The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2)

by Berardinelli, James

  “I havta get word to the men. Let them know what they’ll be facing. Let them…” He never finished the sentence. Almost as one, the djinn attacked, each hurling a ball of fire bigger than an inn’s large cook-pot directly into the front line of the defenders. The burning spheres exploded on impact, expelling blazing debris in all directions. Screams of pain and panic filled the air. Men on both sides were killed and injured - the djinns’ attack was indiscriminate - but the impact on morale was one-sided.

  Then the dragon soared in.

  Azarak couldn’t help but stare. The creature, which resembled an impossibly large, winged lizard, was a magnificent beast, its flight smooth and controlled. From blackened nostrils to prehensile tail, the sleek, muscled body was the size of eight horses placed head-to-hindquarters, with a wingspan more than twice its length. The beast’s scales, glinting brilliantly in the sunlight, were variegated reds, oranges, yellows, and colors in between with deepest hues on its back and sides and the brightest ones on its belly. Its teeth - two rows of dagger-length incisors on both top and bottom - were stained a dark brown, residue from the soot that accompanied belches of fire. Its snout was flattened and elongated, broadening at the rear into a formidable skull that held deep orange eyes with large, ebony pupils. Beyond the head, its smooth back, free of any bony protrusions, tapered to become the long, powerful tail that, in addition to helping the dragon maneuver in flight, could be a formidable weapon in combat.

  The dragon’s flight took it high above the field of battle, almost as high as the top of Mount Vantok. For a moment, Azarak thought the creature was headed directly for him, but it banked several hundred feet short of the mountain and went into a deep dive. It pulled up sharply before hitting the ground, let out a roar to shake the ground and cause men’s hearts to quail, then disgorged a jet of flame that roasted a group of fifty tightly packed men like pigs on a spit. In thirty seconds, across the entirety of the battlefield, Azarak lost three hundred men to creatures of fire.

  The king had never felt so utterly, completely powerless. There was nothing he could do to save these men. He was their ruler; they looked to him for leadership and inspiration. And the only thing he could do now was watch them burn under the relentless assault of eleven djinn and a dragon. And somewhere, presiding over the carnage, was The Lord of Fire.

  * * *

  Awareness came to Carannan when the concussion from an explosion knocked him off his feet. Ten feet from where he had been standing only moments before, ready to deliver a death blow to a hairy mercenary in a too-small suit of armor, was a blackened crater. Scattered around were bodies and body parts of men from both sides, some unmoving and some twitching. The sounds of screaming and moaning filled the air, although the duke’s ears were ringing so loudly that he could hear little. The smell of burning flesh and hair was overpowering.

  Once he regained his footing and his bearings, he mimicked the actions of the many soldiers on both sides and lowered his weapon to look up. There, hovering ten feet above the ground and thirty feet behind the enemy’s front line, was a djinn. Between its palms, it was rolling what appeared to be a huge ball of dough, although it was like no dough Carannan had seen, with flames licking its surface. The djinn was unconcerned about the panic seizing the troops beneath it. It went about its business and, when it deemed the ball to be done, lobbed it carelessly into a concentration of the defenders. The concussion was greater than the first one and Carannan, who didn’t look away, was left half-blind.

  The fighting had stopped with the arrival of the djinn and anything resembling order fled. Men on both sides were trying to get away, each running as far and as fast from the previous point of engagement as they could. Evidently, The Lord of Fire’s troops were no more prepared for this than Azarak’s.

  Carannan had no idea what was expected of him. Was he supposed to pursue the retreating enemy troops? Should he stand his ground and await their return - something that would surely happen once they realized the djinn were on their side? Or should he turn tail and flee, an option seized on by the majority of his compatriots? He scanned the chaos, looking for someone who might be in charge and found no one. In fact, men were looking to him as the most senior officer in the area.

  “Fall back!” He shouted, unsure whether it was the wisest approach or not. Another fireball exploded nearby, killing a score of men. Some of the bodies were tossed twenty feet into the air, broken rag dolls for the djinn’s pleasure. “Back to the river!”

