They quietly crept onto the wooden plank roof and tried to disperse their weight as evenly as possible to avoid a creak that would betray them. The Scourge leaders had to ride the line between speed and caution as they didn't want to get surprised by another sentry, but they also didn't want to alert the occupants of the building they were on or worse, fall through the roof itself.
Once they reached the end of the building, they coiled their bodies up and simultaneously launched themselves across the ten-foot gap to land on the next building. They landed quietly, their forms surprisingly light for their size, and their bodies absorbing the excess momentum of their leap. They repeated the same routine for this roof until they reached the end as well. This time the stone house was in front of them.
With practiced movements—honed by running through the forest—they leapt the distance again and landed on the stone building without sounding any alarms. Slate activate his mana vision as Shale searched for a place to keep watch. She ended up crouching in the shadows just before the front of the building while Slate tried to determine how many people were in the dwelling.
As far as Slate could determine, he only saw one living mana signature within the building. There seemed to be multiple objects of power that radiated mana more strongly than most living creatures. Deep below him, there was an object about the size of a wooden cart that burned with power bright enough to hurt Slate eyes.
He was tempted to try and take a look, but he knew from his days in the military that an unnecessary deviation to a plan was enough to get people killed. This was only the second night of their scouting trip, and there was no need to take more risks than they had to. Watching for any changes from his target, Slate moved to the furthest corner of the house from the man.
He focused and then began to spit acid onto the carved wooden tiles in front of him. A soft sizzling sound and caustic smoke began to emit from the roof. Slate looked around to see if anyone had heard the noise while Shale did the same. Seeing that the sound hadn't alerted anyone, including his target, Slate continued his work, he thanked Lucidus that he had chosen the etching acid.
A short time later, he had burned a hole large enough to fit his body, and he dropped quietly into the room below. He allowed a couple of minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness even though his mana vision had no issues penetrating the shadows. This was an excellent opportunity to see if his target noticed anything untoward. Listening intently, Slate could make out the deep, regular breathing that indicated the target was fast asleep. Creeping forward on all fours, Slate held his tail aloft like a scorpion.
When he reached the edge of the bed, Slate used his combined vision to assess the man in front of him. He was faced away from Slate and sleeping on his side. Just a scratch from his blade would be enough to apply some of his duotoxin, but Slate was concerned it wouldn't be enough. Thinking rapidly, he used his toxin-storage glands to produce enough to cover his mouth in it. He surreptitiously made his way to the other side of the bed.
Slate rose up carefully. The man's eyes opened just as Slate closed his jaws on the man's throat. Whatever he was about to scream was muffled by Slate's body. Releasing the man, Slate drew away and sat on his haunches. He watched the man become relaxed. Slate silently signaled to Shale through the Scourgemind, and she dropped in through the roof, landing with a muffled thump. She quickly made her way to the side of the door and held her tail blade at the ready to dispatch any unwanted guests.
Slate studied the victim carefully looking for a sign that the duotoxin had started affecting him. As he watched, the man opened his eyes unnaturally wide. Slate observed the man's pupils becoming as large as dinner plates. The victim began to gush in reverential tones.
"Lord Nocturnus! I thought you had forsaken me."
Both serpentine monsters hissed, startled at the volume of the man's voice. Slate clamped a clawed paw over the man's mouth. He lowered his voice and replied in a sibilant voice.
"Of course not, my child. The followers of Nocturnus are always blessed." Slate didn't know if that was enough to convince the man. He supposed so as a euphoric smile crossed his victim's face. Holy shit. He's high off his rocker. Slate thought.
Shale shot him a questioning look at the unfamiliar term, but Slate just shook his head in dismissal. He needed to focus. The Heritor began by asking control questions. This was his first opportunity to use this particular power, and he wasn't sure how well it would work.
He lifted up his palm to allow the man to speak. "What is your name?" He asked. The man mumbled before replying "Elthar dal Ventrix" Huh, that worked well enough. Let's hurry this up. Slate thought.
"Do you have a map in this house?" Shale looked away from the door as she heard Slate ask the question.
"Yes," the man replied. "It's located in the office below on the wall."
Slate met his companion's eyes, and she nodded. She quietly opened the door, slipped away for the stairs to grab the map. "What is the name of this city?" Slate continued. "
Wayward, my Lord." Wayward. Slate thought. What a weird name. "What nation does Wayward belong to?"
The man's voice lowered, and he seemed to be fighting the paralytic. Finally, he ground out "the Vallyrian Collective."
Shale let herself into the room with a quiet creak of the door as the man's face began to shift through various emotions. He started to shudder and seize up violently. White foam started pouring out of the side of his mouth like an eighth-grade science project.
Slate decided to end this particular experiment and used his tail blade to slice the man's throat. He watched impassively as the man choked on his own black blood.
