Summoning his power Seth unleashed a torrent of invisible power, guiding it into his wings. Still nothing happened. He tilted his wings and varied the angle at which his power raged into them. Then… Finally… It happened. With almost no effort, Seth began to rise into the air, his wings filling like sails upon a ship. He rose higher and higher into the cold night sky, channeling his own power to drive him further and further. Higher still he climbed before he realized that he still was making no progress. He was going up, but not forward. He knew the trick was changing the angle of his wings to his magical wind, and likely his center of gravity as well and acted upon the knowledge. Leaning forward, cutting the angle of his wings into the wind, he lurched forward for an instant before losing the wind in his wings and plummeting downward. Yelling as he fell, even though he knew he would heal from whatever injuries awaited, he tried to right himself. Spiraling out of control, one wing caught the air before the other, causing him to somersault once before smashing to the ground, his head folding under his back with a loud cracking sound.
Light exploded before his eyes and a burning sensation washed through his entire body before his vision began to go dark. Fighting the urge to panic, Seth struggled to remain conscious. Already the burning began to subside and the sensation of his limbs returned. Rolling to the side, he pushed his head back into alignment with his spine and waited the seconds until he was mended enough to rise again.
Just a moment later and Seth was airborne again. This time he was more cautious, and a few moments of trial and error later he shouted victoriously as he swept forward through the air, faster than he had hoped possible. It was not mastery. Hell, it wasn’t even really flight. More like gliding. But at the pace he was managing, he would make Valdadore within an hour.
* * * * *
Borrik paced Valdadore’s immense defensive outer wall, listening for any sign of the enemy’s approach. The day had been lost. Seth had been lost. Sara too was lost. All that was left to lose was Valdadore, his childhood home. Most of his men had fallen already, leaving him barely over half a dozen. His ability to hear his pack’s thoughts made his mind nearly as empty as his heart this night, as all was quiet, none daring to ponder what the coming hours would bring. Though every able bodied man and woman who remained manned the walls, they were as silent as death. The city felt like a tomb to Borrik, and sadly he wasn’t the only one. Borrik could feel it on the air. Everyone felt stalked by death. It was only a matter of time.
Stretching his great leathery wings he peered out into the darkness, searching for movement. He could not see Sigrant’s camp anymore, now that night had fallen and clouds obscured the moons and stars. That didn’t keep him from focusing his senses on it though. Again and again he strained in the darkness, listening for any clue that the final attack was coming. Valdadore might hold out for a few days. Maybe even a couple of weeks. Eventually, however, Sigrant’s forces would gain entry to the city and all would be lost.
Cold wind began blasting the tops of the city walls, creating odd gusts and updrafts. Frost crystals began to form on the stone of the defenses, and those that paced nervously ceased, for fear of slipping on the newly forming ice and plummeting to their deaths. Borrik wondered if such a death would be better than what awaited with the enemy. It was true, he could flee at any time with little fear of harm, but where would he go? There was no one to go to, and this was his home. At least in death he would be reunited with his master.
Shaking his head vigorously, in an attempt to clear his mental state, the giant, alpha werewolf again strained his senses into the distance. Though the wind called mournfully as it crossed the plains to crash into Valdadore’s walls, Borrik noticed a difference upon it. The sound of the wind was not accompanied by another new sound. Nor was there an odd scent upon the air. Instead there was neither. Everything in the distance had gone silent. For hours there had been faint cries and screams upon the wind, but now… nothing. No animals called out. Nothing stirred. Borrik turned and looked to his second in command.
“The enemy approaches.” Jonas, the only remaining werewolf captain, confirmed Borrik’s unspoken thought.
“I’ll give the warning,” Borrik replied to his mottled colored companion. “Incoming!” Borrik shouted as everyone on the wall turned to peer into the distance, looks of fear and determination appearing on their faces. In the distance, somewhere within the city, an infant cried out before being silenced suddenly, likely by a breast shoved into its awaiting mouth.
