Forgotten Fates

by S J Doran

  One female was wiping him down with a hot cloth, saturated with clean smelling herbs. And there went his pants. Another circled her hand around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He deepened it, starving for it.

  He would show them no mercy.

  His hands found a naked breast as a hot mouth wrapped around the head of his cock. His hips jutted, pushing deeper, seeking more. He felt bare breasts against his back, hands circling to the front of him, running down the ridges of muscles, down to cup his sac.

  With a rough groan, he gave in, burying himself deep in the throat of a faceless temple maiden. His hunger increasing, his body reduced to primal need.

  He felt the spell weakening its hold on the temple, his corruption spreading, eating up the purity that served as such a powerful protection it had stopped even Amara in her tracks.

  He gave a self-satisfied grin. Innocence never could withstand his… charms.

  Not caring which he took, he grabbed the closest female and lay her on the ground, turning to the one beside her.

  “Kiss her mouth.” He turned to another. “You. Kiss her, between her thighs. Tell me how she tastes.”

  His tongue sought the folds of the one spread in front of him. Another knelt at his side, hand wrapped around his cock, tentative at first, though not lacking enthusiasm.

  One woman was between the legs of another, panting with little mewling noises, her shiny pink tongue lapping at the folds of the one kissing the one he was feasting on. Even to a demon as jaded as he, the sight was decadent. They were insatiable. But then, so was he.

  “Who wants to be fucked first?” He sat up on his knees, swiping his arm across his face, licking the taste of her orgasm off his lips.

  There was a chorus of “me’s” and pleading, one of them having the foresight to get on her hands and knees in front of him, her body facing away, her glittering eyes watching him over her shoulder.

  His fingers sought out her flesh, gently spreading moisture, delving inside briefly, to ensure she was ready. He put in another finger, spreading them slowly, opening her. When she started rocking back to his hand, he removed his fingers and fisted his cock, rubbing it over her entrance.

  He plunged in slow until he was fully sheathed, her throaty moan urging him on. He pulled back and thrust harder, deeper, then turned to meet the lips of another woman who knelt at his side.

  “Too much,” the woman he was buried in squeaked, “too big.”

  Shaking, he managed to pull back and slow down. Right. Virgins.

  “Well Demon, I can see you’re going to be a while.” Amara’s voice echoed above the moans and cries in the chamber. The corruption clearly had done its work, allowing her to tear down the protective barriers of the temple, he would have rather enjoyed seeing her do it. “So, don’t mind me, I’ll just tiptoe around this mess and collect my sword.”

  He broke off the kiss with a snarl.

  “Our sword, priestess.” One of the ladies cupped his balls, and he nearly shot off. He groaned low. “Wait for me, there’s still...” he grunted, his words ate up by the greedy mouth of a needy female. Still guards.

  He felt Mara’s hand in his hair, distinctive from all the other touches because of the peace it brought.

  “No can do, Demon. My time is precious, and the show is a repeat.” Her voice was cold, her tone inattentive.

  She was going into the inner sanctum alone and he was entangled in female lusts, in a thrall to his own power. He wasn’t going to be of any use.

  “He likes the hot wax,” Amara whispered and Cass nearly laughed.

  Before the thought of it had him coming hard. His mind blanked, his Priestess forgotten.

  CHAPTER THREE

  the sword of Justice

  The sin-eater’s head was bent back, dark eyes hooded, and sinful lips parted as she saw him succumb to release. His power expanded around him like a vortex as he fed those greedy, virginal mouths. Their downfall was his victory.

  As they had battled to reclaim the realm of Asurim, Amara had witnessed many different versions of the same scenario. Each time it had struck her how enthralling the act of corruption could be, how enticing, and how devastating it felt.

  “Our sword?” Letting out a decisively un-ladylike snort to herself she turned her back on the debauchery of the main room, leaving the sin-eater to his meal. “Silly demon, I’m far too greedy to share what’s mine.”

