144: Wrath

by Dallas E. Caldwell

  "I am honor bound to Polas and will do whatever it takes to see his mission succeed," Vor said. "Even if that means going against his will. My people will not sit by and watch as destiny is forged."

  "You mean like they did the last time? Oh yeah, I also know why people call you the Fallen."

  Vor snarled, and a tremor ran through his arms and up the haft of his axe.

  "So, what’s the difference this time?" Kiff asked. "Why not follow the Iron Butcher’s plan and see what this destiny thing is your ancestors seemed so keen on?"

  "Kas Dorian is driven by vengeance. He may be a great leader, but he has no true plan. And leaders need armies to win wars. I can give him that army, and I will not risk allowing him to fail again."

  "You don’t have faith in anyone do you? You get weaned too early, or do you Fallen ever stop suckling?"

  "Come down here, boy," Vor said with a nasty smirk. "I’ll teach you about the faith I have in my axe."

  "You don’t want this to happen here. I know all about you Dorokti Berserker types. You need time to channel your rage before you’re worth your hilt in battle."

  "Oh, but you’re getting me there real quick."

  Kiff floated even higher into the air. "I’m not going to fight you, Vor. Things are about to get rough. We’ll need all the help we can get."

  Shadows danced along the alleyways leading to the fountain.

  "Maybe sooner than I thought."

  Assassins poured into the open street. Within a matter of seconds, Vor was surrounded on the ground.

  The Undlander had not been ready for this so soon, but at least everything was on the table. The Guild had finally move the final layer into the field. Shirmattaa always laid his plans in triplicate, multiple contingencies should another layer fail. Kiff had been waiting for this move to show itself. He wondered if Reyce had even known what he was putting into motion as he followed orders with the star emblem.

  Shirmattaa must have been getting hot fingers. No one ever played their final piece while Kiff was still on the board. He knew this group would not hesitate to gut him, just as he had not felt pity for Reyce’s uselessness. It was the nature of the business. Finish the job or someone else would. Kiff spun and drew his sickle. He was not quite through with his own plans yet.

  Vor knelt and closed his eyes.

  Kiff swooped forward on his board, slashed an assassin across the face, and opened another’s shoulder in one deft motion.

  "Stop wasting time, Vor," Kiff yelled. "Just kill!"

  Vor rolled forward as a blade clipped the tip of his horn. He looked up at Kiff, growled, and threw himself at their aggressors.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Polas leaned against a tree outside of Odes’Kan’s walls. His nails dug deep lines into the deciduous bark. He punched the thick trunk several times, bloodying his knuckles. Tremors ripped through his arms and shook his chest, his legs felt loose and leaden, and he staggered forward and caught himself against a low branch. Something had broken inside his mind, and his memories were returning to him in a flood. His heart could hardly beat under their weight.

  ~ 1000 years ago ~

  Polas heard noises from the hallway. His mind was numb, and vomit soaked his shirt. Across the room, Finadel screamed. Her stomach and legs were blistered and her cheeks were pierced with long gashes so that every scream issued a hot stream of crimson. The two Ibor guards focused their torture on Finadel alone, having grown bored with the child.

  Leyryl lay on her table, bruised and burned, but made no sound. She stared at the ceiling and her lips moved in silent prayers.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the room, but Polas could not turn to look. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, unable to move. He had struggled for hours or maybe days, he was not sure, but the arcane hold barely left him able to breathe beneath its hold. His eyes burned, his jaw ached, and all he could do was watch the horrific assault.

  The footsteps came again, this time accompanied by voices.

  "Calec, I’m sorry I have to show you this, but you will be a man soon, and I thought it best you know the truth." Polas knew the speaker immediately. Exandercrast.

  "I asked your father to leave," the dark god continued. "I asked him to return home with his armies, but he would not listen. And now it has come to this."

  Exandercrast entered the room with his hand resting on the head of a blonde haired boy soaked with tears. The boy could not be his son, though. He was years older and was taller than Leyryl. Had Polas missed so much?

