“Beylah vo, kem’Feyreisen.” Thank you, my king. “Light be with us all.”
The Tairen Soul nodded, turned, and took a running leap off the edge of the cliff. As he jumped, powerful magic erupted, and his body dissolved into a swirling grey cloud of rainbow-shot mist. Moments later, a great, winged beast streaked out of the mist. Not Anaris Feyreisen, the Fey king, but Anaris-Faldaran, an enormous, dark brown tairen, one of the deadly, fire-breathing winged cats of the Fading Lands. Anaris gave a roar that shook the ground beneath Shan’s feet, then shot up into the cloudless Sardomar sky, great, leathery wings pumping to gain speed and altitude.
Shan turned away from his king’s impressive tairen form to regard the golden brightness of the Great Sun one final time. The last of the dawn’s gentle pink had faded. The sun was bright, the sky a perfect, cerulean blue over the deeper blue of the vast ocean that stretched across the horizon. Shan took a deep breath of fresh, salty morning air, and felt peace settle over his ancient Fey bones.
He could do this. He would slay this one last enemy, make the Fading Lands safe this one last time. And then he would do what he’d never done before: stop fighting, lay down his steel, and surrender his life. Death was no longer an enemy to be opposed, but a friend to embrace.
“Farewell, shei’tani,” he murmured to the truemate he had long awaited, but never met. “May we find each other in the next life, as we did not in this. And may you find me worthy of your bond.”
He headed down toward the Fey encampment and toward the battle that would be his last.
*
**There it is.**
The barely audible announcement made Shan realize just how nervous his men were. Spun on threads of the mystic magic Spirit across the Fey Warrior’s Path, no Drogon or Merellian could possibly have the words, yet even in his weave Shan’s second-in-command, Sandar vel Candis, still whispered.
But then, they’d all seen the carnage Blood Lord Malvern left in his wake. Bodies butchered. Cathedrals beribboned with entrails. Altars to dark gods fashioned from the bones and dismembered limbs of Fey, Elf, and mortal alike. Villages, towns, and even entire cities stripped of all life save the rats and carrion crows come to feast on the blood-drained remains of the dead.
Aiyah, Sandar had reason to whisper. Malvern was as fearsome a monster as ever they’d faced.
Which was why Shan found it so surprising that the entrance to Malvern’s hive was so inconspicuous. A brush covered cave mouth that led down into the tunnel-riddled limestone earth of Drogos. Nothing to declare, “Beware, intruders! Death beyond this point!” Personally, Shan thought there should at least be a couple of skulls impaled on pikes, if not a bloodless, eviscerated corpse or two.
He grunted at his own black humor and scanned the area with Fey vision, seeing not just the material world evident to mortal eyes but the glowing threads of magic woven through every aspect of the universe: the four elements—Earth, Fire, Water, Air—as well as the two mystics—lavender Spirit, and dark Azrahn, the magic never to be called. With Fey vision, he could see the life pulsing through the dense vegetation surrounding the cave, see the solid density of the rock and soil, and the silvery white voids of Air where the tunnels led down into the hive.
He scanned for the enemy. Found none near the entrance.
That was as expected, and the reason why this attack had been scheduled for morning. Sunlight was anathema to Blood Lords and their vile minions. Better yet, the higher the sun rose in the sky, the more torpid the Drogons would become, unable to move, lying like the dead and deathless creatures they were. The effects were doubly strong for the oldest among them, which made daytime the best time—the only time—to risk something as bold and foolhardy as sending forces into the depths of an ancient Blood Lord’s hive.
**Feyreisen, Fire the hole.** Shan wove the command in Spirit and sent it out on the Warrior’s Path that all Fey males shared.
Three Tairen Souls in their gigantic tairen forms padded up to the cave entrance and, in unison, belched great gouts of hot flame into the mouth of the cave. They held the fire for a full chime, sending the inferno as deep as possible. When it was done, all three crouched to gather their strength, then launched into the air to join the other Tairen Souls circling overhead.
