Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) (102 page)

“I have only fought from instinct, I am sorry to admit. But I assure you that I am a fast learner.” Sara replied.

Though Malik was actually disappointed by his current task, he would do his best to train the woman, if to no other end than to enable her to protect herself from rape should the kingdom fall in the weeks to come.

“Do you find you learn better from instruction or experience?” Malik asked, wanting to get this over with so his duty would be fulfilled.

“Experience I suppose,” Sara answered, not truly sure of her own response.

“Good,” Malik replied. “I see you are armed. Attack me.”

“Are you sure?” Sara asked, completely bewildered.

“Attack me,” the knight repeated, and he stepped back, putting some distance between himself and the girl. He hoped he would not injure her.

Sara drew the pair of long, slender daggers from her waist. She held one in each hand but she was clueless as to how to approach the knight, who now was armed with a sword of his own. Circling him, she looked for an opening to attack as she slowly closed the distance. Sara did not know that when she found her opening, it had been left for her on purpose by her instructor. Lunging in towards the knight, Sara attempted to pierce his side with one of her small blades, but before it made contact the knight sidestepped, knocking her blade aside with the flat of his sword. Ashamed by how easily the knight thwarted her attack, Sara immediately tried again, this time leading with one blade overhead as a distraction, but following with a slash to the abdomen below. Again Malik slapped away her strikes without so much as a grunt.

Now Sara was growing angry with her lack of experience as she realized that fighting a large beetle-like insect, which she had done in the past, was not like fighting another person. As her anger grew, her thoughts misled her attention, and Malik lunged towards her, driving the pommel of his sword into her breastplate knocking Sara sprawling backwards to keep her feet beneath her. Though she nearly fell, Sara managed somehow to stay upright. Realizing it was the thinking that was letting her down, Sara did her best to clear her mind. Taking a deep breath with her eyes closed, Sara relaxed and let her instincts drive her.

Bending her knees slightly, Sara leaned forward holding the long daggers in both hands at the ready. Malik hesitated, checking he had not injured the girl, but once assured he lunged towards her again. This time Sara was ready. Crouching low, Sara dove between the charging man’s leg’s, rolling once before rising to her feet again. As she rose she turned to face back the way she had come, as Malik too turned to face her. He smiled. Raising his sword above him, Malik again rushed Sara, and again she crouched. This time as Malik neared, he changed the length of his stride to prevent her from repeating her earlier performance. Though Sara noticed his altered tactic, she had not crouched to repeat herself. Instead as Malik neared, Sara leapt into the air, clearing Malik by several feet. Turning as she descended, she watched as Malik looked up in disbelief.

Unprepared for such a display, Malik was caught completely off guard as Sara came down behind him, driving one of her slender blades through his armor and deep down through his collar bone into his lung. Sara let the weapon linger a fraction of a second before she jerked it free, feeling the small surge of ecstasy race up her arm as her blade siphoned a week or two off the knight’s life. Though the leap into the air had given him pause, as Sara extracted the blade from his shoulder, Malik spun to face his opponent, driving his blade around him as he did. Sara stepped back as quickly as she could to respond to the attack, but she was not quick enough. She was not completely out of range, and seeing his strike too late, Sara felt the explosion of pain as the tip of Malik's sword pierced through her forearm. Instead of retreating, as Malik expected her to, Sara whirled like a dancer, effectively entangling his blade as she drew their bodies closer together. Still twisting his sword and arm around her, Sara drove her blade through Malik’s armor again, this time through his side. Seeing him wince from the pain, she twisted the slender blade, then using all the force her body could muster, she drove the blade upward. Slicing through his ribs and armor as if they were cheese, Sara used her unnatural strength in an attempt to gut the man through his side. Mortally wounded, Malik did not react in a way to spare Sara injury, instead choosing to relinquish his still entangled sword. Once freed, Malik was able to use his good arm to punch Sara in the head as hard as he was able. Though he broke his hand upon her helm in the process, the blow was enough to drive Sara backwards, effectively removing the blade from the large wound in his side.

“Enough,” Malik shouted, his breath coming ragged.

Dropping to a knee, Malik was joined within seconds by a healer woman with green eyes and dark brown hair that fell around her shoulders in loose curls. Sara would later learn that the healer’s name was Daniella, but for the time being she simply looked delicious. Sara waited patiently as the healer treated Malik’s wounds, and a quarter hour later Malik rose once more.

