Vitiosi Dei (Heritage of the Blood Book 2)

by Brent Lee Markee

  The pair turned south and began walking again. “I don’t know how to meditate,” the boy said after turning to holler at Troublefinder, getting the tiny Quaelyne’s attention.

  “I will show you how tonight.”

  “Alright, what are the other ways?”

  “The next thing you could try is probably the most dangerous, and that is to find whoever messed with your brain in the first place and get them to fix it, or at least discover what exactly it was that they did so that you know what to look for.” Pershanti tossed a stone at a tree they were passing, creating a short snow flurry. “The chances that they will help you voluntarily are not good; assuming that someone did this to you, they probably put you in that mine to keep you out of their hair until they figured out another way to control you.”

  “And they want to control me because of these memories?”

  “Yes and no,” Pershanti said. “Your access to the memories of the blood is strong and potentially a powerful tool, but I do not think that is the only reason they want to control you.” His eyes wandered toward the blood red manacles.

  “You think that whatever these manacles are suppressing inside of me is what they are truly after?”

  “I do, and I think whatever it is must be extremely dangerous for them to place you this far from the city in relative seclusion.”

  “I think you might be right about that,” the boy said, raising his arms so that he could look at the manacles. “Sometimes my mind does things that I don’t understand. I’m afraid that if I take these off, whatever that part of my mind is will take control.”

  “You might be right, which is another reason for the meditation. It might let you interact and hopefully learn to control that part of you that is able to accomplish something like healing Troublefinder.”

  The boy didn’t deny the insightful prod. They both knew that something strange had happened the night before last, and neither of them knew enough about it to explain how it was done.

  “Are there any other things that I could do to undo what was done to me?”

  “The only other way I can think of is to find someone else who has more knowledge and power than whoever did this to you, and let them try to fix it. Of course, without knowing exactly what it was that was done to you, they might cause more harm than good. And how do you judge someone on their abilities well enough to be able to trust them with something like that?” Pershanti sighed. “No, I think your best bet is to slowly work at it yourself over time, or find some way to make whoever did this to you undo it.”

  “It sounds to me like meditation is the best first step either way,” the boy said.

  Pershanti nodded in agreement. “Once we find a spot to stop at for the night, I will teach you what I know on meditation. We have much to discuss, and I think that is a good starting place.”

  Chapter 16

  First Strike

  Year: 3045 AGD

  Month: Midwinter

  First Thirdday

  Death’s Edge Forest

  East of Verge

  “Sir, I just saw two Dracairei head into the village,” Elandria reported. Her heart was beating fast, not only from the run through the forest, but also the sighting of two Dracair assassins so close to their hiding spot.

  “Za’erath and Za’kereth will have to be on their own for now, I doubt they will risk coming back out here once they realize that the assassins are in town.” Sergeant Mcdowell cursed quietly. “I want everyone on full alert. Nothing enters or leaves Verge without my knowing about it. We can’t let those two sneak up on us or we’re dead.”

  “Sir…” Corporal Jameson started, moving away from the tree he had been standing next to. His body fell face first into the middle of the group, blood oozing out of several puncture wounds.

  The camp became a scene of chaos. Trenton roared a challenge, turning to face the forest where the attack had come from. His form began to ripple as he poured power into his limbs, increasing his potency in combat. Rundig threw a dagger in the Half-Ogre’s direction, knocking away another dagger that had been heading straight for the giant Mage's head.

  Elandria nocked an arrow, wishing that she had her other bow out for what was about to ensue. The first thing she did was look above them, and sure enough she saw movement in the canopy.

  “Above us as well,” she said, more calmly than she felt. There were several forms moving around the trees. If they were all Dracairei, there was little chance of them coming out of this alive.

  “Alright boys,” Mcdowell said, readying his axes. “If you don’t take at least one of them with you, I’m going to take it as a personal affront.”

  “Bah, I’m not going down without at least two of ‘em tasting my blades first,” Rundig said, standing up holding some of the daggers that had flown through the air. “Poison,” he spat, holding out the blade, a light coating along its edge.

  Crossbows twanged from above them, and everyone but Rundig dove for cover. The stout Dwarf growled as a small bolt clanged off his helmet. He through the poisoned dagger in the direction that the bolt had come from, and a moment later a hiss resounded through the trees above. Whether the dagger found its mark or had just been too close for comfort they didn’t know, but either way they didn’t have time to worry about now.

  On the ground, three figures emerged from the shadows with daggers in each hand. Elandria realized that they faced at least a half dozen Dracairei now, and for the first time in a long time she knew true fear. She drew her bow back and fired at the closest of the three. He moved so fast that he seemed to melt around the arrow, but at this range it wasn’t quite fast enough, and the arrow caught the outside of the assassin’s left arm, leaving a deep gash.

  Trenton was now in the fight, his massive form rushing towards one of the Dracairei. Elandria noticed a bolt sticking out of his shoulder and winced. Surely the bolt had some insidious concoction on it that would slowly work its way through the giant man’s system. Then again, they might all be dead by the time it affected him enough to do any harm, anyway.

