by P B Hughes
Jude stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yes,” she said. “You know the name, don’t you? You know it from the book you carry.”
Jude reached into his cloak and clutched the diary of Malcolm Roth. Indeed, he knew her name. He had read it a thousand times.
Lady Lugat’s eyes narrowed. “It was I who placed Malcom’s diary in that attic. I wanted you to find it, to read the truth for yourself. Do you honestly believe the school librarian would allow you to see the ancient secrets? No—he is a follower of the Dark Lord, just as I am.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Jude, his voice cracking.
“Sixteen years ago,” she asserted, “a man named Malcolm Roth came to my village, seeking the location of the Forbidden Temple. I showed him the dark secrets therein. I gave him the Isilia Stone. He loved me, and I gave him two sons—twins. Sons of power. Sons of the Nosfertu. The ones who would release it and the Dark Lord back into the world.”
“That’s not possible. Daniel—he said my mother is dead.”
“It is true, I am not the same as I was. My soul transformed when the Nosfertu fully claimed me. Delia is dead, and Lady Lugat rose from her ashes. But that does not change the truth. You are still blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh. I am your mother.”
Jude’s flesh crawled. “I can’t believe that,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“Search your heart. You feel our connection; I know you do. It is the connection of mother and son.”
Silence gripped Jude as an immense weight settled on his shoulders. Every part of him wanted to refute her claims. His mind churned, constructing a slew of arguments, only to have them dashed by his intuition. It was true. He felt a powerful pull to her from the moment they met; an inexplicable kinship. And the diary. Though he had memorized its every word, he could not stop reading it. And now he knew why. By reading the words, it was as if he could hear the voice of his father.
As Jude searched Lady Lugat’s face, he knew denying it was futile. He could see his reflection in the contours of her face and in the hook of her nose. He had her long fingers and thin lips. Even the way her hair fell was like his.
But the shape of her eyes. They were different. In them, he saw Caden.
The sight brought a memory to the surface—Daniel lying on the ground, Caden standing over him with a smoking scepter. His brother was a killer. And as he drank in his mother’s gaze, he saw the same cruelty; the same madness.
Lady Lugat reached out her hand. “My son—”
“I’m not your son,” Jude snapped. He looked away from her, his breaths quickening. “My mother is dead. You—you are nothing but an abomination. I defy you, whatever you are.”
Lady Lugat’s countenance hardened, and she closed her outstretched hand. “Wishing things different will not make them so. You are my blood. And I have been given orders to take you north, to the land of mist and fire—to the Gate of Worlds for the summoning of Vut’Al Choshek. You will come, one way or another.”
“I will not be moved. I will defeat you just like I defeated everyone else.”
Her brow furrowed. “Very well,” she said. “If that is how it is…so be it. This parlay is over. Prepare for battle.”
She turned and rode back up the hill. Hector raised his spear, spit at Jude’s feet, and followed at her heels.
“Dragoons!” cried Lady Lugat, taking up a position behind her riders. “Dismount!”
Jude looked back at the portcullis, now risen. His companions were gone, along with all the horses. It was then that Jude felt an overwhelming hollowness. He was alone again.
“Men of the Souther Isles!” Lady Lugat called out, raising an outstretched hand. “Men who crave strength above all else. Do you give yourselves to my power, the dark energy of Vut’Al Choshek himself?”
The dragoons pounded their fists against their breasts and replied in unison: “We forfeit our souls to His Majesty, the Dark Lord. We accept his power as our own.”
“Very well. Receive it!”
Black smoke billowed from Lady Lugat’s hand, spreading over the warriors. The color drained from their skin, leaving them as pale as ghosts. They dropped to their knees and clutched their heads, crying out in anguish as their humanity evaporated. Hector Alvarez’s horse let out a frightened whinny, and the lad himself looked horror-stricken by the sight.
A hush fell over the warriors, and their writhing ceased. For a brief moment, they were so still that Jude thought they might be dead. And then, they raised their eyes, now voids of solid black.