“Shall Daniella tend your arm before we continue?” Malik asked.

Sara had already forgotten her injury, but inspecting her arm, found it had already healed itself flawlessly.

“No, I am fine to continue,” Sara replied. “Shall we?”

For several hours Sara and Malik fought round after round, and both Jonas, a veteran soldier turned werewolf, and Malik, a Knight of Valdadore, were impressed at the speed at which Sara learned the art of battle. The knight and the princess traded wound for wound, lunge for lunge, and strike for strike as Sara adapted to the knight’s different fighting styles time and again. It was near midnight when Malik called a halt to the training to have the healer repair a tendon Sara had sliced a few moments prior. Though the injury was nowhere near fatal, Malik was finding it more than a bit difficult to train Sara hobbling on one leg, as his injured knee kept folding beneath his weight.

“Enough Princess Sara,” Malik said raising his hand in signal to stop. “Let Daniella tend my knee before we continue.”

Sara did not respond beyond nodding her head in agreement before she turned and strode towards Jonas who watched from the sidelines, not far from where Daniella sat in the grass. Approaching the large wolf of a man, the werewolf’s ears twitched at the same time that Sara paused mid-stride and craned her neck, both of them hearing a click from within the shadows of the nearby knight’s garrison. Neither would even have time to process the sound, let alone question it, as they realized that they were not the only ones present and it was too late to do anything about it.

* * * * *

Mordal, the blessed assassin, had spent the last several hours slowly circling the outer wall of the castle structure. He crept among the shadows and called upon his blessing, making himself appear one with his surroundings when it was needed. Originally he had planned to gain entrance into the palace itself, and carry out his mission there. However, having witnessed the lighting of the torches upon the sparring field, and seeing a Knight of Valdadore fighting with someone armored in black, Mordal could not resist moving in closer to see if his targets had come out of the palace to make his job even easier. It had taken hours of tedious movement to avoid detection, but finally within earshot, Mordal watched the scene unfold before him, able to see and hear everything upon the field from within the shadows. What he found surprised him, which thus far was in itself no surprise at all. Nothing in Valdadore was what he would expect to find within his home kingdom. Here on the sparring field was a man fighting with a woman. They traded blow for blow, and occasionally they paused briefly for the man to get attention from an attending healer, yet the woman appeared to receive no wounds. At least nothing serious. It was at one such pause that Mordal found the truth in what it was he was seeing, as well as finding that indeed one of his targets had come to him.

Mordal watched as the knight in silver armor raised his hand to stop the match. He had been limping and bearing all his weight upon one leg for several minutes now. Although the knight had landed several blows upon the woman, she appeared to have no real injuries. Waiting for the woman to take his meaning the knight spoke his intentions, though Mordal heard only the first three words.

“Enough Princess Sara,” the knight said.

Then it all made sense. The knight was training the princess to fight, probably with blunted weapons without sharpened edges, and the princess, most likely a spoiled brat, cared not for the knight’s well-being and so fought with ordinary blades. Mordal smiled to himself wickedly. The brat princess was about to get all the injury she would ever need. Unstrapping his gnomish Gatling bow from his back, Mordal slowly attached the hopper, already loaded with bolts. Unfortunately as the hopper snapped into place, the metal upon metal made an audible click at which both the princess and the large beast-like man in the field turned to see its origin.

Mordal was not concerned, though admittedly disappointed at making the sound. He was using his blessing, as well as hiding in the deepest shadows beside the large garrison building. Neither the beast man nor the princess could see him here. Taking his aim, Mordal quickly began to turn the crank on his weapon.

* * * * *

Jonas froze as the hair upon the back of his neck began to rise. Instincts told him something was wrong, yet before he could even react, a steady rhythm of sounds erupted from the darkness beyond the garrison building. Thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank. The sound resounded over and over from the shadows in rapid succession. Unable to pierce the utter darkness of the night-time shadows, Jonas sniffed the air as Sara exhaled loudly, her eyes bulging within their sockets.

* * * * *

Sara peered into the darkness beside the knights’ garrison, but even with her predatory, more-than-human vision, could discern nothing recognizable. Though she thought she could see movement, even when the sounds began she could make out no detail of what was within the shadows. Turning to face the origin of the sounds, Sara realized too late that they were under attack as more than a dozen missiles struck her chest and stomach in a fraction of a second with such force they drove the breath from her lungs and sent her staggering backwards.