Congratulations! You have killed a level 40 Vallyr Highlord! You have earned 19,075 and reached level 26! You have unlocked a minor mutation!
The two parasites quickly consumed their prey, not allowing a body to be found by a wandering guard and silently exited through the entrance they had made. They followed the trail they had used before, only this time in reverse and in a short amount of time they had made it back to the tree and down to the ground. Slate shared all of the information that he gathered, but without context, the data was useless.
They decided to make their way back to the forest before deciding what to do next. On their way back, they found the body of the sentry that Shale had dumped and took a moment to have a midnight snack. It was well before sunrise when they made it back to the cover of the forest. Once they arrived, they stopped for a brief planning session.
What next? Slate asked.
Shale held up the map they had stolen as she answered. I know we planned on staying out for about two weeks, but this map that we took is priceless. The longer we stay out, the better chance we have of damaging it and who knows when we'll be able to find another one.
Slate considered her words. Maps were exceedingly rare during the dark ages and even through the enlightenment. An ever rarer phenomenon was an accurate map. Finding one right now would be a considerable boon until they had the numbers that they could scout and create their own maps. Shale was probably right even if he didn't want to go back right now. He felt like they had just left, and he had been looking forward to grinding some of his mutations before returning to the Guardians.
You're right. Slate finally said. We also need Merus' opinion on our next plans. This map will give us a start, and we can begin sending out raiding parties. We should have plenty of time to conduct murder and mayhem on those.
Shale nodded thoughtfully as if conducting murder and mayhem was just as an important topic as the map. Shall we get started on our way back, then? She looked towards the moon perched in the sky. If we start now, we could probably make it by midmorning.
Slate smiled, flashing a crocodile grin. Yes, we should. If we make it back by then, we could be creating another clutch of eggs by midday. Shale rolled her eyes and then playfully punched Slate in the shoulder. At least, it would have been playful, if her frame didn't hide the sheer amount of force she was capab
le of producing. The hit made a hollow knocking sound that made Slate hiss in pain.
Shale just laughed at him in response before speeding off into the forest like a cheetah with the map clutched in one of her hands as she ran. Slate took off after her, and played a parasite version of tag which meant the person who was "it" tried to strike the other with their tail blade while the other used a mix of terrain, reflexes, and tricks to avoid the strike. For the first time in—Slate's—life, he was actually happy. It was the first time he had felt the experience in his adult life, and when he realized it, he almost stopped in his tracks.
His whole life, he had been chasing power and prestige. Now he found himself chasing a girl through the forest on their way back home. She had been the perfect companion in this night's activities. Partly, the Scourgemind had played a role in that compatibility. But the other part was when he looked into eyes that were very much like his own, he didn't see judgment or condemnation. Yes, he was a vicious and cruel predator, but so was she.
Yes, he would do just about anything to make sure that he was going to end up victorious in the conflicts to come. But he also realized that if he had to sacrifice Shale to achieve that victory then maybe it wasn't a victory worth having.
Chapter 14: The Enemy Beyond
Mors dal Ventrix sat upon his stygian throne and felt a disturbance from his connection to the Beyond. He snapped out of his meditative trance. His moved his dank, soot-colored hair away from his eyes and studied the kneeling slaves that lined his throne room. He beckoned to the closest one.
"Come here, girl," his voice like the death rattle of a corpse. The young human woman rose from where she had knelt, face down on the floor. Black iron manacles wound around wrists and ankles as she shuffled her way closer to the throne. She shivered in the graveyard mist that carpeted the throne room. The chill only increased the closer she came to the Patriarch of the Vallyr. His dead black eyes drank in her naked form.
It wasn't her bare flesh—as beautiful as it was—that he was interested in. Vallyr had no need for the slave’s flesh. It was her soul that he hungered for. He rose to his feet and closed the distance. She involuntarily shuddered and a wet choking laugh issued from his mouth. He gripped her by the throat with a hand as white as a tombstone. He took a deep whiff and four pits above his mouth, what passed for a nose to the Vallyr, sampled her fear like a fine vintage wine. The manacles on the slave's rattled like wind chimes as she involuntarily shivered from fear and cold.
Mors drew a carved bone knife from the black sash wrapped around his waist and held it in front of the slave's eyes. He leaned into her face so that her eyes focused on the knife. Her gaze alternated between the serrated blade and on his eyes as deep as the Beyond itself. Up one side of the dagger, a nude woman was carved, and down the other side a skeleton. They clutched each other in a lover's embrace, and a smoke-like substance wreathed their forms and extended down to form the cutting edge and point of the blade.
"Do you know what this is for?" Mors asked. The young woman didn't respond. Instead, tears began to drip from her eyes in quiet desperation. She had seen this implement used many times. "It seems that you do." He smiled at her, and the sight of his razor sharp fangs made her quail further. His eyes lit up with a fuchsia glow, and he plunged his knife into her heart while gripping her by the throat.
