The Bearer of Secrets (Dark Legacy)

by Kyle Belote

  “Defense?” Mauler interrupted. “Fuck that! We’re offense.”

  “Aye, we take the war to the enemy, not sit on our asses like the Grand Royal Army,” Tiny concurred.

  “What the hell do any of you know about war? The only veterans here besides myself is Patch and Two-tons. None of you have seen war, and most of you have never taken a life.”

  A poignant silence fell over the Krey, but he could see the unrest in their eyes. They grew accustomed to life in Outpost Dire, training, drinking, eating, fighting, fucking. Angst and malaise rippled through those under his command, balking at the simplistic yet mind numbing task of marching. Raven didn’t know how long it would last or if it would get better or worse. How many more days until it turned from vexation and dissatisfaction to open sedition?

  “Since that is our official story, then what are we really doing there?” Xenomene asked, breaking the silence.

  “Nice of you to join us, Xeno; our real campaign will be making defenses due to an imminent threat of Xilor and an army he will assemble.”

  The camp burst into pandemonium as conversations erupted, most negative. Shouted interjections and raised voices carried their incoherent words to the ears of Raven, noting the reactions of his subordinates. The virgins were up on their feet, gesturing and posturing with aggressive body language. His veterans sat upon the ground watching the young members, but their composed faces held scorn as they entered the debate from the ground. Xeno, the next in line for Do-don, still sharpened her dagger, unaffected by the upheaval around her.

  At least one person will keep their cool when the battle is upon us.

  Xeno rose to her feet, the movement fluid, sheathing her blade. Her sudden motion caught the attention of everyone quicker than if she yelled. Contemptuous glares not intended for her shifted, conversations ceased for a brief moment, forgotten by the new disturbance.

  “It doesn’t matter why we are building defenses,” she began. “Xilor could bring an army. Dragons could come back in greater numbers. A flock of geese with fiery shit could swoop in to attack; it doesn’t change the fact that defenses are needed. We’ve been tasked by the Heir—against standing law, I remind you—and he has mobilized us. The Heir is willing to risk all-out war and retaliation from Ralloc, so it must be important. That’s good enough for me, and it should be for you, too.” She gathered her sleeping roll. “I’m getting some sleep, so keep the noise level down. And I suggest you do the same; we are marching tomorrow, and then next day, and the day after that for the next two moon turns.”

  With reluctance, the Krey dispersed from their zones of engagement, with arguments abandoned, retreating to their bedding areas or to the fire to claim their respective pots. Some finished their food while others picked at armor and gear. Raven descried them reverting to their devices and espied Xenomene from a distance, grateful for her interjection. In one stroke, she had turned them away from fighting each other over points of view and told them what they needed to know, not what they wanted to hear.

  We must work on your people skills Xeno, Raven thought. You have a commanding presence, but you need to show more of your compassion if people are to follow you into death’s embrace.

  Raven picked his way to his area, freeing his sleeping roll from the lashes of his pack. He sensed a presence hovering and looked up to see a graying Patch. The Do-don spoke as he unrolled his blankets. “Something on your mind?”

  “Oh, aye, you could say that.”

  “Feel free to speak and save me the breath of asking questions.”

  “It’s about when you die,” Patch said, his voice grave. Raven suppressed a tightlipped smile. Patch said when and not if; the Krey knew their lot in life, born to die, first into battles they habitually failed to return from.

  “You want to know if you are taking over?” Raven surmised. The other nodded. Finished unrolling his blankets, Raven sat down, leaning against his pack and motioned for the other to do the same. With an audible sigh, Patch sat down. “You will not be taking over,” Raven said gently. “Orders from the Heir.”

  “What the hell is Daniel thinking?” Patch said, sullen.

  “The Heir is thinking of resuming the old ways; the strongest will lead.”

  Patch grunted. “You think she is strong?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of Xenomene.

  The other shrugged. “She has done nothing to make me think otherwise. The only reason she is not leading now is that she is a virgin. The Heir believes a war will break out, and if it does, that will be remedied rather quickly, don’t you think?”

