Vitiosi Dei (Heritage of the Blood Book 2)

by Brent Lee Markee

  “What happened to the people that lived here? I imagine the images you were using were of them?”

  “Right,” Za’erath said, completely oblivious to the hidden question that had been asked.

  “No, we didn’t kill them,” Za’kereth winked. He did seem pleased that the question had been asked though. “We gave them some gold and helped them run away on the night when the rest of the squad was brought into town. Never do by force that which can be accomplished with a little ingenuity.”

  “Or coin,” Za’erath added.

  “Same thing,” his brother shot back before turning to the boy. “Alright, how are you going to do this?”

  “I figured I’d sneak into another building in sight of the one they are being held in, grab a few things, and then move towards the target.” He looked at them. “I’m guessing you have a way to stay unseen long enough to get the Dracairei after he comes out or shoots me in the back?”

  “Yeah, I can handle that much,” Za’kereth said. “I’d just like to say that we appreciate what you are doing, and if there was any other way for this to go down I would never let you do this.”

  “I might,” Za’erath said, drawing looks from both his brother and the boy. “What? I can heal. Chances are I can get to him before his soul leaves his body.”

  It was the middle of the night. Elandria had no idea what day it was; each day in here had begun to blur into the next. She knew that they were brought food and water every few days, but she was aware of little else. Rundig had at least gotten well enough to start building back some of his strength. Their rations made sure that he wasn’t able to regain much of it, but it was better than being nearly helpless. Sometime earlier, they had heard several doors opening and closing around them, and they could smell the smoke even above the fetid stench that permeated the cellar.

  She had watched the activities from her little window for a while, but they were on the edge of the village and the foot traffic in this area had been extremely light for the entire time they had been imprisoned. After no activity at the window, she talked to Rundig for some time before they decided that whatever was happening didn’t seem to be affecting them. They had just lain down to sleep when the quiet footsteps approached their door.

  From the sound of the footfalls, the person was either fairly light or an inexperienced thief with a light step. Rolling quietly out of bed, Elandria pushed past the rug that divided her side of the room from Rundig’s. From the look on the Dwarf’s face, he had also heard the noise. They heard the first bar slide free a moment before the “Thwack!” from a crossbow bolt hitting the door.

  “Bad night to be out, kid,” The familiar raspy voice of their captor said.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just hungry and looking for food. I didn’t think anyone would be out here,” another voice replied. Something seemed familiar about the second voice as well, but she couldn’t place it. Whoever the thief was, they were young.

  “There’s no food here, kid,” the Dracairei replied. “Get out of here. This building is off limits. If I ever see you again, I’m going to make sure not to miss.”

  “Yes, sir,” the voice said, and the soft patter of little feet receded into the distance.

  “Stupid kid,” the Dracairei said, his voice muffled as he turned to head back to wherever he had come from.

  Elandria let out her breath. That had been the closest they had come to escape in the entire time they were being held. Rundig made a tsk sound in disappointment as he lay back down. She was just about to move away from the door when all of the hair on her body stood on end. A crackle of sound was followed by a muted grunt. Several seconds later, a heavier set of footfalls approached the door. The second bar was removed from its place before a dull impact was heard.

  “Idiot,” she heard a man mutter through the door.

  The disdain in the voice was both familiar and welcome.

  Another dull thud broke through the silence that followed.

  “Anytime, brother,” Za’kereth whispered.

  A scream of pain cut through the darkness and then stopped suddenly.

  “Excellent.” The last bar slid out of place and the door began to open.

  Elandria rushed forward into Za’kereth’s arms as the door opened and planted a firm kiss on his mouth.

  The Grey Elf spat and pushed her off of him. “Any other time and I’d not complain about such a thing, but your breath smells like someone died, you taste like dirt, and you smell even worse.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Za’kereth,” Elandria laughed. “I’m guessing since you aren’t on full alert and just casually strolled up to the door that the rest of the Dracairei are otherwise occupied?”

  “Got it in one,” Za’erath said as he walked up behind his brother.

  Elandria had to fight the urge to leap into Za’erath’s arms as well, but if what Za’kereth said was true, it was probably best that she didn’t. She knew the priest would be much kinder about it than his brother, but it was still something that you shouldn’t subject your friends to.

  “’Bout time you boys showed up,” Rundig said. “I was beginning to think you had left us here to die.”

  “We might have if Victor hadn’t shown up,” Za’kereth said. “Where’d he get off to, anyway?”

  “Victor?” Elandria said, finally understanding why the voice of the young thief had sounded familiar.

  “Knowing that boy, he’s probably hunting down the rest of the Dracairei, wherever they ran off to.”

  “Stewart Cantel,” Za’erath said. “He came through town and burned the remains of the Sergeant.”

  “So he is dead then,” Elandria sighed. “I had hoped that somehow he would be able to survive the cold.”

  “I did what I could for him,” Za’erath scowled. “The stubborn old bastard wouldn’t let me do anything to reverse the obvious signs of frostbite though; he was afraid we’d be found out and not be able to mount a rescue if the rest of the squad came back.” His voice grew heavy. “I was thirty feet away when he died. Under orders to not do anything, I just let him die.”

