Distant Worlds Volume 1

by Benjamin Sperduto

  Emitting a sound that was a mixture of screaming and laughter, the nargaul charged with such speed that Serafima barely managed to raise her sword in defense, though she dropped the precious vial in the process. The thing’s great curved blade was fashioned from bone, but it was as strong as the finest steel and despite deflecting the attack Serafima was thrown back by its inhuman strength. She retreated steadily in the face of the nargaul’s onslaught, her counterblows glancing off the skeletal armor harmlessly.

  Gripped by desperation, Serafima ducked under its next attack and barreled into the thing with all her might. They crashed to the floor and she felt the skeletal armor’s spikes tear into her flesh, but she was consumed with a savagery born out of her instinct for survival and though she sensed the wounds she felt no pain. They wrestled upon the cold marble floor until Serafima found her leverage and flung the nargaul into one of the nearby pillars. Its many voices screamed as it smashed into the column so hard that its marble surface cracked.

  Serafima spotted the necromancer’s potion nearby and scrambled over to snatch it up from the floor. She uncorked it and smeared the contents over each side of her sword as the pale prince had instructed. By then the nargaul had hoisted itself to its feet and was charging toward her. It was too late for her to avoid the bone blade swinging down at her and she hastily raised her sword to parry the attack.

  To her surprise, the nargaul’s sword shattered when it struck her own as if it were made of glass. The vile creature stared at its broken weapon and its many voices fell silent. Serafima sprang to her feet and thrust her sword through the nargaul’s chest. The deathly armor splintered as the sword point easily broke through the patchwork of bones. The thing’s voices squealed at the unfamiliar sensation of pain. Serafima pulled her sword free and lopped off its head with a single, mighty stroke, putting a final end to the deathless creature’s miserable existence.

  With the nargaul disposed of, Serafima took a moment to catch her breath before cautiously approaching the burning cauldron in the center of the chamber. As she drew closer, the unusual nature of the flames became more readily apparent. Waves of crimson danced within the fire and it gave off no sound as it burned. When she reached the cauldron, she leaned over its edge and peered inside to see a small, red object no larger than a fist inside. The object seemed to be the source of the fire, though she could feel no heat from the flames. She passed her hand through the fire and felt nothing but air. Slightly reassured, Serafima reached into the cauldron and grasped the burning object within. It felt soft and wet, but it also pulsed strongly as she tightened her fingers around it. She pulled it out and the flames immediately dwindled.

  Serafima could do little but stare incredulously at the object she held in her hand. It was a human heart, still beating violently with life.

  The moon was yet low on the horizon when Knyaz Neznan of Valinsk sent his slave girls away for the night and passed out on sheets soaked with wine and sweat. Never a man with the endurance to accommodate his appetite for decadence, he had stumbled through the latter hours of his self-indulgent victory celebration and were it not for the guidance of his whores he would never have found his way back to his bedchambers. Finally alone after a satisfying evening of drunken revelry, Neznan was free to dream of his future prize: The lordship over all of Rostogov, courtesy of assistance from the Black Legions of T’zaladar who would help him crush his quarreling cousins who still reigned over Rostogov’s many principalities. Of course, he would ultimately have to answer to King Shadorn, but Neznan wasn’t sensible enough to foresee the danger such a relationship held. All he understood were his own considerable desires and he saw control over the whole of Rostogov only as the acquisition of power and wealth.

  In the midst of a most pleasurable dream, a sharp, tingling sensation caused Neznan to shoot upright in his bed with a confused shout. He glanced around the room but his senses were still dull from too much wine to spot anything out of the ordinary. With a sigh, he dropped back onto his soft bed and began to drift into dreams of power and glory once more.

  “Attend a battle without drawing a blade and return to a hero’s welcome of sour wine and dirty whores,” a cold female voice said from the shadows of the bedchamber. “Such is the life of a cowardly traitor, isn’t it, Neznan Ravulavich?”

  Now Neznan leapt out of his bed terrified, for even in his delirium, he could not mistake the sound of that voice. He crashed to the floor and his eyes darted about the room but he could see no one there. Then his blurred vision caught the sight of a tall, muscular woman stepping toward him.

  “It’s not possible,” he said. “You should be hundreds of miles from here in a T’zaladarian dungeon!”

  “You know as well as I that all traitors are eventually the victims of another’s betrayal,” Serafima said.

  Neznan glanced down to the arm that had felt the sorcerous touch of Aziell Shadorn.

  “The necromancer? But why?”

  “That’s none of your concern. After all, you should be flattered,” Serafima said as she advanced, “I would rather have this single moment with you than slay your T’zaladarian master a thousand times over.”