  “She has no experience leading.”

  “True, but point out one man that wouldn’t be willing to follow her, and I am not talking about the repercussions of disobedience.”

  “What do you mean?” the older Krey inquired.

  Raven smiled, fingernails digging deep into his black hair, scratching his scalp. “Look at them. Furtive glances, their ability to shut up when she talks. They all want to bed her and give her no cause to disregard them. For that hope alone, they will follow her.”

  “Wanting to fuck the bitch doesn’t inspire loyalty or faith. Besides, she’s not the only female with us. There is Mauler and the Heart.”

  “Yes, but A’uri are mysterious, and they are probably too worried that Mauler would eat them.” Raven chuckled. “You’re right, wanting to bed her doesn’t inspire loyalty or faith but instills hope, and with that false hope, it will buy her time for the other two. Given the chance, she will do well.”

  “If you say so,” Patch grunted, his fingers rubbing his chin.

  “Trust me,” Raven smiled. “A little grooming and she will make a fine leader, and her skill with the sword will only help her rise through the ranks. Who knows, maybe one day we will have our first female Heir.”

  Patch scoffed as he got to his feet. “Yeah, that is about as likely as dragons attacking Outpost Dire or the Forgotten Isles joining Ralloc’s Domain. Shit, Apor and Praema are more likely to rise in the south, just ain’t gonna happen.”

  The older man moved away, and the Do-don called to him. “Patch? The suns do rise in the south on the other side of Ermaeyth.”

  Patch rolled his eyes and sauntered off to his pallet. Raven watched him go. He empathized with his old colleague. Times enforced change, an inevitable eventuality. The Wizard’s War, both his and Patch’s glory days became a figment of the past, glimpsed, discarded, and passed off as tall tales. The Krey had changed, too. In many ways, advancing more than Ralloc’s pretentious, tradition-riveted society and in other manners, they returned to their old ways. Raven smiled, admiring the perfect blend.

  Giving his squad one last look as they clambered into their sleeping rolls, he nestled into his blankets, too. His eyes tracked over to Xenomene; her diminutive form suffused in her blankets. A small tress of dark red hair escaped beneath the opening.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried not to think of the long march that lay ahead and hoped he wasn’t on the twisted trail of folly.

  ***

  Chapter 31 : Ralloc Domain

  Daniel walked alone, stumbling drunk through the streets of Ralloc, searching for a specific establishment that came highly recommended. While he made his way there, his thoughts were never far from Meristal.

  Every time he laid eyes on her, an overwhelming need to slap her arose, to tell her to wake up. Why couldn’t Meristal comprehend that he loved her? He could offer more to life than what she settled for! What did she see in Daniel that repulsed her? Why did she pine for Warlock Lakayre when he would take her, damaged goods and all? Daniel shook his head in disgust and spat.

  The Heir of Valin rarely made it to Ralloc, but when he did, he loved to have a good time. Visiting Ralloc brought the promise of pleasure, the claws of his vices burrowed deep. It was one thing to party with your brothers of the sword, the Krey, and you could fuck the hell out of the female Krey, but it just wasn’t the same as Ralloc.

  Daniel had a speci
fic taste in women, and no one matched it at House Eti, save one. He remembered when he laid eyes on Xenomene for the first time; his loins ached at first glimpse. But she was too young, and why would she want Daniel, a man old enough to be her much older brother and possibly father? Still, her taut young flesh … but she had an innocent vibe to her, and Daniel didn’t want to be the one to corrupt her.

  He entered the establishment he was looking for: The Gentle Touch. He stumbled in, nearly running into a bearded man clothed in fine silk robes of deep green, brown, and gray. The man smiled at him. “Welcome to Lord Brenton’s The Gentle Touch, how may we serve you this evening?”

  Bleary eyed, Daniel blurted, “Redhead.”

  “We have plenty of red-haired females for you to select from this evening, what is your select specialty?”

