by Isaac Hooke
DEFILER
MONSTER TAMER BOOK 3
Isaac Hooke
Copyright © 2019 by Isaac Hooke
All rights reserved.
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1
“Kill her,” Vorgon ordered.
Malem stared at the naked woman cowering before him. Her skin was green, her hair black. She had been beautiful, once, but her face was covered in bruises and blood.
She had tried to escape their camp in the night. The dire wolves had hunted her down. He was told that by the time the search party caught up to her, she was steeped in the blood of dire wolves, and surrounded by their bodies, which formed large, defensive piles. She continued fighting when the oraks came, and it was only when Malem was finally awakened and slammed down upon her mind with his will that at last they had captured her.
And now she knelt before him, head bowed, and arms bound behind her back.
The penalty for desertion was death.
Malem drew Balethorn. The blade hummed hungrily. It used to thirst only for dragons, but it hungered for everything these days. Ever since he had joined with Vorgon. The sword, a Drainer, promised to gift him vitality when it separated her head from her neck.
He took a step toward her. Ribbons of dark mist curled out from underneath his fingernails and wrapped around her body.
He raised the blade, and glanced down to align his blow with her neck.
But he could not strike.
Something stopped him.
The dark mist retreated.
Gwenfrieda glanced at him, a defiant look in her eyes.
Do it, Gwenfrieda said in his mind.
Still, he hesitated.
You must obey! Ziatrice sent. Do not defy the Balor! We are bound to you. You risk all our lives by sparing her!
You can’t kill her, Abigail countered. After all we’ve been through together. If you do this to Gwen, you’ll never forgive yourself.
He glanced at the two women, who stood in the tight circle of bystanders who had gathered to watch. In the torchlight he could see their beautiful faces. Behind them were the ranks of the soldiers from the different armies who had gathered to bear witness.
Looming above them all, the dark form of Vorgon towered in the night. Blue flames limned his dark form.
Silence, Malem told the women, and muted their minds.
He returned his attention to Gwenfrieda. She was bound to him, and when she died, the drain on his stamina would be great, but it would pass. Then again, with the seemingly infinite reserves of Vorgon backing him up, he might not even notice her loss.
He raised the sword higher but once more he couldn’t bring himself to swing it down. Thinking that it was perhaps the brutal nature of the killing that was holding him back, he lowered the blade, and began to drain the half gobling of stamina instead. She gasped at the suddenness of it, and a terrible coldness emanated from her energy bundle in his head.
She collapsed as he continued to drain her, and she lost consciousness.
But then, when she neared the thin line between life and death, he released her. She lay crumpled before him, face down in the dirt, her chest barely rising and falling.
He stared at her for a long moment, waiting for her to die.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
He couldn’t do it.
He conferred stamina to her, and her breathing became stronger, steadier.
Vorgon’s voice boomed across the camp. “What, perchance, are you doing slave?”
Malem turned toward the Balor.
“You are my high lieutenant now, the Defiler, but that could change in a heartbeat,” Vorgon said. “You are surrounded by my generals, any of whom would gladly take your place.”
Malem glanced at the other Black Swords who stood in the circle around Gwenfrieda. The other top generals of Vorgon’s armies. Yes, all of them would kill to serve in Malem’s stead. In fact, he’d already been challenged twice by their members: first by Alavan, king of the dwarves, and next by Muoara, High King of the oraks. He’d slain them both, forcing Vorgon to appoint new leaders among the two armies. Malem suspected that the next attacks, when they came, would be more circumspect. A knife in the back. Poison.
“This one has violated my dictums,” Vorgon repeated. “Deserters are to be slain. You know this.”
“Not her,” Malem said quietly. He couldn’t believe what he was doing. This was the first time he had ever denied Vorgon.
But it had to be done. For the master’s sake. Even if that master didn’t yet realize it.
“You dare—” Vorgon began.
“We need her,” Malem interrupted, raising his voice confidently. “I need her. She grants me strength. The slots to bind monsters. If I lose her, the four slots she grants me will—”
“Four slots!” Vorgon said. “Four? You would defy me for a mere pittance?”
Malem suddenly felt the stamina drain from him. Balethorn suddenly felt too heavy, and he dropped it entirely, then fell to his knees in shock. All his former confidence left him.
He realized he’d made a big mistake.
Vorgon might very well kill him for this.
Around him, the other Black Swords were smirking.
“I give four of these ‘slots’ as you call them to all of my Black Swords,” Vorgon continued. “Including you. So already, the loss of this woman is offset.”
“Not offset,” Malem said between gritted teeth. In addition to draining him of stamina, Vorgon could also inflict pain. And right now, it felt like all of Malem’s nerve endings were on fire. “But lost. I lose… four slots, with her death. Unless you will give me another four?”
Vorgon stared at him in the night, seeming stunned, perhaps by the impertinence, especially since it was displayed in front of all the other Black Swords. And then he erupted in a terrible, booming laugh.
“Ah, yes, now I remember why I grant you leeway I would not give to any of my other soldiers,” Vorgon said. “Who else could make me laugh such as you do?”
