by Jesse Teller
Rayph nodded. He hugged Glimmer, then stepped back. “I must be on my way. Thank you for your aid. There is one more thing I need to mention to you. A horror rises in Maskalorn.”
“We have felt that creature’s coming for many years. The Demontser held it at bay.”
“She is free of that duty now,” Rayph said. “The thing calls itself Bastion the Gray, Son of Wyld the Blood and Cratius of Stone.”
Glimmer’s face spasmed, then he won his composure once again.
“No child of those two could exist, could it?” Rayph said.
“I will take this matter before the Court. If we can get permission from Phomax to investigate, we will.”
Rayph nodded. He knew Phomax would not allow Trimerian Knights to walk his nation unhindered. He could do nothing but bow and turn to go.
“Rayph, will you stay for a moment?” Glimmer asked. “I have a gift for you.”
Rayph was anxious to leave but would not insult his former commander. He turned and forced a smile to his lips. “A gift?”
“Two, actually. I had a lot of trouble locating them, and have meant to send them to you but have lacked the time.” Glimmer reached into his desk and pulled out a decorative box, one foot by four foot by six inches. Rayph considered what could have been a sword box, and he looked back up at Glimmer. A second object covered with a filthy leather wrap was set on the table. “I hope this helps you with your quest.”
Rayph opened the box seeing a sleek, black wooden handle and a shimmering steel blade. The cut of the metal and the form of the box mirrored the elondri. He reached a hand out to touch the handle. At once he felt a pulse of power and a face flashed in his mind, a face penetrated by thorns of bone, screaming. Rayph pulled his hand back and looked up at Glimmer with tears in his eyes.
Rayph’s dagger pulsed like a beating heart, and he looked at the wrap with wide eyes. “These are Fannalis’s brothers!” he said. “Geterel of the short sword and—” Rayph pulled away the leather wrap to expose a bastard sword that spoke of elondri craftsmanship, “and Leteral of the bastard.” The room trembled as Fannalis wept. Rayph snatched Glimmer up in an embrace.
“I cannot thank you enough. This is impossible. How did you find them?”
“I want you to find a young man when you are not as pressed for time. His name is Roth. He studies under Ithyryyn in a college in Tienne. Find him and talk to him about these brothers. He can aid you, I hope.”
Rayph looked down at the two swords in awe. He thanked Glimmer again and rushed off to the mountains of Neather.
A Kiss of Life from the Hand of Death
Ten of them were in the room at all times. Aaron looked at the group of beasts and his blood ran cold. They were haunted men, their hair a sty, their eyes dead. They possessed a similar expression, a face locked in a grimace of concentration. They seemed as if they were gripping tight to what little control they had in the face of crippling despair. Every now and then, one of the guards Kat had sent home with Jetula would let out a slight whimper, as if it were locked in a painful existence. Aaron hated them all.
They carried weapons, but it had to be for show. These men and women had long ago lost any ability to be as ordered and discipline as it would take to be deadly with a weapon. And when they were given what they wanted, they did not use a weapon to kill it.
As Aaron stared at them, Jetula grinned and rang a bell. Aaron longed to turn away, but he made himself watch. He needed to see this, needed this constant reminder of the situation he was in.
Two men and a woman were marched into the room in chains. The woman was naked and savaged, bruised and covered in drying blood. The men seemed broken, and Aaron knew they were. Their entire life had been stripped from them. Every possession seized, every right ripped away. They had lost every family member and friend they had ever had, and they had been beaten and broken until they prayed for death. Then this.
The vampires standing guard around the wall stared with greedy eyes at the chained victims, jaws clenching, teeth snapping as they glared enraptured by the ones before them.
Jetula stood and walked past Aaron. She stepped so close, as if she did not fear him at all, and Aaron liked that. She stopped at the victims, bound and weeping in the middle of the floor, and she ran a claw along the breast of the woman. She stopped at the nipple and looked at her monsters. Long chords of drool hung from their mouths. Aaron felt sick to his stomach.
“Look at my benevolence at work before you,” she said, staring at the vampires. “I have brought to you a meal worthy of swine like you. See how filthy they are. See how broken and beaten. They stand before you weeping and begging for death. See, this is what you are worth. You are not good enough to hunt for your food. You are for feeding like a cow might be fed a bale of hay. So I present them to you as always. Take your meal. Take your fill.”
Aaron locked his gaze on the spectacle as the beasts fell on their meal with savagery and ravenous desire.
When the room was devoid of all except his nightly guards, Aaron crawled to the very edge of his chain, and he reached. He slipped as far out as possible and strained. The cuffs cut into his hand, chafing him and biting into his flesh until he could touch a small patch of floor where the woman had been ripped into. He slapped the ground and rubbed his hand into the mess. He rubbed as vigorously as he could until his hand came away with the slightest amount of blood on it. He crawled back and massaged the blood into his skin. He watched the guards, knowing them incapable of talking, incapable of relaying what he was doing. He kept massaging and prayed to The Pale that his desperate plan might work. He rubbed and massaged until his hand was dry. Then he crawled out to get more.