  He had stopped being hers centuries ago, and as such had rights to nothing. She had placed everything on the line in her effort to retrieve the sword, something her warlock council, her Dominae, would surely berate her for. This was partially the reason why she had opted to contract a mercenary army rather than involve her own battalions. Breaking the curse placed on her head by her mother’s greed was a personal matter, not business of the Asurian realm.

  Every muscle gave protest as she hurried along unfamiliar corridors, ignoring the spasms that pulled at her calves and the stitches at her side. Running had never been her strong suit to begin with, having frozen into immortality while locked within a cell had not done her any favors in that regard. By her own determination it had left her rather scrawny of form and weak of body.

  But what she lacked in physical strength she more than made up for with her magicks and wit. She could hold her own against man, immortal, and even the gods.

  Despite the massive size of the temple, its layout was a rather simple one. Excellent. The sooner she had the sword in hand, the sooner she could leave this dismal place and return to Asurim. A warm bath, rich food, a soft bed, those thoughts spurred her on, kept her feet moving.

  Once back within her realm she could recharge her magick within the temples before returning to the Inner Sanctum and see to her duties. As her Dominae never tired of reminding her, magick ought to be treated with respect, and Amara had abused hers over the last five days, nearly depleting it fully.

  The old stone corridors circled, and despite exhaustion and urgency she almost wished she had more time to inspect the beautiful mosaic designs decorating the walls. The ancient temple came to life around her in accents of crisp white, deep blue, and vivid shades of green and yellow. She’d been stuck in the dark for centuries, she adored colors.

  The next few corridors led her into a circular hall, the room of worship. A few more steps inside revealed an altar cluttered with gilded statues depicting various gods and goddesses, their hands positioned in a gesture of benevolence. Behind it, secreted away by thick drapes was an alcove, her endgame, the private shrine.

  Excitement didn’t stop the snarl that turned up her lips as she passed by the altar. Benevolence, such a foolish notion. She had served the gods for nearly a century, long enough to know none of them truly possessed that trait.

  The gods were not merciful or kind, they were greedy, fickle and most importantly, they were fading. With their once limitless powers growing weak, they did not offer their blessings for free, nor would they spare any to their worshippers. The only way to obtain anything from the deities was to barter deals with them, and only by obtaining a vow was it guaranteed that a god would hold to their word.

  Her mother had known this well, and as a result Amara now had a Sumerian death god trying to collect on an old debt. In her greed for a crown, she had bartered Amara’s soul away at birth. On her sixth birthday was the first time they’d tried to collect...

  She needed that damned sword.

  Her fingers pulled aside heavy fabrics of bright citrine yellow and topaz blue and she entered the alcove. The scent of burning sage permeated the air, blocking out the scent of ash and smoke which hung heavy in the temple from the burning capital of Ghata’n.

  Divine energy brushed her senses as soon as she stepped forward. Finally. A relieved sigh passed through sunburned lips as she was greeted by a welcoming sight.

  Offerings of colorful flowers and richly scented incense surrounded the pedestal upon which the mythical Sword of Divine Justice stood. Even without holding the swo
rd, she knew the legends regarding its powers held true, the air in the alcove vibrated with the energy contained within the shining metal.

  A weapon capable of slaying a god.

  “Step no further vile woman, your presence here taints this holy place.”

  Turning in place she discovered nine temple guards approach, drawing their curved scimitars, aiming for her.

  “Oh, if you think my actions here are vile, you boys really ought to take a peek at the show in progress upon the nave floors. I bet if you ask nicely, the demon wouldn’t mind teaching you a few tricks...”

  She had thought to stall them while reaching for that reluctant spark of magic she had left. Unfortunately, none of them seemed particularly inclined to indulge in curiosity, they lunged for her all at once.

  “Shit!”

  Rather than the green flames of Hexafire fire she had been trying to summon for, tendrils of black rose up from her palms and a circle of golden light began to form at her feet, an instinctual fight or flight response.