  Confusion rippled across Daniel’s inebriated face. “What the fuck are you talking about, man? Where are the girls?”

  “Would you like to view the girls before selecting your specialty?”

  “Of course, man!” Daniel belched. He swayed.

  “Follow me, sire,” The host led him up the stairs and through a locked door, beyond opened into a foyer. Red-haired girls of all ages and types lounged there, all half clothed, only covering their breasts and their groin. Daniel’s eyes went wide, gasping as he beheld women of every size: wide, thin, large and small breasts with variations in between, some with red pubic hair as they flashed him, others with black, some lacked altogether. He saw a rainbow of eye color: green, blue, brown, gray, but he didn’t see lilac or amethyst.

  None like Meristal’s.

  “Find anything to your satisfaction, sire?”

  Oh yeah! He nodded emphatically.

  “Which specialty would you like?”

  “What is this specialty you are talking about?”

  “All our girls possess skills in the fine arts of love making from all known cultures. However, each girl has a unique skill they are better suited than others and are often hired for such skills.” The host clapped his hands, and the girls moved off into groups. “These girls,” he said, pointing to the left, “their specialty is oral stimulation. The girls to the middle achieve multiple orgasms with the slightest touch. These girls have superb massaging skills. These girls to the right are from the Isles. The girls over by the wall in prolonging your orgasm to last for minutes rather than seconds and hail from Cronele. Another selection of girls can be made available with other skills if you do not find one to your liking. Which would you prefer?”

  “How much?”

  “Four hundred scepters for a girl of no formal skill, six hundred for a specialized companion.”

  “Shades you’re expensive! How long do I get to play?”

  “Until dawn,” the host supplied. “The price is because we cater to the elite.”

  “I will take three specialized girls,” Daniel said, handing the host an ingot–an ingot was worth six thousand scepters. The host’s eyes went wide as he grasped the ingot.

  “I want an oral girl, a girl with good fingers, and a girl to prolong my orgasm,” he said.

  “Since you are paying for more than two, we shall throw in an extra girl. Let’s say a girl from the Isles, if you like, sire.”

  “Sure, fuck it, why not?”

  “Take your pick of girls, sire.”

  Daniel sauntered closer and the girls made themselves available to him. After seeing how much money he just gave without batting an eye, they were clambering all over themselves to win his favor. Daniel walked among them looking for each girl that closest resembled Meristal’s face and body type. If he couldn’t have Meristal, he’d fornicate with each of these women as if they were her.

  ---

  The long, cold fingers of decay reached out and brushed the Betrayer. He shuddered, acquainted with the Ruins of Sheol, one of the three cursed grounds in Ermaeyth. Here, death lingered in partial metaphysical form. The sheol, creatures of Xilor’s design, born of his machinations, both incorporeal and corporeal planes, remained in a state of animating flux. The Betrayer had made the near-impossible journey to the Ruins in five days. The slave-by-fateful-choices breathed a sigh of relief. With another shudder, he put the Ruins to his back and faced the grotesque, a small horde of trolls waiting for him to speak.

  Xilor instructed him to incite an uprising, stirring the trolls into action, launching an unprovoked attack against a useless colony, a small town barely registering as a fleck on the map. When he called to his master, Xilor rewarded his diligence with his reasoning for the attack. Firstly, it would start the second Wizard’s War. Secondly, it would mask the presence of outsiders and their journey across the foreign soil. He did not specify what the outsiders were other than vague hints about creatures who had never set foot on land, wisps of smoke from the Underworld itself. The Betrayer paled, and his stomach fluttered when Xilor commanded his return to Gryzlaud with all due haste once his task was complete. The last bit of ill news he did not greet fondly, a command to return to Xilor’s clutches meant only one thing: he neared the end of his quest to return to solid form.

