Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga) (124 page)

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Though Garret was led by his rage, so empty was his soul that it had nothing to take over. It guided him, spurred him on for kill after kill, but it was not the blind rage he had been lost to on previous occasions. Instead it was a hollow rage, uncaring if he died, that led him into enemy lines, hacking and stomping a path of gore. Though he chuckled, a sound coming deep from his chest, the one-armed king felt no emotion. He simply wanted everything that stood before him dead.

Neither champion, mage, nor common troop could withstand the King of Valdadore as he carved a path through the enemy lines, and though attacks were flung at him on a regular basis, he failed to notice that they were simply to keep him distracted. Keep him at bay.

* * * * *

Borrik could not fight the feral rage that seeped from his every pore. Anger from each one of his troops filtered into his mind too and like the savage warriors they were created to be, what few of them were left unleashed a terror unlike anything else Valdadore could currently muster. Without care for their personal safety, and without fear of harm, the werewolves in their gargantuan blessed bodies fought savagely, biting and clawing their way through the enemy.

Plummeting from the sky to land upon his foes, Borrik unleashed a pair of fireballs to strike down an enemy mage before setting upon the troops nearest him with blades and teeth. As those around him took to their heels to flee, he again lanced fireballs at their backs before leaping into the sky anew to land elsewhere.

Images of death and killing filled him all the while and with them came a sense of calm.

Sara had never even seen him coming. How could she have? She did not have the vision of the gods that Seth had, nor could she have anticipated Sigrant having such a warrior, if he was even a warrior. All Sara knew was that one moment she stood beside her fallen husband, the next, a man clad in black leather armor appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He grabbed her then, and immediately she felt ill, as if the world had been set to spin rapidly.

Just a fraction of a second later the world came to a halt again and, opening her eyes, Sara found herself now within enemy lines. The dizziness returned and vanished again. They were further within Sigrant’s lines than before. The man was teleporting them. Sara, when next they appeared, leaned backwards, heavily dragging him with her before shouting “Jump!” to her enchanted boots.

Caught up in the man’s grasp, the two rocketed backwards in the direction they had come, but before they even crashed back to the ground the world again spun awkwardly. They appeared once more exactly where they had jumped from. Sara tried to break free and found that she was obviously the stronger, but the minute she struck out they teleported again.

When they landed this final time, the man who had dragged her thus far across dimensions unknown, leapt away from her, and quickly sprinted off in an attempt to avoid her revenge. Thinking to chase him, knowing that with her superior abilities she could easily make up the distance within seconds, Sara bent her knees and shook her head to clear the haze that his many teleportations had left within her mind. Just as she prepared to spring into the air, something immense snatched her up and slammed her bodily into the ground over and over again. The attack did not relent for many long moments, until within her armor her bones broke and joints became dislocated. Sara cried, not because of the pain, though she felt it from each and every fiber of her body, but because she needed to have vengeance.

They needed to pay for what they had taken from her. Now she felt helpless, broken, and unable to do the only thing that could make her feel better. She needed to kill them, all of them. Sara cried out, a sound that gurgled from her throat, her ribs having punctured her lungs in more than one location. From atop her the weight was removed, though so utterly destroyed was her body she could not turn even a single degree to see what it was that had fallen atop her. Her bones began to knit back together.

Suddenly, as if she weighed nothing at all, something roughly hefted Sara from the ground and as she was whipped about through the air she saw that now she was within a camp full of tents. She was far behind enemy lines. Abruptly the swinging motion stopped and then, without warning, Sara fell, having been dropped by whatever it was that had carried her. With a sound that was a mix between a splat and a thud, Sara hit a cold surface as metal squeaked upon metal above her. A great slamming sound followed and, peering ahead, Sara looked upon something she had never before even imagined.

Iron bars as thick as her arms stood before her in a tight row. Between them bright sunlight lanced into the cage she had been dropped into, and beyond the bars a tall, narrow man with black hair and eyes stood looking upon her. A crown sat atop his head. King Sigrant lived.

“Good afternoon, Princess,” King Robert Sigrant greeted her. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Sara did not reply. Could not reply. Not yet at least. She could feel her bones mending, her tendons and ligaments stretching to reattach themselves. She groaned, though not of her own accord. Her shoulder popped back into the socket. Using her one viable arm she pressed down to raise her head off the floor. Pain exploded in her back.