The pain Malem felt subsided, and he had enough strength to stand once more. So he did.
“Four slots could mean the difference between a win or a loss, when it comes down to it,” Malem said, feeling emboldened. But he knew he still had to be cautious. Vorgon could be mercurial, even at the best of times. “If I hadn’t broken her, I would have never had the slots to conquer Banvil. I would have never brought him to the field of battle for you to slay.”
Vorgon’s flame-outlined form nodded. “You did bring me Banvil, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Malem said. He had convinced Vorgon that he had summoned Banvil to the final battle explicitly so that Vorgon could slay the opposing Balor, rather than the other way around.
Or perhaps Vorgon was the one who had managed to convince Malem of that. He wasn’t sure anymore. So many things he had become uncertain about…
But not this.
“She is a rarity,” Malem continued. “There are no other races of half monsters between here and our destination. If you want me to defeat our adversaries, it is only to your benefit to ensure I have all the strength I can muster. Even four slots can make a difference. So I ask that you spare her, this once. Unless of course you are willing to make up the difference entirely, and grant me another four, in addition to the slots you have already given me.”
Vorgon hesitated.
Malem was betting her life on the hunch that Vorgon couldn’t grant him any more slots. The Balor had never stated outright whether he could in fact grant more than four, but
Malem had long suspected that was the limit.
Four slots. A surprisingly low number, given how many more the women granted him, and how commensurately powerful the Balor was in turn. Malem thought it had something to do with the half human nature of the women, whereas Vorgon was all Balor. That, and the fact Vorgon shared his mind-Breaking ability with every Black Sword. Perhaps if there were less of the Swords bound to him, Vorgon would be able to bestow more slots to each of them in turn. But as it was…
Vorgon’s throat rumbled, emitting a long, deep chuckle. “Ah, my little Defiler. You are an endless source of amusement. Only you would dare defy me in such a manner: claiming your defiance is only in service of me. I would take the head of anyone else who behaved like this. But not you. No, I am not done with you yet. You are my prize. I fought hard to attain you, and I will not grant you the mercy of a quick death.” Its malevolent gaze darted to Gwenfrieda. “Her, on the other hand… I’m tempted to kill her if only for the anguish it will obviously cause you.” A tense moment passed, but then Vorgon’s hateful expression softened as the demon seemed to make up its mind. “Very well then. She may live. For the moment. Because you’re right, keeping her alive partially benefits me. However, if she attempts to escape again, you will kill her instantly by crushing the stamina from her body. Is that understood?”
“It is,” Malem said. He bowed deeply. “Thank you for this, Master. You are merciful.”
“Am I now?” Vorgon asked. “You will still punish her for what she has done. I want to see the bite of the cattails on her back when we march tomorrow. If I cannot see bone peeking forth from the skin, I will tell you to do it again.” The Balor lifted a fiery hand. “You are all dismissed.”
Vorgon turned around and retreated into the night. The demon began to vanish a moment later, going to that place halfway between this world and the Black Realm, that nether region where the Balor could regenerate.
Vorgon’s disappearance wasn’t instantaneous, but instead transpired over the course of a minute—fleeing to the nether realm wasn’t something Vorgon could do rapidly. It certainly wouldn’t help the Balor escape a deadly attack, for example.
When Vorgon was finally gone entirely, Malem could still sense its presence in his head, though that presence was greatly reduced.
He glanced at Gwenfrieda. He told himself he had spared her solely because of the strength and the slots she granted him. Not because of anything else. A part of him even believed it.
The other part, well, didn’t know just what to believe.
The crowd began to disperse, going to their various tents scattered throughout the war camp. Malem retrieved his sword from the ground and slid it into his sheath.
“You four.” He waved at a nearby group of oraks before they could depart. “Watch her.”
He placed the guards not to prevent her from running away again—she was firmly in his grasp—but rather for her protection. A competing Black Sword would no doubt love to strike her down now, while she was weak, and thus undermining him in the process. In fact, four oraks probably wasn’t enough, but he didn’t plan to be long.
While the four creatures took their places, he went to the armament tent nearby. Inside, he headed straight to the torture rack, and scooped up the menacing-looking cattails. It was a variant of the cat-o’-nine-tails, with the nine knots in the whip replaced with sharp fragments of metal. He collected a bandage kit on the way out.
He returned to find Weyanna, Abigail, Ziatrice, and Mauritania lingering near the orak guards. The latter woman towered a full two heads above the others thanks to her half Eldritch nature. The horns on her pale forehead were filed down so that they appeared as small stumps.
Weyanna and Abigail gave him accusing looks when they saw the cattails in his hands, while the eyes of Ziatrice and Mauritania glinted eagerly.
“Ziatrice, Mauritania, you will stay,” Malem announced to the latter women. “And when this is done, you will join me in my bed.”
The pair grinned, not because they actually enjoyed going to his bed of late, but because they had edged out the others. The gloating glances they shot Weyanna and Abigail told him as much.
