by K R Leikvoll
When my soul was replicated, the bond took over his will to resist. I was Vincent’s first true bond and his only bond. He had never felt it before between Raven and James as they had not been bound to demonic children. To see the change in him was dramatic.
He almost looked like he wished to kill Varnoc for a moment before he regained composure. The intensity of envy written on his face was one Sendrys and Raven had never seen before. Both took steps away from him with unsure caution. Sendrys recognized it at the same time I did, as she had experienced those emotions before herself when it came to loving her demonic children. It gave away his secret to her as well.
Vince stood and stormed out of the ritual chambers in a way that seemed angry at a glance, but was truly more frightened. It is laughable to think that anything could frighten him, but emotional connections were his worst fear… besides maybe death.
Regardless, he would feel what torment he put me through.
THE EMPIRE OF ZAAR
I was filled with a surprising sadness when it came time to depart. At least more than I would have thought myself capable of. Varnoc’s presence had seemingly solved the great discomfort I constantly felt. For a short time, I forgot about having to kill my Master or extinguish the planet. I was more content spending my existence with my demonic child in silent, never-ending embraces. I am sure that Vince could have replicated that feeling, but he was scarcely seen since the ritual.
It was the first occasion I had been near him in a fortnight when I was called to the armory. There were several others present – Typhlon and Raven notably. I had never seen either of them in their war regalia, and both looked bold.
The armor of the Duskwraith Commander was grander than any other set in all of our forces. It was not black as most of our armor was; instead, it was deep ruby, reminding me of Levia I had seen so long ago. It was made from her dead broodlings and was an incredible magical garb. No ordinary blade or arrow could pierce the scales, which were harder than any Praetisian material. The helm he wore had horns, not unlike Levia’s, dangerous and sturdy. Typhlon was not a man I would want to face in one-on-one combat.
Raven, on the other hand, was wearing thick, durable robes the same shade as his hair. He had painted his face white to replicate the top portion of a skull, vastly contrasting with his shadowy purple eyes. The paint was not simple makeup – it was created by Sendrys and specially imbued to help with necromancy. With his cowl pulled over his head, he appeared more mysterious and eerie than I had ever seen.
They were all awaiting my arrival as I was to receive another gift. I approached it before I gave anyone else my attention. I was immediately in love with the set of armor my kin had made for me. It was dark gray and beautifully crafted. The gauntlets were bladed, as were the shoulder plates to keep enemies out of close range. Though it was thin and light, it seemed to share the qualities of Typhlon’s resistant armor. My time making weapons taught me enough to know that it would provide me with the most protection available. It was both fitting for a Warden and a prophet.
My Master made the others shoo, including Varnoc, so he could assist me with getting it on. As a priestess, I hardly needed to know how to properly equip myself. Even being in the Everglade and living in the palace I had never worn it. It was somewhat constricting at first as I got used to the feeling. I summoned War into my grasp and evaluated where my positioning would need to be improved to compensate. Though it did slow me down an amount that was likely minuscule, it was worth it in exchange for protection.
“When I return, all of the west will be in flames,” I said, savoring the moment and committing it to memory. Vince appeared mildly saddened as I felt to be leaving home. I was excited to embrace the freedom of war, but I would miss him no matter how hard I tried to fight it.
“Leave nothing but death in your wake. The women, the sick, the elderly, the children,” Vince whispered pulling me close. “Burn them all.”
“Only ashes will remain, beloved.”
He kissed me. The way it felt at that moment reminded me of our first night together. I had been so angry and tormented that I had nearly forgotten what it was like to be in love with him than in a mental prison. Vincent had all of me in a way nobody else could. Even in death, I am regrettably chained to his wicked soul. His captive of hate.
Our bond was poison to him. Emotions were a curse. The love he was forced to feel was more violating than anything he had experienced in his long life. I suppose I should have relished his agony, but I knew my feelings toward him would make me weak. If I allowed myself to do anything other than hate him, it would only make it more difficult to kill him when I was ready.
“Farewell, Queen Lazarus,” Vince said bowing and brushing his lips on my hand.
“Farewell, Master.”
The border of Zaar was deserted. Those that were not allowed access to Duskwraith before the war knew better than to sit outside waiting for our forces to invade. They fled to the nearest major city to avoid a quick death, which they would have if they stayed. There were pockets of survivors, mostly starving and would have died before they reached shelter. Nobody stopped our forces from killing any that crossed our path on the way to Diam. It was a mercy in comparison to the pillaging to come.
We only stopped a few times as we went to the deep southern part of the Empire. We could not attack from the east, as they had it defended as a weak point. That meant we must tread through Faeran territory belonging to the northern Evyans. Despite the assault on A’roha, the Evyans were still our allies, thus they had no reason to fight us as our forces traveled. That is to say, they wouldn’t have if they had existed in a number that mattered. There were only a few villages of them living off the land that had managed to avoid Diam’s rebellion and the bloodthirsty Zaarians.
The snow did slow our pace, but it was an advantage to fight the Zaarians in the winter. Not only did their culture dictate it as a passive time, but the lack of food was always their biggest issue as the land became more inhospitable. If there was no game, no chorta or place to grow crops, they had to rely on storages to make it through.