  This was good and bad— the good being that her circle would surely protect her against their attack, the bad being that it also effectively trapped her in place. Only a little bit of infernal energy left stored within her, only one more spark of magic remained her disposal, and that one she couldn’t waste for it was that thread of magic that was kept the undead under her control. Once severed, they would no longer know a master, which meant she and the sin-eater would become included in their dinner options.

  Her expression remained dispassionate as the curved blades of their single-edged swords struck the barrier of her circle, the Ghata’n weapons notorious for their ability to cleave through bone, but otherwise quite useless against magick.

  Dispassion turned to shock as upon impact, her barrier gave a loud crack, its protection faltering.

  Blessed! How many times did she have to remind herself to watch her damned pride? The Templars had actually possessed to foresight to have their weapons infused with divine energy. This realization struck at the same time as the sharpened tip of a blade. Its steel sliced through the leathers of her breastplate and the fabric of her robes to plunge deeply into her stomach.

  Her vision began to double as liquid fire burned through her abdomen, white magick, pure and powerful corroding her power from the inside. The next moment the sword was pulled free with a rough yank, her footing upon the limestone ground faltering.

  The Sword

  Even while stumbling backwards her hand reached for it, her momentum causing her to crash into the pedestal upon which the Sword of Justice sat. Her fingers ghosted along its golden hilt, falling short when she was caught up by a meaty fist grabbing hold of her hair, leaving her dangling just out of reach of the sword.

  Pain exploded through her as she was hauled up in the air, the sudden stretch causing the wound at her stomach to tear while her feet dangled high above the floor. With no magic to fall back on, she was reduced into having to defend herself through physical combat, which didn’t much improve her chances of survival.

  Despite the pain that jolted through her with each movement, she forced her legs to legs kick out with all the strength she could muster. Kick, pull back, kick again, not stopping, even when one of the templars placed the sharp edge of his blade against the curve of her exposed neck.

  “The Holy Sword will never fall into the hands of evil.” His gaze filled with contempt and vindication as he spoke, the blade already cutting into her flesh. He wanted her head. She glared. He could damned well join the waiting list.

  “Is that all the conversation you Ghata’n are capable of? No wonder this place is brimming with virgins.”

  Again, she kicked out when his hold on the blade tightened, it’s cut pressing deeper.

  “Today you die, warlock whore!”

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. The sin-eater was strong and had just fed, surely he could dodge a few ravenous corpses. Or a few hundred of them.

  She reached for that final thread of energy and pulled its power into herself, converting it to black magick as she summoned forth the darkness to come to her aid. And it obeyed, just not in the manner she had hoped it would. There was no Hexafire to burn her enemies, no hell-beasts to slay her foes. Instead darkness fused with her, calling to her exhausted magic as it searched for power to latch on to. The energy she used up had been connected to her gift of Necromancy, and it was that power which answered its call.

  “Oh, double shit…” That wouldn’t help, already the city was overrun with the undead.

  Unable to stop its cast, a powerful burst of magic ignited within her core before sinking into the ground beneath the Templars feet. And through the malice she had sensed within that darkness she had summoned, she knew it wouldn’t be mere ‘zombies’ to answer its summons this time.

  The blade was lifted from her throat, two templars holding her, one by her hair, the other grabbing her kicking legs, while a third pulled back his sword, cheered on by the remainder. He aimed as he readied to deliver what was sure to be the final blow. One hit forceful strike would see her head severed from her shoulders.

  The blade swung. And throughout the temple, chaos erupted.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  summoned WHAT?

  The blow intended for her neck struck air as the ground began to quake, its loud rumble near deafening as deep fissures ripped apart the white marble columns, mosaic stone walls and limestone floors. The tremors turning steady ground into roiling waves, successfully knocking her captors to the ground, and Amara along with them.