  The God of Fear knelt beside Calec in the doorway of the torch-lit room, but kept his hands firmly around the boy’s shoulders. A Narculd advisor trailed silently behind them, holding a small, but luxurious robe.

  Finadel lurched and opened her eyes. "Calec! No, please! Run!"

  Calec strained against Exandercrast’s hold.

  "See how your father stands there and does nothing." Exandercrast motioned for the guards to halt. "He does not lift a finger to come to your mother’s aid."

  With a nod from the God of Fear, one of the Ibor torturers seized Finadel’s hand and snapped her index finger backward. The bone shattered, and Finadel cried out in agony. The Ibor pulled once more, and the digit tore free of her hand.

  Slowly, methodically, the Ibor moved to Finadel’s next finger and the next, repeating the brutal process until she was left with nothing but bloody stumps on both hands.

  "I offered him their freedom," Exandercrast whispered. "I told him they would be unharmed if he simply returned home with them. But he refused. And for his great pride in the righteousness of his cause, he still refuses to save them."

  Tears streamed from Calec’s eyes, and Exandercrast released his hold on the boy’s shoulders. Calec dashed across the room and threw himself at the Ibor. He punched and kicked and screamed, but the rocky beast ignored him as though he were a tiny gnat.

  Calec fell to the ground and wept. "Father, help her," he screamed between sobs.

  His sister, Leyryl, lifted her head. She stared at her father with sympathetic eyes. The motion caused dried seams of blood to tear and trickle anew from her shoulders and arms, but her face showed no signs of feeling any pain. Polas marveled at the strength in her.

  "He can’t, Calec," she said calmly. "It’s not his fault."

  Calec either did not hear his sister or did not care. He reached up, grabbed a glowing hot dagger from the table, and charged Polas, plunging the knife deep into his father’s leg. The heat seared the hole shut around the blade, and Calec pulled his blistering hand back with tears streaming from his face.

  Polas’s leg went cold in shock.

  Exandercrast smiled and flicked his finger.

  Polas felt his arm moving, but he could do nothing to stop it. His hand flashed out and struck Calec across the face. The boy fell in a heap onto the stone floor, and Polas felt a small piece of his spirit die with the blow.

  Exandercrast motioned to the Narculd still lurking in the hallway, and the advisor slinked in, swept the boy up in the soft robe, and carried him away.

  As the God of Fear watched the boy leave, a sneer crept across his lips. He turned, humming with sadistic joy, and strode across the room.

  "Gentlemen," he said.

  Both Ibor turned and bowed to their master.

  "This girl seems to not be sufficiently broken. That simply will not do." Exandercrast turned and rubbed the red-jeweled ring on his right hand thoughtfully. "Send for Divrahna."

  The Ibor guards bowed once more and ducked out of the room.

  Exandercrast turned and grinned at Polas. "Oh, General, you may put your arm down." With another simple gesture from the God of Fear, Polas returned to his stoic pose, arms once again folded across his chest. It felt as though a great hand had pinned him and wrapped him in iron bars. No matter how much he struggled, he could only stand and watch his nightmare unfold.

  Polas fell to his knees and tried to blink away his tears, to stop the memories
- the horrors - from returning. His heart felt as if it would stop at any moment, and a part of him wished it would.

  But there was something else growing inside him. Something much fiercer. With each memory that returned, a small piece of his spirit went cold and broke away, and in its place grew a hungering darkness.

  ~ 1000 years ago ~

  The cold, stone walls pressed in on Polas, and the torchlight did little to warm the despair in his spirit. A shuffling sound drew his mind toward the doorway as a gaunt and disgusting creature entered the room.

  "Massster." Divrahna bowed low. "You have need of me?"

  "Ah, Divrahna," Exandercrast said, "so kind of you to join us."