  Carannan was swept up by the wave of men, pushed along like flotsam in a rush of whitewater. He was dimly aware that Rotgut was keeping pace with him. And just when he thought the chaos had reached its apex, he heard the roar of a great beast and the thunder of its wings. It passed not far behind him, close enough for him to fall under its shadow. Heat seared the back of his neck as a gout of flames blasted a knot of men gathered nearby. Those wearing iron armor baked to death inside of it; those without it died more quickly, their exposed bodies reduced to ashes. Carannan survived because someone pushed him to the ground. After, had it not been for Rotgut’s helping hand yanking him to his feet, he would have been trampled.

  The duke felt as if he was in the midst of a nightmare with monsters from his childhood emerging from under his bed to attack him. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but the creature breathing flames indiscriminately across Vantok’s troops could only be a dragon.

  The well-ordered formations of Vantok’s defenders had disintegrated under the relentless attacks of Justin’s minions. The Lord of Fire’s men, having retreated from the killing zone, were regrouping. The djinn and dragon were doing massive damage up and down the line, burning people and countryside alike. Lacking weapons that could injure their enemies, the men died by the hundreds. The surface of the river separating Vantok from the surrounding wilderness was aflame; huge clouds of steam billowed from it. It had become impassible to humans; the few who tried to cross it by diving deep never reached the other side.

  Carannan was moving with a group headed west, traveling parallel to the river. Most of the surviving pieces of the left flank were going in this direction; no one seemed to be in direct pursuit. The djinn and dragon were concentrating on ripping apart the army’s core. The duke tried on several occasions to look back, but the only thing he could see beyond the frantic faces of the men around him were huge billowing clouds of grayish-black smoke, the wreckage of a battle that had gone far worse than anyone had imagined possible. They had planned for so many contingencies, but never anything like this. The Lord of Fire’s victory would soon be complete. Vantok was irretrievably lost.

  Meanwhile, atop Mount Vantok, Azarak watched the rout with increasing anguish. Even the last option of brave men, silent prayer, was a foolish and pointless indulgence now that there were no gods to hear the plea. Next to him, Vikon was tight-lipped, his gauntlets clenched into impotent fists. There was nothing either of them could do except watch and despair. The trebuchets, potentially the only weapons that might be effective against the djinn or the dragon, had been disabled in the first assault, their wooden frames set ablaze. Archers launched missiles at one of the djinn but the arrows burst into fire and burned up before they could strike the creature. The dragon’s scales, tougher than the most skillfully made plate mail, were impervious to arrow heads. None of Justin’s creatures got close enough to the ground to be vulnerable to an attack by sword, pike, or mace. One intrepid soldier launched a lance at a djinn; it suffered the same fate as the arrows.

  For the moment, the king and those with him atop the mountain were insulated from the disaster being visited upon the army, which had broken and scattered in all directions. Justin’s forces had reformed several hundred feet behind the original line. They were awaiting instructions to move forward. For now, there was no need for them to be involved. Fires began to spring up in the city as several buildings were set ablaze by one or more of the djinn. As the oily smoke billowing upon from the smoldering bodies of Azarak’s soldiers gr
ew thicker, the king found it increasingly difficult to discern much outside his immediate surroundings. Soon, he was isolated. Beyond the mountain, the level of noise was diminishing, evidence that the slaughter was drawing to a close. Azarak wondered how many had gotten away; he fervently hoped the women and children of Vantok had heeded his call for evacuation. Those who remained could expect no mercy.

  “We’ve got to get you to safety, Your Majesty,” said Vikon, motioning for the two dozen soldiers atop the mountain to form a human shield around the king. “Ain’t safe up here. Eventually, someone’ll think to look an’ there’s only one way up and down. The smoke’ll be our friend. If we can get behind their lines, we might be able to make it all the way to Basingham, where we can rendezvous with the rest of the survivors.”