  The Betrayer looked out at the assembly, small, squinted eyes regarded him, black as flint. Curving tusks rupturing between engorged lips dripped with saliva. Large, wide nostrils flared with each exhale, their nose hairs dancing like spider legs. A wreaking stench slithered through the air; they hardly smelled better than a slop-infested pig pen. The Betrayer felt diminished and insignificant standing in the presence of such large beasts. Their altitudinous height towered above a tall man, their shoulders easily one and half times his own. Like wizardkind, their skin tone was as diversified, ranging from light green to shades much darker, a sickly gray rivaling granite, and every earthly tone between. He swallowed, stilling the quavering apple of his throat.

  As much as he feared them, he feared Xilor more.

  With that knowledge, he spoke, orchestrating a weave of words he hoped would do as Xilor commanded. Trolls were not animals as most races pretended, just readily swayed. A charismatic speaker could enthrall them almost to commit mass suicide. Xilor used the analogy of a farm, comparing trolls to the oxen pulling the plow. While the troll population was much larger than the gathered, it was enough to send a message, both to the trolls and to Ralloc. The trolls would side with Xilor in the coming war.

  He clambered onto a boulder, speaking from a respectable height, watching their expressions and their rapid blinking eyes. Shadows hid his face, his hood drawn to obscure his features. The trolls stood rooted, listening to the messenger speaking on behalf of the returning Dark Lord. The mindless brutes cast their allegiance to the Xilor before, but their allegiance was whimsical at best. Xilor needed to solidify their resolve and have their unwavering loyalty for his plans to work. He needed sacrificial pawns in this game, and he would leave them to die. Ralloc would hunt them down after this atrocity against Wizard’s Pass. It would be a slaughter. The capital would shift its attention to them, turning their backs to the amassing army under Xilor’s banner.

  They had gathered to hear words of hope and inspiration and promises. He swayed them with a speech crafted to bolster morale and mystify them. Though they lived in a land filled with many races, they were the least educated of civilized society, but always captivated by a standard they would never achieve. The finery of the elyfian, the nobility of wizardkind, the riches of the dwaven, the upper caste of the goblins, all beyond their limited reach. Education and magic eluded them much like the concept of soap and water. What they didn’t understand was that these words spelled their doom, pawns abandoned for Xilor’s calculated ambition.

  The Betrayer weaved his spell of influence, and a great roar of eagerness rippled through the massive crowd. Gaping maws opened wide to bellow their admiration. He continued about the rebirth of their master, the injustice inflicted upon them and the promise of prosperity, unity once they crushed Ralloc beneath their heel. Even oblivious barbarians recognized the sting of oppression. More cheers exp
loded from the crowd. Some trolls, so overcome by excitement, began to speak amongst themselves in their native tongue–consisting of grunts and growls–instead of speaking the principle language of Myshku.

  The echoes of their cheers reverberated and the Betrayer perceived the creeping chill of death pour down his spine. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears; the sheol congregated behind him, curious at the amassed beings so tantalizingly close. With another shudder, the Betrayer tired to put them out of his mind. With the promise of such rewards on the trolls’ minds, he gave them focus by directing them towards their target, a small settlement. The trolls never balked, never question the logic. It made sense, and they wanted to please their master.

  They dispersed, and the sole wizard weaved between them, listening to their conversations. What he could understand confirmed that the trolls would comply with Xilor’s wishes. A smile, not of satisfaction, but relief, pulled at the corners of his mouth, knowing he proved his usefulness to the Dark Lord. He would live another day, and so would Olga and Miza, wards in Xilor’s care. Wading deeper into the press of large bodies, he distanced himself from the sheol.

  Guilt gnawed at his insides. He obeyed his master, and in doing so sealed the fates of untold citizens residing in Wizard’s Pass. Personally, he hoped the trolls failed. Xilor could not fault him for that, but he still endured the shame from the reprehensible act. He delivered others, innocent and unsuspecting people, so that he might live.

  Excitement raced through the crowd; a chant started up, massive fists pumping the air. They called out Xilor’s name, igniting a frenzy. The chant carried out into the night, swelling in volume. The Betrayer picked his way carefully through the trolls, dodging the massive beings as they jostled each other. Trampled to death was not the way he wanted to go.