Victor Deus (Heritage of the Blood Book 1)

by Brent Lee Markee

  “There is however the other side of the coin. War promotes progress and change. It strengthened men's resolves, and makes men think. Women always seem to want to reproduce more during times of war, and Scientists and Wizards think of all kinds of new things. Some of the greatest leaders are forged during wartime that would have otherwise been wasted on some farm, or killed for robbing the wrong purse. Friendships that go deeper than most are forged in times of war. When people are going through the same trials it strengthens bonds more than anything else. We are brothers and sisters in arms, and we are united in a sense of purpose, and we know that what we are doing is right.”

  Victor saw Zander Halcyon walking towards the two from the side of this vision and looked at him, which diverted Nim's attention momentarily. When the man was almost to them he greeted them, came a few steps forward and then simply disappeared.

  “Rude lad, disappearing like that.” A voice came from behind the two that sounded a bit too smug for Victor's taste. Nim sighed.

  Victor turned quickly and saw Zander standing about three feet from them. He quickly looked back at where the man had just been. “Translocation?” Victor asked impressed.

  Laughing Zander answered, “Nothing so grand Victor, simply an illusion. You two are rather easy to sneak up on you know.” He said with mirth showing through quite visibly.

  “How long have you been here?” Nim asked in chagrin.

  “Oh, since I saw you leaving your squads camp. I created a bubble around me that blocks out all known forms of detection, and allows me to move about invisibly. It takes a large amount of energy and focus to maintain, but it's a fun trick. Shaping can be a very useful tool for infiltration when used correctly. When used sloppily the energy gathering and use can be detected from a long way away, they may not know what you are doing, but they will know someone is there.” Looking like a cat that just caught a mouse Zander turned his attention fully on Nim. “The squad I'm in command of is moving out tomorrow also to head to the south. I thought our men could travel together.

  “Well that sounds like a good idea milord.” Nim said dryly.

  “Are you sulking Nim?”

  “No, but I'd be careful with the men comment, I have a very good archer in my squad that might take offense to it.” Nim laughed.

  “I'll have to remember that.” Zander said wistfully before turning and ruffling Victor's hair. He got on a knee so that he could look Victor in the face. “I think you should stay behind Victor, there is liable to be a lot of fighting, and I know you've spent your whole life training, but even with your five and a half years of training you are still only a boy.”

  “Oh, I know.” Victor said with a grin. “I had no intention whatsoever of going tomorrow. I thought I'd stay and run water back and forth between the soldiers, and shine some shoes.” His face was very serious, and his tone displayed no hint of humor. “After that I thought that I would take some more lessons with the High Commander between his planning a war and all. Followed by tea with the Queen of course.”

  Nim and Zander could only stare at the boy and blink.

  “I blame you for this Nim.” Zander said finally.

  Nim shrugged, “Don't blame me, he was like this when I got him. I might have helped him refine it, but he's got a natural talent. I think you'd have to lock him up in the brig to keep him here, and I think that would only delay him…”

  “Here, let me leave so you can talk about me without my interruption, since I don't seem to be here anymore anyway.” Victor turned and started back towards the squad's camp as the light left the sky completely replaced by a blanket of glimmering darkness.

  “Definitely your fault.” He heard Zander say as he started walking away, followed by Nim who sounded very smug, “I know, it's great isn't it.”

  Chapter 17

  Face of the Enemy

  Year 3043 AGD

  Month of Ragnós

  Eighth day

  Continent of Terroval

  Southwest of Stalwart

  Blood Orc Encampment

  The night had felt excruciatingly long, and the little sleep Shawnrik had managed was fitful at best. As morning approached he felt like it would have been better staying up all night, instead of fighting a losing battle with an unassailable foe. His time spent with Ol' Man Walkins had given him a healthy respect for sleeping lightly. If it wasn't some other thief coming in to take what they had, or silence the competition, it was Ol' Man Walkins searching through your things looking for what you might be holding back from him. The last two months of travel with Ashur and Dunnagan had instilled a new level of caution to his already alert mind. The difference tonight was that Shawnrik knew the enemy was just down the hallway, every strange sound would bring him out of his half-conscious state. The one time he had been able to fall asleep his dreams were plagued with the reptilian face of his Dracair jailor.

  Sometime, in the early hours of the night he had noticed a soft sound reverberating through the wall. After concentrating upon the sound for a long while it finally clicked, it was the sound of someone crying. Once he realized what the sound was he began to focus on where it was coming from, and trying to make out who it was. Shawnrik found that if he concentrated hard enough, he could make out several voices. The barely suppressed whimpers of children mingled with the quiet sobs of women who have come to know despair. It was then, listening to the cries of an unknown number of women and children that something changed in Shawnrik's thoughts. Eventually he found himself lulled to sleep by the haunting sounds. This time when the lithe assassin came into his dreams Shawnrik wrapped his hands around the man's throat. The Dracair pulled his dagger and stabbed him over and over again, but Shawnrik held on, even as he felt the poison coursing through his body he refused to let go, one thought driving him onward before he awoke. You will die before me!