A small gasp issued from her mouth as he let her slump to the ground. She fell to her knees, eyes widened in shock, but that was just the beginning. All the other women in the room watched the horrific tableau from the sides of their eyes. They were unable to move for fear of being the next one chosen, and yet they couldn't look away either.
A deep moaning began to issue from the young woman, and Mors watched her with an odd half-smile on his face. This was his favorite part. He never got tired of his victim's soul being ripped from their body and sacrificed to the Lord of the Night, Nocturnus.
"No," the woman mournfully whispered.
The pain was building in her body, and it wasn't long before she began to scream. The screams increased in pitch in volume until her throat began to bleed, and she started choking on her own blood. She began to thrash on the ground like a wild thing as every nerve in her body felt on fire.
Mors made a small gesture that produced a flash of purple light. The chains binding the woman snapped and her arms and legs flung outward until they were frozen spread eagle on the ground. The agony was all-encompassing and penetrating enough that her limbs still vibrated against their supernatural bonds. The Vallyrian Patriarch took another deep breath as the pain nourished him.
Silence suddenly and completed descended upon the throne room. His victim stopped screaming abruptly as a lavender facsimile of the now-dead woman rose from her body. The soul of the woman had been separated from her flesh. Mors smiled evilly as she looked down at herself in horror. She was conscious of the entire process. As her soul was suspended in the air, she noticed the glistening amethyst in the hilt of the dagger. She tried to scream as her soul was drug into the jewel, but souls didn't have a voice.
Once her soul was sealed, Bors withdrew the knife from the body with a slight sucking sensation. Satisfied, he turned to a stone basin located beside his throne. The soul drinker held the knife horizontally above the bowl. He grasped its blade with his other hand and didn't flinch as the bone knife tore a cut in his palm. He watched clinically as blood dripped from his hand into the receptacle.
Once the small basin was ready, Mors gripped the sides of the bowl and summoned the soul within the dagger and to fuel his scrying spell. It took a soul to find a soul in the Beyond. The blood in the basin bubbled and boiled while Mors carefully oversaw its movement. The contents of the bowl kept angrily gurgling, but an image never coalesced. Mors snarled and threw himself into his throne, murderous thoughts running through his mind.
"Mordryn." He hissed. A shadow rose from the floor and coalesced in front of Mors. The shadows were swept away like smoke, revealing the shape of the Vallyrian assassin.
"Yes, Patriarch," Mordryn answered silkily.
"Report to Wayward and discover how my nephew, Elthar has died," Mordryn ordered. "Patriarch?" the assassin asked. It was well known that the Vallyrian royal bloodline couldn't be outright killed. Their soul simply found another body to inhabit.
Mors considered how much he should tell the assassin. If he didn't tell him what he suspected, then the assassin could be walking into danger, and the Patriarch would never discover what happened. However, if the story got out that he believed that Lucidus, the natural enemy of the Vallyr, had returned to the world, then the other noble families would try to have him removed. It was too shocking to be true, and much of the Collective had written off the Silvy's revenge as an old ghost tale. Vallyrian politics weren't particularly kind, and their history was replete with examples of whole families being destroyed out of political expediency.
The danger of Lucidus was exceptionally great. Everyone imbued with her power could permanently kill Vallyrians. Their soul would be cleansed by her fire and removed from the cycle of rebirth. If the victim had been unlucky enough to have made a bargain using their soul with Nocturnus, they would be sent to his realm of shadows to await perpetual torture in permanent darkness. The Lord of Night wasn't an easy immortal to serve, but he was a uniquely powerful one. He gave all of his followers powerful individual strength, but it had to be at the expense of others. The Vallyrian race were natural servants of his due to their emotional vampirism. It was only one more step to drain the souls of their victims too.
The Ventrix line didn't maintain their ruler by dint of birth, it was held through the complete eradication of any who opposed them. The throne conferred immortality to their line and not the other way around. These thoughts and more flew through his head as he considered what to say.
"I think there is something unusual about this. You're right, Elthar should have been sent to another body, but he hasn't."The Patriarch gestured to the cooling corpse on the ground a
nd then to the basin. "I tried to scry his location, but he did not appear within the basin."
The assassin's face grew stern. This was serious, indeed. "I shall investigate this disturbance, Patriarch," he resolutely said. The Patriarch waved him off with an irritated gesture. "See that you do. Don't fail me Mordryn or you'll be the next soul I use to find my dearly departed nephew."
The assassin's form returned to shadow and melted into the stone floor. Mordryn didn't take the threat from the Patriarch seriously. He had served the man's father before Mors had even been born. He was far too valuable to waste on a simple scrying spell. He wasn't looking forward to his task. It would be quite the journey to make it from the capital all the way to the eastern border of the Collective. He would need to get started immediately.
Evolve Page 19