The night before my first battle, I had Varnoc cut my braids. My long hair was something both Vince and I favored, but vanity had no place in war. It was cut short to my jawline so it would not get tangled, caught or pulled by my enemies as they liked to do. It was the first time I cut it, so it was rather odd to get used to. All in all, I looked more unlike myself than I had ever appeared in my life. Had it not been for my pointed ears, it might have been impossible to distinguish what my race or origin was.
I sacrificed with both Varnoc and Raven in preparation for the assault. The boost would help us all. Having another Dark Essentia wielder to rely on made Diam seem like it would crumble like sand. I had not seen Raven fight before, and after countless years of looking up to him as a warrior, I was beyond excited.
Our army led the way when it was time to attack. The snow had ceased with how far south we were, making it faster to make our approach. Typhlon, Raven, Varnoc and I were closer to the center of our organized mass. It was rather odd to see Zaarians take up arms against other Zaarians, but Duskwraith recognized no official race. The Dryads had been crossbred and killed so much that they hardly counted as natives anymore. Duskwraith was home to all; those that would serve were welcome. Their years split from their various homelands brainwashed them into believing that they deserved to rule the world with Vincent as its face. They were loyal through fear, but they were loyal nonetheless.
One of our main scouts met us a decent distance away from Diam, hardly able to breathe. He had an arrow sticking out of his back but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Varnoc jumped off of Morgan and rushed to his side to give him water.
“Well?” Typhlon asked him while he attempted to slow his breathing.
“They are burning the city. They must’ve seen us coming,” the scout replied before dry heaving. Typhlon cursed in his native Femoran tongue. We gathered around in a circle on our var
ious beastly mounts to figure out an alternative.
“This will make the land unusable for all of us. We don’t have enough supplies to maintain a captured city and our forces,” Varnoc said.
“But we do have enough for our forces to make it to Uxe,” Raven muttered with an ominous tone.
“How will the city’s population survive the winter after we take it?” Varnoc asked with a confused stare directed at me. The rest of my companions looked to me as well for a decision.
“If they want to burn the city, let them burn it. Starvation is their problem alone,” I replied. “I will go first.”
“Warden –” Typhlon tried to protest, likely because he wished for me to allow our soldiers in first, but I was too eager. Morgan might have been opposed to it as well, but he still led me to the front.
The first sight of the city was that of tribal land. Everything was crafted from stone and wetwood as it was the most abundant thing in that portion of Zaar. It was somewhat marshy with walls built around the wetlands. They were waiting for us, as the scout had said. Many of them were seasoned warriors that had spent a long season hunting Evyans, wearing armor and wielding blood-blessed weapons.
Whatever they could set fire to, they did. It blocked our entrance into the city, which they were using as a distraction so some could flee north. Their forces had gathered across the widest river in our path, giving us no choice but to go through the city or through the water. I dismounted and approached the river’s edge. My demonic sight gave me the ability to clearly make out their front line through the thick, smoky air.
“We only have one way to go,” Raven said from behind. Arrows had begun to shower the area, causing everyone to dodge and block. He signaled to Typhlon further back to start our charge. I was confused at first, but I had underestimated my brother’s abilities.
There was no fear in the eyes of our forces as they ran at full speed toward the river. Surely it would swallow them whole. Before they could take their first step into the water, Raven reached down and dipped his hands into it. All at once, a burst of cold escaped his fingertips, transferring to the river. The entire water source began to freeze rapidly, bridging the gap between us and the Zaarians.
I leapt onto Morgan and nocked an arrow. I chose my first target by the quality of his armor. He wore skulls and trophies from his opponents, tearing apart two men before there was an opening to strike him down. Misery imbued my arrow as I shot it, channeling my demonic power. Right before my foe might strike the arrow away, or be hit, it shattered into glass shards from the Azmordian Grove, showering both my target and his surrounding allies with a dozen pieces of deadly shrapnel. It was exciting to watch my foes crumble quickly with little effort.
Morgan kept us moving quickly through their ranks, agile enough to avoid the weapons that swung in our path. Something about being surrounded by targets gave me more of a rush than I ever felt fighting in the arena. I feared no one as I stood on Morgan’s back and dove into the thick of the conflict.
War had not tasted blood since its entrance to Praetis thousands of years ago. When the shadows formed my blades in my hands, they felt magnetized to every soul existing around me, ally and foe alike. It was drawn to devour every being, almost controlling me more than I controlled it. I was far beyond wanting to fight its will; I let the rage of War consume all that I was while I danced through the battlefield.
Wielding two blades made it impossible to block properly, but I did not need to block with how fast I could dodge and counter. Two Zaarian brutes came my way together, carrying bone carved weapons in hopes that they could bring me down. It was laughable to think they could as I ducked under the blades that struck to impale me at the same time. My right scythe cut one foe’s guts open; my left tore through the other enemy’s leg. When they both fell to the ground in a splash of warm blood, I called on my demonic power. Crimson flames sprayed from my weapons, burning both of the men alive.
