Bodies lay broken, tossed about, and torn asunder. The crimson pool on the floor stood high enough to soak through the thick soles of traveler’s boots. The air was sharp with the hot stench of flesh, and each breath brought with it the taste of blood.
The Peltin warrior was disciplined and tough, but even he was cutting his breaths short to keep from retching. His form was solid, and he kept his feet wide. He was a practiced soldier, and his weathered armor told the tale of his many victories. He stood in stark contrast to the raging chaos embodied in Vor.
The Dorokti King was unbridled fury and passion without form or restraint as he charged the last Moon Warrior. He dragged his axe low behind him and swung it up, hoping to cleave the man at the jaw.
The Peltin straddle-stepped away and sliced Vor’s hand off just below the wrist. The axe continued on its course and lodged into the wall behind them, hand still attached.
Vor reared back and roared, more from anger than from pain. He whipped around and swung the handless arm at the unsuspecting warrior. The bones stabbed through the man’s trachea and out the back of his neck, separating around the spine.
Vor pulled his arm back, and the man fell to his knees, in complete shock at the attack. The Dorokti reached down with his remaining hand and snapped the man’s neck. His body fell, lifeless, to be forgotten among the others.
Vor staggered backward. His eyes scanned the room looking, hoping, for another target. There was none.
As his mind cleared, his wounds sought him out, and he sat back against his elbows. The boom of his heart once again became a steady drum, and his severed wrist began to spray dark fluid as his blood thinned. Vor pulled the belt from a fallen thief and used it to tie off the arm.
After a breath, he rose unsteadily to his feet. He found his axe with his hand still attached to its hilt. He checked the weapon and nodded. It was still whole. He splashed his way back to the center of the room and sat atop a pile of carnage; his throne of death.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Both Polas and Calec were bruised, but Calec’s armor was proving to be the deciding factor in their battle.
Polas’s ribs had been battered, and he was hunching more than he was standing, trying to protect them from further assault. He tried to regulate his breathing, but had trouble slowing his racing pulse. He needed to end the battle soon or he would certainly lose, and he knew that Calec would not show mercy.
"Calec," Polas said. "Son, please."
He backed away, putting the central fountain between himself and his son. In the rippling waters, he saw the reflection of the man he had become, scarred, masked and broken. He also saw the dark form of Calec reflected in the shallow pool. It was a figure he did not recognize; armored in black plate, murderous eyes, and sustained by evil. Slowly, Polas gave into the inevitability of their battle.
In the end, the truth was his son was already dead.
Polas set his jaw and turned, scanning the ground behind him. In the time it took him to find his quarry, Calec leaped onto the edge of the fountain and ran after his father.
Polas dove forward and landed hard on the cold ground. He rolled as his son sprang to attack.
Calec landed on his own blade, the Sword of Exandercrast, held by his father. It pierced his ebon armor, ran through the boy’s heart, and speared out his back through the spine.
Calec coughed, and blood splashed Polas’s face. His son’s mouth moved, trying to form words.
"Calec," Polas whispered.
"I hate you," Calec said.
"I know, son," Polas replied, his voice catching in his throat. He held boy’s body against his chest and shut the hate-filled eyes. "Be at peace. May Hope claim you in the hereafter."
Polas bent forward and wept. Exandercrast had succeeded in taking everything away from him.
He heard footsteps approaching behind him, but he could not find the care to turn.
"Master Kas Dorian," Flint whispered, "are you alright?"
Polas stood and looked up into the foreign sky lit behind thick glass sheets. For a long time, he was a statue, an effigy of a broken man.
Flint sat and waited for the general.
When the last of his tears had been drained of him, there was little left but wrath in Polas. He looked down at the black sword, the Blade of Exandercrast, and spat upon the ground. A tremor shook his arm as he picked up his son’s weapon. He did not clean the blade before sheathing it on his belt.
"Where are the others?"
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Flint and Polas entered the theatre room with caution, unsure if Vor would be waiting to lay upon them in his blind rage.
The room was deathly still.
The balcony had half-fallen, creating a ramp that led to the upper door. Bodies lay in piles, and the blood on the floor had begun to dry, creating a sticky puddle that clung to their boots.
Vor sat in the middle of the room resting his chin on his axe. Flint had not even noticed the blood soaked Dorokti at first. He looked like the living dead and sat so still that Flint was not sure if he was alive at all. His body was covered with hardened blood, and his bones showed through on his head and at his shoulders.
"He’s lost a hand, and I don’t know if he’s breathing," Flint said in a panic.
Polas continued to look around the room. "Find out."
Flint leaned in close and felt Vor’s hot breath steaming from his nostrils. "I think. I think he’s sleeping."
"Or unconscious," Polas said. "Get to work."
Flint looked down and saw the severed hand on Vor’s axe. He bent down and pried the stiff fingers from the hilt. Two of them broke backwards. "Sorry," he said.
He gagged as he re-attached the hand over Vor’s exposed bone. It squelched and squirted a bubbly froth as it fit into place. Flint healed it enough to stay attached before he turned his efforts to broad spectrum healing over Vor’s entire body. It took long minutes, and Flint more than once doubted his ability to completely revive the Dorokti King.
