by J D Franx
“All right,” Corleya let out as she struggled to hold back her tears. For all his faults, the pirate had done everything he could to get them to safety.
As both young women pulled at the oars, they shot away from the ship and headed toward the closest stretch of land. In their wake, they caught the full view of the ship. Dozens of tentacles rose from the water and wrapped themselves around the railing as the ship slipped further underwater.
“It will not hold long,” Alia said, grunting as she rowed. As if her words were prophetic, the small vessel cracked in the middle as several human-shaped warriors burst from the water and landed aboard. Corleya watched as blades flashed across the deck of the sinking ship. Damien fought for his life, and there was nothing they could do to help.
“Worry about us, Princess,” Alia snapped. “He made his choice knowing the outcome. Now, row before—” Her words stopped short as the rowboat scraped against something below the surface of the water.
“Land?” Corleya gasped. Glancing back over her shoulder she saw there was still quite a bit of distance between them and land. “Or not...”
“Do not stop rowing,” Alia growled, but kept her voice low.
Corleya dipped her oar in the water and another scrape rolled across the boat’s bottom. Both women stopped and stared into the water as the scrape continued up the bow until a pair of clawed hands appeared over the bow’s rail. A beautiful face followed, and Corleya jumped as Alia’s whip snapped out, curling around the creature’s throat. A quick tug pulled the creature onto the boat and the metal wire opened her throat. A slimy tail covered in thick scales thumped against the gunwales.
“Gods,” Corleya let out. “What in the Nine Hells of Perdition is that thing?”
“A siren, perhaps” Alia replied. Confusion marked her features. “But too far north.”
Something slammed into the boat, and it lurched to the side, nearly tossing them overboard with it.
Alia moved to the bow and shoved the siren’s body over the side as a dozen more hands grabbed the railing. “Fight,” she yelled, pointing behind Corleya.
The Princess turned and unraveled her whips. Lashing out, each snapped across the faces of sirens and cut deep. She flung her whip to her left as yet another tried to board the small boat. “There’s too many!” she cried out. Frustration and panic took over as her whips slashed out over and over.
“Princess!” Alia barked. Corleya spun as Alia plowed into her and knocked her to the bottom of the boat. Countless spears from a snail stitched the side of the boat above their bodies, and both women looked up in time to see a massive green tentacle explode from the water. It hovered over their boat for a split second before it dropped. Alia’s body took the incredible force of the attack, and she grabbed at Corleya before the boat cracked under the Princess’ back. A second impact left her dizzy and surrounded by water.
She never felt the powerful impact of two more attacks before darkness swallowed her mind.
Chapter Thirteen
“The darkness of the Deep Earth holds an eerie calm just before battle. You cannot explain it to others, and you can never get used to it. Our people know this calm very well—personally, I would say. Its disturbing silence is like death's embrace. We welcome it and will spend our last hours with it should the gods of stone deem it so. This day, the gods have spoken clearly. My people—the very last of the Dwarven race—will welcome the final calm before what could be our last battle. My people have been vigilant. We never once neglected our duty or wavered in our responsibility. Our numbers have dwindled over the years, but still we remain loyal to the task that was handed to us. We are the First Sentinels of the Guardian Pact. We are the strength of the Host and the last of the Dwarven race.”
Draven BloodPounder, Priest of Izotan: Channeler for the God of Living Stone.
DEEP EARTH
Sythrnax stood perched on one of the Deep Earth's yawning chasms, several days’ worth of traveling below the surface of Talohna. Almost a mile in the distance across the yawning underground valley stood the formidable metal gates of the last Dwarven stronghold. Dal Dagore was the pride of all the once great Dwarven strongholds. The slithering of scales scraped along the granite surface behind him.
“Well?” he asked without turning around.
A soft female voice drifted to his ears, surreal and dreamy. “They are ready, Master. The Dwarves want to play,” she purred softly, reminding him of the giant snowcats of his homeland. Her words calmed the slow beat of his heart to a dangerously slow pace. “We want to play. My brothers and sisters need something to do. We are bored.” He never heard her move, but her velvet finger caressed his cheek. Struggling to keep his eyes open, the insistent rattle of his tresa from under his hood brought his senses storming back. Realizing almost too late the trouble he was in, he moved.
