by Sarah Hawke
The glow from the runes cast the entire corridor in an eerie blue light, but it allowed him to reach the door without any trouble. After glancing over his shoulder one last time to ensure he was alone, he touched the golden handle and tugged, wondering if it was locked.
But miraculously, it wasn’t. Rohen pulled the door open and crept inside, half expecting King Thedric himself to leap out of the shadows. Instead, the young Templar was greeted by the light of half a dozen candles arrayed around the altar to his left. He pushed his blade back into its sheath and closed the door behind him, then panned his eyes about the room in search of Delaryn.
The chapel was about forty feet long and twenty wide, and there were only enough pews to seat about a dozen people. The altar itself was just as humble: it was little more than a rectangular slab of stone atop an elevated platform. The looming statues of the Triumvirate, however, were as impressive as any others Rohen had seen. Escar the Guardian, Shalassa the Moonmaiden, Dathiel the Watcher…the only three gods to survive the treachery of the ancient elves were arrayed in a triangle around the altar, as imposing and inspiring as ever.
Why would she want to meet here, of all places? There has to be somewhere else quiet in the castle where the gods can’t literally look down on us in judgment.
Rohen sighed and shook his head. He was already getting ahead of himself. Delaryn wasn’t even here, and in all likelihood, she wasn’t coming. Perhaps Thedric was making it impossible for her to slip away, or perhaps—
“Rohen!”
His eyes shot open and his head whipped around as Delaryn appeared from behind the statue of Escar. The shadows were so long and deep he could barely see anything besides the candlelight glinting off the golden trim of her white cloak. They both stood still, trapped in a breathless stare, before she dashed across the chapel and leapt into his arms. Her thighs clamped around his waist so tightly he didn’t even need to catch her, and she clutched the sides of his head and pulled their lips together.
Rohen wasn’t sure how long they kissed, but it felt like an entire lifetime passed before they broke for breath. She was as weightless as a feather and as warm as a summer wind. He wanted to carry her all around the Hold; he wanted to carry her all the way around the damn country. Anything to hold her in his arms as long as possible.
“Thank the gods you came,” she whispered, cradling his jaw with her fingertips when they finally pulled apart. “I don’t know what I would have done if…”
Rohen pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed at her thighs. She must have been able to feel his bulging manhood pressing up against her, just like he could feel the heat of her quim. “I’m here, but I don’t…what are we doing?”
“Being together,” Delaryn whispered, smiling. “The only way we can.”
“But this isn’t going to…” He swallowed and shook his head. “You know we can’t—”
“Tonight, we can do anything we want,” she told him, lifting up his chin until their eyes were blazing into one another. “And I want to be with you.”
She kissed him again, even more frantically than before, and Rohen’s cock swelled until it nearly burst out of his trousers. All of his concerns about surviving the coming battle—all of his concerns about surviving tomorrow—melted away on her loving lips. The High King himself could have stormed through the chapel door, sword in hand, and Rohen still wouldn’t have let her go.
“Behind the statues,” Delaryn breathed as she gently nibbled at his lip. Rohen didn’t hesitate; he carried her onto the elevated platform, past the altar, and into the narrow nook behind the statue of the Guardian. There wasn’t much space back here—it was little more than a waiting area for acolytes to stand before the priest called them to the altar—but Delaryn had set out a lush fur blanket and several pillows.
Rohen gently laid her out on her back. She pulled him on top of her, her thighs still locked around his waist even as her hands drifted down his shoulders to the sides of his brigandine. He helped her unfasten the straps one by one, and when he leaned up to cast aside the heavy coat, she unclasped the brooch holding her white cloak together and let it fall from her shoulders just like back in the sitting room.
He stared down at the girl—no, the woman—beneath him, his breath catching in his throat. She was so lovely she didn’t even seem real. Her platinum blond hair splayed across the furs, and her icy blue eyes glimmered expectantly in the candlelight. He dragged the tips of his fingers across the impossibly smooth skin of her stomach, then leaned down to kiss her belly. Delaryn moaned softly, sweetly, as he nibbled his way from her navel to her breasts. She lifted herself off the furs just enough that he could reach around her back and unclasp the only buckle holding her cropped bodice in place.