  Struggling to find any form of purchase upon the treacherously moving ground, she rose, letting out a hiss at the templar who had been holding her up by her hair. She ought to be fleeing, instead she lunged for him, anger giving her enough strength to successfully yank the scimitar from his loosened grip, his expression turning into one of horror as she plunged its curved blade into his chest.

  “You NEVER fuck with a girl’s hair.”

  His gurgling breath in response was hardly audible over the sound of moving rock, but it confirmed she had perforated his lung. Disappointing. She had been aiming for his heart.

  No time for a second try, she needed to find the sin-eater and get them out of the city, and the hell away from this realm, for with that final bit of magick she had just doomed the entirety of Ghata’n.

  Heavy chunks of marble came raining down from the ceilings, the beautiful mosaic walls crumbling apart, and columns disintegrated. With each violent quake, more of the temple collapsed around her.

  Like her, the remaining templars had scrambled onto their feet, staying upright being the bigger challenge. “She is causing this. Kill her— save the temple, protect the sword.”

  “Do I look as if I’m in control? There’s no stopping this.”

  As soon as the words left her torn lips the violent quaking stopped, leaving eight templars to look down at her in triumph.

  Idiots

  Again, they moved for her with swords raised, and again she found her escape halted. Rather than risk the chance of capture, she instead climbed onto the overturned altar, her head held high, watching their approach.

  Once more stone began to rumble and groan, but no tremors. Instead a dark gas began to rise from between broken stone and overturned ground, the foul smell of decay confirming her fear. The Draugr were coming.

  From beneath the sandy loam, rotted remains sprang up like twisted roots. Arms, legs, hands and feet, all breaching the surface, blindly grabbing hold of anything and anyone within proximity. It had happened quickly, not surprising, for the Ghata’n were known to build their sacred temples atop the burial sites of their ancestors. A tradition they would soon grow to regret.

  A glint of gold caught her eye and she spared a longing glance at the Sword of Justice, laying not more than ten feet away from where the altar stood, the distance made impossible by the Draugr rising from their graves. More important she lives...

  Perched atop the
altar, she watched countless Draugr emerge from the ground with gruesome fascination. Their milky eyes shone an unnatural yellow, their forms gaunt and decayed, and what remained of muscle and flesh upon their bones was tinted a necrotic blue and black. The sight of them rising was the fuel of nightmares, and was known to have driven man and immortal alike into madness.

  The Draugr were technically undead and enjoyed eating their victims, but that is where the similarity to her own creatures ended. Other than their ravenous hunger for living flesh, her ‘zombies’ lacked any conscience or agenda, take out their teeth and they were quite harmless really. The Draugr were not.

  These vengeful spirits were driven not by hunger but by malice and their jealousy of the living. They were intelligent, were known to discard their corporeal form to shapeshift into a disease spreading fog, and most inconvenient of all- they could not be destroyed.

  Ever since surviving Hell there was little Amara had feared, but she was afraid now, for once unleashed, the Draugr would embody a corpse and use it to hunt down their prey, dragging every living creature they came upon deep into the earth. There its victim would be devoured, or worse, left buried alive for eternity. They would not decompose or decay, but continue to hunt the living until there was simply was no life left take.

  A laugh bubbled from her lips, its sound lost somewhere between amusement and panic as she took in the terrified expressions plastered upon the faces of the templars. “You really should have given me the sword when I asked nicely…”

  They slashed and hacked away with their bone severing swords, but it failed to save them. One by one, they were slowly dragged into the ground before disappearing entirely, leaving only their Scimitars behind.

  The taste of copper filled her mouth when a gush of fresh blood rose up from the back of her throat. Triple shit. She had thought the sword to have missed her organs after its blade had cleaved through her stomach. She angrily spat out the taste of copper from her mouth. Confirmation she was in fact hemorrhaging, the delay likely the result of the tight bindings of her leather breastplate applying pressure to her wound. If this was the case, then she would continue to weaken as her body gave out.