Legacy of the Devil Queen (Eve of Redemption Book 4)

by Joe Jackson

  Eve of Redemption, Book IV

  Legacy of the Devil Queen

  by

  Joe Jackson

  Copyright 2016 by Joe Jackson

  All rights reserved

  Cover Art by Adam Wayne

  (www.adamwayneart.com)

  Follow the author:

  http://Citaria.wordpress.com

  www.Twitter.com/shoelessauthor

  www.Facebook.com/shoelessauthor

  Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/cbviiD

  The Eve of Redemption Series

  Salvation’s Dawn

  White Serpent, Black Dragon

  Serpents Rising

  Legacy of the Devil Queen

  The Huntresses’ Game (due June 2017)

  Preludes to War (due Dec 2017)

  “Always do everything you ask of those you command.”

  – General George S. Patton

  This book is dedicated to my daughters,

  Audrei & Deirdre,

  who will never know just how hard their

  mother fought to bring them into this world

  Contents

  Chapter I – A Vengeful Strike

  Chapter II – Aftermath

  Chapter III – Administration

  Chapter IV – Ripples Upon Water

  Chapter V – Gathering Strength

  Chapter VI – Family Rift

  Chapter VII – Curious Arrivals

  Chapter VIII – Separation

  Chapter IX – Wolf and Hunter

  Chapter X – Collateral Damage

  Chapter XI – Wounds

  Chapter XII – Atonement

  Chapter XIII – Countermeasures

  Chapter XIV – The Last Demon War

  Chapter XV – The Name of the Beast

  Chapter XVI – The Expected and the Unexpected

  Chapter XVII – The Truth at the Heart

  Chapter XVIII – Where the Heart Is

  Chapter XIX – Bindings

  Epilogue

  Appendix A: The Many Unique Races of Citaria

  Appendix B: The Merged Citarian-Koryonite Pantheons

  Appendix C: Geography and History

  Appendix D: The Kings and Races of Mehr’Durillia

  Chapter I – A Vengeful Strike

  The sound of the wind rushing past them as they rode was the only thing that competed with the thunder of the horses’ hooves. No man in the unit spoke; each of them understood their liege well enough to know not to question his orders or his convictions. They followed in his wake, the two riding just behind and to either side of him carrying long poles from which the Earl’s personal standard flew. The blue and white checkered field with the two black stallion heads announced to all who saw their approach that the Earl of Marsdale was on his way.

  Earl Clyde Pendergast was a stoic veteran of the Apocalypse, a stern ruler who very rarely saw fit to put the troubles of his lands into the hands or care of others. Unlike many of his fellow nobles, when trouble came to the grizzled Earl, he tended to meet it head on personally. Many attributed it to the ease of the victories he’d scored in the Apocalypse, when his county had benefitted from the work of the Warlord, Kristofer Jir’tana, whose brigade had battled the Devil Queen’s forces in the Barrier Mountains. With Jir’tana’s brigade stonewalling Seril’s forces in the west, Earl Marsdale’s army had flanked and harried them, driving them back north into the heartlands. There, the bulk of the armies of Light had defeated them decisively, leading Earl Marsdale to be commended as a war hero on several occasions.

  It was of little surprise to his advisors and barons, then, when Iron Clyde mounted up and rode out to see to the news of a sacked town. The report had come in the early hours of morning only two days past, the details sketchy and hard to believe, but by the account he’d received, the entire town of Saffsburgh had been killed off or driven out, and the town had been burned to the ground. The Earl had immediately called for the demotion of his scouts and an inquiry into the loyalty of the border barons, reasoning that if they had let a force large enough to begin sacking towns and cities cross their lands, they must be traitors. All answers had come back indicating no hostile force had moved through any of the border baronies, but still Iron Clyde remained skeptical.

  The smoke on the horizon left little doubt that Saffsburgh had suffered some calamity. Within minutes of coming into sight of the smoking ruin, it was clear that the town had been destroyed. Only charred husks remained of the buildings along its main avenue, and here and there stood a blackened brick chimney that said there had once been a home or small business where now only ashes lay. Saffsburgh hadn’t been a very large township, home to perhaps a hundred or so people, and its standing militia was minimal due to its location within an interior barony. Still, Iron Clyde could not reconcile the town being destroyed by anything less than a company of soldiers, unless…

  With a snap of his fingers, the Earl sent his scouts and their guards into action. They turned their horses toward the edges of the town to look for tracks or other clues of who or what had destroyed Saffsburgh. Without even a moment’s hesitation, though, Iron Clyde urged his own horse forward and casually gestured for his advisors and guards to follow him to the town. As was customary among them, not one spoke their thoughts or their feelings, knowing that questioning the old Earl was a surefire way to end up in need of work.

  “What madness is this?” the Earl demanded as his horse trod carefully between the scorched ruins of two buildings. The scent of the blackness and the oily pall of the smoke were heavy in the air, but among it all, curiously, was a trace of cinnamon. He glanced to and fro to try to determine where the bakery stood, if indeed there was one close by, as there was little other explanation for that particular scent. “What sort of force burns a town to the ground without a declaration of war, unless it is some force demonic?”

