His eyes flashing open, Seth gulped air, pain flooding through his body with each gasp. He tried to move, to relieve the pain, but his body refused to cooperate. Looking this way and that, his eyes darted in his skull, seeking aid that did not exist. He was alone. Paralyzed.
Pins and needles exploded in his chest moments later and proceeded to torture him further by slowly spreading to his smallest of extremities. He spasmed several times as life rejoined his corpse, and as feeling began to return he again tried to move with moderate success. Everything was stiff. Everything hurt. His own blood was frozen to his body, matting down his hair as well as coating his armor, though as his temperature rose to mimic his former life, the armor warmed and the blood began to drip once again. In his breastplate a great hole remained, its jagged edges folded inward to cut into his flesh with every movement. He could have fixed it with a thought, but preferred the reminder. Feeling anything, even pain, was welcome. After all, he had secured what none other on Thurr could claim. Seth had died. He had left the realm of mortal beings, and been given the chance to return to fix that which he had broken, and keep the oaths he had sworn. This time there would be no mistakes.
Assured that the pain intended to linger within him for some time, Seth rolled to his side and pushed himself into a seated position with a groan. He felt as the last bits of his internal injuries stitched themselves back together, repairing the damage done by the massive ballista bolt that had impaled him hours before.
Around him was a wasteland of death. He alone realized the tragedy of it all, but he alone could not end the cycle. Grimacing he tried to rise, sucking in breath between his teeth in response to the pain. It was no longer the pain of injuries nor mortal flesh, but an unusual pain that encompassed his entire being, soul and all. Slowly he rose to his feet and peeled the blood-soaked and frozen cowl from his head, tearing out hair as he did. With every move his damaged breastplate dug once more into his chest, only to heal nearly instantly. Seth had become like Sara. He had been to a small degree before, but now he too was a creature of the night. He could feel the thirst, and recognized it for what it was. But with his immense power he did not feel the desire to satiate it.
Having returned from the realm of the dead, he had no measure for how much time had passed. He could have been gone mere hours or days. He couldn’t be sure. Seth knew this much though, the battle here was over. Stretching first physically, and then mentally, he assured himself that all was intact. Drawing his power into himself he turned toward Valdadore, and unleashed it in an invisible torrent of tendrils in all directions. Mere seconds passed as he reached beyond reason to locate those he could recognize. Garret, Borrik, and Jonas all lived, as did seven of his other werewolf troops. They had been decimated in his absence. Seth’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but was interrupted in his mourning as he located the camp of Sigrant’s army.
Realization dawned upon him instantly of the danger Valdadore faced. Without him the city and the kingdom would fall in minutes if a battle ensued. Gathering his thoughts and emotions, Seth began to stride towards the city when he found her. He froze in his tracks, his connection to her tenuous at best. Sara moved away from the city. Away from him. She was so far away, Seth could hardly feel her at all. He tried to see with his power the details of her surroundings but was unable. The only reason he could even locate her at this distance was the sheer volume of power she herself contained. He wanted to go to her. No. He needed to go to her. Ishanya had told him that Sara had been captured and was destined to be tortured, but there was nothing he could do. The bargain he had struck with the goddess prevented him from taking action. All he could do was return to Valdadore and see the war through. Then he would be free to rescue his wife. He had failed her once already, and she had been captured due to his failure. He would not fail her again.
With the unnatural pain from reconnecting with mortal flesh subsiding, Seth leaned forward into the darkness and began to run. The ground was slick, and filled with ruts and corpses. He could see better in the darkness now that he had been changed, but even with better night vision and agility, he was not spared indignity. Time and again he tripped and fell. Time and again he was injured. Each and every time he arose again to heal nearly instantaneously and continue running as fast as his body would take him. It would be hours before he could reach Valdadore, though he knew not if the city, his brother, and those that needed him had hours.
He had never mastered the magical teleportation that he had invoked by accident in the past, nor did he trust the ability even if he could duplicate it. Running in the darkness, he sought a solution. He could easily give himself summonable wings as he had done for Borrik, but he would have to carefully create the tedious bindings that held them magically within him. Let alone it would take him hours to learn to use them. As he had done at The Choosing and several times in battle since, he could use his power in a torrent to throw himself into the air and propel himself towards Valdadore, but this was also a haphazard approach that would likely lead him to more setbacks.
He was physically stronger now than he was prior to his death. He was also more agile. His immense aura expanded his mind into untold abilities. He was able to calculate, postulate, and solve things that just months before he could not have even fathomed. Truth told, the only thing holding him back was his own fears. Seth shrugged to himself in the darkness as he stumbled once again. Ishanya said if my condition was a hindrance, that I should fix it… Seth began sorting through the menagerie of beasts’ auras he contained. Choosing those same pieces he had adorned his most trusted servant with, he began tearing away portions and snapping them into place within his own aura.
Concentrating on the mental task, he stripped his armor as he ran, exposing the newly forming wings upon his back. Black, leathery, ribbed appendages sprouted from his flesh, growing steadily. Muscles and sinew formed at odd angles in his back, attaching to ribs and other muscle groups. Seth’s spine thickened to support the load as he flexed his new muscles. The giant leathery appendages stretched out, gathering air in their folds, slowing his run to a crawl. He shifted the new wings and felt lighter on his feet as he again was able to pick up speed. He didn’t need to master flight, he just needed the basics.