Maiden’s mercy…
Somehow, her breasts were even more perfect than he remembered. Rohen cupped them in his hands, marveling at the impossibly soft yet firm flesh, while he kissed them one after the other. Delaryn gasped as a delighted shiver cascaded through her, and she closed her eyes and whimpered when he delicately rolled his tongue over her nipples. Her knee pressed and rubbed against his manhood, and she took hold of his right hand and led it down to her skirt.
Rohen had never been more keenly aware of his inexperience as a lover; Delaryn was only the second woman he had ever touched so intimately, and he was far more terrified of disappointing her than he was of getting caught. But he was determined to follow her lead and respond to her cues, and he happily pushed her skirt down her hips and over her legs. Her knees immediately parted, beckoning him to explore, and she gasped when his fingers traced along her inner thigh and up to her quim.
“Oh!” Delaryn gasped when he eased a fingertip inside her. She was so warm, so wet, so inviting…and her body seized in ecstasy every time he pushed deeper.
Rohen plunged, pinched, and rubbed, using her sighs and whimpers as his guide. When she threw back her head and nearly lost control, he kissed his way back down her stomach until his lips reached her folds. The instant his tongue joined his finger, she cried out and grabbed such a firm hold of his hair that he could barely move his head.
Not that he wanted to. The heady taste of her carnal nectar was even more intoxicating than he had imagined. More than anything in the world, he wanted—he needed—to make her spend.
And she did. Delaryn bit down on her lip to stifle her screams as a climax cascaded through her. Rohen smiled when her thighs squeezed his head, elated that his amateurish fumbling could bring her joy. Her heat, her scent, her taste…he wanted to devour every part of her. He wanted to spill everything he had inside her.
“Gods…” Delaryn breathed, her eyelids fluttering uncontrollably. “That was so…”
Rohen crawled up her body to kiss her again. His fingers returned to her quim; they continued massaging her even as her own fingers reached out and pushed inside his trousers to free his aching stem.
This time when their lips parted, they both knew exactly what they needed to do. Delaryn looked up at him, panting breathlessly as her hands guided the tip of his shaft to her slick, yearning folds. The molten fire of her quim nearly set him off as it slowly enveloped his manhood, but Rohen clenched his teeth and fought back the explosive tide as her ankles locked behind his back.
“Oh!”
They cried out together as he thrust his full length inside her. She was so tight, so hot, that he didn’t understand how any man could endure such glorious torment for more than a few moments. Just knowing he was buried inside her velvet depths, locked in her most intimate embrace, was nearly enough to make him spill. Delaryn pulled his lips down to hers, but even kissing threatening to push him over the edge.
“Is that…?” Rohen breathed, pressing his forehead against hers. “Is that all right?”
“Yes,” she gasped, smiling. “It’s perfect.”
“I don’t know how long…I don’t think I can…”
“Just take me,” Delaryn said. “Please.”
Rohen slo
wly withdrew before he thrust inside her again, vowing that he would last until she spent again no matter what it took. Her quim was a sweltering paradise, and every time she moaned and squirmed beneath him, he swore he would burst—
“Argh!” Delaryn screeched and clutched at her head as if someone had just stabbed her temples.
“What?” Rohen gasped, freezing in place. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” she bit out, shaking her head. “It’s just…ahh!”
She grabbed her head again, and her entire body seized up beneath him. Rohen frantically pulled back and fell onto his haunches, terrified he had done something wrong—
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the familiar glow of his wraithblade seeping out from inside its scabbard. He turned and stared at the eerie blue light, his stomach plummeting through the floor. He hadn’t spoken the command word, and there was only one reason the runes would activate on their own.
Chol.
“By the Guardian,” Rohen gasped. “How—?”
The words had barely escaped his lips when something slammed into the chapel door from the other side. The wood bulged but didn’t break—yet—and Rohen’s instincts took over. He rolled away from Delaryn, then swept up his scabbard and drew Varlothin in a single smooth motion. The runes glowed brightly, hungrily, as if they yearned to feed on Godcursed flesh.