  “Bad dream lad?” Dunnagan asked, sitting against the stone wall of their cell opposite Shawnrik.

  “Yes and no.” Shawnrik replied. “Last night I heard crying, it was more than one person. They are being held to the Northwest of us I think.”

  Dunnagan nodded, his face somber. “Aye, I heard 'em as well, though I didn' think ye'd be able ta hear em. At least we know that some of the caravan is alive. Assuming they haven't gathered even more people from the area as well. What happened in yer dream?”

  “Last night when I tried to fall asleep I dreamt of our scaly friend, he stood at the front of the cell taunting me. Not able to sleep with his eyes boring into me whenever I closed my eyes I listened to the sounds around us. That was when I noticed the crying. I listened to it until I felt I could hear each individual voices anguish, and sometime during that I fell asleep. I once again dreamt of our Dracair captor... ” He flexed his powerful young hands. “... I wrapped my hands around his throat. He kept stabbing me, and I could feel the poison coursing through my veins, but still I held on.”

  “Good lad.” Dunnagan smiled up at his young friend. “You'd have made a good Dwarf.” Hearing Ashur snicker in the corner Dunnagan turned to his old friend. “Oh Don't worry lad, ye'd have made a good dwarf too.” Looking back to Shawnrik he added in whisper loud enough to be heard by Ashur. “His head is certainly thick enough.” This broke a lot of the tension that had been building in the cell, and allowed them to truly laugh for the first time since their capture. As if their laughter had been a cue for his entrance the Dracair Assassin opened the outer door to their holding area and began to move towards the three.

  “It seems the overgrown snake does not like to hear us laughing.” Ashur said loudly, and with more joviality than Shawnrik thought he himself would have been able to muster.

  “Aye lad, it's a failing of the Dracair as a whole. They only seem ta get their kicks when they're bein' sneaky or slaughterin' something weaker than themselves.” Dunnagan tried to stifle his laughter as their captor moved closer to their cell. It was still apparent in his voice however when he said. “Oh, 'allo scaly.”

  Shawnrik
had seen a snake with his head in the air warning that it was about to strike not all that long ago, and it had looked happier than the Dracair Assassin's face did at that moment.

  “You three seem to think this is a pleasant experience.” The assassin hissed through gritted teeth. Teeth, the likes of which Shawnrik had only seen on carnivores, all pointy and made for tearing. “I am called Tallion, if that is too difficult for your feeble tongues you will refer to me as Dracairei.”

  Shawnrik, gave Ashur a quizzical look, it being the first time he could remember hearing the term.

  “It's the name that the Dracair call their assassin branch of the family tree. The warriors are referred to as Dracani, and the Dreadnaughts are Magnus Dracani.”

  Again a small hint of surprise lit the Dracair Assassin's features before he managed to school them. The next look that came across his features was animosity tinged with a hint of curiosity, or at least that is what Shawnrik interpreted the look that the Dracarei was giving to Ashur as.

  “You know much for a soft skin. By what are you called?”

  “My mother named me David.” Ashur replied.

  “Ah yes, but that is not what I asked. We have heard you refer to the large young one as Shawn, and the Dwarf you called Dunn. However, we have yet to garner your name.”

  “Well Tallion sir, you can call me whatever you like. I've been called just about everything in the book. Everything from milord to you son of a bitch. You take your pick. Though, I wouldn't recommend referring to my mother in such a context. The last fellow that did that wasn't much of a talker anymore.” Ashur said, his confident smile firmly in place.

  The Dracairei made a hissing sound. “I do not think that I would be able to break you gentlemen.” His tone seemed sad for a moment to Shawnrik, but spoke again with less melancholy a moment later. “We might be able to break the young one, but I think it would take too much work. Instead, until you give us answers we shall torture women and children in the next room.” The assassin turned, as if to exit the room and a low growl erupted from Shawnrik's throat.

  Ashur looked put his hand on his young friends arm. “Most people call me Ashur.” The big man said. A noticeable misstep was apparent in the assassin's stride as Ashur told the Dracairei his name, quickly covered by the graceful spin he performed as his agile body came to face their cell once again.

  The assassin moved closer to the bars as if to get a better look at Ashur. Shawnrik noted that the assassin was still well out of arms length when he stopped for his scrutiny however. “You lie, prove you are who you say you are.”

  Ashur's posture changed instantaneously, and Shawnrik realized then that his traveling companion had been making himself look smaller and less threatening ever since they had been surprised on the rocks overlooking the Orc camp. “Open that door up and I'll show you.” Ashur growled.

  “No, I do not think that we will do that. I suppose that would make your dwarf friend Dunnagan Stormhammer then?”

  “Aye Tallion, that I be.” Dunnagan said, his tone as threatening as Ashur's posture.

  Tallion then turned his gaze to Shawnrik and hissed. “Then who would that make you? You who travels with such infamous criminals?”

  “Criminals?” Shawnrik asked, no need to hide his incredulity.

  “It's their twisted sense of self. There are always two sides of an argument. To them, we are criminals. To the Protectorate, we are heroes. It's all a matter of perception. I suppose that they consider most of their craven butchers heroes. I however have never killed any women and children.”