Shan kept his eye on the cave mouth and his hands near his steel. **Fey, advance. Fire and steel at the ready.**
Steel alone didn’t have much impact on a Drogon. You could chop off a limb, but the severed appendage merely dissolved and reformed in place an instant later. Beheading—a death that ended even immortal Fey lives—didn’t always work either. Shan had personally witnessed headless Drogons snatching up their lost noggins, dissolving into swirls of black mist, then reappearing elsewhere on the field, whole and unharmed. Granted, if you chopped off the same head often enough in the same battle, the Drogon eventually ran out of energy to regenerate and was forced to retire from the field.
At least tairen venom—the smallest drop of which could kill a man or even a Fey in less than a chime—slowed the Drogons down. It even successfully killed the weakest among them. But the stronger Drogons—and especially the powerful Blood Lords—merely drained their own bodies of the envenomed blood and replaced it with fresh, untainted blood from the nearest donor.
Nei, if you wanted to kill a Drogon and make him stay dead, you needed sunlight or its next best replacement: bright, hot, blazing fire. Mundane mortal flames would do the trick, but magical Fire was best. Tairen fire or the Fey elemental magic. Limbs dismembered with Fire-wrapped blades took a full day to regenerate. And if you managed to incinerate a Drogon… well, Shan had yet to see even the most ancient and powerful of Blood Lords survive a concentrated Fey flame bath.
Shan, who had always led his armies from the front, was the first into the tunnels. Little sparks from smoking roots and bracken flashed like fairy flies in the darkness. The air was thick and smoky, smelling of fetid rot and char.
As Shan and his Fey descended into the hive, the brightness of day gave way to oppressive gloom and then impenetrable darkness. **Cloak your Light, Fey,** he commanded as he spun a Spirit weave to hide the silvery luminescence of his own Fey skin. Shan switched to Fey vision, letting the magic that made up the world illuminate what sunlight no longer could, but as he did he realized the hive wasn’t just built in sel’dor-rich ground, it’s tunnels were lined with the black metal. Fey vision couldn’t penetrate pure sel’dor, which meant Malvern had effectively blinded Shan and his Fey to everything beyond line-of-sight. Every curve in the tunnel became an opportunity for ambush. Every tunnel that merged with or broke off the main one became a potential feeder stream that could at any moment unleash a torrent of Bloodreapers, an army of mindless, undead fiends whose only thought was to sate their rotting bodies’ ravening hunger for fresh blood.
**Be on your guard.** His lips compressed in a wry grimace as he realized he had whispered that last command. In a more normal volume, he commanded, **Fey, stay alert. Close off the side tunnels as we go.**
**Aiyah, Chatokkai,** came the response.
Normally, the Fey could simply spin Earth magic to reshape the rock and soil to block the tunnels, but the solid sel’dor lining the tunnel walls made that impossible. Even the strongest Earth masters could only pull so much matter from themselves and those around them without causing damage. The same was true for weaving Water. That meant blocking the tunnels would have to be done with weaves of Air, Fire, and Spirit.
Leaving his Fey to decide how best to accomplish that—knowing they would alert him if there was a problem—Shan continued down the now-steeply descending tunnel main tunnel. The air grew notably cooler as he went. Gone were the acrid scents of smoke and char left in the wake of the Tairen Souls’ fire. The smells that remained were of damp and mold underscored by a pungent odor that every warrior—mortal or immortal alike—soon learned and never forgot. A heavy reek that had become all-too-familiar during this war. Blood. Offal. Putrescence.
The hiv
e smelled of death.
And then came the sound Shan had been waiting for: the thunder of many running feet.
Reapers.
Chapter Two
Bodies surged up from the depths of the lair, thousands of them, all in various stages of decomposition.
Compared to other mortal and immortal races, Drogons were relatively few in number, but in times of war, the Blood Lords swelled their populations with Bloodreapers, the reanimated corpses of their victims, tied to the Blood Lord that animated them through the very blackest of magics. Reapers were mindless killing machines, their actions directed by the hive mind—the Blood Lord who ruled the hive and the less powerful, blood-bound Drogons who served him. Fey. Elf. Celierian. Allies and innocents murdered by the Drogons then perverted into these foul creatures.