That cry was like a trumpet call to Borrik, for it was at that very moment that he felt the connection. He had never felt it before. He had not noticed it when it had been ripped away earlier in the day in the midst of battle. Now, however, in the lonely silence, he felt the small tug at his conscious. He felt the connection, and having felt it he focused upon it. It was not one of his men, as his connection to them was different... natural. It was something more, and yet more subtle. Borrik grinned wickedly, flashing his wicked canines into the darkness. He barely noted that those humans nearest him shuddered at the sight, thinking the wolf as mad as the king. He cared not for their thoughts, for now there was hope. His master had returned.
* * * * *
Garret stood upon the wall, staring out into the same blackness that held everyone on the wall enthralled. His shoulder ached like the seventh abyss, but he dared not attempt to have his arm restored again, in case the enemy attacked in the middle of his mending. He stood because the act of sitting seemed an impossibility. Worn and weary, the beleaguered leader of Valdadore watched the darkness numb, hoping the enemy would come and end his mental anguish.
In battle his mind was singularly focused, leaving room for nothing but killing and killing some more. Now, however, on the silent wall, his mind dared recall every hideous detail of the day. Everything he loved was gone. His father and brother were dead. Jack, a man he had admired for all his life, was dead. Seth’s wife, Sara, was likely dead as well. His army was all but destroyed, and the two people he loved that remained, he had sent on a fool’s errand into the depths of the Dwarven nation. He would never see them again. Of that he was sure. Silently, against his own will, he whispered goodbye to both, his brother in arms, Zorbin, and the woman he loved and intended to make queen, Linaya.
All that remained was Valdadore and those helpless citizens that remained within its walls. Garret no longer really cared what happened, seeing defeat as inevitable, so long as he took as many of the enemy with him as possible when he crossed into the realm of death. Some still talked of holding out through the winter, especially since the night turned bitter cold, but Garret knew they wouldn’t survive that long. All that was left to do was wait. He didn’t wait long.
“Incoming!” one of Seth’s great werewolves half shouted, half barked from further down the wall. Garret grinned into the dark. His end approached.
Turning, Garret watched as his weary, ragtag troops rose to defend their positions. It might still be an hour or more before the enemy arrived, but it seemed, like himself, they all wanted to watch them come.
Minutes passed, then a quarter of an hour, and still no sign of the enemy. Garret could not help but wonder if the giant wolf man had been mistaken. He turned to be certain that all was prepared as best as was able, an act he had repeated hundreds of times over the last hour, when he was crashed into by someone rushing along the wall.
Recovering himself from the unexpected collision, he looked down upon the person who had run into him.
“Excuse me, m’lady,” Garret said halfheartedly.
“No, milord. Excuse me,” the woman replied.
Garret looked to the girl, all auburn hair, skin tight leather, and girlish curves, with a flash of her red eyes at him briefly before looking away, apparently ashamed. She was no longer a girl, but neither did she have the confidence of a woman.
“What are you doing upon the wall, girl?” he asked, thinking her too young to witness what was coming.
“I thought I might h
elp,” replied the girl. “I can spill blood as easily as the next woman,” she replied wickedly.
Garret pondered her words, looking her over.
“It appears you have already spilled some,” he said, reaching up to wipe blood from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. She had apparently cut herself somehow when they had collided, as the blood was still fresh. “What is your name, soldier?” he asked hesitantly.
“It’s Anna, milord,” she said with a mischievous smirk, tilting her head to one side as a series of cracks sounded from her neck. Turning, she strode away from her king, swaying her hips like a teenage girl on the prowl. Garret certainly did not envy the girl’s father. Turning once more, the king of Valdadore resumed his watch upon the fields surrounding his city. If the enemy was coming, he hoped they’d hurry the hell up.