He had witnessed Borrik’s struggle to gain altitude, and as such gave himself a larger wing span in proportion to his body. The large wings felt odd upon his back, changing his center of gravity. Every movement of the wings caused his stride and gait to change in order to stay upright. Seth needed to get airborne, and began flapping to no avail. Running still, he altered the angle of his wings and leapt, flapping furiously. He managed the span of several strides upon the air, mere feet above the ground. He could do it.
Leaning further forward he sprinted with all his might, his legs pumping harder than he could ever recall. With each step he flapped his mighty wings and again he sprang into the air. Again he managed to cover a large swathe of ground before he again returned to the earth. He needed help. Birds glided on the wind, didn’t they? That was of no use though, as tonight a cold wind blew from the north. In order to utilize it, Seth would have to be traveling north, facing into the wind like a kite… Unless, of course, he created his own wind.
Summoning his power Seth unleashed a torrent of invisible power, guiding it into his wings. Still nothing happened. He tilted his wings and varied the angle at which his power raged into them. Then… Finally… It happened. With almost no effort, Seth began to rise into the air, his wings filling like sails upon a ship. He rose higher and higher into the cold night sky, channeling his own power to drive him further and further. Higher still he climbed before he realized that he still was making no progress. He was going up, but not forward. He knew the trick was changing the angle of his wings to his magical wind, and likely his center of gravity as well and acted upon the knowledge. Leaning forward, cutting the angle of his wings into the wind, he lurched forward for an instant before losing the wind in his wings and plummeting downward.
Yelling as he fell, even though he knew he would heal from whatever injuries awaited, he tried to right himself. Spiraling out of control, one wing caught the air before the other, causing him to somersault once before smashing to the ground, his head folding under his back with a loud cracking sound.
Light exploded before his eyes and a burning sensation washed through his entire body before his vision began to go dark. Fighting the urge to panic, Seth struggled to remain conscious. Already the burning began to subside and the sensation of his limbs returned. Rolling to the side, he pushed his head back into alignment with his spine and waited the seconds until he was mended enough to rise again.
Just a moment later and Seth was airborne again. This time he was more cautious, and a few moments of trial and error later he shouted victoriously as he swept forward through the air, faster than he had hoped possible. It was not mastery. Hell, it wasn’t even really flight. More like gliding. But at the pace he was managing, he would make Valdadore within an hour.
* * * * *
Borrik paced Valdadore’s immense defensive outer wall, listening for any sign of the enemy’s approach. The day had been lost. Seth had been lost. Sara too was lost. All that was left to lose was Valdadore, his childhood home. Most of his men had fallen already, leaving him barely over half a dozen. His ability to hear his pack’s thoughts made his mind nearly as empty as his heart this night, as all was quiet, none daring to ponder what the coming hours would bring. Though every able bodied man and woman who remained manned the walls, they were as silent as death. The city felt like a tomb to Borrik, and sadly he wasn’t the only one. Borrik could feel it on the air. Everyone felt stalked by death. It was only a matter of time.
Stretching his great leathery wings he peered out into the darkness, searching for movement. He could not see Sigrant’s camp anymore, now that night had fallen and clouds obscured the moons and stars. That didn’t keep him from focusing his senses on it though. Again and again he strained in the darkness, listening for any clue that the final attack was coming. Valdadore might hold out for a few days. Maybe even a couple of weeks. Eventually, however, Sigrant’s forces would gain entry to the city and all would be lost.
Cold wind began blasting the tops of the city walls, creating odd gusts and updrafts. Frost crystals began to form on the stone of the defenses, and those that paced nervously ceased, for fear of slipping on the newly forming ice and plummeting to their deaths. Borrik wondered if such a death would be better than what awaited with the enemy. It was true, he could flee at any time with little fear of harm, but where would he go? There was no one to go to, and this was his home. At least in death he would be reunited with his master.
Shaking his head vigorously, in an attempt to clear his mental state, the giant, alpha werewolf again strained his senses into the distance. Though the wind called mournfully as it crossed the plains to crash into Valdadore’s walls, Borrik noticed a difference upon it. The sound of the wind was not accompanied by another new sound. Nor was there an odd scent upon the air. Instead there was neither. Everything in the distance had gone silent. For hours there had been faint cries and screams upon the wind, but now… nothing. No animals called out. Nothing stirred. Borrik turned and looked to his second in command.
“The enemy approaches.” Jonas, the only remaining werewolf captain, confirmed Borrik’s unspoken thought.
“I’ll give the warning,” Borrik replied to his mottled colored companion. “Incoming!” Borrik shouted as everyone on the wall turned to peer into the distance, looks of fear and determination appearing on their faces. In the distance, somewhere within the city, an infant cried out before being silenced suddenly, likely by a breast shoved into its awaiting mouth.