  “It was the right call,” Za’kereth said.

  “No, it was the expedient call,” Za’erath replied. “And it is the last time I ever let someone I care about die when I know I can do something about it.”

  None of them doubted the priest’s words.

  “Enough yappin',” Rundig said as he pushed his way through the door. “We need to get away from this village before the rest of the Dracairei come back.”

  “You are right.” Za’kereth moved aside and motioned for Elandria to exit the cellar. “Victor said that Warren and Trenton are in the forest with the Quaelyne somewhere. Apparently, there are some Quaelyne on the edge of the forest who will guide us to them if we behave.”

  “Quaelyne?” Elandria asked.

  “It’s the proper name for the Wolverines in Death’s Edge.”

  Rundig whistled. “Not only does the boy show up out of nowhere to come help rescue us, but he has legendary killers waiting to help us return home. Remind me to buy him a pint when he’s old enough.”

  “Yeah, about that…” Za’kereth began as he explained to them the little information they had on Victor’s lost memories.

  Elandria listened to the story as they skirted the outer edge of the village. She couldn’t believe that Victor had already been through so much in his life. Part of her wondered if forgetting some of the things he had been through might be for the best in the long run. If he managed to make it back to them, she vowed that she would do what she could to make sure he didn’t have to suffer alone.

  Well, this was a dumb plan. Stewart Cantel said to himself as he ran past the burning remains of his lifelong friend. He was fairly certain that at least five of the Dracairei a block behind him, at most. Several crossbow bolts had been within inches of hitting him as he raced through the streets and out into the country. Once he hit the road he let loose every ounce of speed he had. The Drac
airei might be heavily modified killers, but no one was faster than Stewart Cantel.

  His eyes tracked each dip, rut, and rock in the road as he poured on the speed. The sounds of pursuit began to grow distant and he heard the steps stop for a moment. In the next moment, he rolled to the side, dodging a hail of crossbow bolts that tore through where he had just been. His eyes tracked the six bolts as they tore through the air in front of him. Alright, guess I have six on my tail, or someone has two crossbows.

  Stewart ran until his legs began to protest mightily. He knew that the Dracairei were more than likely not far behind; his speed gave him the advantage, but they had stamina in spades. Looking back, he could just make out the vague outline of the six forms running on the road behind him. Knowing he had gone as far as he was likely to go, he turned left off the road and ran for the trees. Rather fitting that we’re going to die in Death’s Edge, he thought.

  Once he reached the relative safety of the trees, he took a moment to catch his breath and let his aching muscles stretch out. It was probably his imagination, but he felt like the forest greeted him like an old friend, offering him relief under its eternal gaze. He pulled out each of his daggers, one at a time, their sharp blades reinvigorating him. Today might be the day he dies, but he would be damned if he didn’t take as many of those scaly bastards with him as he could.

  Climbing one of the larger trees, he watched as the assassins slowly approached the area where he had entered the forest. A short, raspy discussion ensued. For some reason, a few of them didn’t think it was a good idea to follow him into the forest that was an anathema to their kind. The only words he caught from the conversation were the loudly hissed “…remember what happened last time?” However, it seemed that their need to kill him outweighed their instincts of self-preservation, as several minutes later they began to trickle into the forest.

  Stewart Cantel had never been the biggest or the strongest, but he had learned at an early age that positioning and surprise would give him an edge that was difficult to overcome through brute strength. It wouldn’t be until after puberty that he had developed the speed to hold his own in a one on one contest with the other students in the Academy. That speed, combined with his strategic mind, saw him quickly rising through the ranks of the Protectorate until he had attained the highest station a military man could hope for.

  There were two reasons he had set out on his mission to rescue the Princess. The first was that he knew that he was tenacious enough to get the job done, no matter what it took, and the second was that he was tired of having the lives of millions of people on his mind. He knew it was a selfish reason to go, but he couldn’t sit back and watch as more men and women died in a fruitless battle with an enemy they barely understood.

  Over a hundred thousand lives had been lost in the months it had taken for them to push back the forces the Siniquitans had arrayed against them. After trying to read and remember a list of every name, he realized that the task was nearly impossible. There was a small chance that he could make it out alive, but it would most likely mean relying on the scroll that the Arch Magus had given him. If he survived, he would continue on, but if he died he wouldn’t have to hear the voices of the dead in his dreams anymore.

  The first of the Dracairei slid silently beneath him on the ground, rousing him from his thoughts. Great time to get lost in your misery you sad old bastard. It was an unkind thought, but it nearly made him laugh, which would have certainly spelled his defeat. As the Dracairei fanned out below, looking for the slightest trace of his passage, he smiled grimly. Birds began to chirp to the north and he realized that the sun was beginning to crest the horizon to the east. He had run through the night, far away from anyone who could render him assistance.

  Pulling two daggers, he threw them at the two Dracairei furthest back. Both daggers flew true, but one of the assassins seemed to sense the blade as it shot toward him and tried to dodge out of the way. The first dagger took the unaware Dracairei in the shoulder, sticking in to its hilt. Not quite moving fast enough, the second assassin was saved a wicked wound to the neck by taking it in the arm instead.