  The others had no time to answer his offhand questions. Sudden screams of panic and pain erupted from all around them. A glance in each direction revealed no sign of an attacking force, but the sounds of the scouts and guards dying all around them left little other explanation. If there was an enemy force in the area, it was adept at remaining unseen: there weren’t enough of the charred ruins to hide a significant army. Perhaps a few scouts or sharpshooters might find a blind, but definitely not a full military unit. The thought of sharpshooters brought brys to mind, and Iron Clyde drew his steel longsword and urged his horse toward the last sounds of trouble in the east.

  The thought that some brys were hiding among the shell of the town required swiftness for more than one reason. If there were two or more of the deadly assassin variety of serilian demons – or serilis-rir, if that’s what they were called these days – the Earl and his men couldn’t afford to get pinned down in a crossfire within the town itself. He rode hard to the east and his staff followed in his wake again. After less than a minute at a full run, Earl Marsdale tugged hard on the reins and brought his horse to a halt. The scout and the bodyguard sent to this end of the town lay dead in the street, charred just like the husks of the buildings around them. Their attacker, meanwhile, stood in the center of the road, waiting for the Earl and the rest of his men.

  It looked like a rir at first glance, but the Earl quickly discarded that idea: this creature’s skin was brown, it had a row of six-inch white horns running from its brow to the back of its head rather than hair, and its fingers ended in wicked, hooked claws. The smell of cinnamon was stronger here, and the Earl wondered if this strange creature was the source of the scent. It was a curiosity and nothing more, though, and he dismounted and pulled the shield from its mounting
on his saddle. If this creature – demon, whatever it was – thought it would strike down Iron Clyde with the same ease it killed his citizens and scouts, it was sorely mistaken. He approached, but turned first to his men. “Spread out and search for the others with this one!” he ordered.

  The creature simply grinned, its lips peeling back like those of a rir, only to reveal much longer, sharper fangs than the draconic folk possessed. Its eyes, glowing green and slit-pupiled, split apart to look in opposite directions as it took stock of the brave human and his retainers. The creature hissed and clacked its front teeth together a couple of times before it seemed to find a voice for its thoughts. “No others,” it hissed. “Only this one.”

  The Earl of Marsdale hesitated ever so slightly, and he was sure his men didn’t miss it. He had to assume the creature’s words were a bluff or a distraction; there was no way a single creature could have killed his men on all sides of the town unless it were able to teleport nearly at will. He had never heard of such a thing, but then, he had never seen or heard of whatever the creature before him was. With a gesture, he sent his men along on the task he had appointed them while he continued his stoic approach.

  “Who are you that attacks my people without declaration of hostilities?” Iron Clyde demanded. “Identify yourself, foul creature!”

  The demon took another moment to find its voice again, clacking its teeth as it did so. “Declaration of hostilities? The hostilities never ceased, mortal,” it growled in a guttural and barely comprehensible accent. “You have won nothing. I…am vengeance incarnate.”

  Iron Clyde had heard enough. If this was another – or more likely, the last – of Seril’s creations, he would deliver its corpse to the Demonhunter Order for study, but he wouldn’t sit and wait for them to come see to the problem themselves. He trotted in with cautious purpose, his chain mail jingling with each step, and he subconsciously patted the hard steel of his breastplate to remind himself that he was well protected. The creature held its hand up and a flash of light leapt forward, but the Earl raised his shield to intercept whatever trickery it had unleashed. A concussive explosion rocked him back on his heels as fire engulfed the shield. Iron Clyde gritted his teeth and ignored the pain – and the stench – of his flesh being burned and his hair being singed, and he pressed onward.

  He stopped again in his tracks as the creature disappeared. A scream and the terrified cries of a horse under attack spun him around, and the Earl hesitated again. If the creature had teleported, it had made no gestures and left no signs that it had done so. It had seemed to move in a blur, and closed the hundred or so feet between the Earl and his nearest man in the blink of an eye. That man now lay dead from dozens of lacerations across his face, throat, and even through the mail of his chain shirt, and his horse lay dying beside him, eviscerated. Iron Clyde tried to call out a warning to the others.

  They heard the cries of their brother in arms, but the creature was upon them even as they turned in the direction of the screams. They fell to the same fate within moments, only the last of them even having the opportunity to draw his sword. That was of little enough use: the creature cut the knight’s horse out from under him, and then butchered the trapped man as he lay under the weight of his steed. That was the last of them; every man who had traveled to the burnt remnant of Saffsburgh with the Earl of Marsdale now lay dead at the claws of this demon.

  The creature approached in a normal walk, and something about it doing so now looked so unnatural to the Earl. He stood his ground, understanding that nothing was going to get him out of the situation he’d walked into. The creature was too fast to outrun or, from what he had seen thus far, to even fight effectively. He now had to trust that news of his death would reach his son and, more pointedly, the Demonhunter Order quickly, and that someone would step in and see to this creature’s destruction. With that thought in mind, however, Iron Clyde said a last prayer to his patron, Sechre Tori, and prepared to go out of this world the same way he’d come into it: fighting.