That cry was like a trumpet call to Borrik, for it was at that very moment that he felt the connection. He had never felt it before. He had not noticed it when it had been ripped away earlier in the day in the midst of battle. Now, however, in the lonely silence, he felt the small tug at his conscious. He felt the connection, and having felt it he focused upon it. It was not one of his men, as his connection to them was different... natural. It was something more, and yet more subtle. Borrik grinned wickedly, flashing his wicked canines into the darkness. He barely noted that those humans nearest him shuddered at the sight, thinking the wolf as mad as the king. He cared not for their thoughts, for now there was hope. His master had returned.
* * * * *
Garret stood upon the wall, staring out into the same blackness that held everyone on the wall enthralled. His shoulder ached like the seventh abyss, but he dared not attempt to have his arm restored again, in case the enemy attacked in the middle of his mending. He stood because the act of sitting seemed an impossibility. Worn and weary, the beleaguered leader of Valdadore watched the darkness numb, hoping the enemy would come and end his mental anguish.
In battle his mind was singularly focused, leaving room for nothing but killing and killing some more. Now, however, on the silent wall, his mind dared recall every hideous detail of the day. Everything he loved was gone. His father and brother were dead. Jack, a man he had admired for all his life, was dead. Seth’s wife, Sara, was likely dead as well. His army was all but destroyed, and the two people he loved that remained, he had sent on a fool’s errand into the depths of the Dwarven nation. He would never see them again. Of that he was sure. Silently, against his own will, he whispered goodbye to both, his brother in arms, Zorbin, and the woman he loved and intended to make queen, Linaya.
All that remained was Valdadore and those helpless citizens that remained within its walls. Garret no longer really cared what happened, seeing defeat as inevitable, so long as he took as many of the enemy with him as possible when he crossed into the realm of death. Some still talked of holding out through the winter, especially since the night turned bitter cold, but Garret knew they wouldn’t survive that long. All that was left to do was wait. He didn’t wait long.
“Incoming!” one of Seth’s great werewolves half shouted, half barked from further down the wall. Garret grinned into the dark. His end approached.
Turning, Garret watched as his weary, ragtag troops rose to defend their positions. It might still be an hour or more before the enemy arrived, but it seemed, like himself, they all wanted to watch them come.
Minutes passed, then a quarter of an hour, and still no sign of the enemy. Garret could not help but wonder if the giant wolf man had been mistaken. He turned to be certain that all was prepared as best as was able, an act he had repeated hundreds of times over the last hour, when he was crashed into by someone rushing along the wall.
Recovering himself from the unexpected collision, he looked down upon the person who had run into him.
“Excuse me, m’lady,” Garret said halfheartedly.
“No, milord. Excuse me,” the woman replied.
Garret looked to the girl, all auburn hair, skin tight leather, and girlish curves, with a flash of her red eyes at him briefly before looking away, apparently ashamed. She was no longer a girl, but neither did she have the confidence of a woman.
“What are you doing upon the wall, girl?” he asked, thinking her too young to witness what was coming.
“I thought I might help,” replied the girl. “I can spill blood as easily as the next woman,” she replied wickedly.
Garret pondered her words, looking her over.
“It appears you have already spilled some,” he said, reaching up to wipe blood from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. She had apparently cut herself somehow when they had collided, as the blood was still fresh. “What is your name, soldier?” he asked hesitantly.
“It’s Anna, milord,” she said with a mischievous smirk, tilting her head to one side as a series of cracks sounded from her neck. Turning, she strode away from her king, swaying her hips like a teenage girl on the prowl. Garret certainly did not envy the girl’s father. Turning once more, the king of Valdadore resumed his watch upon the fields surrounding his city. If the enemy was
coming, he hoped they’d hurry the hell up.
* * * * *
King Robert Sigrant sat in his tent upon an over-stuffed cushion. His feet were propped up on a pillow and he sat with his head tilted back towards the heavens. Though his eyes were closed, they shot back and forth, fluttering beneath the lids as ecstasy washed over him hundreds of times per minute. The vampires, as his healers had labeled them, were a wondrous race. Their plague spread like wildfire through his camp, once he had unleashed the infected whores to have their way with the men who usually used them in a bit of role reversal. Now the power flowed into him with no end in sight, as the tens of thousands of his troops were being changed into blood thirsty, superhuman warriors. At this rate he would be ready to destroy Valdadore the following night, but such a man was King Sigrant that he had no intentions of giving the Valdadorians a full night of reprieve.
As he called to the men outside his tent, a moment passed before one of his captains peeked through the flap to receive his orders.
“Send Valdadore a gift. A thousand new and thirsty vampire soldiers to keep them on their toes.”
“Yes, your majesty,” the captain replied, and vanished once again behind the canvas.
Reaching down to the floor he retrieved his favorite, gem-encrusted dagger, and raised it above himself in one hand. Without so much as a breath’s hesitation he plunged it down into his bare abdomen and watched as it pierced flesh, his blood pooling around it. With a tug he pulled it free and watched as the skin closed around the blade as it was removed. No more did the blade exit his flesh, and the wound was healed. Grinning sheepishly, King Sigrant could not help but feel the excitement that came from realizing you were invincible.
Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) Page 123