When she came in the next day to sit her couch and run her business, she walked into the room without noticing him. He laid the floor, curled into a tight ball, holding his stomach and groaning. He stayed this way for a long time before a servant came into the room with an empty wine jug.
The serving man walked the room to stop before Aaron. He looked down at him, and Aaron groaned. He pounded his head on the floor, only then drawing Jetula’s attention.
“What is this nonsense?” she said. “Hold still. We must drain you today. You are stronger, and my mistress desires your hate-filled life force.”
Aaron struggled, curling his tongue and praying. This was the hard part. This was the moment he was worried about. He concentrated as hard as he could, and with great effort, he turned and vomited at the feet of the servant.
The man pulled back in horror and looked at Jetula.
“He is not well,” the man said. “Look how dark his skin is. He is almost brown in places. He is vomiting. When was the last time he ate?”
“I fed this little cur last night,” she snapped.
“Well, his food is undigested. His guts have gone sour.”
Aaron had hidden his food for two days, stuffing it in every crevasse he could find. Before she had come in, Aaron had devoured it all.
“He is sick. He has a blood infection. I have seen this before.”
“I will not take the opinion of some man hardly above a slave. I want you to send for a healer,” Jetula said. “Go find someone who can tell me for certain what is wrong with him. Until then—” Jetula kicked out savagely at Aaron. He could do nothing but take the kick and wait.
Almost two hours later, the priestess walked into the room. Aaron turned to her and his heart seized. He had always thought she was beautiful. He looked at the skull painted on her face, then he closed his eyes and groaned.
“I ask you for a healer and you bring me a priestess of The Pale?” Jetula said with a scowl.
“She came to the door before the healer arrived and said she needed to see the dying man. What could I do, turn her away?” The servant looked at Mort with all the fear of the slave cast. He lowered his head and waited for his punishment.
“I am a servant of The Pale. You are a vampire,” Mort said. “My church despises your kind as an abomination. I can call
on my sisters and brothers of the cloth, and any killers who will answer their dark mother’s need, and bring war to your kind. I can rip this city apart and destroy with a single touch the beasts that serve you.” Mort bowed slightly. “Or you can let me examine him.”
“You boast of the impossible. No one can kill with a single touch,” Jetula said.
Mort turned and walked to the wall where the guarding monsters stood, and she stopped just short of one. She reached her hand out very slowly and brushed the tips of her fingers across the monster’s arm.
Instantly, there was a cry of utter pain before the beast fell to the ground. It kicked one time before falling still.
Mort turned with a nod. “Let me see to him, or I will call in the army of The Pale and bring this city to its knees.”
Jetula stared at Mort, then she waved a dismissive hand.
Mort knelt before Aaron and stared at him. She gripped his hair, jerked it to the side and tapped his neck with two of her fingers.
“Do not kill that man. His death is of my design,” Jetula said.
Mort pulled a tiny flask from her robe and unstoppered it. Aaron waited for her to grab his head and force the vessel in his mouth, but she did not. Mort tipped the bottle and drank of the flask herself. She filled her mouth and opened his mouth with her tongue, locked lips with him, and kissed the liquid into him.
Aaron let himself feel her lips, let himself enjoy the touch of her tongue. He closed his mouth and spasmed once, then again, before collapsing in a heap and lying perfectly still.
“He will live,” Mort said.
Aaron wanted to be mad at her, but the feel of her mouth on his had felt so good and right that he said nothing. If he escaped, he would rail against her then. He would make her believe he had hated the touch of her mouth. For now, he would let it comfort him.
The Tragonian ale filled his throat and coursed to his stomach. The stitches on his face popped and ripped as his wounds healed. The ale filled him with warmth, and his strength returned to him. Mort spoke in low tones with Jetula before walking out without looking at him. As Aaron watched her go, his heart panged painfully in his chest.
When they drained him of his blood that day, it did nothing to weaken him. Mort had promised it wouldn’t. She had sworn the ale would keep him strong for a couple of days, no matter how much blood they took from him.
They had squeaked out a little time. Time for him to think and plot. But in two days, he had to be free of this place. By then, the effects of the ale would pass, and the blood drain would weaken him beyond salvation. This was his last miracle.
The Bloody Little Girl
Rayph landed at what had once been a great gate but had been reduced to enormous bent hinges and a few scattered splinters. The walls on both sides of the gates stood fifty feet tall and ended in a cliff on either side. Two massive Neather wolves snarled in the stonework relief carved on each wall. The valley beyond was a wide hill of green leading to a thick wood. Rayph looked for any sign of life and found nothing. If this wall had once been a beacon of strength for the men and women of the mountain, it was that no more. The place seemed deserted. Rayph stepped under the arch to the land of the progetten and the mysteries that waited beyond.
“Boss, where are you?” Smear asked.
“I’m headed into the mountains of Neather following a clue as to the nature of Tristan’s power.”