  A voice spoke out of the smoke, startling them all. “All things considered, not a bad plan. It won’t work, of course. My men control the road to the bottom and the base of this ‘mountain’ is ringed by them. Escape, I’m afraid, is not among your options. Surrender or die, it makes little difference to me. The day is mine either way.”

  Azarak squinted his eyes, trying to penetrate the thick smoke. There was someone there, a form just beyond the limit of his vision.

  Vikon raised his sword and assumed a battle ready stance, placing himself between Azarak and the speaker.

  “Do you want to fight me, little man? How typical of the military mind. Why is it there always seems to be an inverse relationship between the size of the sword and the size of the intelligence of the man wielding it? If you had dropped to one knee and sworn to serve me, I might have let you live. You could have been useful. But now...”

  Vikon screamed. His sword dropped with an audible clank as he raised both hands to the sides of his head, clawing and thumping with desperation at an invisible irritant. Then, as if ignited from within, fire burst from his eyes and ears, streamed from his nostrils and mouth. Azarak couldn’t help but recall the manner of King Rangarak’s death, although this was more brutal. Mercifully, the overcommander’s cries didn’t last long. He toppled over, the skin of his head and face charred and blistered, the white of his skull visible through the blackened flesh around it.

  “Now, Your Majesty, it’s long past time we met, although the period of our acquaintanceship will be regrettably short. I am Justin, The Lord of Fire and the new king of Vantok. And you are, at least for the moment, my prisoner. Fear not, however, you’re far too valuable to be kept in shackles. Instead, I have something more auspicious planned for you.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take Alicia long to locate Sorial. Her method of travel was more like knifing through the water than swimming; it was easier to do once she reached the ocean and could go deeper. By reading echoes of Sorial’s agony as it reverberated through underground springs and streams, she was able to pinpoint his location. She emerged from the sea at a beach less than a mile from where she believed him to be. The sun was still above the horizon, although it was sinking fast. She needed to locate him before dusk, otherwise she might spend the better part of the night blundering around in a blind search. She certainly wouldn’t risk a fire, not that she was equipped to start one.

  The first thing she saw was the giant’s corpse. Whatever it was, it had died a horrible death. Its entire body was pockmarked with blackened, bloody welts, as if it had been pelted by hundreds of tiny pieces of shrapnel. The body was twisted in an odd position, the arms and legs looking to have been ripped from their sockets. The ground was scalded - not just the grass but the soil itself. Lying not far from it was a much smaller form and, the moment Alicia saw it, she lost all interest in the larger creature.

  The battle that had claimed the life of Sorial’s opponent had left its mark on him. His left leg was burned off beneath the knee. His arm on the same side of the body - the one that had been a stump since Havenham - now ended in a charred knob just beneath the shoulder. Much of the skin on the left side of his body was burned and blistered. He was still alive; she knew that immediately by the rising and falling of his chest. The fire that had scorched his flesh had saved his life by cauterizing the wounds to his arm and leg. In fact, as best she could tell, he had lost little blood. That, of course, did nothing to minimize the obvious trauma he had endured. Looking at his broken frame, she understood why his pain had provoked such a powerful communication. This wasn’t the first time she had seen him injured, but it was by far the worst.

  She knelt beside him. Only now did she realize how badly she had been trembling from a combination of anxiety and weariness. Even with the sun warming her skin, her teeth were chattering. But she couldn’t rest; there would be time enough for that later, or so she hoped. At the moment, she had to delve into him with her “inner vision” - see what could be seen, heal what could be healed. She knew there was nothing she could do about the arm and the leg except perhaps reduce the inflammation and soft tissue damage and dull the pain. She had never tried to salve burns before but there was no reason to believe it was beyond her capabilities.

  Two hours of painstaking work later, she opened her eyes, exhaled deeply, and sat back on her haunches. She was drenched in sweat and her trembling had graduated to a violent shivering. More than anything, she needed sleep or, failing that, a swim. Her body had been stressed beyond reasonable limits, but this was war and war required extraordinary sacrifices. She had done what she was able to do to help Sorial, including soothing the areas likely to cause the most pain, but she lacked the skill to awaken him. He would have to do that on his own. And, until his awareness returned, she had to stand watch over him because there was no telling when something nasty might come for them.

