A Whisper After Midnight (42 page)

Ionascu listened to the banter with venom in his heart. Once, and only briefly, he considered joining them. Becoming a member of their group. It was in his best interests. Harnin’s betrayal left him no better than Bahr. Crippled and alone, Ionascu contemplated taking his own life but lacked the courage. His heart burned darkly. Revenge demanded to be fulfilled. The strange visitors continued to approach him in his dreams, giving him new purpose and the intensity he’d long forgotten. They whispered promises he couldn’t ignore.

Ionascu thought back to his first moments aboard the
Dragon’s Bane
and the almost immediate sense of animosity exuded by Bahr and the others, as if they knew his true identity. He laughed at their ignorance. Mild complacency kept him from striking out, that and the underlying fear of not knowing whom to trust. As great as his desire for revenge might be he still wasn’t willing to completely trust the visitors in his mind. The crippled Man pulled his patchwork blanket higher around his neck as cold winds tickled his flesh.

The hard tack of his dagger pressed tightly against his side. None of the others knew he was armed or they surely would have taken it by now. Ionascu studied his companions while trying to determine which to kill first. Hatred for Bahr was minimal. If anything the brother of the king had been kind enough and even stood up for him when Harnin betrayed him. The One Eye needed to die, but he knew he’d never get the opportunity to exact such punishment. The wizard, on the other hand, posed the greatest threat. He watched Ionascu with suspicious eyes, suggesting he knew too much. But how to kill a wizard?

He frowned. Perhaps Badron’s daughter should get the honor of having his blade rake across her throat first. She’d been a thorn in his side from before her abduction. Killing her left him feeling warm inside. With Badron’s son dead she was the last of his bloodline. Delranan would never be the same after his family was successfully removed from the throne. Ionascu contemplated the future, slowly falling under the sway of the voices in his head. They offered delicate temptations and the unforeseen paths to a better life. They promised to heal his broken mind and body, making him stronger, faster, wiser. They whispered his role for the future and the coming storm. He sighed contentment. The voices were his only constant. His true friends during the long winter night. A wry grin on his face, he drifted back to their alluring embrace.

During it all the river Man captain stood at the bow watching them with foul thoughts of his own.

Expectations

Artiss Gran stood atop the crumbling battlements of Trennaron. His tired eyes endlessly searched for his approaching guests. His ancient body was on the brink of giving out. Long days turned into years and then centuries. All of his hopes and dreams ended the day he became one of the Dae’shan. He became more than what his physical form restricted. He became a messenger of the gods, both light and dark, and all was well with the world.

Until Amar Kit’han decided the world was not enough. Amar subverted the Dae’shan, twisting them through vicious lies and wicked intent. The others willingly gave themselves to their new direction but Artiss couldn’t. Too much of his Humanity remained to so callously abandon his own race. He stood his ground and broke away from the others. The Dae’shan were only ever four. No more, no less. Artiss’s departure left them sorely lacking much of their combined strength. Amar never forgave him and never forgot his treachery. Centuries passed without conflict until recently. The veil between dimensions was weakening. The dark gods saw their way back into Malweir. Amar Kit’han and the fractured Dae’shan were sent back into the world to pave the way.

He sighed. Once, long ago, he relished the feel of fresh wind on his face. It was the only reason he could think that he still made the daily pilgrimage up to the top of Trennaron. Mortal needs and desires extinguished the moment he accepted his robes and was transformed. He looked down at the massive structure built deep in the jungle, wondering how he’d come to be the guardian of the Blud Hamr. Knowing it was the only weapon capable of killing the dark gods and how badly Amar Kit’han wanted it destroyed gave him purpose but no comfort. Part of him had always known he was meant to come here. Just as he suspected, without ever saying, that the rest of the Dae’shan would stumble and fall into shadow. Some things were just meant to be.

Massive stone gargoyles decorated the walls and towers. Their pointed ears listened to the winds, massive wings curled over their backs protecting them from sunlight and worse. A series of square towers ringed the interior complex. Artiss knew the actual chamber the Hamr was kept in was far underground. So deep that lava flowed around it. Ancient wards protected the building from evil, but those wards were weakening with time. Artiss took comfort with the knowledge that the last of the Mage bloodline was approaching. If only they could beat Amar Kit’han here Malweir might stand a chance.

The jungle had been cleared back a good hundred meters. A worn cobblestone road was overgrown and barely discernible even from his vantage. Brambles and snaking vines overran the road, a reminder that the jungle took what it wanted. Small tribal villages peppered the jungles. Many of which dedicated a large portion of their society to becoming guardians of Trennaron. Artiss had little to do with that but they provided a much needed outer layer of security. Human intervention had prevented many incursions, by the Dae’shan and worse.

Artiss looked down, catching the faintest glimmer of movement under the massive banyan trees off to his right. Squinting, he was able to discern the mighty outline of a Gnaal. A remnant of the dark Mages. Artiss frowned. He had enough power to defeat the genetic monsters, but little left to defend Trennaron. Gnaals were nearly extinct, and a good thing too. Nearly ten feet tall, the monster had skin the color of darkest midnight and was covered with boils and lesions weeping endless streams of puss and worse. Foul eyes watched the castle, searching for any exploitable weakness. Artiss knew it wouldn’t wait long.

“So, my brothers have at last realized my hour has arrived,” Artiss said. His grey-white robes floated in the stale wind. Having given up the black preferred by Amar Kit’han long ago, he quested to return the Dae’shan to the spirit of neutrality they were originally intended for.

Hot winds blew across Trennaron, carrying the stench of rot and decay. The war had finally come to this ancient and most holy place. Artiss Gran would be hard pressed to defend it long enough for Anienam Keiss and his selected heroes to arrive. Frowning, the former Dae’shan balled his fists and collected power. If it was a fight Amar Kit’han wanted, a fight he was going to get.

END

Begin Book four of The Northern Crusade, Empire of Bones, Now.

Empire of Bones

Other Novels by Christian Warren Freed

The Northern Crusade Series

Hammers in the Wind

Tides of Blood and Steel

A Whisper After Midnight

Empire of Bones

The Madness of Gods and Kings

Even Gods Must Fall

A History of Malweir Series

Armies of the Silver Mage

The Dragon Hunters

Beyond the Edge of Dawn

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