation, he slides the blade through the palm of his other hand cutting a thin gash into the wrinkled and scarred flesh. He then holds his wounded hand up in the air and lets his blood drip down to mingle with that in the pool below it. He squeezes his hand tight to increase the flow and his chant becomes louder and more animated as he pleads for recognition by his dark god.
He lets his wound run free, his incantation constant all the while. Then he pulls his hand back when it begins to clot and the blood no longer flows. Silent, he stares at the basin, its surface calm now that the droplets of sanguine liquid no longer strike its face. He remains still with his hands pressed on his hips, as he wills his petition to be heard.
For many long minutes, he stays in place, the muscles in his back growing tight and his knees becoming sore from contact with the cold, hard stone. Just as he presumes that his god has deigned not to answer, a bubble breaks the placid surface. With restrained joy sending chills across his bare flesh, setting his hairs on end, Azrael watches as the single bubble turns into a multitude. A poignant scent, a mix of decaying flesh and decadent sex, drifts up into the room thickening about him with every air pocket that bursts. For an agonizing moment of anticipation, nothing else comes from within the pool then suddenly a round shape appears moving slowly upward from its center, just inches from the surface.
Azrael remains suppliant, his eyes locked on the dark shape as it rises. With each passing second it drifts upward revealing the head of a man with his eyes closed and whose long hair is soaked in the claret and plastered down across his bearded face and head, its natural color unrecognizable. As the being continues to float out of the pool, the bishop looks on, awestruck. With every heartbeat more of the man is revealed. His small frame is wrapped in unexceptional robes, stained red by the blood from which he has risen.
Now free of the pool, the divinity hovers above it shedding drops of blood like a grim rain that showers down upon the basin. Azrael looks up at his god’s face and finds him staring back at him, his ice blue ices piercing. Fearful and yet shivering with waves of exhilaration, the bishop looks away from the being’s gaze, bowing his head in reverence.
“I am your humble servant, my Dark Lord Anu.”
The man reaches down and places his hand beneath Azrael’s chin, lifting him to his feet. The bishop dares to look at him once more and sees that all traces of blood have disappeared from the risen man, who now graces him with a crooked-toothed grin; a surprising appearance for an omnipotent being, Azrael thinks. Removing his hand, the man floats away from the pool and settles onto the stone floor beside the bishop. Now standing face to face, the divinity lets loose a bellowing chuckle, his deep rich voice reverberating throughout the room.
“Forgive my deception, bishop, but I am not your beloved Anu.”
In surprise, Azrael simply stares as if he had not heard him correctly.
“I am Azag Ilu,” the man tells him, still amused by his hoax.
Azrael, recognizing the demon’s name shakes off his astonishment and his smile fades. Angered by the betrayal he takes a step back. The look of adoration that had adorned his face only moments before turns to one of disgust.
“It was not you that I called, demon. Why do you invade my sanctum with your arrogance and deceit?” Azrael’s fists begin to swirl with obsidian energy that throws off tiny, black tendrils of lightning.
“Your magic is impressive, but it is much less so than that which I have given to Emperor Thade. And by far, it is certainly no match for that which I possess.” Azag grins at the bishop, admiring his audacity. “Threaten me not, Azrael, for we have much to discuss, you and I.”
The bishop stares at the demon, his anger dissipating as he thinks back on how easily the emperor crushed the army of Vitrius. If this creature is the well from whence this great power has sprung, he thinks to himself, then it would not be wise to offend him. With that, he opens his fists and the energy fades away.
“Good, good. Now let us talk,” he waves the bishop over to one of the pews that are lined up below the dais and then walks down the stairs behind him. Once Azrael is seated, the demon drops down onto the floor in front of him to sit cross-legged. A wash of nervousness rises in Azrael as he realizes just how vulnerable he feels sitting naked with a demon but a few feet from his groin. He tries not to let his apprehension show.
