by S. C. Stokes
Standing over their bodies, Marcus realized the shouting he could hear was his own voice. Red faced he bellowed his defiance at his attackers. The thieves hesitated at the primal rage manifesting before them.
Seeing four of their number fall so swiftly gave them pause. Marcus looked down and saw Dariyen at his feet, clutching at his chest with both hands, blood seeping out of the wound. He knew his friend was not long for this world, and with the thugs bearing down on him again, he knew that he would soon join him.
Marcus was furious that a little gold had the capacity to ruin so many lives. Many of the thieves were dead or dying, but five still remained and Marcus was tiring. The Listarii Lord could feel the crushing weight of inevitability bearing down on him.
“There's only one of 'em now, lads!” a broad-chested thug shouted over the din. “Bring him down. On the bright side, they’ve done us a favor, we won't have to split the gold quite so many ways.”
The others nodded their agreement and began to close once more.
To be continued
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A Taste Of A Coronation Of Kings
“Oh yes, Durales told me about your little trick with the fire,” the slaver answered.
“Unfortunately for you, those chains were forged by dwarven folk with a talent for rune work. You aren’t the first magician we’ve bound, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Save your strength, you’ll need it for the slave pits. Don't worry, if Eleen blesses our voyage, we’ll be there in less than a month.”
Syrion could not contain himself. Despite the pain, he burst out laughing so hard that he staggered in his cell. The slavers looked on in slack-jawed amazement; in all their years they had seen newly captured prizes react to their lower station in many ways: fear, anger, uncontrollable weeping, they had even been spurned and spat upon. Never had they been laughed at.
The first mate Durales turned to the captain: “Perhaps I hit him too hard and he’s gone mad. It’s happened before.”
“It’s possible,” the Captain mused. “Boy, what is so funny? Care to share it with the rest of us?”
Syrion endeavored to compose himself but contented himself with getting out a few syllables between bursts of laughter. “You said Eleen... bless our voyage,”
Durales began nodding, content that his assessment was correct, and Syrion had indeed been rendered witless by the blow to his head.
“I did,” replied the captain. “Pray tell, why is that so funny?”
Syrion answered, his countenance slowly changing from mirth to menace: “It’s just the goddess whose name you invoked, you called her Eleen, the Patron Saint of Sailors, right? Mistress of the Wind, Soul of the Storm and the embodiment of Nature’s Wrath— that Eleen, right?”
“Aye, one and the same, boy. Still doesn’t explain the laughter.” The captain grunted.
Syrion met his captor's gaze, “Her name is rendered differently by the Valaar. They call her Elaina, and she is my mother. When she discovers I am missing and tracks me to this ship, your blessed voyage is going to come to a world-shattering end.”
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Other Books by S.C. Stokes
Conjuring a Coroner Series
Dying to Meet You
Life is for the Living
When Death Knocks
One Foot in the Grave
One Last Breath
Until My Dying Day
A Kingdom Divided Series: A Coronation of Kings
When the Gods War
A Kingdom in Chaos