“What have you done to them?” asked Hector, his voice quivering.
“I have given them what they have always wanted,” cried Lady Lugat. “Strength beyond measure.”
The soulless men rose, given entirely to the darkness, their vacant stares falling upon Jude. Half of them stepped forward, forming two rigid lines of fifty.
Hector backed his horse away from them, away from Lady Lugat, shaking his head in dismay. “No,” he said. “No, they did not want this. They spoke of strength to overcome their enemies—not death. You’ve taken everything from them.”
Lady Lugat hissed and waved her hand at Hector. A black tendril shot out from her palm and slashed at him, knocking him from his horse. He hit the ground with a dull thud, unconscious or dead, Jude could not tell.
Jude took an acorn from his pouch and tossed it to the ground in front of him.
The acorn split and a white root burrowed into the dirt, pulling the seed down after it. As the roots spread beneath the ground, Jude felt his primal energy mingle with the darkness, and the acorn evolved into something new. Something stronger.
A ripple passed through the ground, followed by a low creaking noise.
A black sapling punched through the earth, spraying forth a shower of dirt. It grew speedily, large and robust, ten feet thick and fifty feet tall. Its ebony bark was like iron, and its broad leaves glistened like jade. Acorns, swollen in size, appeared among its leaves, and needle-like spikes slid up from their shells, turning them into miniature maces.
A tree branch lowered next to Jude. He stepped onto its sturdy arm and was lifted into the canopy, giving him the perfect vantage point. He reached up and tested the sharpness of an acorn on his finger, smiling as dot of blood appeared.
“You think you are in control?” cried Lady Lugat. “Behold, the might of one learned in the darkness. Dragoons…attack!”
The dragoons snarled, bearing their now-sharpened teeth. They drew their swords and charged ahead with incredible velocity. No longer did Jude face ordinary men; he was fighting the very monsters of the netherworld.
Jude pulled back his staff, his body constricting. The oak’s branches groaned and stretched backward near the breaking point. Sweat dripped from his brow and he gnashed his teeth against the strain; blood vessels burst in his eyes, washing them red.
When the dragoons came within range, he screamed, swinging his staff with all his might.
The branches snapped forward like slingshots, flinging a thousand spiked acorns at the advancing wall of monsters. Barbs peppered the earth in a wave, clanging against armor, sinking into skin. Every single dragoon fell. When the dust settled, all that remained was a pile of pale corpses riddled with holes.
Jude let out a triumphant shout, smoke billowing from his body. “Nothing can defeat me!” he cried. “Not you, not Caden, not your Dark Lord. I am the master of my fate. Do you hear me? I am—”
A soldier’s hand twitched, stopping Jude short. He stared down at him, wondering how he had survived. Another soldier began to stir, and then another.
The smoke swirling around Jude’s body died down, and then blew away. He heard the Nosfertu growl softly in his ear and then fade into nothing.
“You cannot serve two masters,” cried Lady Lugat. “Your connection with the dark energy has been severed.”
“No,” said Jude. “No, it can’t be.”
“Surrender,
for you cannot win this fight. These men do not feel pain or fear. Though you slay them, they will rise, for they are both dead and immortal.”
Jude cried out to the Nosfertu: “What’s happening? Help me!”
There was no reply.
One by one the dragoons stood, until all were on their feet. Though they bled, though many of their limbs had snapped and shattered, they were alive.
And then they threw themselves at Jude.
Jude sent the branches flying forward, smashing down at the dragoons as they came close. But it was no use. Those he crushed rose again, and those he missed began to climb the tree.
Jude raised himself higher, shaking the trunk to throw the dragoons away, batting at them with the branches. But they were too strong and too many—holding tight, digging their black nails into the hardened bark. Soon, the entire tree was covered in the wretched monsters. In an act of desperation, Jude leapt from his branch and onto the ground. He landed lightly, somersaulting forward, and then jumped to his feet.