Their breath wheezed, phlegmy and labored, through rotting lungs. The more recent dead were mostly whole, but others were little more than skeletons swathed in shreds of flesh. Red-eyed, yellow-fanged, suppurating skin, oozing pus and gangrenous matter. All of them maddened by bloodlust. The stench of them was blinding.
“Fey’cha and Fire weaves, Fey!” Shan cried, both aloud and along the Warrior’s Path. “Burn as many as you can!” He flung out weaves of Air and Fire and sent Fire-wrapped Fey’cha daggers flying so fast his hands were a blur.
The first line of Reapers burst into flame and collapsed, lifeless, on the ground. Shan tried not to focus on their faces. Whatever—whomever—they once had been, they were the Blood Lord’s minions now. And already dead, thank the gods, else slaughtering those that had been Fey would have left Shan and his warriors writhing in agony, their souls plunged down the Dark Path for the crime of murdering their own kind.
That was one good thing about killing Reapers: it burdened no Fey’s soul. In fact, ending them felt more like a kindness. And sorrow, too, he thought, as he plowed a weave of Fire through the tattered black leathers and rotting chest of what had once been a Fey warrior. He whispered a prayer to the gods on the warrior’s behalf, then stepped over the burning body and and sent four more Fire-wrapped Fey’chas flying. Later, once they dealt with this attack, the Fey would send back to the elements whatever remained of their fallen brothers and the other poor wretches in this undead army.
After emptying every sheath on the Fey’cha belts criss-crossing his chest, Shan spat out his return word. The magical command dissolved his thrown Fey’cha and returned them to their sheaths so he could start throwing them again. Again and again and again his Fire-wrapped Fey’cha flew swift and true, while ropes of glowing magic poured from his fingertips. White Air, red Fire, blazing strands twining and weaving together, concentrated into a jet of white-hot flame that consumed everything in its path.
And still, the Reapers kept coming, wave after wave of them.
As he dealt with the swarm rushing toward him, Shan heard the shouts on the Warrior’s Path behind him. Reapers carrying crude shields fashioned from barbed black metal had broken through the weaves sealing off the side tunnels. Reapers were pouring out of the tunnels on every side and dropping down from openings in the ceiling.
Unlike the Drogons, Bloodreapers weren’t difficult to kill—they were merely fodder meant to weary the Fey, slow their progress, and inflict as much damage as possible—but their numbers were formidable and their poisonous bites were a threat that could not be ignored. Fey were immune to most sickness, but the contagion carried in the rotting membranes of a Reaper’s mouth was no natural disease. Infused with black magic, the bite carried not just death but undeath. Any who died with that poison in their veins became Bloodreapers themselves. Even Fey. Closing the tunnels and stopping the influx of Reapers into their midst was, therefore, imperative.
“Fire masters! Burn them! Earth masters, use what the Blood Lord has sent us against them! Block those tunnels, Fey! Seal them solid!”
Behind Shan, weaves of Fire and Air shot out, firestorms racing through the packed bodies in the tunnels, setting them alight. Earth masters who hadn’t been able to weave rock through the sel’dor lined tunnel, now drew what they needed from the bones and flesh of the plentiful Bloodreaper dead and began sealing tunnel after tunnel with two-foot-thick walls of dense stone.
Gradually the flood of Reapers pouring through the tunnels slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether, leaving only the mass surging up the main tunnel for Shan to deal with.
“Wall of Steel, Fey!” Shan commanded. “Fire weaves and Fey’cha only! Push them back and burn them!” After delivering two volleys of Fire-wrapped Fey’cha throwing daggers and incinerating Fire weaves, the first two rows of Fey on either side of him peeled off to the sides of the tunnel and made their way back toward the rear of the line, allowing two rows of fresh warriors to take their place and engage the Reapers. After a few chimes, those Fey peeled off as well, and the next lines of Fey moved forward. Fey steel and Fey weaves slammed into the Bloodreapers without cease, each weave, each barrage of lethal, Fire-wrapped steel as potent and deadly as the last, every warrior fresh, rested, and fighting at his peak. Thus, despite the veritable ocean of undead swarming the tunnel, the Fey advanced with merciless resolve, mowing down the Reapers and sealing side tunnels as they went.