“Bitch,” he snapped. Whirling on the creature with a speed that far outmatched hers, he snatched her throat. Lifting her off her toes, he slammed her into a crumbling wall of stone. “Save your tricks for the enemy, Gahainna. You pull that shit on me again and your sisters will fight for a new leader. You are Vascuul. Use your skills on the enemy.”
“I am. You will be our enemy until the day we die. We are Vascuul! We are not slaves!”
Sythrnax squeezed harder until cartilage crackled in her throat. “You are what we made you, and you will serve us until your dying day.” Pressing down on her tail, Gahainna clawed at him with her feet, trying to tear his bowels from his stomach. Once again, he was reminded of the big white cats of home. Her talons raked off his kinrai mail but did no damage. The black stone set inside the palm of his glove sizzled with dark power as he flexed the muscles in his wrist. Its magic pulsated against her throat as a flash of bright lit up the veins under her skin, super-heating her cold blood and causing instant pain.
“You will answer to me or my commanders, am I clear?” Gahainna hissed, her beautiful Elvehn face distorted with raw hatred and intense pain. A forked tongue lashed out, sliding over hollow fangs just enough to pick up traces of potent venom. Licking his face, she sneered. His cheek twitched as the venom sizzled and burned through his mask. Slamming her into the wall a second time, he growled. “Last chance. Tell me what you saw and return to your own kind until the attack or die here.”
The creature thumped her long, scaled tail against the ground in frustration. “Fine,” she hissed. Venom-less saliva sprayed across the remains of his mask. He could see the lines of holes at the side of her tongue quivering with the desire to open. If they did, he knew it would not be a simple kiss this time. Should she decide to spit for real, he would be in serious danger. “The Dwarves are holed up. The fortress is impenetrable. We couldn't get through. No cracks in the foundation, no grates, no sewer access.”
He nodded and released her, watching as she slithered away, her legs tucked in beside her tail for added speed. Her clawed fists shook with fury as she glared over her shoulder at him. Sythrnax wished once more that the Ghul had found a way to calm the Vascuul temper before he had died during the war. Perhaps, when the Human seal opened, the Syddic priests would succeeded in creating more and some of those would be without the trouble they frequently caused.
“I see all that slithers is not well.” Sythrnax turned, recognizing the voice immediately.
“Kurse. That gorgon blood runs hot in those freaks. Your reconnaissance from the sky go any better?” he asked. He watched for signs of aggression as a pair of glowing eyes emerged from the shadows. The Vascuul did not take well to being called freaks, but he was beyond caring. Emotionless, Kurse blinked and the glow in his eyes dimmed, giving way to the slit orbs common among the DragonKin.
“They are Dwarves. They do not have weaknesses to exploit.”
“Of course not. Damned bearded dosa. Ideas?” Sythrnax turned back toward the cliff, staring out over the valley toward the Dwarven fortress once, again.
“I could send one of the Blacks to see how strong those walls really are. I
don't believe we can pull those gates apart. Though, they might buckle under a Black's barrage.” Tilting his head to stretch his neck, Sythrnax frowned as the bones along his spine cracked and popped. His tresa lightly rattled under his hood while he weighed his options.
“Fair enough. Let's show these cursed Dwarves that you Vascuul are still very much alive.”
“As you wish,” Kurse said, stepping clear of Sythrnax. Long black wings unfurled like the snap of leather. He whirled toward the precipice with a speed that rivaled his master's. His waist-length green and purple ponytail trailed behind him as he leapt clear of the ledge and soared to the right, disappearing into the underground cavern's heavy mist. Sythrnax crouched, settling in for a comfortable view of the commotion to follow.
DAL DAGORE
TWO MILES SOUTH OF BLACK KASYM
DEEP EARTH
“What's the word, priest?” Dravik BloodPounder hollered to his brother, Draven, the moment he saw him approach. Draven easily sidestepped yet another massive Dwarven catapult as it rolled past.