Pain exploded from each of the wounds as Sara turned, revealing to the others upon the field what it was that had befallen them. Blood poured from each of the wounds, and as Sara turned she reached down and tugged the first of the bolts from her flesh and armor with an agonized scream of pain. Within an instant, everything in the castle complex changed as men who were beyond human acted upon instinct.

Mordal cranked the handle on his weapon as fast as he was able for a solid three seconds and watched as the barrage of missiles arced through the darkness to their intended target. Like death borne upon the wind, the hail of arrows smashed into the armored chest of the small woman. Each and every one of them penetrated her armor, burying themselves into her flesh as blood began to run down their shafts. Success. Mordal thought to add injury to insult, and turned his gaze upon the knight, but realized all too quickly that he had no time for games as escape became his number one priority. More than half a dozen knights rushed his location where before had only been one, and that was only the beginning of his troubles.

* * * * *

Watching Sara turn and stagger, ripping arrow after arrow from her own flesh as blood pooled around her feet, Daniella hurried to Sara’s aid as Malik gave a silent prayer and shimmered for a moment. A fraction of a blink of an eye later, eight Maliks tore across the field towards the garrison as an eerie cry split the night air like a blade through flesh. The howl was one of both rage and pain, and it was the signal of the beginning of a night the city of Valdadore would never forget.

Before Jonas even completed his howl, the sound was echoed more than two hundred times from outside the castle walls. Like a tidal wave of claws and fur, the inhuman army that Seth had created sprang into action, pouring out into the streets of Valdadore from the Temple of Ishanya. Instantly Jonas picked up the scent of his enemy, and subliminally it was relayed to all the werewolves in the immense pack. Without so much as an order the beasts took to the streets, all of a single mind, all craving revenge and blood, all converging upon the castle. Jonas surged across the field, digging his claws into the soil and propelling himself at an unbelievable speed towards the shadows. Overtaking the many copies of Malik, as if they stood still, Jonas landed in the shadow of the garrison, growling and snarling, his canine fangs flashing, but it was all for naught. Looking around the shadows no enemy presented itself, yet there was no escape from here, except an open expanse of ground between the garrison and the nearest gate that exited into the city. Luckily for Jonas, he had senses stronger than that of vision, and sniffing the air he raised his nose upwards to better catch the scent. Not only did he do so, but he also witnessed a figure in black disappearing over the top of the castle wall, more than a dozen stories above him. Jonas could not scale the wall, even with his great strength and claws. The foe was an expert, and probably blessed by a god to accomplish such a feat. Jonas shared the information with the pack as the many Maliks rushed to join him.

“Where is he?” all of the Malik copies said at once.

Jonas simply pointed over the wall, before turning towards the gate and launching himself forward upon all fours again. He may have fallen behind, but he would still take up the chase.

* * * * *

Seth had mastered altering the armor his troops needed a few hours before pandemonium erupted in the temple, but it was still a lengthy process. In fact, he had just completed the last set of his men’s armor when the troops within the room with him bared their teeth, growling, and then let loose a mournful howl unlike anything Seth had ever heard before. Both of the beasts in the chamber turned, though only one rushed off without warning. The other, looking back over his shoulder, said something to Seth before following his comrade, though the only words Seth clearly heard were ‘Sara’, ‘assassin’, and ‘dying’. Before Seth could even comprehend the words something within him snapped as he unleashed the power he contained within himself. Like a great wave of light and wind, a surge of power erupted from Seth, and with a boom that shook the entire temple, Seth vanished.

* * * * *

Borrik was sleeping peacefully when Jonas screamed at him through their subconscious link. It was not a voice that was communicated, as that was not how the pack worked. Nor was it directed at Borrik singularly, as all communications within the pack were shared by all near enough to be contacted. Instead it was an image with a thought or emotion attached to it. The image that entered Borrik’s mind, and that ripped him from his bed, was an image of Sara with more than a dozen arrows protruding from her body and blood pouring from her like water from a broken bucket. Borrik recognized the location of the image immediately. His heart pounding in his chest, Borrik wrenched the door to his chamber from its hinges as he sprang into the temple proper, where he, and all of his kind, poured into the streets like a flood of death seeking its prey. The hunt was on.