Flipping back her helm to expose her terrible visage, Sara shrieked at the enemy king, letting her hatred flow from her lips like death to his ears.

Undeterred, the enemy king slid his hand through the bars, jerking it towards her mouth.

“We need to speak,” he said simply. “You need to heal and my blood will speed the process. I’ve studied your kind.”

Sara knew him to be right, but with the power already flowing through her, the small amount of blood he offered would make little difference. Already she was mending at an incredible rate from injuries that should have killed her instantly. Though she realized all this, she reached up with that same good arm and grasped at his wrist, squeezing with all her might. He cried out in agony. Planning to suck him dry, Sara sunk her teeth into his wrist and began to pull hard, creating a perfect seal with her lips.

Nearly mended, Sara drank heavily for several moments. A few more and he would lose consciousness. Sara sucked hard again drawing more of his life into her mouth. Thinking she would have her vengeance she did not expect what happened next.

Without so much as an attempt to pull his arm from the cage, Sigrant quickly wrapped a cord around his arm, staunching the flow of blood.

“Now Kibalt!” King Sigrant screamed, and before his command was even comprehended by Sara, the man who had teleported her here reappeared. With a single blow he severed the king’s arm below the cord. Just then, a group of men rushed out from a nearby tent and gathering about their king they each began to glow. Sara had been duped, and now she realized her mistake.

He had told her that her kind had been studied, and now, the enemy king had found a way to make himself immortal. In less than an hour King Sigrant returned to the side of her cage to thank her, showing her his restored arm, sweat upon his brow. She screamed at him in rage, pounding upon the bars of her cell but he simply smiled at her, understanding and adoration in his eyes. Already the change was beginning to take him.

The men with Sigrant rushed him off into another nearby tent. As the flaps were pulled back Sara could see hundreds of naked women within the tent. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together within the building, it was already apparent to Sara their intended purpose. King Sigrant had a feast waiting.

Rising to a sitting position, now that her body was mended, Sara looked about her cage. Sadly it was very well built with thick iron bars and a massive locking mechanism of the likes Sara had never seen before. Even without trying the bars she knew she would not escape the cage unassisted. There was simply not enough room in the cage to get decent leverage.

Though Sara could hear the sounds of battle, she was far enough from it that she could not see any portion of the fight. Occasionally, upon the breeze, she could smell death and taste the blood of those upon the battlefield, but she knew that Valdadore was being pressed back. Their champions had dwindled. Seth was gone. His troops had thinned to alarming levels. Though Sara’s heart was broken and her anger destroyed, having been used against her, she showed no sign of emotion. There was nothing left now but pain and allowing it to show would be of no use.

She was trapped without a chance of escape. The only person who could possibly rescue her was Borrik, and he had no way of knowing where she was. She knew none would come to her aid.

Sara felt she at least had to try to escape so she could tell herself that she had made an effort, even if there wasn’t anything to go back to. Crouching, she sprang upwards and invoked the blessing upon her boots.

Rocketing up to the all-too-near ceiling of her cage, Sara’s head glanced off the steel top at an unnatural angle as her neck and both shoulders were crushed by the impact. Without so much as a dent, Sara fell back to the floor in a twisted heap, waiting patiently for the ability to control and feel her body once again. Her situation was helpless, and if her inability to escape were not bad enough alone, a man appeared from between the tents and came directly to her cage. He quickly harnessed a pair of oxen he had led to it and began to lead the beasts further away from the battle.

* * * * *

Linaya stood at the edge of the portal cut through the floor at her feet. Below her, Zorbin had just killed a man by throwing a pickaxe at him. Though she was disgusted by the murder, she silently cheered the dwarf on. If he managed to win, they would have the army they needed to march back to Valdadore and bring aid to their kingdom. Linaya watched anxiously, imagining what the future might hold in the days to come. Below her, Zorbin jogged down the ramp opposite the one he had killed the dwarf on. She watched him go, praying that Gorandor would protect him.

* * * * *

Zorbin made the base of the ramp without opposition and, glancing around warily, he turned left, in the last direction he had seen the dwarf he sought. Walking half a mile he climbed a rise to look around and located the dwarf off in the distance. At first Zorbin did not realize how his adversary was making such good time across the landscape. After studying what it was he was looking at for several minutes, he then realized what had made him analyze the sight in the first place.