  She didn’t know what that... thing... was, but she was reasonably sure it wasn’t The Lord of Fire, regardless of how imposing it appeared. More likely, it was something Justin had conjured or summoned, and that led Alicia to one inescapable conclusion: they had been duped. They had been lured out here into a trap; he had fooled them into thinking he was here when, in all likelihood, he had always been with the army. Once they had left, he would have had the freedom to attack as he chose without concern about a magical reprisal. They had thought to keep him away from the conflict; he had turned the tables on them.

  She glanced toward the rising moon. Even if she had been able to act in some meaningful way to alert Azarak, it was too late. The battle was likely over by now, Justin having acted to ensure a favorable result. Her father was probably dead. The king had either joined him or had been taken prisoner, if Justin was taking prisoners. The city where she had grown up, the place she called home, was being sacked and pillaged, its citizens raped and killed. The worst-case scenario had come to pass. She wanted to weep with the frustration of it all, but she was too tired.

  “You found me.” Sorial’s voice was faint. He sounded old and beaten down. Alicia had to bend to hear him. Her unbound hair brushed his face and chest as she leaned close. Drops of moisture - perspiration and tears - dripped onto him. “Thought for sure I was going to die. How bad is it?” His eyes were slits as if he was squinting against a bright light even though the only illumination came from the silvery orb of the moon.

  “Bad,” she said. No point hiding the truth. “But that thing is dead.”

  “Figured out its secret.” There was a hint of satisfaction in the way he said that. “I could control the earth inside of it, but I had to touch it. Had to brave the fire. It hurt so badly... And now the pain seems to be mostly gone, along with some body parts. Fortunate I only lost a leg. Strange. Feels like the foot’s still there. It was like that with the hand too at first. I guess I’ll get used to it. If I live long enough for it to matter.”

  It was then that her control snapped, the tension and exhaustion overwhelming her in a cascade. The shivering and shaking became more pronounced, she started to sob hysterically, and she vomited up the contents of an empty stomach. When the paroxysm passed and she regained control of her body, she found Sorial cradling her against hi
m with his good arm. He was murmuring comforting words and using the heat of his body to warm her. When had it gotten so cold?

  When she was finally calm enough to speak, she choked, “Vantok... I left them undefended. And The Lord of Fire was there all along, wasn’t he?”

  Sorial nodded. “He pulled the strings and we danced. Although I don’t think he expected me to kill his pet. That will come as a nasty surprise, I’m sure. But a minor one considering the victory he’s sure to win. We were outmaneuvered. Our city is lost as a result and a lot of our friends are dead. But we have to remember: this ain’t the end of the war.”

  She heard his words but they rang hollow. She knew he was right. Justin’s campaign had just begun. There would be other opportunities to stop him. But, at the moment, none of that seemed to mean much. With the fall of Vantok, everything else - the other cities, Justin’s desire to control a conclave of wizards, The Otherverse - seemed unimportant. She could easily have died today, and that would perhaps have been the kinder route.

  * * *

  Aided by a djinn and two score of his most tenacious human fighters, The Lord of Fire took the king into custody and bound him. He then ordered those on the mountain who stood with Azarak to be put to the sword. The executions were swift and painless but bitter for the helpless king to watch. After that, a blow from a club to the back of his skull made Azarak compliant for some time. He awoke tied to a pole in the middle of the arena where he had fought Grushik. In fact, he was within twenty feet of the spot where his life had nearly ended that day. He recognized the irony but wasn’t in a position to appreciate it.

  He was naked. His arms were bent back behind the pole, a six-inch thick section of tree, and lashed together at the wrist with hemp rope. His legs were tied at the ankles but bound only to each other, not to the stake. The side of his head throbbed where he had been struck. He knew it would be sore to the touch. The persistent pain behind the temple, he suspected, would be among the least of his problems. Nothing like a beheading to cure a headache. Although, considering the setup, that didn’t seem to be Justin’s intended method of execution.