  The Narculd was unbearable to look upon. He had extended the bones in his forearms and fingers with years of self-mutilation and implantation. His ears and nose had been removed and replaced with jagged metal fragments bearing arcane inscriptions. Rocks and bone shards were sewn below the skin of his craggy scalp. Two great spikes jutted unnaturally from his shoulders and acted as a mantle for his cloak. His eyes were a soulless, deep crimson, and the musculature in his face had died away long ago, leaving only sagging, emotionless skin behind. His teeth had been filed to sharp points, and his tongue cut into four snake-like tendrils that danced around his mouth with every word he spoke.

  Leyryl laid on her table, a serene picture of peace that looked very out of place in the dank dungeon cell. Across from her, his beautiful wife, Finadel, fought for each breath, and her fingerless hands were cold and violet from blood-loss. Her eyes were swollen shut, and her mouth had been split open to her ears. She could not survive the wounds, and it could only be Exandercrast’s magic that forced her to endure them.

  Polas fought to move, to yell his daughter’s name, to challenge Exandercrast in some way, but he could do nothing but watch.

  Divrahna stepped forward, clutching tightly to a small bag of tools. He emptied its contents onto the edge of Leyryl’s table. Thumbscrews, flensers, and other horrid utensils that Polas did not recognize were laid out one by one in a meticulous fashion by the evil Narculd. Lastly, he set a series of vials down, each filled with a shimmering liquid.

  "I’ll need a sssmall fire," Divrahna hissed.

  Exandercrast nodded to one of the Ibor guards. The beast retrieved a torch from the wall and held it out for the Narculd’s use.

  "And what did you sssay your name wasss, little girl?" Divrahna asked.

  Polas yelled through gritted teeth. His insides felt like they were on fire, and something in his right leg tore. With another push from deep within his soul, he stepped forward once. Exandercrast whirled around, eyes wide, but it was the Ibor guards who sprang on him.

  "Very impressive, Kas Dorian," Exandercrast said. "The blood that flows through your veins really is quite marvelous. I wonder if, given enough time, you might be able to free yourself completely from my hold."

  Exandercrast laughed, and the Ibor guards nervously joined with him.

  Divrahna’s back popped, and his hips made a noise like tearing gristle as he stooped to retrieve the discarded torch. He waved it beneath Polas’s chin. "Do not worry, General," he said. "You will have your turn sssoon enough."

  He turned back to the table and retrieved a vial of bubbling, green liquid.

  "Now where were we?"

  "My name is Leyryl Kas Dorian," she said. "And my father is a hero."

  The light that lived in Polas’s eyes died out, and the dam that held his heart in check ruptured. Vengeance and hatred flooded his soul, and he roared into the night sky like a life-bonded Ampen gone feral.

  He drew his brilliant, white blade and stood, his eyes clouded with tears. He swung a perfect stroke at the heart of the tree, but his sword stuck fast in its side. He stopped, confused, and jerked the blade back. He attacked with all his fury, and was only able to chip tiny divots away at the thick bark.

  Finally, exhausted, he collapsed forward and dropped his weapon. It stuck, hilt to the sky, into a thick root. The world spun around him.

  Polas tore his mask away and sucked in huge gulps of cold air. He mindlessly watched a trail of black ants crawl into a hole at the base of the tree, and he listened to the wind and the distant sounds of the city. He felt the crisp night air upon his skin, and he looked up into the sky, to the Traveler’s Star and wished he could not see or hear or feel anything ever again.

  He wished that his world was over, but it could not be. Not yet. Not until he held Exandercrast’s heart in his hands. Not until he tore his son away from the Dark One’s grip.

  He spat upon the ground and drowned an unlucky ant in his contempt for the God of Fear.

  Polas stood slowly and staggered off into the night, leaving the Blade of Leindul behind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Flint did not like being forced to act without time to make adequate preparations. He knew better than to expect delay when they were under assault, but it still irked him that he had not thought to plan for this contingency.

  Xandra ran to the window to make sure no assassins were preparing to break through, and she made one last check of the roof across the street before returning to Flint’s side.

  Flint hurriedly secured his belongings into his pack. He made sure that all his scrolls were tucked away neatly in their fire-resistant containers and pulled out a strip of jerky while he had the bag open.