* * * * *
King Robert Sigrant sat in his tent upon an over-stuffed cushion. His feet were propped up on a pillow and he sat with his head tilted back towards the heavens. Though his eyes were closed, they shot back and forth, fluttering beneath the lids as ecstasy washed over him hundreds of times per minute. The vampires, as his healers had labeled them, were a wondrous race. Their plague spread like wildfire through his camp, once he had unleashed the infected whores to have their way with the men who usually used them in a bit of role reversal. Now the power flowed into him with no end in sight, as the tens of thousands of his troops were being changed into blood thirsty, superhuman warriors. At this rate he would be ready to destroy Valdadore the following night, but such a man was King Sigrant that he had no intentions of giving the Valdadorians a full night of reprieve.
As he called to the men outside his tent, a moment passed before one of his captains peeked through the flap to receive his orders.
“Send Valdadore a gift. A thousand new and thirsty vampire soldiers to keep them on their toes.”
“Yes, your majesty,” the captain replied, and vanished once again behind the canvas.
Reaching down to the floor he retrieved his favorite, gem-encrusted dagger, and raised it above himself in one hand. Without so much as a breath’s hesitation he plunged it down into his bare abdomen and watched as it pierced flesh, his blood pooling around it. With a tug he pulled it free and watched as the skin closed around the blade as it was removed. No more did the blade exit his flesh, and the wound was healed. Grinning sheepishly, King Sigrant could not help but feel the excitement that came from realizing you were invincible.
Springing from his cushion with such force that he shattered both of his legs, the invading king went out to test his abilities, his legs mending before he landed upon his feet. Some of his champions had been spared the bite of the vampire whores, at least for the time being. Eventually even they were likely to succumb to the thirst of one of their peers. For now, however, these warriors would be his test subjects.
Leaving his candle-lit tent, he was amazed how well he could see in the darkness. His eyes had become so keen, it were as if the sun shone even now, late in the night. Within seconds he was at the edge of the camp. Grinning again, he realized that he moved so fast now that he would have to pay closer attention to his movements. Already, he had to turn around and go back the way he had come, having passed his destination. Invading Valdadore had been his best idea yet, and with his improved army, he could easily destroy any of the other neighboring nations as well.
He pondered that line of thinking a moment, imagining his many conquests and victories, before once again reaching the opposite edge to his camp.
“Shit.”
Turning once again, in the direction he had come, he focused solely on his destination, careful not to become sidetracked in newly realized fantasies.
* * * * *
Sara sat uncomfortably within her cage, like a beast being hauled to slaughter. For better than eighteen hours she had been confined to the small metal prison, a situation she did not imagine herself getting used to. Most of that time was spent trundling ever further away from Valdadore. She wished she could escape and return to help in the fight. It would allow her the vengeance she desired. Instead she wondered if Valdadore still stood, its valiant defenders putting up a good fight to retain their home.
After crossing the lake, some hours before, the oxen pulling the cart had been replaced by great black steeds. These beasts whisked her along the well beaten road previously trodden by the armies of King Sigrant. A singular inhabitant traveled with her. A small man adorned by tattoos that covered nearly every inch of his flesh. It was he who had replaced the oxen with the large horses when Sara’s care had been transferred on the western shore of the frozen lake.
She had tried to talk to him once in an attempt to glean information about where they were going, but found the venture useless. The man ignored her, sitting just out of reach at the front of the cart. There he guided the beasts ever onward at a dangerous pace, their hooves thundering down the road, the creaking cart behind them.
With nothing else to do but count the passing moments, Sara sat against the back bars of the cage, her arms wrapped around her knees. The need to sleep being nothing but a memory to her, she waited patiently, praying to any god who would hear her, for a chance to escape. Even now her power increased with every passing moment. Sigrant was changing multitudes of humans to be a monster like her. Whereas he got a portion of power from each of his direct underlings, he gained a smaller portion from those that they changed. So too was it with her. Sara was gaining a fraction of the power Sigrant was gaining, though less than the invading king himself. With every passing minute she grew stronger, her senses growing keener. She had tested the bars an hour before, but still was unable to bend them. So she waited, growing ever more powerful, for the first opportunity that presented itself.
