Song Of Fury (Gods Of Blood And Fire Book 2)

by A. J. STRICKLER

  She pushed herself away from him in fear. So ferocious were his words, she found that her body had begun to tremble. He stepped back, and she could see him trying to calm his rage. “If you wish to kill children along the roadside, I won’t stop you, but it will not bring our son back nor will it see him avenged. One day, there will be a true reckoning. On that day, you will have the blood you seek.”

  She reached out to touch his face, but he walked past her, leaving Endra alone with the wind, the sea, and her guilt.

  ***

  Tavantis writhed in agony as Siro fawned over him like a mother hen. “Master, hold still. I can’t help if you keep moving.”

  The wizard slapped the necromancer’s hands away. “I will heal on my own, you little fool. Just leave me and get out.”

  “Master, this is madness. Your brother will be your end. Please let us return to our studies. In time, we could find a way to destroy Kian without risking our lives.”

  Pushing himself up from the table, Tavantis grunted and winced. The pain was still horrendous, but the terrible burns had already begun to heal. He slowly stood to his full height, though the effort pulled at the new skin that had begun to form on his body. “I didn’t ask for any advice from a peon like you, nor do I require it. Get out of my sight, you goat-faced idiot.”

  Siro frowned and left the experimentation room. He would wait a few hours before he spoke to the wizard again. He had to find a way to make Tavantis understand that his brother would destroy him in the end if he continued down this path. Slowly closing the door, Siro looked back into the room where they had created their monster, and he regretted the deed.

  ***

  The hour was late and the burns still ached, but at least he could move now without wanting to scream. By morning, his injuries would be completely healed and he could make plans to go after Kian again.

  Tavantis cautiously made his way up the tower to his study. He needed to think about the events of the day so he would not make the same mistakes when he faced his brother the next time. Easing himself down into his chair, he thought over the fight. He would have won the duel if Kian hadn’t torn the amulet from his neck, he was sure of it. The dark powers he now possessed made him more than a match for his twin. In the future, he would need to be more careful protecting his vampiric weaknesses. It was a dangerous game he played with his brother, killing Kian bordered on obsession. Tavantis had to make someone pay for all that had befallen him, and Kian was the one that his rage had focused on. With him gone, the weight of the world would lift from his shoulders. He could finally be free of the guilt that strangled him like a hangman’s noose.

  The air in the study became heavy and smelled of brimstone and decay. Panic quickly overwhelmed the vampire. The memory of that smell brought a waking nightmare to the forefront of his mind.

  Searching the darkness with his vampiric sight, he saw a shadow move. It had the silhouette of a man, but Tavantis knew it was no man. Fear shot through his brain and he was powerless, unable to shake the terror that had taken him hostage.

  “I see you have once again gotten yourself into a bit of trouble, wizard.” Tavantis could not answer as his throat was seized by waves of dread. “Did you think I had forgotten about you, half-elf?”

  All Tavantis could manage to do was fall on his knees and shake his head. He could not find his voice to respond to the god. The shadow glided closer, its stench growing stronger in his nostrils as it drew near.

  “This nasty affair with you brother seems to be taking a toll on you. I mean, really, he has already killed you once. Only the moronic actions of your apprentice kept you in this world and even with vampiric powers at your disposal, you could not best the Slayer. Now here you are looking like a burned piece of meat, a complete and utter failure.” The god’s voice became thick with hate and malice. “You will stop your attempts to kill Kian. Make his life as difficult as you wish, torment him all you desire, but don’t kill him. I will be very displeased if something befalls the fool before I can make use him. I have a purpose for that creature and I need him alive. Do you understand me?”

  Tavantis nodded feverishly, he knew better than to contradict the Lord of Evil. He would have agreed to anything to get the malevolent god out of his tower.

  “I also find it very amusing that you lied to Kian about your mother,” the god said with sick delight in his voice.

  “I didn’t lie,” Tavantis blurted out.

  “Oh, but you did. You killed the slaver Nasir Sana on the streets of my city. He never brought your mother to me. It was you that put her in my hands, not Nasir.”

  Tavantis pushed himself to his feet, anger overcoming his pain and fear for a moment. “No, you took her from me.”

  “You said you would give me anything for power, Tavantis. I bargained with you fairly.”

  “I didn’t mean my mother, you tricked me,” the vampiric wizard shouted.

  “Perhaps you should have been more specific on what you offered,” the shadow chided.

  Tavantis came around his desk, standing before the dark god. Now his burned body shook with fear, but he stood firm. “She had done nothing. It was I who came asking for more power, she was never meant to be part of the bargain.”

  The God of Evil reached out and grabbed the wizard by the side of his head. Tavantis screamed as its shadowy hand burned into his face. His long black hair began to fall from his head in clumps. Falling back to his knees, the wizard whimpered as he felt his heart begin to beat again as the vampiric power left his body, stopping the healing process of his wounds.

  The shadow let go of the sorcerer’s bald head. The imprint of its talon-like hand had burned into Tavantis’s face like a brand. “Wear the mark of my displeasure, mortal. Maybe it will remind you to never raise your voice to me again. Leave your brother to me or I will return and strip you of things more important than your looks, and if you ever try to stand before me as an equal again, wizard, I will destroy you as surely as the sun rises each day.”