Ten dragoons darted after him from the base of the tree, shrinking the distance between them with blinding speed. Jude heard their rasping breaths closing in and realized he could not outrun them. He planted his toe and spun, swinging his staff against the volley of flying blades.
CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.
The force of their blows sent Jude reeling. He landed hard on his side, the taste of blood and dirt filling his mouth as he bit into his tongue. He thrust his staff into the air; vines shot up from the ground between him and his assailants. But it was no use. The monsters chopped through them with violent strokes, surging toward him.
There was a movement beside Jude, and then a mighty crash as steel hit steel. Ryker, Samara, Marcus, Fish, and the rest of the prisoners met the line of dragoons, defending Jude from the onslaught. One of the unarmored prisoners was cut down, and then another, their frail bodies unable to withstand such powerful blows.
“No, stop!” Jude shouted. “They’re too strong. They’ll kill you all!”
“Then don’t just sit there,” Samara replied. “Help us!”
Jude scrambled to his feet and sent a wave of vines spiraling around his comrades. With a jerk of his staff, he threw them backward, away from the wave of monstrous men.
The act was all the dragoons’ needed. They rushed Jude, wrenching his staff from his hands, grabbing his arms, legs, and throat with frozen hands. Jude thrashed and flailed, but they were too many and too strong.
The feeling was maddening—he could not move, he could not speak. He felt as if he was suffocating, and his heart hammered against his ribs. Slowly, the dragoons lifted him into the air. And as they did, Jude was smothered in fear. Defeat. Helplessness. Panic. He could not save his himself, he could not save his friends—he could not save anyone.
Samara’s defiant cursing caught his ear. He strained his neck in vain to see her. But she fell silent, and he went numb.
The clatter of hoofs slowly moved Jude’s attention up the hill. Lady Lugat was riding toward him.
When she reached the edge of the crowd, she pulled to a stop. “Seemlash,” she hissed. The soldiers parted, creating a path. She stepped down from her horse and walked to Jude, and as she did, the dragoons knelt before her in humble submission.
There was calm wrath in her eyes as she gazed up at Jude. “Release him,” she ordered.
The soldiers dropped Jude at Lady Lugat’s feet. He felt her fingers beneath his chin, and she lifted his gaze to meet hers.
“You could have been a prince,” she said coldly. “Instead, you are my prisoner.” She held up a metallic black shackle for him to see; then she slid it over his head and around his throat. Purple electricity danced across the shackle’s surface. It expanded, spun, and then shrank tightly against his skin. “The Nosfertu is a cruel power. But it is fair. I defeated you, and now you are bound to me. If you resist or try to escape—”
Blinding fire seared through Jude’s body, forcing him to cry out. He curled into the fetal position, unable to move or think.
“Oh, how I wish you could see reason!” Lady Lugat wailed. “If only you would surrender and learn to control your powers, your strength would be second only to Vut’Al Choshek. But no—you choose the path of pain.”
Jude clawed at the ring, moaning and writhing.
“You feel as though you are at the very gates of death, do you not? The skolhardine tricks your mind into thinking your insides are boiling. Truly, it is one of the greatest torture devices ever invented.”
Suddenly, the fire inside Jude ceased. Waves of agony pulsed through him, slowly subsiding until he felt nothing but a dull throb.
Lady Lugat stooped before him. “Soon you will witness the Dark Lord’s incredible power firsthand. And when you do, you will not be able to resist.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “You want it, I know you do. What is holding you back?” Her gaze drifted past Jude to his comrades. “Is it them?” she asked. “Yes, we were warned you had a strange devotion to your companions. You wish to keep them alive. How odd.”
A blink of hope. They were not dead, but unconscious.
Jude could see a peculiar hunger in Lady Lugat’s eyes. “Please,” he begged. “Don’t kill them. They’re my bodyguards—nothing more. They can’t do you any harm.”
“They will live—if only to serve my purposes.”