  The Half-Ogre slammed into the assassin that he had chosen as his target, the impact making most of the group stop and watch. Eyes wide open, the Dracairei was obviously surprised by the speed with which the Half-Ogre had moved; it was the last mistake he would make. Trenton ripped the assassin in half and threw the top half into the canopy above, striking one of the assassins above and causing him to lose his perch.

  Two more bolts slammed into the Half-Ogre’s back from the canopy a moment before another assassin fell from above, one of Elandria’s arrows sticking out of his chest. Rundig and Sergeant Mcdowell were each engaged with an assassin. Mcdowell was holding his own, dodging most of the assassin’s strikes, the battle a blur of motion. Rundig, however, was being a little more direct, as was his style, letting his heavy armor deflect the majority of his opponent’s attacks.

  The foliage around them came alive and began attempting to grab the assassins, holding them in place. Elandria saw Warren’s cloak at the edge of her vision heading towards Trenton. She exhaled a sigh of relief; with any luck the Druid would be able to escape, and if they were extremely lucky he might be able to take Trenton with him.

  She was just lining up a shot on the last assassin in the trees when a painful fire erupted in her right arm. Her arm fell, causing her shot to release too soon. Rolling forward she turned around and tried to draw another arrow to shoot whoever had just attacked her. When she reached for her quiver she felt nothing. Looking down Elandria realized that her right arm had been severed from her shoulder.

  The Dracairei contemptuously stepped over her severed arm as he stalked towards her. Barely managing to get her bow up in time, she blocked the first strike of the assassin’s blade. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rundig dive into the assassin he was fighting, burying the blade deep into his opponent’s chest. The assassin in front of her came at her again, and she backed away, dodging one blade while knocking the other wide.


  Over the shoulder of her assailant, she saw Mcdowell get stabbed in the chest by the Dracairei he had been fighting. The veteran Dwarf spat in the assassin’s eye, head-butted him and then put all of his energy into a wide arc, decapitating his opponent. She felt a moment of hope as her dauntless Sergeant turned towards her axe poised to throw at the Dracairei attacking her. Unfortunately, he had used up all of his strength in that final blow, and his axe fell numbly from his unresponsive fingers.

  Their eyes locked. I’m sorry, his eyes said as his body pitched forward, betraying its master's will.

  Her eyes began to mist and she knew that the next attack from the Dracairei would be her last. That attack never came. As Elandria looked at her assailant, he smiled at her a moment before she felt a painful blow to the back of her head.

  Elandria woke with a start, and pain lanced through her head. It took a moment for her vision to clear, and as she looked around she realized she had no idea where she was. Faint light filtered in from a window in the corner of the ramshackle building, giving her surroundings an ethereal feel. The walls around her seemed to be made of some sort of dull gray clay, and the room smelled of moldy vegetables.

  She tried to sit up and remembered that she no longer had a right arm. Tears threatened to burst forth, but she tamped them down. There was always time to cry later. For now, she needed to find out where she was and who else was alive, if anyone. Using her body and her left arm, she managed to get into a sitting position.

  Someone had put her on a cot in the corner of a cellar. Whoever had done that had also shackled her feet together. She managed to stand and take several tiny steps, giving her a better view of her surroundings. An old carpet was hung several feet away, dividing the room and obscuring her view. It looked like it had once been a work of art, but the swirling patterns of red, green, and gold had turned to brown, gray, and yellow.

  She slowly made her way across to the battered carpet, and as she reached up to pull it aside she heard a loud, familiar snort. Pulling the carpet back she revealed the sleeping form of Rundig. The Dwarf did not look good at all. He had bandages around most of his body, and his skin was a pallid gray. Across the room was an old, wooden door that had been freshly reinforced.

  “Oye lass, yer a sight for sore eyes,” Rundig said, his voice barely audible.

  “Rundig, you crazy old bastard,” Elandria replied. “Where’s your armor?”

  “Ach!” Rundig looked like he was going to try to spit and then thought better of it. “Those crazy lizard suckers took it. Took three of the little sprites to take me down, though.” His eyes gleamed proudly. “I ran one of them through before everyone fell, and another of ‘em isn’t going to be walking very well until he can find a proper healer.”

  “Do you know happened to Warren and Trenton?”

  “Last I knew, some of those Dracairei were trying to hunt them down, but Warren is in his element. If he managed to grab Trenton, they are probably safe. There are worse things in that forest for the Dracair to worry about than our wayward squad mates.” Rundig coughed, a deep wheezing noise followed by a series of rattling breaths.

  “Hang in there,” Elandria said. “You can’t leave me here alone.”

  “Ah girl, you’ve always been the strongest of us,” Rundig said, taking her hand. His eyes grew wide for a moment. “Lass, ye’ve lost yer arm.”

  Her tears flooded forth. She had been trying not to think about it, but it had been there in the back of her mind. You are never going to shoot a bow again. She tried to silence the little voice, to tell it to go away, but the truth was that she was never going to be whole again, and now she was useless.

  “Here now,” Rundig said, some of the fire returning to his voice. “Don’t you dare give up! It may seem like the end of the world now, but you can still live a full life if you get out of here.”