  “Ah, well then, I suppose that would make me a criminal in training, yet to be charged with a crime.” Shawnrik grinned, and Dunnagan snorted in appreciation.

  “Well then, we will have to let you rot here for a short while until we figure out what to do with you.” As Tallion turned to leave Shawnrik knew that they had gotten to the Assassin. The first tell was that the man was no longer moving silently, his claws making a quiet clatter as they connected with the stone beneath his feet. The second was the slamming outer door to their holding area.

  “Well, we know we aren't talking to whoever is in charge around here yet.” Ashur sighed.

  “We do?” Shawnrik asked, wondering how his mentor had come to that realization.

  “Yes, of course. Dracair have insatiable egos, Dracairei being the worst of the lot on that front. He would not have said we so much if he was the one in charge. By including himself as someone who could make decisions he was overstating his own importance. It will be interesting to find out who is running the show. This is quite the operation I think.”

  “Aye,” Dunnagan agreed.

  “For now though, we might as well train.” Ashur said looking around the small cave-like cell.

  “Train?” Shawnrik asked.

  “Yes, train. Just because we are cooped up in here doesn't mean we should let ourselves deteriorate. Pull that large rock out of the corner their Shawnrik. It looks like it weighs quite a bit.”

  Shawnrik groaned.

  *****

  Year 3043 AGD

  Month of Ragnós

  Second Fourth day

  Southeast of Asylum

  “What do you think they're doing?” Za'erath whispered.

  “My guess is looking for people like us brother.” Za'kereth smirked as his twin glared at him.

  Victor had quickly picked up on the differences between the Grey Elf twins. The usual way to tell the two apart was fairly simple, Za'erath's robes were a lighter shade of gray than Za'kereth's. However Victor had noticed that the two would occasionally switch outfits to see how long it took someone to notice. The two were very good at affecting each others tones and mannerisms, however there were several places in which their mimicry was incomplete.

  Za'kereth tended to be the livelier of the two, his mind always flitting from one place to the next. To someone like Victor who had been taught what to look for, it was easy to notice how this mindset effected the way that the Mage moved and spoke. The ends of sentences and some of his words were often clipped, or drifted off as if his mind was already at work on several other problems. If he were engaged in conversation he would often be looking through the person he was talking to, that was of course if he could be bothered to look at the person at all.

  Za'erath however seemed to find the most mundane things completely fascinating. If you talked to him you could easily get the feeling that what you were saying was the most important thing that had ever been said on the face of Terrazil. His movements tended to flow, or lazily flutter from one motion to the next. When he spoke it tended to be short but thoughtful. Victor also thought that Za'erath seemed to have a slightly healthier shine to his ashen skin than did his brother.

  Victor was glad for the bi-play from the brothers however, because it took the focus off of himself for a short time. The stealthiest members of the squad were currently spying on a Dracair patrol in the valley below, and Victor was sure that the others could see his hand shaking. This was the first time he had actually seen the dreaded Dracair in the flesh, and in that moment he thought that all of the stories he had heard growing up had not done them justice.

  The two warriors, which he knew from conversations around the campfires, stood about seven and a half feet tall, and were referred to as Dracani. One of the warriors was a creamy white, and the other was pitch black. Keeping their height in mind, Victor figured that the two warriors were probably the most powerful looking humanoids he had yet to see. It was difficult to keep that thought in mind as warriors stood in the shadow of the third member of their patrol.

  Having read as many books as he could find on the subject of the Dracair Victor thought he would be ready when he saw his first Magnus Dracani, he was wrong. The creature below had to be at least eleven feet tall, it's size making the two large Dracani Warriors seem tiny in comparison. From the books he had read, he figured the Magnus Dracani would look more like a young wingless Dragon, but what sat at the bottom
of the hill could not be described so easily.

  The main body of the thing certainly looked like a young dragon or drake, having four legs, scaled skin, and razor sharp claws. That is where the similarities ended. A torso came up from the front of the creature as if someone had tried to create a Draconic centaur. Unlike a centaur however, the torso looked more like the Dracair warriors than any human. Where the warriors had been bred to be outstanding fighters, the Magnus Dracani had been created and bred to be the strongest thing on the field. Victor shuddered as he thought about what must have gone into the creation of such a creature.

  “That thing is a monster.” Victor whispered.

  “That it is me lil friend.” Sergeant Mcdowell whispered back. Victor wondered for a moment how the dwarf could be so sneaky with hair that red.

  “The first time I saw one I nearly ran away.” Corporal Jameson whispered as they began to back their way off the hill to discuss their next move.

  “Are we going to attack?” Victor asked quietly.

  “Yes” Nim replied. “I think we are in a good spot for it too. Elandria, do you think you can hit one of them from here?”

  “If not, I can get it close enough to get their attention at least.

  “Where are ya aiming?” Drake, the groups primary scout asked.

  Understanding the motivation behind the question Elandria rolled her eyes. “Oh, I suppose the left eye on the Mag.”