Jude glanced at his comrades, lying limp at the feet of monsters. His hope evaporated. She had a purpose for them. A diabolical purpose like that of the dragoons—a fate worse than death.
“How he frets,” she said, amused at his distress. “Your companions will act as our escorts. They will help us pass through Imperial lands unmolested.”
“You don’t need them. You have your soldiers.”
Her lip curled with disdain as she studied the dragoons. “Their time is running out.”
“You mean…they’re mortal?”
“Humans. Bags of blood and bone, as fragile as porcelain. They can only support such power for so long before it crushes them.”
“You turned them into weapons—arrows to be used and wasted.”
“In this world there are dominant beings, designed to rule, and there are base beings, designed to submit. Right now, everything is topsy-turvy. Unworthy peasants stand over the greatest kings. Just look at you—the most powerful Miraclist alive, and yet you are a slave to the Empire’s every whim.” She gazed out over her soldiers. “But not for long.” She straightened and then breathed, “Ismoor de la narthgo.”
The dragoons shook. They cried out in desperation as their skin began to crack. And then, like chalk dipped in water, their bodies dissolved, leaving nothing but vacant armor lying upon heaps of ash. Whispers floated through the air, and then were silenced.
“Soon you will see, my son,” said Lady Lugat. “The Nosfertu destroyed them. But for you, it needn’t be so. You still want the power it offers—I can see it in your eyes. All you must do is surrender.”
Jude felt his emerald energy inside of him, so paltry compared to what it had been when blended with darkness. And he knew she was right. He would always crave the way the Nosfertu had made him feel. Knowing there was more to be had, the knowledge would haunt him.
He stared up at his mother—a terrible sight to behold. She was powerful, fearsome, and above all, cunning. Hers was a ruthless power that relied on a blend of genius and skill to cripple her enemies. Not so unlike his own.
But I am defeated, thought Jude. I am weak. I am nothing without the Nosfertu.
“Rise, my son,” Lady Lugat announced. “Mount your steed. We go north, to glowing peaks and flaming pools. We go to welcome Vut’Al Choshek back from the abyss. We go to achieve your destiny. It is time to usher in the new world.”
Chapter 37
At the top of Mount Terragordom, there was a cave that opened onto a rocky outcropping—a jutting ramp that fed serenef and their riders to the sky. Nera stood precariously upon the edge of this ramp, staring out across the
expanse of rising peaks. She imagined what the land was like before the goblins had brutalized everything. It was said the region used to be heavily forested, teeming with game and bubbling springs. But not anymore. This was the land of death. The goblins were an infection, a disease manifested as monstrous humanoid creatures armed with swords, axes, and spears. As evil as men could be, they could also accomplish great good. Remove the good and what was left? Goblins. The abominable creations of Vut’Al Choshek.
Nera glanced to the other side of the ramp where Org and four other riders were preparing the serenef for their journey. The serenef had ruddy, wolfish heads and muzzled mouths, and they bore saddles upon their bat-like bodies. The goblins took great delight in beating the poor creatures with clubs to get them to comply, and sometimes they beat them just for sheer the pleasure of causing suffering.
A shadow of what the world will be like if Vut’Al Choshek returns, Nera thought. I can’t let it happen—I can’t.
She had thought she could rely on her friends to keep his return from becoming a reality; that they could defeat the Cythes together. But now, her confidence was shaken.
An hour before she had been awakened by a panicked Sir Weston. Jelani, Martha, and Gregory were gone.
It had been the longest minute of her life.
She was sure the goblins had killed them. But then, the three of them reappeared, Martha in Jelani’s arms—wounded. Not by goblins. By Gregory.
In that moment, Nera could have killed him. She wanted him to suffer the way he had made Martha suffer. She wanted him to pay for his idiocy, his selfishness. The world as they knew it was in jeopardy, but all he could think about was saving his own skin. Jelani had to stand between them, insisting that Nera listen before she did something she would regret. And so she listened.