Though his opponent was some way off in the distance, he appeared much closer than he should. Zorbin became worried. He expected the man to have strength, or perhaps a magical hammer as did Drummit; hell, maybe even the ability to walk through stone. Instead his opponent shared a similar blessing to himself. The dwarf had expanded to three or four times his normal size. Zorbin picked up the pace, for even the underground colony of dwarves relied heavily upon the sun for light, and already the day was getting late. He wished Xanth was with him. The dire wolf would be a great asset in such a situation as this.

For two hours Zorbin moved to intercept his opponent and nearing to within a few hundred yards he finally came fully into sight. His opponent was intelligent. The dwarf had gone to a location that gave him a strategic advantage. Not only was the unnamed dwarf uphill from Zorbin, but also there was only one narrow path to gain access to him. All over the landscape in this area, stalagmites climbed from the ground creating sharp spikes on the ground in varying sizes.

The russet-haired, giant dwarf stood within a small clearing inside the stalagmite forest, a long poleaxe balanced over his shoulder. Zorbin eyed him carefully as he grew nearer, looking for a clear way to approach his foe but was unable to find one.

The brown-haired dwarf had a vast advantage over him. He had the upper ground, only one clear approach, and a weapon that gave him an extended reach. Zorbin had a shovel which he discarded. Useless. He also had a chain and a chisel. These he kept, tucking the chisel into his belt, and holding the long chain with both of his hands. He saw no way to draw the dwarf out to him, and as such had no choice but do exactly what his foe wanted.

Swinging the chain around his head, Zorbin charged his enemy up the only clear path available to him. He hoped, if the opposition tried to attack, his chain would tangle around the poleaxe thus allowing him to yank it out of his hands. As he neared, however, one thing he anticipated and another that he didn’t happened with unexpected result.

Twirling his chain, he ran full tilt towards his foe, who lashed out with his poleaxe as expected. Instead of tangling around its long shaft as Zorbin had hoped, his chain instead bounced off the lowered shaft to twist around a stalagmite that rose from the ground just a few feet ahead. As the chain twirled back in Zorbin’s direction, it became slack and, bouncing off the ground, the jumbled links tripped Zorbin, sending him sprawling forward totally off balance.

Seeing his opening, the other dwarf struck out again with his weapon, but Zorbin reacted with yet another unexpected response. Closing off his blessing momentarily, Zorbin shrank instantly as his enemy’s weapon sailed overhead. Still flailing as he stumbled through the tangles of his own chain, Zorbin again summoned his blessing. Now exploding in size he dove head first towards his enemy. They connected in a wholly unnatural way with Zorbin driving the top of his head into the groin of his enemy.

The brown-haired dwarf released his poleaxe as his breath exploded from his lungs with an awkward squeak. As Zorbin righted himself slightly, he drew the chisel from his belt and used its sharp edge to plunge through the Achilles tendon of his enemy. As his foe retreated a step, still unable to breathe with his stomach in knots, Zorbin yanked the chisel free and plunged it into the dwarf’s opposite knee with a twist.

With neither leg able to bear his weight, the brown-haired dwarf toppled over backwards with a twist as he fell. Not even a scream escaped him as a stalagmite thrust up between his ribs, ripping an ever-widening hole the further gravity and momentum dragged the dwarf down. For several minutes the dwarf twitched as nerves in his brain continued to fire.

Zorbin looked around and climbed back to his feet. Luck had been on his side this time. Without it, his trip over the chain would have been fatal. He located his dead enemy’s stash and collected a pair of single-edged axes, a sack filled with food and a water flask. He grinned. At least he would have a full belly when he went after the remaining two candidates for king in the morning. Darkness was falling fast, and so long as Zorbin stayed put and did not bother lighting a fire, the chances of one of his challengers sneaking up on him were less than slim.

Zorbin quickly ate a meal and drank his fill of water. Relinquishing his blessing he gathered up the chain and draped it about his small clearing, spanning the spaces between the stalagmites. It was a minimal defense, but if anyone ran into the chain he hoped it would wake him. He sat motionless the last hour before dark upon his small stalagmite-covered hill peering off into the distance. He searched for anything that appeared out of place; any movement, or any flash or shine of light.

As dark fell Zorbin thought he spied movement several miles off, however at that distance, in light that had all but failed, he assured himself that it was simply a trick of the eyes. Laying back, the pack as his pillow, Zorbin settled in for the night. For more than two hours he listened to the darkness before finally drifting off to sleep.