  “How am I going to escape? I’m a cripple. Even if I managed to get out, I would never make it back alone,” Elandria said, her voice raising an octave. “And let’s say I somehow make it home. What am I going to do? Settle down with some nice young man and make babies? I’m a warrior, Rundig. I don’t know anything other than bloodshed.”

  A tear rolled out of the corner of Rundig’s eye. “Lass, ye were a dervish before ye became an archer. Even with one arm there are very few people who could best ye with a blade. Also remember that ye are never alone. There are people out there who’ll stop at nothing to see ye free. I’ll stay with ye as long as I can, but I’m pretty sure I’m done fer. I can feel whatever it was that was on those blades working through my system, and they stabbed me enough times that I don’t have much hope of makin’ it through.”

  “You’re right. Kind of makes you wonder why they even bothered, doesn’t it?” Elandria said, unwilling to let go of her friend's hand to wipe her eyes. “Warren and Trenton are still out there, and there are always the other boys. Maybe we’ll all get lucky and Stewart Cantel himself will come through on his hunt.”

  Rundig didn't seem to be listening. “I think I’m going to sleep now lass, I’m tired. So tired…” he said, his hand sliding out of hers.

  For a moment, she thought that he had died, but his chest still rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She stood over him for a while before deciding that she could be doing something more productive with her time. Moving back through the carpet she headed towards the window. The light was even dimmer now, and she realized that it was late evening as she looked through the small portal. A barrel was positioned outside the small window, obscuring much of her view; what she could see seemed to be a small alleyway in this ramshackle little town.

  Moving back to the cot she had awoken on, she sat down. With her left hand, she probed the area where her other arm had once been connected to her body. Someone had bandaged the area, but the bandaging was red and damp. Touching the wound brought her small sharp waves of pain, and she then realized that she had been given something to dull the pain of the injury.

  Laying down, she decided to try to get some rest. There was little she could do about her situation at the moment, and staying up all night worrying about what would happen in the future wouldn’t do anyone any good. Besides, she didn’t want to be awake when whatever drug they had given her for the pain wore off.

  First Fourthday

  Serenity Valley

  Shawnrik had gotten very little information out of Instructor Daymarr the day before. She seemed more interested in finding out how he learned about his coming growth spurts than she was in telling him anything about them. He hadn’t given her any information, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t take them long to figure it out. Hopefully Instructor Boulette wouldn’t get in too much trouble for telling his student the truth.

  He and Verrian had just left Philosophy. Instructor Bluestaff had once again set their minds to racing as they considered all of the angles they had been given on the day’s topic. Today had been a debate on the positives and negatives of being selfish. It still amazed him how many of the students fought so fervently that selfishness was a positive. Intellectually, he understood why they did, but he thought that seemed like an awfully lonely way to go through life.

  Shaking such thoughts away, he turned towards a part of the school that he had not yet been to.

  “So are you really going to talk to the Headmistress?” Verrian said at his side.

  “I am, and you don’t have to go with me. I’m sure there are a thousand other things you would rather be doing with your free time than walking towards the Staff building.”

  “Maybe,” Verrian said. “Then again, I’ve never been inside the Staff building either, so it’s either go and read some boring books, or go on an adventure with my best friend. I think the choice is obvious.”

  Shawnrik chuckled. He knew that Verrian wasn’t only going with him to see the Staff building, but he decided to let the matter drop, as they both knew that he would do the same for Verrian.

  A guard stood outside the building that had a large
sign that read simply “Staff.” He raised an eyebrow at them as they approached.

  “What business do you have here?” the man said.

  “I’m here to see the Headmistress,” Shawnrik replied, attempting to keep his tone strong.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  The man sighed and pulled up a strange device at his side. “Security to Headmistress’s office.”

  “Headmistress’s office, go ahead,” a soft female voice replied through the object.

  “I have two students here to see the Headmistress.”

  “I don’t see any appointments scheduled, what are their names?”

  The guard stared at them until they realized that he wasn’t going to repeat the question for them.

  “Shawnrik Larston.”

  “Verrian Smith.”

  “Shawnrik Larston and Verrian Smith,” the Guard said into the device.

  “One moment, please.” Silence reigned as the guard glowered at them. The man seemed discomforted by the fact that Shawnrik was slightly larger than himself. He breathed a sigh of relief when the soft female voice returned. “Alright, send them in please, Chuck.”

  “You heard the lady,” Chuck said, gesturing to the doorway. “Take the stairs to the right and go to the top, her office is at the end of the hall.”

  In many ways, the building was a lot like the rest of the buildings on campus. It was a well-built stone building that seemed old but well taken care of. Shawnrik felt a buzzing in the air in this building that he didn’t in the others though, and his back itched like it did when someone was watching him. They walked past a room that had view screens from one wall to the other. He understood the feeling as he noticed himself and Verrian on one of the images.

  Seeing himself was one of the strangest things that he had to get used to when he had first come to the Institute. Before then, he had only seen his reflection in puddles of water and streams. He had gotten used to seeing himself in the mirror that ran along the wall in the boy’s shower room, but seeing himself move around on a view screen was an odd experience. One of the guards watching the screens noticed the boys and shut the door.