They didn’t have to wait long. The door splintered open a fraction of a second later, and a trio of gangly, albino creatures burst inside the chapel. From a distance, the Chol might have been mistaken for elves or possibly even humans—they wore armor, carried weapons, and moved like any other soldiers—but a single glimpse of their gaunt faces was more than enough to betray their otherworldly corruption. Their flesh was as slimy and pallid as a water-gorged corpse, and their sunken, luminescent green eyes burned in their skulls like tiny molten emeralds. They reeked of death and despair, but they weren’t undead. They were very, very much alive.
Not for long.
Delaryn’s terrified shriek finally snapped Rohen into action. He leapt onto the elevated platform with the altar, placing himself between her and the Chol. The first monster lunged right at him, its rusty, battered sword chopping straight down in a reckless attempt to split the naked human like a log. Rohen’s Templar training immediately kicked in: he drew his left foot behind him, sidestepping the wild strike, then counterattacked just like his instructors had taught him. He slashed his wraithblade across the Chol’s throat, liberating its head from its shoulders in a single clean swipe. A fountain of black blood erupted from the corpse, splattering Rohen’s chin and chest, but he didn’t have time to be disgusted. The Chol kept coming.
“Get back!” he cried out as he parried the second Godcursed elf blade to blade. The two Chol cared nothing for their lost companion; they were fueled by an ancient, bitter rage that drove them to mindless slaughter. Even orcs and gnolls and Roskarim barbarians could eventually be reasoned with, but not the Chol. Only death could halt their rampage.
And that was precisely what the Guardian’s Templar were trained to deliver.
Rohen parried two more wild strikes, one from each Chol, but even though the deflections were clean, he could already feel himself falling behind. Their attacks were uncoordinated but relentless—he parried and dodged and rolled, but he never had a single instant to retaliate. The Lord Protector’s words suddenly flashed through his head: the Chol will always swarm you if you let them. They will never tire or relent. You have to be clever—you have to control the battlefield.
Gritting his teeth, Rohen retreated to the back of the elevated platform to buy himself a split second of reprieve. “Hathal niveh!”
Varlothin’s runes flared even brighter than before, but this time they didn’t merely glow—the entire blade shimmered until Rohen was holding a sword-shaped beam of blue spectral flame. In their purest form, wraithblades could partially disperse into the Pale itself, allowing them to pass through flesh, steel, and even stone as easily as the hand of a spirit. It was the perfect counter to otherwise impenetrable Aetheric barriers—and to the monsters it had been forged to destroy.
Both Chol shrieked as they lunged for him, but Rohen was ready. He prepared to copy his first maneuver of the fight, knowing full well they would anticipate it. Their minds may have been addled by rage and twisted by torment, but some part of their ancient elven heritage still lingered in their memories. Even these Dretches, the simplest and most feral of the Godcursed, seemed to have an instinctive understanding of the basics of swordplay.
But this time, that knowledge worked against them. The first Chol slashed across his body rather than straight down, expecting the Templar to pull back his left leg and sidestep a wild chop. Rohen did exactly that…but a split second later, he also ducked beneath the swipe, then thrust out with his wraithblade. Normally, such an awkward crouch would have prevented him from mustering enough force to pierce the creature’s armor, but a Pale-shifted wraithblade could cut through almost anything. The glowing blue sword burned through the Chol’s chest like a hot poker, searing its albino flesh and boiling its innards in spectral flame. The monster was dead before it crumpled to the floor.
Its sole remaining partner was still undeterred; it thrust wildly at the crouching Templar. Normally, Rohen could have easily turned aside the attack and countered with a crisp and deadly riposte, but the drawback to Pale-shifting his blade was that it lost nearly all its defensive ability. Varlothin could pass through almost anything, but that also meant almost anything could pass through it—parrying the incoming strike might damage the Chol’s blade, but it wouldn’t halt its deadly momentum.
