The Champions (21 page)

Another of her kind had been changed and reawoken. Moments
later a surge of power flowed into her, slow at first and building strength
with each passing moment. King Sigrant had awoken anew. He was one of her kind.
Worse, he was rapidly feeding upon a great many people to increase his power.
Sara felt sickened. Had it not been for her mistakes such a thing would not
have happened. If it had not been for her need to be always more, she would not
have spread her sickness. Had it not been for her, Valdadore might have stood a
chance. Not now. Sara finally understood Sigrant’s plan.

*****

Garret towered over the soldiers surrounding him, and kicked
out, sending several flying as they screamed. In one hand he held a sword, the
very sword he had used to remove his own arm. Upon that shoulder, where the arm
had been, naught but a crudely formed jagged scar remained. The metallic sheen
of his flesh made it appear even worse than it was.

Garret surveyed the battle. His father and Jack had been
lost. His remaining Knights of Valdadore had all fallen. The vast majority of
the mages under his command were gone. His brother Seth was lost. Most of his
brother’s giant werewolf soldiers had perished as well. Their army had been
decimated. It was only a matter of time before they all fell.

Though Garret wanted nothing more than to let his emotions
take him, let the bloodlust sweep through him, one thought kept him in check.
He had a responsibility. Not only to himself, but to the kingdom as well. Also
to the woman he adored, and had sent to safety. He had sworn to protect them
all, to fight for them all. He had sworn to do whatever was in his power to see
to it that Valdadore survived.

Across the battlefront the Valdadorians were steadily being
driven back. Amongst the remaining common soldiers and archers, only a few
dozen of Seth’s werewolves remained. Though they were vicious, and put up a
hell of a fight, their numbers were waning. Borrik too remained, presently
throwing both fireballs and enemy soldiers at more of their kind. Sadly, Garret
knew what must be done. The battle could not be won.

Tilting his head back slightly, Garret called a full
retreat. If they could at least make it back to Valdadore, they had a chance of
surviving. Perhaps the cold of winter would drive the enemy out of their
kingdom. It was their only hope.

Garret began working back to his own lines. If he could help
hold the line more of his common soldiers would likely survive the retreat. He
would do what he could to save as many as possible. He watched and listened as
his order was relayed throughout the battlefield. Slowly, impossibly slowly,
his remaining men and women began to extract themselves from the fray and fall
back. But the enemy would not let them go.

He knew the entire retreat would be a fight. He knew the
enemy would be relentless, always on their heels. Garret was sure that they
could make it, and then came yet another unexpected blow.

As they began their slow retreat, Garret saw with his own
two eyes as one of his brother’s werewolves, blessed with immense size,
vanished into a sea of soldiers around him. He had shriveled back to his normal
size, his blessing, like his god, was lost. Less than half an hour later and
another shrank. Champions were disappearing at an alarming rate. There was
little else that Garret could think to do besides give yet another command. He
wondered if they would follow.

“Run!” Garret yelled as his voice boomed across the battlefield.
“Go now with all haste, do not look back…Run!”

The order was relayed and in seconds thousands took flight,
turning and running as their king bid them to do. Many were struck down from
behind, but it appeared, at least for a moment, that the invaders would not
take up the chase.

That moment passed, and as even the king turned to flee, his
hopes were yet again dashed as Sigrant’s troops took to the heels of the
Valdadorians. His army barely had a lead on the enemy.

Spurred on by the imminent death that followed them, the
Valdadorians ran like the wind. Slowly, they established an ever-widening lead
ahead of their foe. Garret’s head swiveled back and forth looking down his
fleeing lines. They had already been decimated. Fewer than three thousand
soldiers remained by his estimation. Another of Seth’s werewolves shrank. He
prayed that Gorandor would save them and see them safely through the gates of
Valdadore.