Pouring into the streets the werewolves moved like an unstoppable force of nature. They surged through the street, along the walls of the houses, even up the buildings to leap from roof to roof. As they ran they spread out, and within minutes bloodthirsty feral beasts coursed along every available surface of the city, sniffing the air hungrily for their target. Borrik both watched and felt the men and women of his pack take to the streets and rooftops of Valdadore. Images and thoughts from all directions assailed him of citizens screaming and running from the vicious beasts although none of these was in any real danger, as the pack hunted only one man. His was the scent of a tavern. Stale ale, smoke, horses and sweat, yet there was something strange about him too. Mixed with these smells was the scent of oil and metal, and also something Borrik did not recognize. Upon this man was a scent that was unfamiliar and which should have made him quite easy to track, yet try as they might, no matter how strong the scent, the werewolves could not locate the assassin.

Time and again a member of the pack would catch a glimpse of him, before once again he vanished, seemingly into thin air. For nearly an hour the pack raced like a wave across the city covering streets and rooftops in an attempt to run their prey to ground. Then, as if the man had used magic to disappear, the trail of his scent ended. The wave of werewolves now came from all directions, all converging on this one location, as word of the trail’s end spread instantaneously. As if they were all of one mind, all the feral men turned and began spreading out like wildfire, looking to pick up the scent once again. All of the troops relied upon their instincts. All but one at least, as the werewolves spread throughout the city. Borrik ignored both instincts and his nose. Instead, he followed his gut. Clamoring to the rooftops to take a more direct route, Borrik scratched and clawed his way up the side of the nearest building. Reaching the summit, he turned and began bounding from one roof to the next.

* * * * *

Sara watched as the blood spilled from her many wounds. One by one she wrenched the bolts free of her flesh and blood covered her hands, making them slick. It was a lose, lose or lose situation. Removing each bolt sent waves of mind-numbing pain through her body which threatened to leave her unconscious, but they had to be removed. Pulling each bolt out opened a new hole in her body for blood to spew out of, but her body could not properly heal with them in the way. The damned healer had already prayed twice, but failing in some way to heal the princess, was now pacing nearby and shaking her head. Sara’s vision blurred as she screamed out again, ripping another bolt from her flesh. She nearly had them all removed, even though Jonas and Malik had only taken up the chase of the assassin a few seconds ago. Sara knew she could recover from this, but the blood flowed too freely from her. Not knowing what else to do, she tried with her hands to seal as many wounds as she was able in a feeble attempt to hold the blood in.

Still the blood seeped from between her fingers, and from wounds she was unable to cover, and still the healer paced speaking quietly to herself. Sara’s vision faded again, but this time she felt something inside her stir as if it moved of its own accord. One wound stopped spewing blood. She felt nauseous. The world around her seemed to blur, and then a whoosh of air blasted Sara full in the face. Before Sara stood a man all in black, though her failing vision obscured any other detail. This was how the assassin had escaped, and now he had returned to finish the deed.

Sara let her head loll back, not even pretending to conceal the fact she was near to losing consciousness. Her arms felt increasingly weak, so she let them fall from her wounds, down to her sides. The assassin did not yet move. Sara grasped the blades in her belt, and still kneeling with her feet beneath her, pulled the blades forth at the same time that she gave the command her husband had taught her a few hours before.

“Jump!” Sara yelled as best as she was able.

With unimaginable force, Sara’s enchanted boots propelled her both forward and upward into the assassin where she drove the blades into his chest. The power of his life rushed through the blades into Sara like a raging river. With so much power, Sara’s injuries healed almost instantly, before she or her attacker even fell back to the ground. Sara landed atop him, effectively pinning him to the ground. Sara’s heart stopped as her fading vision was restored and she witnessed, for the first time, the face of the man beneath her.

* * * * *

Seth felt the power surge through him and felt it carry him away, as if for an instant he had become one with the power. As if he had become insubstantial. As if for only a moment, he was the power. Though no matter how determined he was, nor how frightened, Seth knew, even as he re-contained the power, that it had happened again. The world around him felt different. Even with his eyes closed he knew that here it was darker, cooler and more damp. In the pit of his stomach Seth feared he would have to scale his way back out of the same godforsaken room he and Sara had been imprisoned in just mere weeks ago, and make the trek on foot once again back to Valdadore. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Seth began to open his eyes when he heard a familiar, yet different, voice as something hard slammed into his chest driving him up into the air, knocking the wind from his lungs.