There was a ripping of air and a portal opened. Beyond, Rayph could see a dingy room covered in dust and decay in a muted light. Before him stepped Drelis, and as the gate closed behind her, she said, “I’m coming.”
“What about the Mothers Smite? They need our protection, and I promised—”
“The women of my order do not need a guardian as much as you think they do. They will be fine if left alone for a few hours. I need to be here,” Drelis said.
“What am I walking into?” Rayph asked.
“I have a history with these people. I can help.”
Rayph nodded and moved on.
Once inside the gate, he stopped, looking at the beautiful green grass, and he opened his third eye to examine the land with his mystical sight. Shades of man and wolf haunted the land, each bearing some horrible wound that marked them as dead, ghosts of some war so traumatic that those who had died here were trapped in their horror. Rayph closed his eye, unwilling to gawk at their misery, and moved farther into the mountain. He entered the woods and found no signs of life. No boot prints were visible, no sign of any dead fires or chopped down trees. He moved farther, feeling an eerie sensation of being watched. He closed his eyes and pulled forward the magic of the area to fill his aura.
His head felt as if it would rupture. A great and terrible force pulled in close. Rayph dropped to a knee. His hands gripped the grasses, and he wiped blood from his nose. He could quite suddenly smell the overpowering scent of some beast, and he drained his aura immediately.
Drelis pulled ash from a bag on her hip, letting a steady stream out of her hand as she walked a circuit around him. When the circle was closed, the weakening sensation dissipated instantly. “This place is haunted by a sour force. Do not draw in your magic unless you are in dire need of it,” she said.
“What in the name of the gods was that?” Rayph stood on trembling legs and shook his head. It cried out with the motion, and he looked around again. The scent of the beast would not leave him. Rayph sat on a fallen tree and fought for his balance, rising as soon as he could continue on his way.
He walked. The forest had begun telling secrets shortly after he entered it. Rayph was not a tracker. It was a skill he was versed in, but not gifted at, but he found a pattern to the ground and knew a road nearby.
“Hello, friend,” a man said from very close. Rayph jumped and turned to look at the tall, lean man who had sneaked up on him. This man was so close he could have taken his knife and cut Rayph’s throat had he wanted to.
Drelis bowed low.
Rayph stammered but could not manage a word before the man smiled at him.
“Hungry?” the man said.
Rayph decided it was not a question. “Famished,” Rayph said. “I’m Rayph Ivoryfist. This is my companion Drelis. You may have heard of her.”
Drelis stepped forward and extended her hand. “Drelis Demontser, woodsman. May I have your name?”
“Betten,” the man said. He took her hand but seemed not to know what to do with it. He swiped his blond hair from his eyes and knelt. In moments, he had a fire going. He pulled meat from a sling on his waist, cooking it with spices from a small bag.
“What are you doing here, outlanders?” Betten said. “You have the look of a man on a mission.”
“I’m looking for a blood mage.”
Betten looked up, unreadable, and nodded. He handed small tin plates over the fire, and Rayph and Drelis took them. When the meat touched Rayph’s lips, he knew indeed he was hungry, and he ate feverishly.
“Well, blood mages are few and far, stranger. Maybe you are unsafe,” Betten said.
“I will not hurt you,” Rayph said.
“You want me to take you to a blood mage. You promise not to hurt me and expect I will do as you ask. What if I leave you dead in this camp, Rayph Ivoryfist? What if I take your woman with me?”
Rayph looked at the man and shook his head. “You’re not the murdering type. I can see it in your eyes. You would ask me to leave your mountain, but not harm me unless I harm you. And I will not do that. You have my word.”
“Come. I have a man I want you to meet,” Betten said.
“What name does he go by?” Drelis asked. She seemed excited and a bit afraid. Rayph wished he had asked more questions of her when she joined him.
They walked for hours, and Rayph realized Betten was getting him lost. Soon Rayph did not know where he was, but he knew he need only lift off the ground and fly and he could find his way. They came to a great valley where a city was being built. The walls were huge and the men who manned them were huge
, as well. Progetten were known to be massive. Rayph fought back the fear of the knowledge he was surrounded. These people did not know magic, save blood magic and the shamanistic powers of the elements.
A man shouted to Betten from above the wall. The gate opened without a single question being asked.
“Who is this boy you bring with you?” a great man asked. “And this beauty?” He stood almost eight feet tall and carried an axe with a blade bigger than Rayph’s torso.
This man did not know Drelis either.
“They are outlanders. They need to talk to Flak.”
“Flak Redfist is the man you are taking us to see?” Drelis asked.
When the name Redfist hit the air Rayph’s heart jumped. He remembered Aaron and his king, and he decided that he had to be very careful.
Drelis seemed overly excited. Rayph put his hand on his fetish and spoke quietly.
“Who are these people, and how do you know them?” Rayph asked. If she heard, she said nothing in response.
“The man’s name is Rayph Ivoryfist, and I think he is a trimerian. The woman is called Drelis. Do you know her?” Betten asked.
The man looked at her for a long moment. “Never seen her before now.” He seemed intelligent and dangerous.