After what seemed like an eternity, the onslaught ended. The only thing left of the Reapers: uneven stone floors lined knee deep with bones, charred flesh, and ash.
“Well done, Fey,” Shan praised. “The Reapers are down. Send our fallen brothers back to the elements, and make sure all other dead are ash. Take a moment to check yourself and your blade brothers. If you’ve been bitten or scratched, you need to head for the healing tents. No exceptions.” Shan wouldn’t risk any of his Fey turning Reaper. “Commanders, report your casualties.”
“The losses aren’t as bad as we anticipated,” Shan’s second-in-command, Sandar, murmured as the reports came in. The Fey had fought well, losing only two percent of their forces to the Reaper attack, and most of those to bites and scratches rather than death.
“Perhaps,” Shan conceded, “but that was the easy part.” Easy or not, each dead Fey was flame added to the growing fury inside him. Before Shan died today, he would make sure Malvern paid for every Fey soul he’d sent through the Veil. **Fey, to your formations. Prepare to move out. Commanders, double check those tunnel seals and post quintets to guard our backs.** Quintets were groups of five Fey, who between them held mastery in all four elementals and the one mystic magic Fey wielded. A quintet could combine their weaves into a single, masterful five-fold weave capable of dealing massive damage.
Leaving two quintets behind to guard their rear flank and ensure the tunnels stayed sealed, the Fey marched toward the heart of the Blood Lord’s hive.
*
The main tunnel descended another half of a mile before opening into a large chamber deep beneath the surface of Sardomar. The air was cold and damp, the room utterly lightless. A massive blood fountain burbled and splashed in the center of the room, steam curling up into the chill, filling the room with a sickly sweet, metallic odor. Shan knew from the excavation of previous hives that there was a chamber somewhere above this one, filled with hundreds of enthralled victims hooked up to tubes that drained their blood into this fountain. The pantry, Drogons called it. Shan would like nothing more than to locate the pantry and free its prisoners, but those lives were secondary to the mission. The only thing that mattered was finding and slaughtering Malvern. If they didn’t succeed in that, many more people would find themselves enthralled and feeding their lifeblood into Drogon fountains.
Shan scanned the room for threats, but found none. The chamber was empty, the only movement the splashing blood. Apart from the main tunnel they had come down, three other wide tunnels led off from the enormous fountain room. Which one led to the Blood Lord, Shan didn’t know. Every hive they’d destroyed thus far boasted a similar large chamber with its burbling blood fountain, always located at the end of the main tunnel and always attached to the tunnels that led to the D
rogon’s sleeping quarters, but those were the only commonalities. The chambers belonging to the Blood Lord and his chosen females were usually close together and separated from the chambers that housed his elite Drogon warriors and the rest of his court. But which rooms were where was anyone’s guess.
Shan knew from taking down previous Blood Lords that killing Malvern first was a priority. Without him, the communications network that linked the rest of the hive would collapse and stay broken until a new Blood Lord assumed command and subsumed the survivors.
With Malvern out of the picture, eradicating the rest of the hive would become exponentially easier, but searching the tunnels one at a time posed too great a risk. By Shan’s estimation, the Great Sun was nearing its zenith. Five or six more bells, and the torpor that seized all Drogons during the day would begin to fade. Younger Drogons would rouse first. They’d be weaker and slower while the sun was in the sky, but once it set, even the most ancient would rise at full strength. If Shan didn’t find and kill Malvern before then, every Fey in the hive was as good as dead.
Shan called his commanders to his side. “We’re going to have to split up. Sandar, you take three hundred Fey and search the left tunnel. Andaxis, you take another three hundred and search the right. Everyone else, with go with me up the center. With all the sel’dor in this place, it’s imperative you establish a communication relay as you go so you can call for help if you need it.” The last thing he wanted was for one group to locate the Blood Lord but be unable to summon assistance before engaging him in battle. Shan didn’t trust the torpor to keep Malvern helpless, and the Blood Lord had already proved himself wily enough to have put all manner of defenses in place in anticipation of a daytime attack on his hive. “If you find Malvern, raise the alarm but do not engage until backup arrives. Stay alert, Fey, and look carefully for traps.”
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 49