Mercifully, Rohen wasn’t as flatfooted as he seemed. With a combination of youth, training, and flexibility inherited from his elven blood, he managed to throw himself backward and out of range of the Chol’s mad thrust. The monster stumbled and lost its balance for a fraction of a second, but that was all the time Rohen needed. He reared back and threw his sword, eschewing finesse for surprise. Varlothin seared through the hapless Dretch, carving the creature in half while cauterizing what should have been a river of blood.
“Hathal niveh!”
The wraithblade shifted back into the physical world an instant before it clattered to the floor, and Rohen stepped over the two charred halves of Godcursed elf to retrieve his sword. He stood over the bodies, his arms trembling even as his hands closed around the hilt of his weapon. The wraithblade may have been solid metal again, but its runes were still glowing. There had to be more Chol here somewhere…
Gulping down a deep, steadying breath, Rohen spun on a heel and dashed back to Delaryn in the nook behind the statues. Her eyes gaped in horror at the monstrous bodies of the Chol, and she was still clutching at the sides of her head.
“Are you all right?”
She continued staring at the gore for several long, breathless seconds, before she finally nodded. “Y-yes.”
Rohen knelt beside her. “What about your head?”
“It’s…” She looked down and closed her eyes. “It’s like someone is screaming right into my skull. I don’t understand…”
I do. By the Watcher, I wish I didn’t…
Rohen swallowed heavily as he looked upon her face as if for the first time. Only those with the Aether in their blood could hear the Wailing, the Chol’s eternal cry for vengeance. If Delaryn was affected, it meant that all the rumors and fears surrounding the daughter of the Winter Witch had been true.
She was a sorceress after all.
Rohen swore under his breath. As much as he wanted to freeze this moment in time and figure out what the hell was going on, he knew they couldn’t afford to delay. If more Chol had breached the castle, then survival was now the only thing that mattered. Everything else—the questions, the dread, the doubt—would have to wait.
“Get dressed,” he said, lunging for his clothes and armor. “They’re coming.”
5
Cursed by the Gods
Thanks to the merciless readiness drills Rohen had endured at Griffonwing Keep, he was back in his brigandine coat in mere seconds. Delaryn moved just as quickly, and the instant she threw her cloak back over her shoulders, he took her hand and tugged her out into the hall behind him.
Varlothin shed more than enough light for Rohen to see where he was going this time, and he tried to strike a balance between speed and caution as they jogged west through the Hold toward the lord’s bedchamber. Sister Jorga’s door was still closed, and he didn’t see any bloody footprints or other traces of carnage…at least, not until he took a quick peek inside the cracked open door to the great hall.
“Oh, gods,” he gasped, fighting back a reflexive wave of nausea. The servants hadn’t stood a chance; every single one of them had been mercilessly cut down. At first, Rohen couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard them scream—the chapel was only a few dozen yards down the hall, and its door wasn’t that thick. Had he really been that oblivious to his surroundings? The Chol weren’t exactly known for their stealth.
No, look at the overturned bags of flour by the entrance to the larder. The Chol must have come up there from somewhere underground. The monsters were on top of these people before they even knew what was happening.
Delaryn covered her mouth in her hands when she peered over his shoulder and saw the carnage, and Rohen turned and cradled her head into his chest to block her view.
“We have to keep moving,” he told her. “Just stay behind me, all right?”
Rohen feared that she would fall into an inconsolable, blubbering mess right then and there—Watcher knew that most tharns would have emptied their stomachs on the floor or fled screaming back down the hall. But Delaryn wasn’t as fragile as she appeared; she clenched her teeth, nodded, and squeezed his hand as if she never planned to let it go.
The two of them pressed onward through the long, gloomy corridors around the hall. Rohen kept expecting to find more corpses along the way…and unfortunately, this time his instincts were right. A pair of royal guards had been slaughtered just outside the sitting room, and from the looks of it, they had been caught nearly as flatfooted as the servants. One of the men had been shot by a crossbow before he had even drawn his weapon; the other was splattered in enough black blood that he must have scored a hit on a Chol before he’d been run through.