*****

Feeling the savage urge for sustenance he tasted the air,
sniffing several times in rapid succession. Around him bodies stood, packed
together like cargo in a warehouse. More appropriately, like cattle brought in
for slaughter. He could hear their breaths, taste them. Their hearts beat a
constant crescendo like rain upon a roof, and their sweat put a salty tang upon
the air inside the tent. The thirst was constant. Nagging. He fought the urge
to heed its call.

Flicking his tongue out he wet his too-dry lips, his entire
mouth feeling dusty and gritty as if he hadn’t had a drink in days. He opened
his eyes slowly; the interior of the tent was exactly as he recalled from hours
before when he had been brought to lay here. Upon the table, King Sigrant found
himself secured just as he had ordered.

Thick chains clamped about his wrists and feet, circling his
waist as well, attaching him firmly to the heavy metal table. Though he and his
healers and mages had studied the vampires, none knew what drove them, nor what
portion of their human thought processes remained. The chains were a
precaution. King Sigrant was happy to find that he could overcome the thirst
that fought to unhinge him. Had he not anticipated it, though, it could have
been a different outcome.

Looking around the darkened tent, only four small torches
had been lit to shed light upon his surroundings. Everything was exactly as he
had commanded. A few feet away, his collection of lovers, his wives and harem
stood watching him in fearful anticipation. Without his gaze leaving the women
whom he would make his bodyguards, he gave his first order.

“Unchain me.”

With a quick “Yes sire,” a guard appeared and began
unlocking the clasps upon his wrists and ankles.

Near four hundred bodies were packed into the tent. The
nearest were a few of his most trusted advisors, and then his harem. The vast
majority of those who remained were whores, brought to pleasure members of his
army who proved themselves worthy of a reward. These had been stripped naked to
ensure they carried no weapons, nor currently bore a child. Beyond those, a
ring of armed soldiers stood with their backs pressed against the canvas of the
tent should anyone try to flee the temporary building.

In the two tents next to this, cages, originally intended
for prisoners, had been stockpiled three high in tight rows. Into these he
would place the whores when he finished with them. His plan was simple. He
would begin by changing his harem, making them the strongest of his followers.
His harem would then, a few hours later, begin changing the whores. These, over
the days to come, would be used to change the army. An inhuman army of untold
strength alone was invaluable, but the process would also make him the strongest
and fastest man upon the planet.

Rubbing his wrists after the shackles had been removed, he
grinned, realizing the habit was for naught. After all, there was no
circulation to restore. Not really. Certain that all was in place, and that his
plan would work, King Sigrant invited the women he used intimately to his side
with a gesture. Happily, if not hesitantly, they came to him. They had been
told of the plan, and assured that there was nothing to fear. Not that they had
a choice in the matter, but the king tried to treat them each as he would a
woman worthy of his children.

Choosing the first of them, the youngest, he pulled her teen
body into his lap. She was light as a feather, and she opened her small body to
him willingly. He had no intentions of taking her in this manner, however, and
had selected her first to save her the fear that might come from witnessing the
change of another.

Slowly, cautiously, he brought his lips to her neck, kissing
her tenderly. He listened as her heart raced in anticipation and felt each beat
through her skin. Then, without warning, he bit hard into her soft, warm flesh.
She cried out, the pain unexpected, but she didn’t try to escape him.

The blood flowed into King Sigrant and with it the power of
her young life. With it came pleasure, and then arousal. He could feel the same
happening to her as she moaned, twisting in his lap. He could smell her
becoming moist and feel the heat building between her legs. He could also taste
the fear in her blood.

Unable to resist, King Sigrant reached down to his waist and
tore his trousers open. Lifting her small body, he pulled her close to himself,
her legs spreading to straddle his. Then, abruptly, as he bore her entire
weight, he thrust her whole body down hard, driving his engorged manhood deep
into her womb.

For the next several hours, hundreds of onlookers watched as
their king pleasured himself with each and every member of his harem. Moans and
screams broke the silence regularly as he had his way with the women. He
experimented by biting them in several locations and found he preferred some
places over others. Emotion tinged their blood with different flavors, and like
his women, he realized that variety was something he enjoyed.