The impact had been so hard, Seth had not even realized for a moment that two blades had been shoved through his ribcage. In fact, he did not realize it until he hit the ground with someone atop him. Still unable to breathe, Seth forced his eyes open after hitting the ground to find Sara on top of him, pinning him to the ground with both her weight, and her blades that went in his chest and out of his back into the soil below him. Unable to breathe since both of his lungs had collapsed, Seth lay upon the ground staring up at the woman he loved more than anything. In return, Sara looked at him as if in a daze for a moment, then as her eyes slowly refocused, the pupils swelling in size, Sara’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of anguish as her body slumped in defeat. Seth attempted to speak, though nothing but blood left his lips, pouring from both corners of his mouth.

* * * * *

For the life of him, Mordal could not explain where the rest of the Knights of Valdadore had come from, though it mattered little now as he raced across the rooftops of the castle city. The mission had gone flawlessly. Find a target, kill the target, flee away from castle, and lose pursuit in the city. Everything was going according to plan. For the third time Mordal stopped upon the edge of a roof watching the street below. Just as had happened each time before, the beast man that had been in the sparring field came lunging into sight. They made eye contact, but before the hairy man could get too close, Mordal changed directions and raced off across the rooftops, concentrating upon the mental map he had made of the city. This job was entirely too easy, Mordal thought, as he again sprang from one rooftop to another before sprinting a short distance and lunging again. He was about to stop, to ensure the creature pursuing him was still on the trail, when he witnessed another of the beast men leaping from roof to roof several blocks away, headed straight towards him. Turning to resume his retreat, he saw yet another of the wolfmen.

Mordal summoned one of his blessings and felt as his muscles tensed and the power surged through his blood. Smiling into the night, Mordal cracked his neck to either side before racing off, this time at an unnatural speed, again across the night-time roofs of Valdadore. This time the pursuit was in earnest as dozens of the beast men leaped into and out of sight as Mordal followed the route in his mind. Within minutes the assassin was nearing his destination, but it was becoming more of a race than he had hoped for. The hair-covered, armored beasts were coming from everywhere now, springing up from the streets onto the lower buildings, leaping across roofs, and racing down roads from all directions. Mordal realized his time was growing short, and as the creatures began to close in on him, Mordal unleashed yet another of his abilities as he slid to a stop upon the roof top of a very long building.

The building below him was nothing more than a warehouse belonging to the textile guild. It was one giant room stacked upon another where fabric was made, dyed and hung to dry, but it served the assassin’s purpose perfectly. Becoming one with the surrounding scenery, Mordal watched as the nearest beasts began to swivel their heads this way and that, looking for their target, all the while testing the air with their noses. Mordal smiled again. Stepping invisibly to the edge of the roof, Mordal jumped off, landing one floor below on one of the many balconies of the building. These were open air balconies without so much as a door to keep him out. A perfect plan.

Mordal stepped into the uppermost floor of the fabric dying facility, taking his time to brush up against every piece of fabric that stood in his way. Above, he could hear as the beasts gathered, seeking his trail. It would be mere minutes before they realized his scent had left the rooftops, and only seconds more before they picked it up starting with the balcony. His time growing ever shorter, Mordal raced around the immense room touching everything in his path, finishing at the very same balcony he had entered the warehouse at. Once more Mordal raced among the thousands of hanging sheets of fabric to the opposite end of the building. Focusing his power to remain nearly invisible, he waited until he could hear the first of the beasts surge into the warehouse opposite him. Stepping out into the night again, Mordal searched the street below, and looked up to the roof above as he heard his pursuers by the dozens entering the warehouse from the far end. Carefully, Mordal expertly climbed back to the roof. Here there were near a hundred of the beasts, each sniffing and looking, searching for any sign of the man they had been tracking. Now, however, Mordal was not only almost invisible, but he was downwind of the beasts. Silently the assassin crept back the way he had originally come. For the first several buildings the assassin moved slowly, choosing each footfall, timing each leap to be sure none witnessed his shadow. Even though he blended with all that surrounded him, he still cast a shadow.