  “No! Get back, you bitch! Someone help me!”

  Neznan tried to scramble away but even if his reactions were not slowed by drink he would have been far too slow to avoid her. Serafima pounced on the sordid Knyaz and wrapped her hands around his throat. He struggled fiercely but her iron grip only tightened as she slowly crushed his windpipe. Neznan remained conscious just long enough to see the grim smile upon her face and then the bones in his neck snapped like dry, brittle leaves.

  “Escaped?”

  The normally fearless T’zaladarian guardsmen avoided the furious eyes of their tempestuous ruler.

  “How is this possible?” King Shadorn said, his roaring voice echoing through the dungeon corridors. He had thought of nothing for the past three days other than dragging Serafima of Rostogov through the streets of T’zaladar in chains. Never during his reign had he been more enraged.

  King Shadorn left the dungeons in disgust and headed for the throne room to issue orders to his gathered generals who awaited news of their lord’s next planned campaign. He had not taken three steps before deciding to utilize every soldier in his vast legions in a citywide hunt for the she-wolf of the north. At least, every soldier save those who had been charged with guarding her. Their executions would be carried out within the hour.

  As he entered the lavish palace throne room, King Shadorn wondered how it was possible that his brother Aziell was not able to prevent her escape. Not for the first time, he wished that he could simply dispose of his quixotic sibling and rely on the council of his generals. But even he knew that they lacked the temperance of patience and the wisdom of foresight needed to hold his vast kingdom together.

  “Send for my brother!” he said as he strode past his prostrated subjects and took his place on the ebony chair that was his birthright.

  “No need, dear brother, I have been waiting for you.”

  King Shadorn looked up to see the necromancer standing behind the bowed heads of his generals.

  “Aziell, it has come to my attention that that barbarian bitch has vanished without a trace from the palace dungeons,” the king said.

  “Indeed, dear brother, that is so.”

  “How could you allow this to happen? It was you who insisted that she be brought back ahead of my forces so perhaps you can explain why I should not hold you responsible for her escape?”

  Aziell smiled thinly and stepped closer to the throne, ahead of the king’s bowing generals.

  “I wish I could, dear brother, but you see, I am in fact responsible for her escape,” the necromancer said.

  “What?”

  “It was I who released her from her dungeon cell and it was I who spirited her away from this city with a powerful spell of my own devising. But you needn’t fear, brother, for I can assure you she is quite far from here. In fact, she is likely s
trangling that fool Neznan as we speak.”

  “Enough!” King Shadorn said. “Guards! Seize this traitor!”

  Despite the king’s furious insistence, not one his subjects moved. The guardsmen near the doors were deathly still and even the generals before him remained kneeled with their heads bowed. King Shadorn looked around in confusion before his eyes fixed on Aziell’s.

  “I am afraid they cannot hear you, dear brother.”

  “What have you done, Aziell?” The garishly dressed king disguised his growing fear poorly.

  “Rise, my children,” the pale prince said, his voice rasping like that of a dying man.

  At his command the six generals rose to their feet and looked up at King Shadorn, who gasped when their empty, soulless eyes fell upon him.

  “A…Aziell, what have you—?”

  “Be silent! For too long I have been your slave, dear brother. I have wasted too much precious time with your childish wars and petty genocides. Now I will take back those lost years by unmaking all that your aimless ambition has made with my guidance.”

  “You forget your place, little brother,” the king said, regaining some of his bluster. “Have you forgotten that so long as your black heart beats within the Cauldron of Vanthos I can end your miserable life with but a word? You have no power over me, Aziell! Restore life to my commanders and I might consider granting you a swift death!”

  The pale prince merely laughed at his brother’s outburst.

  “No, dear brother. It is you who forgets his place.”

  Aziell pulled back his cloak to reveal his bare chest and the stitching that held the incision over his heart together.

  “Impossible,” King Shadorn said, his voice scarcely a whisper.

  “With my aid Serafima of Rostogov has her vengeance and with hers I am whole once more. Now I too shall have my vengeance, brother!”

  “Aziell! Please!”

  “Let go this mortal coil, dear brother, and bring your tainted soul to the loving embrace of oblivion.”

  Lorzakai Shadorn opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He dropped to the floor and writhed as his brother’s beckoning words mercilessly ripped his spirit away from its vessel of flesh and bone. As his soul was pried loose, he felt all sense of time and self wash away under an unyielding torrent of searing pain. It seemed to drift freely for a moment and before it was seized by an invisible force and dragged into the darkness of oblivion where it took its place among the vilest of human souls in a harrowing symphony of anguish.