* * * * *
Linaya rode her Valdadorian white stallion beside Zorbin Ironfist atop the great dire wolf Xanth. The dwarves had brought the pair their mounts upon exiting the mountains that served as the dwarves’ home. Together they followed the immense Dwarven army, a sea of a hundred thousand stout men and women whose polished armor sparkled even in the near absolute darkness. At the head of the army, the new king of the Dwarven nation marched along with his advisors and royal guard.
Linaya watched in awe as the immense army marched, each of them in step, pounding the ground beneath them in a steady thunderous rhythm. Every dwarf bore a great hammer resting upon their shoulder, a feat that she was sure would grow tiring in little to no time. Thus far, however, she had not noticed a single soldier switch arms or move to relieve the pains of hefting such a weight for so long a time.
“Zorbin…” Linaya near shouted over the pounding of the Dwarven army’s feet. “Why do the dwarves carry no torches with them? Would it not be safer if those in front could better see the ground before them?”
“We dwarves see better in darkness than you humans, a benefit, methinks, that comes with living underground, m’lady. It also hides our numbers from any enemy scouts who may hear us coming.”
“Makes sense.”
“We may not war with the other races of men often, m’lady, but I assure you that little has changed in war since the races of men first discovered one another,” Zorbin grumbled.
Linaya shifted upon her mount, restless, wishing they could move faster. She could not wait to return to Valdadore, Dwarven army in tow, finally feeling she was doing her part to save her people. She relaxed her grip upon the reins once again, an act she had had to repeat on several occasions. She hoped they arrived to find Valdadore and her defenders holding strong, especially Garret. She missed him dearly and looked forward to his embrace. For now all there was to do was wait and hope they arrived in time.
Chapter Two
Borrik could hear them coming and smell them as they neared. Nearly an hour had passed since he had given the warning that they were coming. The enemy screamed and yelled like crazed animals, and as they came into sight of the beacon fires that surrounded the city, it was apparent that
they were not what was expected. Immediately he knew them for what they were. These beasts were like Princess Sara, moving unnaturally, like fluid over the surface of the ground.
Their leaps covered too much ground, their strides were unnaturally long. They bounded over the meager ground defenses of spiked poles and pits like stags leaping brambles in the forest.
Borrik watched them come, studying their movements and speeds. They were but a small fraction of Sigrant’s force, and though they moved like Sara they were slower. These were a shadow of what the princess had become, but even so he knew that if they made it past the walls and into the city, the common people would have little chance against the faster and stronger mimics of humans.
Everyone saw them coming, and a cheer arose upon the battlements on the wall as the wave of Sigrant’s soldiers came to a halt outside the gleaming white walls of the city. Their cheers ceased abruptly when the first of the creatures began digging fingernails and toenails into unseen holds in the stone and started to scale the supposedly smooth walls. Within seconds the creatures’ comrades followed suit, each of them scratching and clawing up the walls like spiders. Up they came, a thousand unholy enemies.
Borrik watched as realization struck Valdadore’s defenders. Its remaining mages began flinging fire down the walls, incinerating those attackers too slow to move out of the way. Borrik joined them, summoning his own fireballs in two of his four hands and hurling them down upon the bloodthirsty wretches. He heard the boom when Garret invoked his blessing, and was sad in the knowing that no further booms beyond his own would come. All they needed to do was hold out until Seth came.
Touching his armor and whispering a prayer to Seth, Borrik exploded in a concussive boom before leaping from the wall. The cold updrafts hitting the immense walls helped keep him aloft as he swept dangerously close, pulling his nearest enemies free of their holdings, letting them plummet to the ground. Others he cleaved with blade or burned with fire, but they climbed too fast and already were nearing the top of the wall in many locations.
The Crowned (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga, Book 6) Page 2