144: Wrath (29 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Polas ran as hard as his limp would allow. He could hear the servant beyond his vision, panting and wheezing as he sprinted through the shadows as though a drakken were on his tail. Ahead, dim light filled an open doorway and illuminated the end of the hall.

Polas slowed as he entered through the arched double doors. The room had a glass ceiling and was full of verdant plants and trickling fountains. Through the translucent windows, the first rays of sunlight sparkled over the horizon while the moons finished with their nightly chore. The mixture of orange and deep blue light danced across the sky blurring the lines of light and darkness.

A stone path led from the doorway to a large fountain in the center of the conservatory. In front of the fountain, Calec Kas Dorian stood with his dark blade drawn. He was slightly shorter than his father, though the strength in his posture hinted at a vitality that Polas had lost long ago. He removed his helmet and shook out his blonde locks. His eyes were piercing blue, like ice on a winter flower.

The Peltin servant stumbled over the last few steps and ended up on all fours in front of the Guardian of Exandercrast. "Master Calec, you have to save us. He’s here! The Iron Butcher is here!"

Calec flicked his blade and loosed the man’s head from his shoulders. The body fell, and a river of blood poured out between the cobblestones.

Polas had seen countless deaths before, but this simple murder shook him to the core. He wanted to vomit. Had his boy truly been reduced to little more than an executioner and a thrall to evil’s will? His breath caught in his lungs. His boy. So much of him wanted nothing more than to embrace his son, to pull him back from the grip of despair. He held his arms out to the side, palms open, and his sword clattered to the ground.

"Calec," Polas started. "I don’t have words."

Calec stood motionless, and hatred rolled off him in waves.

"Son." Polas took a hesitant step forward. "I-I’m so sorry. For everything that has happened. To you. To your mother. To Leyryl. I never intended. I never thought. I was trying to give you a better life."

Polas fought back tears. The loss of his wife and daughter weighed on him heavily, but seeing his son, here, as an emissary of all that was evil in the world, it nearly drove his soul from him. He stopped and tried to think of anything he could say or do to end this nightmare.

"I’m sorry I left you, son."

Calec raised his sword and charged his father.

Shirmattaa’s fat belly was the first thing to penetrate the portal’s shimmering veil and enter into the land of Waysmale. An arrow thicker than a man’s arm greeted the dead man and pierced through his unbeating heart.

Kiff pushed the body forward and rose straight up on his board. The air was hot and dark, and he felt like he was swimming through the thick gloom. His goggles fogged over, and he was forced to discard them along with his mask. His eyes were solid black, capable of absorbing every possible point of light and even converting ambient energy into vision in the darkest places. His face was pale and long with strong cheekbones and an understated chin. He had smooth, youthful skin marked only by a thin scar on his bottom lip and another beneath his left eye. He smiled at the Ibor gathered around him.

"Some ambush," he said with a laugh. "I expected at last fifty of you hagspawn, but I guess this will have to do."

Below him, clinging to rocks and climbing up the trunks of gnarled stone-trees, were twenty-one Ibor warriors. The largest of them was eight feet high. Ten vicious horns sprouted in a fan-shape on each side of his skull running back from his brow, over his ears, and down to his plated neck. His shoulders were like hardened armor, though he wore none. Like the rest of the Ibor warriors around him, he wore no clothing of any kind. His stony form was as a perfectly chiseled sculpture, and he stood atop a large boulder holding a massive longbow that was taller than he was. With a growl and a grunt, he cast it aside and flexed his clawed hands.

The creature roared a few words in the guttural Waysmahli language. The gathered Ibor shared a laugh, no doubt, at Kiff’s expense.

"Sorry," Kiff said, "is there a reason all of you are naked? I’m just here for a fight."

He pulled the bladed whip from around his waist and cracked it out to the side. It answered with a resounding snap. Kiff beamed. "Yes."

The Ibor leader snarled. He pointed a finger at the Undlander and barked a command to his soldiers. They sprang into the air and spread their wings, but they could not reach Kiff at his current height.

"Aw, now that’s cute," Kiff said. "Me, I prefer flying, but gliding is great too. Don’t be ashamed, you’re all doing great."