  The god’s shadow turned to walk back into the darkness of the room. “Remember, back in Sidia, who you promised to truly serve. It would be a mistake to disregard that oath.”

  “How can I keep my word? You killed my mother. King Aram sacrificed her to you on the black altar,” Tavantis muttered from where he knelt on the floor.

  “Are you sure of that?” The Beast said as he slid back into the dark.

  The Quintaran flag waved above the soldiers as they marched south down the Gold Road: two white swans, their heads crowned and wings outstretched diagonally on a field of vibrant orange. It flew just below the white banner of the papal army, its golden three-tined crown displayed proudly on the white background. The grand inquisitor thought the Quintaran orange and the Church’s white didn’t go well together. In fact, Clovis didn’t like the Quintaran’s flag at all, nor did he like the task the pope had saddled him with.

  The summer’s heat had diminished somewhat. The days were still quite warm, but the night’s air had cooled, threatening the beginning of fall. Traveling with so many men was slow going and the grand inquisitor was used to working alone. This entire campaign was repugnant to him. He would like nothing better than to return to Asqutania and resume the job he loved.

  There was just nothing that could be done. The pope was counting on him and he wasn’t going to let the Holy Father down. He would finish the endeavor quickly and return home, hopefully to the praise and adulation of the Church’s hierarchy.

  Clovis reluctantly rode alongside Prince Cullen. The man was insufferable and, if possible, a bigger boor than Dracen Milara. He had tried to ignore the endless flow of drivel spouting from the prince’s mouth, but it was nearly impossible.

  Cullen’s arrogance and self-importance knew no bounds. Clovis was convinced King Hugo Hylton’s son would slowly drive him insane before they destroyed the Masarians. If he was not on the pope’s business, he would abandon this braggart and ride back to Asqutania, leaving the prince to his f
ate.

  His hope was that the campaign would be short. The ten thousand remaining papal soldiers and the men left from the knight orders had been joined by Prince Cullen and thirty thousand Quintaran troops just north of the Masarian border. They would outnumber their enemy nearly two to one, not to mention that Clovis commanded twenty of the pope’s Blessed. The monks and their Rods of Absolution would be a most devastating weapon in open battle. He was counting on their power to end the conflict swiftly.

  The pope had sent word to King Braklan of Illair that the combined forces would be marshalling in the southern part of his kingdom and were of no threat to him. The Holy Father’s word would keep the Illairians from jumping to any conclusions about the large army gathering on its southern border. Not having to explain themselves to King Braklan had given them time to organize and lay out a general plan for the invasion.

  With any luck, Bishop Carter would have dispatched Malric and the black-bloods. It would make his assignment much easier if the bishop was successful, but even if Carter failed, it would make little difference. The army would drive down the Gold Road and into Gallio. Masaria would quickly fall and he could get away from Cullen and back to his true calling, the inquisition.

  “Did you hear me, Eminence?”

  “No, Highness, my mind wandered for a moment,” Clovis said truthfully.

  “I said if Malric and these mercenaries somehow escaped your people in Gallio, I will be happy to kill them for you. After I defeat their army, I will hunt them down and challenge them one by one if necessary. I told you I am a very gifted swordsman, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Highness, you have pointed that out on several occasions.”

  Cullen puffed out his chest, trying to make himself look even larger than he was. Clovis had to admit that the Quintaran prince looked quite intimidating with his broad shoulders and powerful arms. In truth, though, the prince’s main concerns could readily be seen as the preening dolt ran his gloved hand over his long brown hair, seeing to it that the oils he put on it early that morning still held his hair in place. Hugo’s middle son was handsome. He had a strong chin and large blue eyes, though it was his hair the prince prized the most. Dark brown and very thick, his royal mane was cut short and set perfectly on his head. The only trouble was with a cowlick in the front that he fought daily.

  Cullen would be just another pompous noble, except for one saving grace. He had a gift for organization. Cullen could manage a competent deployment of their forces and handle the logistics of the campaign effortlessly. His battle skills were the only thing in question, though not to the prince himself.

  “My only regret, Eminence, is that the half-breed swordsman the Church is seeking isn’t with this Strom. I wish I could cross swords with the monster that killed the Abberdonian princes. Donovan and Griffyn have yet to be avenged, and God himself would smile on me if I dispatched that renegade and let their souls know the peace of retribution. It’s just a pity that he is elsewhere and I can’t give him the Holy Father’s own justice.”

  Clovis smiled at the thought. “Oh yes, my prince, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you standing before that demon.”

  Cullen grinned at the grand inquisitor's praise, not catching on to the sarcasm in the priest’s voice. Clovis looked away and rolled his eyes. He hoped he could complete the task the pope had set before him with this idiot commanding the bulk of their army. For now, it was best to let the pignut prance around and talk of his over-exaggerated exploits, there was no harm in it. However, he would not allow the prince to lose sight of their goal. It was far too important that they were successful. The grand inquisitor knew what he would have to do if Cullen became a burden or jeopardized the pope’s plans in any way. It would be a shame, but Hugo had other sons.