He glanced at the two half-dragon women. “Go back to your tents.”
Weyanna turned to obey, but Abigail lingered, resisting.
“I thought you were sleeping alone tonight?” Abigail asked.
“I changed my mind,” he replied. “Now go.” He squeezed his will tighter around her mind.
Abigail curtseyed, and then left with Weyanna. She had no choice.
“Turn her around,” he told the oraks.
Two of the creatures came forward. Though humanoid in shape, their faces revealed their monster natures: their noses were all nostrils, large upper canines grew past their chins, and their skin was a dark green, darker even than that of goblings. They wore horned helmets on their brows, and were armored in bronze mail.
The pair turned Gwenfrieda over as requested. She moaned softly as they did so, but otherwise offered little resistance.
He had to be the one to do this. He couldn’t trust anyone else. The oraks might be too harsh, and could kill her. The women that belonged to him meanwhile might be too gentle. No, he was the only one suited to the task, especially considering he could sense just how much damage he was doing thanks to their connection.
And so Malem began the dirty work. Gwenfrieda awakened shortly after the punishment began, and he felt the terrible pain emanating from her energy bundle. It wasn’t just physical pain, but emotional; the latter came to the fore when she glanced up at him between strikes and saw that he was her tormentor. It almost felt like she was hurt more by the mere fact that he was the one doing this, rather than the physical act itself. Mercifully she blacked out again shortly thereafter. He tried to ignore the sickly sound that came with each impact, and did his best to pretend he was simply striking moss attached to tree bark. It didn’t quite work.
Malem felt his body quickly weakening—whipping someone was hard work. He realized Vorgon was holding back the usual almost infinite supply of stamina he granted him. Part of his own punishment, he supposed.
When it was done, and her back was sufficiently ripped up, Malem, panting, regarded the oraks. He Broke the weakest among them, and then drained it of its stamina entirely. The forlorn creature dropped dead.
“Take her to her tent,” he told the remaining three monsters. “Gather up other oraks along the way. I want at least sixteen of you present. Half of them black mages. She’ll be too tempting a target like this.”
“Yes master,” one of the oraks said.
“Actually, fuck it,” Malem said.
He knelt, and gingerly bandaged her wounds using the kit he’d retrieved from the armament area. He even rubbed some healing unguent into the nastier wounds, but not too much. When that was done, he picked up Gwenfrieda, placing her over one shoulder, and carried her toward his tent.
2
Malem could feel the wetness of the half gobling’s blood as it soaked through the bandages.
The oraks escorted him, Ziatrice, and Mauritania to his tent, which was one of the largest in the camps.
A pair of black dragons lingered on either side of the entrance, and they stood to attention at his approach. There was also a ring of mages in attendance, whose members included oraks and Eldritch handpicked from the retinues of Mauritania and Ziatrice. Mauritania had been allowed to keep a small contingent of her most loyal Eldritch, but the remainder had been reassigned to another Eldritch who took her place as Black Sword.
Ziatrice was similarly permitted to keep the oraks and black dragons she had taken with her, but she, too, was denied command of the night elves she had once led, forced to relinquish the authority to another Black Sword Vorgon had chosen.
Too bad. They would have been more useful to Malem in command of their respective armies. But if the master wished it, then there was nothing Malem could do.
But I countered him tonight for the f
irst time, a part of him said.
Yes, and almost died in the act, another part chimed in.
Still, it’s a good sign, the original part said.
The other part had nothing to say to that. Somehow, Malem doubted he’d be going against Vorgon’s wishes very often, going forward.
Besides, he had no reason to. Vorgon promised him that together they would destroy the world. That suited Malem just fine, considering what the world had done to him growing up. The suffering. The constant running. No one had ever shown him even a thread of pity. Everything that was his in this world he had to take by force. He had to fight for, tooth and nail. He never had anything given to him. It was always an uphill battle.
Yes, he had never truly forgiven the world for what it had done to him. And now that world would pay, and Malem would take, take, take, to his heart’s content. He would sit on the right hand of Vorgon’s throne when the Balor ruled all men, and he would laugh.
The mages in front of the tent parted to let him and the women pass. As he stepped past the entrance flap, the escorting oraks took up defensive positions outside next to the mages.
“Pillows,” he ordered Mauritania.
The statuesque woman retrieved several pillows from the king-sized bed and set them down on the chaise lounge beside it. Once she had arranged the pillows, he meticulously lowered Gwen face down onto that long chair.
Then he went to the bed and plunked down. He half expected the mattress to collapse—it had happened a few times on the march already, but that could be expected when one had oraks unpack one’s bed.
After lying back, he sighed. It felt so good to just flop here and forget about everything. He had been so groggy when the oraks had awakened him to deal with Gwenfrieda earlier…
He sensed motion near the bedside, and realized Ziatrice and Mauritania were stripping under the light of the candles scattered across the room. The movements of the two women were forced, mechanical.
They, along with the other women, had become so cold since Vorgon had set him free. Couldn’t they understand how amazing the master was? How merciful?