An arrow struck my back with enough force to disrupt my balance, but my armor protected me from being left with anything more than a scratch. Without thinking, I turned and threw a blade of War in their direction. The blade never left my grasp, instead, a line of fire burst from the Essentia’s edge. It seared through everyone in my path, even ripping up parts of the earth as it soared in the archer’s direction. Several from both factions were torn apart from the line, including the one who originally struck me.
Seeing such an ability – something I had no idea I was capable of – invigorated me to the point of no return. I reached toward the blazing city and willed the fire to cross over the ramparts and into the battlefield. It engulfed all in its path giving everyone a disadvantage. Everyone except for me, that is. I made use of the heavy smoke billowing into the air as cover while I hacked into my blinded enemies.
That battle was the first time I truly sacrificed through killing. One of the particular notable things about War was that one could avoid the flames of sacrifice if they fed the weapon as much as it desired. It gave me the power to rely on the Void and Lord Nakarius without worry. I do not recall seeing Varnoc, Raven or Typhlon most of the fight. The majority of our forces were behind me as I worked my way deeper into the lines of our enemies. I lost track of where I was and any tactical plans we may have made. All I was focused on was how many I could kill before I ran out of energy.
For a period, it was as if none of them would ever be fast enough to hit me. My demonic vision showed every enemy in all directions at once – it was a blessing that let me avoid each swing of a sword or path of an arrow. Many had changed their target as I sliced my way into the crowd. Anyone that stood in my way lost limbs if not their head. Before too long, I had trapped myself behind their lines.
Those closest to me formed a large circle, blocking off any that might have tried to aid me. Based on the screams and sounds of battle in the distance, I knew we were winning even if I was momentarily stalled. I stood in the center of them all, eyeing each brute as they inched closer, somewhat cautious lest they get beheaded as well.
Instead of trying to find a way out, or my enemies attempting to hack me into pieces, Morgan and Varnoc leapt into the fray, massive battle-axe ready to dispose of our foes. My wolf was vicious and spent time honing his hunting skills before the war began. The sight of the Zaarians stabbing and slashing at my pet and my demonic child put me into a daze. I felt that I would destroy anything that dared harm Varnoc – an odd sensation as I had not known the fear of having my bond split through death before.
I dodged and cut my way to him, covering all attacks that he was leaving himself open to. Varnoc was a man of strength, but not situational awareness, as much as he would have thought. He had not improved his swing rotation in the time he was busy drawing up maps for my Master. I stood to his left, blocking the way for any weapons or stray arrows that might have found their mark in his rib cage.
Despite everything, we fought well together, almost synchronized, breaking through their defense. The strength of our bond was proven on the battlefield. Every blade sent our way was met with a parry and beheading. Varnoc’s massive axe was sharp, shredding through each foe that dared to strike at us. Though we left piles of bodies in our wake, each fallen foe was replaced with another just as vicious as the one before. It felt nearly unending as I bathed in their blood. Yet no matter how hard I fought, no matter how many raised their weapons to us, I never felt fatigued, nor worry for my own mortality.
In fact, I could have risked our planned takeover with my reckless, selfish actions. I was so consumed by bloodlust that I cared not for the lives of the Duskwraith soldiers. I do not think I cared for any lives. All I cared about was the magnetic pull of War, hypnotizing me into annihilating all that stepped in my path. I – being Lazarus the prophet – ceased to be while I fought with the shard of the Dark Essentia. The wrath of the Titan within me, powers pulled from the Void’s centermost layers, guided each of my swings.
It went on far longer than it should have. I was too
overcome to notice that my prize was just beyond my peripherals, watching me fight with intense curiosity and building fury. He wore a grand headdress, rivaling the Emperor’s simple crown. It was made from a chorta skull – particularly big like Ortos’, thus it must have been quite the game to receive a trophy from. The rest of his armor was sparse, revealing his boulder-sized muscles that made everyone look small in comparison. Even his javelin, though it was the same weapon wielded by his allies, was far grander. Most were formed of bone, but it only formed his handle. The blade was made of an Evyan material I recognized, likely from his foes – my old kin – lost to their pillaging. The tattoos that lined his arms and chest were the mark of a killer. I was entirely unfazed by his powerful presence. Instead, a rush of adrenaline washed over me. War wished to taste his blood as much as I did.
Our eyes met, issuing our mutual desire for a duel. Though he was the late Zaarian Emperor’s brother, he was far nimbler and more capable. A warrior of his age and wisdom would have been a good match for his nephew if he had the opportunity to go through with a siege of Uxe. I was not intimidated in the least when his allies began to form another living wall between us and the rest of the battle.
Morein ran a small shard of stone sharpened like a blade across the palms of his hands, squeezing his blood over his weapon. I thought it was mildly humorous, for his filthy god could not save him from the wrath of shadows. I removed Misery and my quiver from my back and handed it to my companion. He seemed alarmed that I wished to fight the chieftain alone with only half my arsenal, but I did not care.
“I have waited a long time to see the forces of Duskwraith,” Morein called with a disgusted grimace on his face. “I hoped for the King himself, and he sends me a pathetic Evyan. I have killed enough of your kind to last me a lifetime. What makes you different from the kingdom of Faera that laid dead at my feet?”