“The last scouts never made it back.” He slowed to a walk as he met his brother at the base of the city's forged metal gate. “They've been declared lost by scout command. They're close, Dravik. It'll happen soon,” the priest of Izotan predicted.
“Has your god got any advice? Or perhaps information on whether or not the Vascuul survived the exile?” Dravik asked. As commander of the Host, it was his responsibility to be prepared for whatever was coming. They had prepared for this battle for too long to lose.
“No. If they did, a safe wager on numbers would be one or two for every Ri'Tek freed by the first seal's rupture. Asa's journal entries prior to the battle claimed at least a thousand Vascuul would have taken the field at the battle to open the DemonKind seal. Though they have yet to show themselves in force, Izotan believes the first seal held the Ri'Tek's highest ranks. This includes their Vikress and their strongest military warriors, including Sythrnax,” Draven explained.
With a smile only a dwarf heading into a battle outnumbered could give, Dravik growled his orders. “Gather the Host, brother. I been waitin' ten millennia to kill that cursed son of a godshyte.” Clapping his brother on the shoulder, he laughed. “Smile, priest. We finally go to war.”
Dravik nodded and turned to leave. The priest was the strongest of the few god-blessed channelers the Host had. He knew Draven would gather the commanders and then his own priests. The time had come for the Dwarven Host to defend the seal they had been tasked with protecting so many thousands of years ago. The first of the six seals had fallen ten months prior. The DemonKind had put up no fight for reasons they knew nothing about. Dravik smiled, thinking about the fight the Host would put up. The Ri'Tek would scatter like a Mahala with its tail between its legs or the Dwarven race would finally join the mighty Dragon Behemoths in the obscurity of extinction.
A massive explosion outside the monstrous gate pulled his attention back to the matter-at-hand, and he cursed himself for being distracted.
"Throw the side-bolts on that cursed gate, before the blood-thirsty bastards come through!" Dravik BloodPounder bellowed. With a grimace of pain, he tore a foot-long sliver of granite from his forearm. As blood spurted from a partially torn artery, the stubborn Dwarven General wrapped a leather tourniquet around his arm above the elbow and twisted it with his blade until the flow of blood became a trickle. He pulled himself back to his feet and was immediately tossed back to the ground like a rag doll by a second concussive explosion.
Dravik glanced skyward seconds before he hit the dirt. Among the falling rock and granite of the destroyed ballistae tower, he saw what appeared to be the outline of a massive black Dragon with long back spikes and tattered wings. Once he saw the wall was still intact, he prayed to the gods he was wrong about what he saw. “Lock bars. Now, goddammit!”
"Aye, General!" The shout came from three veteran warriors as they muscled the heavy mechanical levers into place with a solid clunk. The rest of the Dwarven Host cheered as the massive lock bars slammed into place, securing the underground fortress' front gate even further.
"Quit your yappin!" Dravik barked. "There's an army kicking down our gate! Shape up, Host! Keep your heads right, or it'll be over. I want reports from all commanders in ten minutes! Move it! You all know where you need to be!"
Draven stepped up to the General from behind. "Brother?"
As always, his soundless appearance made Dravik jump.
"Brethren's bloody balls, Draven! Make some cursed noise! You're a Dwarf, not some prancin' Fae. Gods, even Elvehn scouts make more noise than you do."
"Sorry, brother, but you wanted reports from all the commanders.”
Draven always seemed at least one step ahead of everyone, and he was the first to report on any given matter. "Fair enough. What's new from your... from Izotan's priests?" Dravik asked. With a quickening pace, he turned toward the command tower.
“You're injured, brother. Let me heal it,” Draven offered.
“This?” the Dwarven General said, lifting his arm as blood dripped from his elbow. “Just a ball-sucking love kiss from a bloody Vascuul dragon unless the trickster has me seeing grog visions. It can wait. Report?”
Draven followed beside his brother. "We've seen the bulk of the horde."
Dravik stopped dead in his tracks. "Horde? I knew that last attack was a bloody Dragon. You sure?" he asked.
Draven nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so. Except for the dragon they're trying to hide them, but the stone has shown us everything else. The army will follow in the wake of a full Vascuul attack."