Polas climbed his way up the fallen balcony and inspected the wide hole in the staircase. After taking its measure, he leaped over the chasm, but came up short and had to grip the banister to make it all the way across the divide.
At the top of the stairs, he saw Xandra face down in a halo of sunlight. His knees felt weak, and he cursed himself for leaving her and the others. He rushed forward and knelt beside her.
Though she had marks all over her body, they had all stopped bleeding, and the girl was in one piece. Her breaths were long and full as one in a deep sleep. He rolled her over and lightly tapped her cheek until her eyes fluttered open.
"What happened?" she asked.
Polas shook his head as he helped her to her feet. She cried out and crumpled to the ground, and her stomach wound rent and issued blood.
"Flint!" Polas yelled. "Get up here!"
The rain fell in great drops but brought with it little relief from the accursed heat. The wind picked up and blew the torrent against the rocky wasteland. The flying lizards far overhead sought shelter with the first few beads, and all creatures capable of self-preservation had hid themselves away from the coming storm’s fury. Only an Undlander and a few Ibor warriors remained.
Kiff was fueled by pride and adrenaline far beyond his body’s need to stop and even more so beyond his rational mind’s desire to run away. Flying was difficult in the downpour. The wind whipped him around and battered him from side to side, and the rain made it difficult to stay on his board. Still he fought. He had used the last of his tricks and was now down to skill versus skill.
Explosive daggers had killed another three warriors, and his blade had dispatched the next two. He had even used his last incendiary dagger to bring down boulders from a cliff wall to crush two of the rocky beasts. There were only three of the soldier Ibors left, and then Kiff would have to face their leader.
Kiff rode low on his board, crouching to avoid the wind and rain as much as possible. He had been lucky to f
ind that the throats of many of the Ibor were unarmored and only slightly tougher than a Peltin’s. They had become his targets.
The last three Ibor warriors leaped at him from all different directions, descending in a cloud of fangs, claws and stony wings. He sprang from his board and spun, his blade whirling out wide. He slashed the throats of two of them and caught the third behind the jaw. His blade stuck for a moment, but Kiff jerked and the Ibor’s mouth ripped open sending them both falling to the ground.
Kiff looked down for his board, but it was nowhere to be found.
"Sahnrak!"
He landed on the rocky ground and rolled, bruising his knees and spine in the effort, but he was still alive. And he was pretty sure he had not broken anything.
The massive Ibor leader stepped forward holding Kiff’s board. He snapped the magical device in half and tossed the pieces aside.
Kiff stood slowly and stretched his worn limbs and back.
"I guess it’s just us then, huh?" Kiff said. "Will you lead, or shall I?"
"I am Tanuck. And I will be your death."
"You speak Peltin? Well that could have saved a lot of awkwardness earlier."
Tanuck roared and leaped.
Kiff dodged and swung his blade into the Ibor’s side. It dinked off without leaving so much as a scratch. Rolling to avoid another strike, Kiff lashed out at Tanuck’s throat. Even that was too tough for the metal blade.
Tanuck’s laugh was a dark and ominous thing, like the rumble of siege engines and the clash of hurtled stone. Slapping his fist twice, he sprang into the air and swung a powerful downward blow at Kiff. The punch narrowly missed the Undlander, a single barbed knuckle cutting a fine line along his pale face. When the Ibor’s fist hit the ground, the earth shook, and the rock beneath it cracked.
"Whoa, hang on a second," Kiff said as he sprang backward between rocks. "Maybe we should talk this out."
Kicking off a large boulder, Kiff changed his retreat into a sudden charge. He made a sweeping slash against Tanuck’s stomach. The blade rang and sparks danced across the stony abs, but no tear was visible.
Tanuck turned with the attack, caught Kiff by his leading wrist, and swung him around. He held the Undlander up into the air by his arm and dangled him for a moment. Kiff flailed and kicked but could do no real damage to the monster.
The Ibor licked his lips and tightened his grip. Kiff’s wrist cracked as the bones in his hand and forearm shattered. The Ibor shook him once and cast him aside, and the Undlander’s sickle slid beneath a nearby rock.
Kiff lay on his back staring up into the hard rain waiting for Tanuck to finish him off, but the Ibor simply walked away, done with his sport. The Undlander cradled his mangled right hand against his body and rolled to his stomach. His left hand reached out and gingerly retrieved his sickle.
Slowly, he stood, his blade held stiffly between rigid fingers. He looked down at the bar on his arm, at the portal, then back to his hand.
Kiff squeezed.
The mechanisms within his arm sprang to life and tore through the front side of his wrist, but he had already gripped the sickle firmly in his hand. Blood flowed freely, coated the crescent blade, and pooled on the rocky ground. He used his teeth to wrap a short strip of cloth around his fist to keep his fingers closed.
"Hey, hagspawn," Kiff said weakly. "I’m not through with you yet."