Just watching the display excited many who watched and
before long the whores who had been brought to be changed began to touch
themselves and each other. Hours later, as the night grew dark, a massive orgy
played out inside the tent as the first members of King Sigrant’s harem awoke
into their new lives. Though it was not the organized process King Sigrant had
originally intended, this seemed more natural. This was how the race was
designed to be spread, so he allowed it to happen. When his final wife
reawakened to her new life, he placed into her arms a young woman before
stalking out of the tent into the cool night-time air.

Feeling invigorated like never before, he strode to the
battlefield, his normal guards upon his heels and a steady stream of messengers
vying for his attention. Though he widely ignored them, their constant
ramblings destroying the enjoyment of the moment, he did glean that the enemy
lines had finally broken. Valdadore was in a full retreat.

Turning to one of his guards he gave the only order he would
give for the night.

“Prepare to move camp. We will have but a couple hours to
tear it down, move it, and set it up again before daylight.”

Zorbin was asleep, dreaming of riding Xanth through the
forests upon the surface when the dangling chain that surrounded him jangled. The
sound was slight, barely perceptible, but unnatural. With it, Zorbin’s dream
vanished, and opening his eyes he rolled quickly to one side. Too late.

With a scream of pain, the impact hit him in the ribs. He
felt something penetrate him, shoving a rib to each side and then he felt them
snap. The object within him was yanked free. Though he could not breathe, he
ignored the pain and kicked out with both legs.

He could not see his foe, but as luck would have it, one of
his feet made contact when he kicked out. He managed to shift in size as he
rolled away, snatching up the pair of single-bladed axes as he came to his
feet. He heard his attacker rush from the side and pitied the dwarf. To the
side was a veritable forest of stone spikes, yet the dwarf came seemingly
unimpeded.

Using his ears to track his foe as he neared, Zorbin struck
out with one axe, bringing his full body to bear behind the blow. He hoped to
end the dwarf in a single hit. Instead, with all his might behind the swing,
Zorbin struck a large column of stone rising from the ground below him. Such
was the force of the blow that his axe handle exploded into pieces, his wrist
and forearm also shattering with the impact. Zorbin feared the worst. Without
the use of an arm, and with two broken ribs, even with his blessing of size and
strength he would be at a vast disadvantage.

Through the pain he focused, and listened again for his foe.
Nothing stirred. He turned and swept the air about him with his remaining axe.
Something shifted away slightly; Zorbin heard the scrape. Continuing his spin,
Zorbin hooked the dangling chain with his axe, and twisting it while he spun,
he pulled it free, gathering it around him. His enemy had not anticipated the
move, and was caught off guard by the chain that suddenly dragged him towards
Zorbin. Feeling the newly added resistance, Zorbin yanked hard on the chain and
heard the yelp his opponent gave as he plummeted to the ground in the darkness.

Without hesitation Zorbin pounced upon his fallen enemy.
Though his axe blade was wrapped up in the chain, he used it as a club,
bludgeoning his enemy again and again. The body beneath him struggled to be
free, but in his blessed size, the smaller dwarf could not dislodge him. Then,
just as he was sure he would be the victor, the opponent beneath him vanished
into the stone below. He had revealed his blessing.

It was not a unique blessing. Throughout the ages many
dwarves had been given the ability to pass through stone. It allowed them to
locate veins of desirable resources, springs, and structural weaknesses. But
Zorbin was worried. His foe could return at any time, at will. Injured and
alone in the darkness, Zorbin remained silent. He even held his breath, hoping
to hear if his opponent remained near. As his adrenaline faded, the pain from
his wounds threatened to overcome him. He dared not pass out, and so
concentrated with all of his being on the darkness around him. For hours he
waited in silence, fearful to move even an inch. Every sound, heard or
imagined, grabbed his attention and he spent the long quiet night nervous and
fearful of what the darkness could bring.