"Gods of stone and earth… We don't have the numbers left to turn back a Vascuul attack. I had hoped we would never have to face those god-cursed abominations, again. They should have died on the far side of the Animus Seals. How is it possible, Draven?" The fact that Dravik had used his brother’s birth given name spoke volumes to the dire circumstances they faced.
"I do not know. The magic in their dimension was unknown to the gods, let alone us. It is why they and the Lesser wizards trapped the Ri’Tek there to begin with. The stasis atmosphere must have kept the Vascuul alive as well. We had hoped that, without an active connection to the magic of this dimension, the Vascuul would die. We were wrong, and so were the gods."
Silence followed on the heels of the two brothers’ conversation, but it did not last long. "You haven't used my real name since Izotan chose me as a vessel, brother."
"I am aware. So many of our people hated magic. I never did, you know that. How could I with it woven so deep into our family? But it seemed more respectful to use your title. He chose you for a reason. The power given to you and your priests by Izotan will be the only hope now that we have to stop the Vascuul. Our warriors cannot fight magical creatures and hope to win. My magic is not what it used to be, and my axes are the only enchanted weapons we have left after all these millennia of fighting the Mahala and the creepers."
"We will do all that we can. I promise many of the enemy will feel the teeth of stone before we fall. They have no idea what the Host is capable of now. The Ri'Tek have been gone a long time," he said, then bowed and took Dravik's arm.
Pulling the tourniquet, Draven scoffed as blood pumped from the wound, forcing him to grasp it tightly with his right hand. “A mere kiss, brother?” he requested.
Dravik grunted as the light of Izotan flared in Draven's eyes. Bright white magic pulsed through the veins and arteries in Draven's arm and down through his hand. The blood squirting out between his fingers sizzled as the Dwarven god's power seared and cauterized the wound. Draven held his brother's arm as smoke and the stench of burnt flesh rose from his fingers. Finally releasing Dravik's arm, both Dwarves could see the burnt hand print left behind had closed and sealed the wicked cut.
"Thank you," Dravik muttered as Draven nodded, turned, and left.
The Dwarven General wondered if Izotan and the other gods, in the coming of days, would call home the last of the Dwarven peopl
e to the halls of Paradise. They had been vigilant and would fight to the last standing man and woman, but they had faced the vicious creations called the Vascuul before on many occasions. Even with much larger numbers, they had lost every time. Dravik sighed, knowing the fight was merely a formality—a losing one now that they had confirmed the Vascuul had survived. A light blazed to his right, followed by the sharp crack of magic. He smiled. Though he had not seen it in an aeon, he still recognized Fae magic. However, it was not a Fae who spoke.
“Mother Inara! We made it!” Seifer Locke gasped with genuine surprise.
Dravik scoffed. “An Elderblood wizard and Mistress Thornwing all in one day. I must have shat in the gods’ dinner last night to be blessed with such a visit,” he grumbled, not bothering to turn his back. “Ah, gorgeous, I bet my commanders a barrel of grog you wouldn’t have the stones to try getting this close to the dark Wizardess’ breach.”
The Fae Matriarch snorted and wiped blood from her nose. “You should have known better, you grumpy old bastard,” she barked. “The real prophecy has started. I brought you what help I could—one last gift from the Dragons.”
Dravik grunted. “Won’t be enough,” he said. Turning toward the beautiful woman, he smiled wider and took her into his arms.
“I know,” she replied. “And you will fight to the last, you stubborn bastard.”
“Of course, we will, gorgeous. We volunteered for this duty, remember?”
Eva shook her head and gently placed her hands on his chest. “Let them have this seal, Dravik. Work your way back to Jasala’s tower and defend the Elvehn seal instead. At least you will be within range of help. Their seal is undefended, but Shel and the DragonKin will be close enough to help the Host.”
“The DemonKind Seal was also undefended when it fell. What happened, gorgeous?”
“We made a mistake. I took the last of the true DemonKind from this world a very long time ago. We knew their Animus chamber was undefended, but it was sealed against the enemy. It was our mistake, Dravik. It appears one of the ancient warriors tunneled in through the mountain’s far side. He must have escaped one of the seals during the Cataclysm, probably just before the Sepulchre went up.”