His limbs were numb, and his head was light, but he could not let that stop him. He had to bring down this monster or Xandra might be the next one through that portal and take an arrow through her heart.
He ran up Tanuck’s legs and chest, kicking him squarely in the jaw. His foot broke, and he crashed to the ground. He cried out in agony, but pushed through the searing pain.
Kiff stood on one foot and waved Tanuck toward him with his sickle, but before the Ibor could reach him, he fell back against a large boulder, unable to support his own weight any longer.
Muttering darkly in the Ibor tongue, Tanuck walked, almost casually, toward the dying Undlander. He grabbed the boy by the collar and reared back, punching him in the stomach. Kiff screamed as the boulder behind him cracked from the transferred impact. Something inside his chest tore, and his lungs filled with fluid.
Kiff spat blood on the ground before Tanuck. "That the best you’ve got?" he hissed through crimson teeth.
Tanuck leaned in close and roared, his gaping mouth rimmed with saliva-dripping fangs.
Kiff pushed off the rock and swung his sickle up at a low arc. The blade buried itself in Tanuck’s mouth and tore into his cranial cavity. Kiff twisted the blade, and the Ibor fell with a violent shudder.
The Undlander opened his mouth to spit one last insult, but found he could not breathe, let alone speak. He fell back against the boulder and slid down.
He looked around at his handiwork and smiled. A small part of him wished Xandra would come running through the portal then, so he could see her one last time. He laughed at himself and laid his head against the rock so he could look up at the sky. Then Kiff, the thief, assassin, and nameless child, died alone against a broken rock in Waysmale.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The room was strangely beautiful with the sunlight streaming in through the hole in the ceiling. The light played off glass sculptures, bronze door handles, and the silver wire spun through the draperies on the wall and the rug in the center of the floor. The effect was a glittering, silent room that contradicted the violence that had taken place in the earliest hours of the morning.
Flint stared up into the open sky, marveled at the perfect circle, and looked back and forth between it and Xandra in wonder. The girl did not remember how it had happened, but he knew that she was the source. He had almost finished healing her wounds and needed to have a serious talk with her about her fight to see what he could learn from it about her Gift.
"That’s enough, Master," she said and pushed his hand away from her shoulder.
The Faldred tried to help her stand, but she refused his aid. She stood on her own and sprinted off down the hallway.
"Xandra, wait," Flint called after her. "Where are you going?"
Xandra ignored her master as she tried the door at the end of the hall. It was locked tight.
"Vor, please, I need you!" she cried out. The fear and anguish of not knowing was too much for her.
The Dorokti king dropped the Cratin’s trident but shoved the net into his own pack and stalked down the hall toward her. "One side, lamb."
He raised his axe and brought it down into the door handle. A bolt of electricity arced across the metal blade and leaped into his arm. The muscles in his shoulder and chest tensed with the shock, and his fur sizzled as the current danced over his skin. He shook his arm twice as though he could fling away the pain and kicked the door the rest of the way open.
Xandra dashed inside, searching for any sign of Kiff. All she found was a bloody streak that disappeared behind a lush banner. She brushed it aside and made a run for the portal without as much as a glance behind her.
Polas searched through the remains of Vor’s rampage looking for anything that might be worth taking. He found an armored soldier and robbed him of his breastplate and broadsword. He then kicked over the carcass of the smaller Peltin Moon Warrior, eyeing the blade-laden bandolier.
"Kiff might want these," he said as he stuffed them into a haversack.
He knelt down and removed the straps before looking through the rest of the corpses. He picked up a few extra knives and some armored gloves off one dead assassin. From another, he pilfered some rope and climbing spikes. Lastly, he found a pouch full of traveler’s mune and a pair of boots that he traded for his own worn pair. There was very little else he could use.
As he stood and flexed his toes, testing the fit of the borrowed boots, Flint poked his head out of the balcony door.
"Master Kas Dorian, you might want to come up here," he said. "Xandra’s run off to find Kiff. I think they may have used Exandercrast’s portal."
Polas understood his tension. A part of him thought that they should rest before stepping through the portal, but he also knew Exandercrast would erase it from existence as soon as he learned of the Thieves’ Guild’s failure. They had to act.
Xandra dashed blindly into the pitch-black rain. She stumbled over something large and soft and decided to stay still until she got her bearings. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the cliffs’ edges and several large boulders but nothing more. There was no sunlight, nor even any indication that it was day, in this hope-forsaken land.
She held up her quarterstaff, closed her eyes, and focused her energy into its top end, causing it to glow searing white. It illuminated the ravine and blinded her once again as her eyes refocused. The light bounced off wet rocks and echoed back from puddles of water on the hard ground.
What lay before her sent her stomach into her throat, and she had to fight the urge to vomit. Massive creatures of stony flesh lay all about the area. Some were missing limbs, had entrails spilling out of their open bellies, or had bloody messes where they once had a face. She walked from body to body, checking for any signs of life or for the cause of their demise.
She found his goggles smashed beneath the corpse of one of the rocky creatures. His mask was a few feet away soaked in black blood. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat. "Kiff, where are you?"
144: Wrath Page 24