  Xandra raised a single eyebrow at him.

  "What?" he said. "I’ll need energy if we are to do battle."

  Xandra laughed, and Flint managed a grin despite the direness of the situation, until three small, silver orbs rolled under the doorway. One of them stuck under the Nalunis skull, but the other two spun into the middle of the room. The orbs popped and began to issue a thick, white smoke into the room.

  "Sahnrak!" Flint yelled, drawing an admonishing stare from Xandra. "Sorry."

  Flint watched Xandra grab her quarterstaff and move to the side of the door. There she pulled a white scarf from her pack and tied it around her head, covering her eyes. His own eyes would at least be able to pick out shapes within the smoke, but he knew she needed to focus her other senses to have any chance in the impending fight.

  Flint chanted, and the tops his fingers began to glow.

  A small explosion shattered the door and the top half of the skull, and assassins stormed into the room through the breach, wearing arcane goggles to negate to the effects of the smoke. Flint coughed twice and tried to maintain focus on his spell.

  "Jeahn aerehnayahs kahkranahah!"

  A gush of flame with wings like a falcon shot down the hallway, setting ablaze any and all it touched. At the end of the hallway, it exploded, and the fire licked its way up the walls and toward the ceiling.

  Cloaked in a veil of smoke, Xandra danced between assailants. She dodged, parried, and struck, all while blinded by the scarf. Her movements were graceful and unhindered by thought or tactic. She simply moved and trusted her body completely. She could feel the stir of smoke when an assassin leaped toward her. She could hear the whir of blades and the step and slide of padded feet. Her quarterstaff spun wide arcs around her to knock her enemies aside and came in close to guard against each opposing strike.

  She lost herself in the battle, in its freedom, and into the hope of triumph that grew with each defeated foe.

  Flint scooted himself into a corner and did his best to go unnoticed. He was afraid to use too much fire in the crowded room and knew that he and Xandra had little time to escape with the blaze already growing down the hall. The smoke in the room turned black as the flames crept closer and closer.

  An assassin found him and jabbed a dagger into his shoulder. Flint cried out, but bit down on his tongue in an effort to regain his composure. He grabbed the attacker by the wrist and spat out a jumble of arcane words. Seconds later the man’s arm was ablaze with a hungrily spreading fire.

  Flint did his best to discern the smoky shadows from one another, but he was reluctant to blast away le
st he strike Xandra in his efforts.

  "Call," he yelled.

  "Mark," Xandra replied from somewhere to his right.

  Flint poured out a fountain of flame from his palms toward the left side of the room. Shadows dove for cover or fell beneath his assault.

  A blow cut a shallow line across his back and spun him around. Flint gritted his teeth and burned the assassin down with a short flash of brilliant fire.

  "I’m too old for this," he said. "Call!"

  "Mark," Xandra replied, this time from the far side of the room near the window.

  Flint unleashed a head sized orb of flame that bounced twice into the center of the room before exploding. The blast shook the entire building and took out a section of the roof. The smoke began to billow out into the open night sky.

  Xandra dispatched the remaining assassins as the room cleared. Soon, only she and Flint remained standing.

  The Faldred conjured healing energy over his bleeding shoulder. The wound knit itself back together leaving behind only a small crimson stain on his cloak. He had more trouble with the gash across his back. His thick arms could not quite reach the exact spot, so he was forced to waste a considerable amount of excess energy to make sure the cut was completely healed.

  Xandra removed her blindfold and beamed with pride. "Did you see me, Master?"

  "You did very well, Xandra," Flint said. "Now let’s see if we can’t catch up to the others."

  Vor was slower than the wretched assassins, but he was stronger by far. The ground around him bore witness to his power, soaked in the blood of those felled by his mighty axe. He had already slain nine of his enemies and now faced off against four. The truth was, however, that he was wearing down. Fighting without entering his frenzy was sensible at times, but it meant that he could tire as easily as those he faced.