  He received no such opportunity. It was suddenly gone from sight again, moving in that barely-perceptible blur, but soon its hook-clawed hand gripped his throat from behind. Sharp pain shot through him as its claws sliced deep into his neck. If it had missed his major arteries, it had surely done so purposefully, but it mattered little. Blood started to trickle down his throat, and the creature threw him casually to the ground. It stepped on Iron Clyde’s chest as he labored to breathe, but he knew his life was over already. In those last moments, he wondered what he was dealing with and why he’d never seen or heard of such a thing before.

  This was no ordinary serilis-rir; he had cut down many of them during the Apocalypse. This was something different, something that certainly looked less threatening with its wiry-muscled frame and only a loincloth to protect it. But it moved with a speed that was impossible to follow and its movements were calculated and efficient despite that speed. Whatever this creature was, Iron Clyde was pretty certain even the Demonhunter Order would know nothing about it. He only hoped they’d learn fast and get rid of it, and that it was the only one of its kind.

  The creature lifted up its hand as if to unleash some deadly stroke of fire like those that had undoubtedly destroyed the town. In the brief pause before it killed him, the demon stared at him with a malice he’d not seen before. Then once more that guttural, accented speech belched forth from its fanged snout. “The Queen is dead,” it said. “Long live the King.”

  Chapter II – Aftermath

  Messengers were even still running to and fro across the grounds of the campus of the Demonhunter Order. The heads of the Order were being assembled, and the Silver Blades were being summoned from various places around the city. Lady Karian Vanador, a baroness and the head of the Demonhunter Order, had summoned all of the officers and her mate’s siblings – the Silver Blades – to begin assessing the threat to the south. Kari still had yet to go over the details surrounding her recent trip to the Temple of Archons and a misty valley where a syrinthian invasion had almost taken place.

  There would be plenty of time for that once she had sent her in-laws and some other hunters to investigate the southern disaster: she was now too pregnant to travel and fight, and so she’d be staying in DarkWind for some time.

  Her brother-in-law Erijinkor, better known as Erik to his friends, was the first to arrive in the Council chamber at the rear of Zalkar’s temple. Erik’s features were grim, his teeth clenched in such a way that it was obvious even behind his draconic lips. Kari could well understand his anger; he had stayed behind during their trek to the syrinthians’ valley, and thus wasn’t there when his youngest sibling was rendered paralyzed from the waist down. Typhonix’ injury had hit the entire family particularly hard. Still, Kari found it interesting and yet comforting that Ty himself seemed the least concerned.

  Erik crossed the Council chamber, his blue eyes full of wrath as he approached Kari, but she could tell his fury wasn’t aimed at her. He stepped before her and saluted her respectfully, and Kari had barely returned the gesture before he gripped her in a rib-crushing hug. Kari tried to politely push him off, and when he backed away, she drew his attention to the protrusion of her lower belly. His eyes went wide with embarrassment and came back up to hers, and then he took her in another silent hug, although a much more delicate one.

  “We have a lot to go over,” he said while they waited for all the officers to gather in the Council chamber.

  “We do,” Kari said, “but there may not be time to tell you everything that’s happened. We’ve got a serious threat to the south, and I want to send you and the rest of the Silver Blades down there to see what’s going on and put a stop to it.”

  “What exactly are we talking about?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but to give you an idea of how bad this could be, your siblings and I had a run-in with Taesenus,” she said, and his eyes went wide. Taesenus, the son of the Devil Queen, and frequently called the Demon Prince, was widely
believed to have been killed by Kaelariel at the end of the Apocalypse. That belief had been shattered roughly a week before, when he’d ambushed Kari and her friends in the syrinthian valley. “We’ve been wondering if this could mean that even Seril isn’t dead, and that this disaster in the south is the start of another war.”

  Erik swore quietly under his breath. “When do you want us to leave?”

  Kari waved off the question. “We need to go over some things first,” she said. “And I have some other allies I want to send with you. Let’s wait for everyone else to gather, and then we’ll go over everything together.”

  Kari folded her leathery draconic wings behind her and ran a hand through her long ebon hair anxiously while they waited for the others to arrive. There were the various officers of the Order, and her subordinate and the former head of the Order, Lord Albrecht Allerius. The most surprising arrival, however, was none other than Duke Christopher Bosimar himself. No one had invited or expected the Duke to arrive, and the way he swept into the room suggested he was unhappy that he hadn’t been invited.

  The Duke was a stoic terra-rir of nearly sixty years. He had fought in the Apocalypse despite his position and his age, and everyone knew that the death of his son and sole heir in the War had taken its toll on the old warrior. Though he was handsome, refined, and charming, there was a tiredness to his demeanor that Kari had little doubt stemmed from getting old and having no family left to inherit his duchy and wealth. All that, however, was swept aside in the tide of fury that enveloped him as he approached the Council of the Demonhunter Order.

  He made no gestures of greeting or respect toward the nine human priests, but got right to the point at hand. “What are you planning to do about the situation in the south?” he asked all those gathered, his dark eyes full of intensity. “I have heard tell it was a demon that killed the Earl of Marsdale; what are your plans? Do you need me to send a contingent of soldiers with your people to secure the county?”