  ***

  K’xarr, Achillus, and Cromwell were silent. The trio of warriors was still trying to take in what the witch had just told them. K’xarr took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “So what you are telling us is, forty thousand men are advancing towards us right now led by this Prince Cullen, along with twenty monks like the ones we faced in the throne room.”

  Gabrielle nodded.

  “The pope had to have had this plan in place for some time in case everything else failed. What I don’t understand is why the Quintarans are sending such a large force, headed up by one of their princes no less?”

  “The answer is simple, my son,” Gabrielle said, brushing at her gown. “The pope has promised them Masaria. If they defeat you and the general here, the kingdom is theirs.”

  “You were right, K’xarr, the pope never cared about Masaria or Malric. It was the blood all along,” Achillus said, slowly shaking his head.

  “Thank you…Mother, the information was of great help,” K’xarr said, awkwardly touching the witch on the shoulder.

  “I was glad I could be of assistance.” Gabrielle looked at her son as if she was going to speak, but she only smiled at him and vanished.

  “I will never get used to that,” Cromwell said, blinking at the space where the witch had been standing.

  “Forget the sorcery, Bull, we have plans to make. Achillus, how many men do we have in the north?” The Dragitan looked at the mercenary captain like he had gone mad.

  “Little more than twelve thousand. I could send what’s left here in Gallio and a few from other posts throughout the kingdom, but that would still only make it around fifteen. You’re not thinking of taking on this Cullen and the pope’s sorcerers, are you? In the open ground of the north, we would be taken apart, our lines destroyed by their sorcery. Outnumbered, we would have no chance.”

  “What’s wrong, Dragitan, don’t have the belly for another fight?” K’xarr said with an evil grin. “Besides, I’m not planning on fighting them in the north. I will fight them right here.”

  “That won’t matter. Gallio’s walls are only twenty feet high, they could be easily scaled with ladders. Hell, the wizard priests, or whatever they are, might simply be able to blow them down. Think, Strom, the odds would be more than two to one. There is no way we could man the walls of the entire city with only fifteen thousand men.” Achillus turned his back to K’xarr. “What is there to fight for anyway? I have no love for the Masarians. I followed Malric and he is dead. I say we loot the treasury, board a ship, and sail away from this city. Let the dammed Quintarans have it.”

  Cromwell nodded his agreement. “Aye, Achillus is right. I would stay and fight the whole Church if you wanted me to, but they have magic. You saw what those bastards can do in the throne room. I’m with the Dragitan. Let’s loot the place and take to the sea. We owe the Masarians nothing, and our contract with Malric ended when he betrayed us.”

  K’xarr looked from one man to the other. “I have never liked to sail and I like to run even less. If we can’t defend the whole city, what about just the harbor district?”

  ***

  After trying to talk Cromwell and Achillus into agreeing to his idea of defending the harbor, K’xarr went looking for Kian. He found the swordsman sitting alone on the steps of the burned out palace.

  Smoke still thinly drifted out of the dark windows of the ruined keep, and the smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air like a shy wraith. The swordsman had returned from Bandara with a nasty cut that ran the length of his face. Rhys had stitched it up and tended to a deep wound to his side as well. The half-breed had not said a word as to how he had acquired his injuries and K’xarr had learned it was better not to ask. Knowing Kian, the wounds could have come from anywhere or anything. The mercenary thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie.

  K’xarr approached him hesitantly. Endra had told him what happened between them at the waterfront. The swordsman would be in one of his dark moods. Normally, he would stay away from Kian until it passed, but he needed his monster. He would just have to try and be patient with the melancholy half-breed. “How goes it, brother?” K’xarr said, extending his arm.

  Kian took his forearm in a warrio
r's grip. “I have been better,” he said without emotion.

  “You have heard what is happening with the Quintarans?” the mercenary captain asked.

  Kian nodded. “I have. They will never stop, K’xarr. Only when we have fallen will the Church relent. The Holy Father is intent on our deaths, there is no doubt about that now. If we defeat this army, he will only send another.”

  “Aye, I know, but I’m not going to let them take me easily and I’m not about to turn tail and run. Sooner or later, even the priests and the Church’s knights will get tired of dying.”

  Kian said nothing nor did his expression change at his jest. K’xarr decided to be direct. “I need you to stand with us against this Quintaran prince and these bastard wizards from the Church. Can I count on your sword when they come?”

  His golden eyes focused on K’xarr. “You’re my friend and I will always stand with you. Besides, I owe the church a blood debt I intend to pay.”

  Clapping the half-breed on the shoulder, he let out a deep breath. Sometimes Kian’s loyalty surprised even him. He and the others had been no help to Kian’s wayward children and still the man called them friend and agreed to fight for a cause that benefited him in no way. The mercenary captain couldn’t say he would have done the same. Even loyalty had its limits.

  K’xarr turned to go, but Kian caught him by the arm. “I must ask you for a favor. No matter the outcome of the battle, I want the children taken from this continent. The Church is too strong here and I want them somewhere safe.”