He looked up at the cliffside and thought of how easy it would be to escape, to run and never look back. He could find a city or a port, or he could cross an ocean if he had to, and he would be free to start over again. Or he could fly to the edge of the world and leave all of Traespairin behind. No more worrying about a name or a past or a future.

"Alright, here we go." He drove his board down in the surging mass of stony wings. Every being had a weak spot, and every suit of armor had a gap. The Ibor, as strong as their hides were, could be no different. It was on Kiff to find those weaknesses and exploit them, or at least make enough of a dent in their numbers to give the others a fighting chance.

A halo of flame surrounded each of Flint's hands, and he opened up with a volley of blasts at the gorachna’s chest.. The rings of fire pulsed with each blast and launched fiery orbs at his command. The beast ignored the flares without as much as a single hair singed. Flint shrugged and took cover behind a toppled table.

He stopped himself from uttering a curse. "Of all the rotten luck. The first time I see a mythical gorachna in person, and I have no time to journal it."

The Narculd necromancer ducked a swinging chain and almost choked on his laughter at the Faldred’s plight. Flint lobbed a blast his direction that sent the Narculd scurrying over to a corner.

"Your arcanis is insignificant," the Narculd taunted. "You are no match for the power of Vrihnassk."

Flint shook his head and did his best to ignore the overconfident sorcerer. "Think, Flint. Slow down and think. When facing a gorachna one must take into account its thick hide and fire resistance."

He stood and clapped his hands together, dousing the flames they held. The gorachna curled forward, the spikes on its back bristling with incendiary secretions. The creature shuddered, and four of the largest barbs launched from its back.

One of them pierced Flint’s shoulder and pinned him to the wall.

"
Sahnrak
," Flint hissed. "Forgot about those."

He gripped the chitinous spike and yanked it out of his shoulder. The wound ignited from contact with the searing liquid produced at the barb’s tip. Flint closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He waved a hand over the open wound and used his magic to heal it.

The gorachna swung both of its chains overhead. They broke through rafters and rained wooden debris across the room. It swept them around the room in a wide arc, forcing both Vrihnassk and Flint to drop to their bellies.

Flint rolled onto his back and watched as the chains whizzed by him once again and crashed into a table a few feet away.

He clapped. "I’ve got it." He stood and stared at the beast. His hands glowed, and steam issued from the top of his bald head. "Let's see if this works."

The Peltin soldier was on his knees gasping for air after receiving a blow from the butt of Vor’s axe directly to the chest.

Another of the fighters, the dark-clad man with the array of blades, distracted Vor’s addled mind with a few well-placed daggers.

The man ran up the wall to dodge a swing of Vor’s axe and flipped over the Dorokti’s head. He unleashed a flurry of tiny blades as he somersaulted through the air. Each one sank deep in Vor’ back on either side of his spine.

The Dorokti King chased the man across the room, repeating the previous encounter. This time, however, when the man kicked off the wall, Vor reached up, grabbed him by the ankle, and slammed him down face-first into the stone floor. His nose, teeth, and jaw shattered with the impact, and his throat and sinuses filled with crimson fluid. He gagged and coughed, but could do nothing to keep himself from drowning on his own blood.

Vor eased the man's parting by driving his axe down into the back of his head. The body shook one last time as Vor removed the blade.

The berserker turned to find his next victim. His own inky blood congealed around his mouth and at his elbows. Thick streams dried on his back and mixed with the gore of his enemies, blending in a matted swirl of ruby and sable.

The Eryntaph brawler charged him from the side, knocking him to the ground. He held Vor’s wrist high over head, keeping his axe out of the grapple. The two rolled over bodies and onto the damp floor; each struggling for dominance. The Eryntaph had a slight edge in strength, and Vor found himself pinned. His fury filled him. He lashed out with his teeth, bit deeply into the Eryntaph’s shoulder, and was rewarded with the crunch of clavicle and a scarlet spray.

"Damn you, Fallen."

The Eryntaph released his hold on Vor’s axe and slashed him across the face, driving a deep wound that nearly dislodged an eye. Vor swung down, his axe finding the Eryntaph’s spine above the hips. The being’s legs went limp, but he continued to slash at Vor until his claws exposed the Dorokti’s skull.