  As soon as the daggers were out of his hand he had begun to move. He ran across the large tree branches, hopping from one to the other knowing that pursuit wasn’t far behind. The Dracairei heal quickly, though not nearly as quickly as their more martial counterparts, and it wouldn’t take long for either of those he had wounded to recover. However, every blow he made against them chipped away at their endurance.

  One of the Dracairei was tracking him from the ground, trying to run ahead of him to slow him down so the others could catch up from the trees. He heard mad laughter as he flew through the air towards the Dracairei below a moment before he realized it was coming from his lips. The assassin’s eyes went wide as he turned to see a human sized missile flying at him with daggers extended. Had he begun to move before displaying his incredulity, he might have survived, but as it was the assassin only managed to dodge one of Stewart’s daggers, and only for a second.

  His dagger bit in deep. He put all of his strength into holding onto it, using it and his momentum to swing around the Dracairei and plant his other dagger in the assassin’s neck. He let go of the first dagger as he and the body hit the ground and pulled his shortsword to lop off the Dracairei’s head. Once removed, he kicked the orb as hard as he could deeper into the forest and continued his escape north. Five to go.

  Something tore through the cloth on his right leg and he felt hot liquid roll down his calf. As much as he hoped it was just sweat, deep down he knew it wasn’t. It was only a graze, but if even a little bit of whatever concoction the Dracairei dipped their weapons in got into the wound, it would only be a matter of time until they got him. Weaving through the trees, he managed to duck out of sight several times, slowing his pursuers who didn’t seem willing to come around a tree trunk and find him waiting. Smart of them.

  Stewart wondered how long he’d be able to keep this up before they wore him down enough to kill him.

  Chapter 23

  A Dance with Death

  Year: 3045 AGD

  Midwinter Festival

  Serenity Valley

  The Midwinter Festival was finally here, and with it came the dance the entire Institute had been talking about for the past month. Shawnrik was fairly certain he had never felt so nervous before in his life. Surely it was a great day to be alive. He and Verrian had been trying to keep themselves occupied as the hours counted down to when the dance would begin, but each time they found themselves glancing from the clock to the suits that hung up behind each of them and then to each other, and each time they grinned like idiots before trying to focus on the cards in front of them only to repeat the same process a few minutes later.

  That day dragged out forever. Surely this is the longest day anyone has ever lived, Shawnrik thought, unable to imagine circumstances more nerve-racking than this. He won two and lost one long, drawn-out, game of cards before it was time for them to get ready for the dance. They showered and checked their hair in the mirror a dozen times before heading back to their room to change.

  Verrian’s suit was a light blue color just a few shades off from his ring. They had held a long discussion earlier in the day on whether or not his purple sapphire cufflinks would go well with the suit or not, and had both determined that they didn’t understand fashion well enough to have an opinion. After dressing, they wandered back to the bathroom to make sure that everything looked right, even though they assured each other that they looked fine.

  Waiting for them outside were four very stunning young women. Vivianne stood on the far left wearing a dark orange dress that seemed to be missing a fair amount of fabric on both the top and the bottom. Her shoulders and chest were well displayed, the whole thing was seemingly held aloft by two small strips of cloth. Next to her stood Rebecca, who was wearing a blue dress the same color as her eyes. It was slightly more modest than Vivianne’s dress, higher in the chest, but s
till showing her shoulders, while the bottom fanned out well past her knees. This dress didn’t have the two strips of fabric that Vivianne’s had, and Shawnrik thought it must be held aloft by magic.

  Next to Rebecca and standing slightly back was Syranna, who was wearing a yellow dress that seemed to be a mix between Rebecca and Vivianne’s dresses. It was lower cut than Shawnrik had ever expected to see on the usually reserved elf, but he thought it made her green eyes sparkle. She kept looking down at herself whenever the hem of her dress brushed her knees. When she saw him looking in her direction, she smiled slightly and took another step back.

  Last but certainly not least, in Shawnrik’s eyes, was Olivia, who wore a silky dress that was closer to red than purple and flowed down around her feet. The top was like Rebecca’s and didn't have any straps, held aloft by some secret art. She held a long piece of cloth that was made out of the same fabric as her dress wrapped around her back and over each wrist. He thought she looked like some sort of gypsy queen.

  “I’m pretty sure that means we look good, too,” Vivianne said with a smirk.

  Shawnrik only realized after she spoke that he and Verrian had both stopped walking and stood slack-jawed staring at the girls. Olivia, Rebecca, and Vivianne flowed towards them, smiles lighting their faces, but Syranna’s face was a bright red as she trailed behind the three.

  “Ladies, you all look exquisite tonight,” Shawnrik said as he took hold of Olivia’s outstretched arm. “Especially you,” he managed to whisper as she took her place beside him.

  “Damn right,” she whispered back while her left eyebrow rose slightly.

  “Ladies,” Verrian squeaked.

  “Oh look, he’s tongue tied,” Vivianne said.

  “Don’t tease him, he might run away,” Rebecca replied.