The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (20 page)

He wanted nothing more than to turn and rip the demon’s throat open. Yet he maintained control. He could not take the demon alone.

“Okollu!” screamed Baaldòk.

Okollu waited a moment longer before tossing his head back and loosing a long howl, adjusting pitch and tone to convey Baaldòk’s orders to the rest of the pack. When he was done, he snapped off the cry and shut his jaw, smacking his teeth together with enough force to snap the leg bone of a boar. Okollu, along with hundreds of the Drept pack, shifted directions and aimed for the breach.

As the pack turned, new kur-surus moved to run at his side. Grrash, an all gray female, sprinted on his left. Rargol, a brown-furred male with black markings on his muzzle, was on his right. Both were good hunters, Grrash was one of the best the Drept pack had.

Staring ahead to the walls, he watched as one of the giant machines perched atop a tower loosed a ball of flame from its cup. The sphere soared through the air, tumbling and dripping fire as it flew. Okollu eyed the ball carefully, trying to gauge where it might land. His two hearts began to pound even harder than they had been as he realized the globe would land in the midst of the Drept.

Okollu tilted his head back and began to howl a warning to his pack when Baaldòk cried out, “Do not stop! Straight ahead!”

Snapping his jaw shut, Okollu whipped his head around to glare at the diavol. Baaldòk’s disregard for the pack was maddening. Facing forward, he stared into the blue sky and watched the ball of flame hurtling straight for him. A long trail of white smoke trailed the sphere.

Okollu did not want to die today. He could not die today. With his death, hope for the Drept would perish as well.

Moments before the fire crashed to the ground, Okollu dragged his right paw through the grass, pretending to trip and stumble. As he tumbled to the ground, he reached out and grabbed Grrash—she was closer than Rargol—wrapping his fingers around the bone where leg met hind paw. As the two fell to the ground, sliding through grass and dirt, Okollu heard the sizzle of the flames and felt a flash of heat.

Fire, dust, and chunks of dirt exploded a dozen paces ahead of Okollu and Grrash. A dozen kur-surus yipped and howled in pain. Okollu lifted his head and saw several of his pack mates on fire. Rargol—running by his side only moments ago—lay dead a dozen paces away. His body was bloody, charred, and absent its head. Okollu would not have even known it was Rargol were it not for the brown and black fur.

As dust and dirt rained down on Okollu, he heard Baaldòk roar, “Keep going! Take the walls!”

Drept rushed past Okollu and Grrash, dashing around the crater in the ground and ignoring their dead pack mates. Grrash whipped her head around and glared at Okollu, her yellow eyes wide an angry. Kicking her leg, she growled, “Let go of me!”

The moment Okollu released her paw, she jumped to all fours and began to sprint straight for the breach. If this were any other fight, Okollu would admire her bravery. Yet it was not courage driving Grrash forward.

“Get up!” shouted Baaldòk. The diavol grabbed Okollu by the scruff, hoisted him from the ground, and shoved him toward the walls. “Get into the city!” His blood-red eyes danced with the reflected flames of the burning bodies and grass. “Now!”

Swallowing his hatred like a hunk of rotten meat, Okollu growled, “Yes, tas-vilku.”

Baaldòk began to run toward Gobas and Okollu followed, wondering what the point of attacking this place was. Utter destruction seemed to be the only goal here. It made no sense.

Soon, the pointed sticks of the men began to rain down on the Drept, striking down even more of his pack. A low, constant growl hovered in Okollu’s throat as he ran. He hated this war.

10
^th
of the Turn of Luraana, 4999

Raela was bored.

With a sigh, she shifted her body, assuming a new position in the richly cushioned chair in which she sat. She peered around the dark, cavernous room, searching out anything that might hold her interest while she waited.

Darkened torches lined both sides of the long room, cold and extinguished for two days now. The only light in the room streamed through a cracked-open door to Raela’s immediate right. Beyond lay a caved-in hallway, pummeled by one of the massive boulders hurled during the assault. The light quickly diffused only a few paces in, however, leaving most of the chamber gloomy and gray.

Raela could have lit the torches to brighten the hall, but there was no need to do so. The mortal body she currently inhabited had no issue with seeing in low light.

Her gaze settled on the one thing with any color in the drab hall. A ten-foot wide, lush red rug ran the length of the long room, leading from her chair, down four, wide steps, and all the way to a pair of towering doors on the opposite wall. Polished sandstone floor spread out on both sides of the runner.

With an exasperated sigh, she let her head fall backward, making a soft thud as the cushion softened the blow against the wooden back.

“Where are they?”

As she absently eyed the wide beams of hardwood crisscrossing one another, supporting the domed, stone roof overhead, the acrid scent of charred wood filled her nose. The wind had shifted, bringing fresh smoke into the room. Raela let her head fall to the side, staring out the broken door. The faint screams of the unfortunate souls still alive were snaking their way into the chamber.

“—him alone. Take me instead! Please—”

“—swear to you, I will do whatever you—”

“—High Host! Protect me from these foul—”

Raela shook her head, a frown on her lips.

What was happening outside was artless. Inflicting such blatant misery on others was heavy-handed and inelegant. Great things could be achieved without conflict and pain. It took time and careful planning, but the fruits of subtle chicanery were infinitely sweeter.

Raela was musing on the manner in which she would have gone about things when the sound of ripping fabric filled the empty hall. Glancing to the center of the room, she spotted the telltale fluttering flaps of reality.

“It is about time…”

Sitting up a bit taller, she adjusted her gauzy dress and checked that her hair—light brown and perfectly straight—was in place. Content, she faced the port just as a dark-skinned man emerged from the rip in midair. Bald, with dark brown eyes sunk in deep sockets, a wide, globular nose, and lips that seemed too thick for his face, the man was not by any means pleasing to the eye. A richly adorned, deep purple tunic draped below his waist, loose black breeches hung over the tops of leather boots.

As soon as he was through the port, he stopped short, and let out a quick, whispered curse.

“Blast!”

Raela began to chuckle lightly, the lilting sound wafting about the chamber. The man’s head swiveled around, searching for the source.

“Raela? Is that you?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” asked Raela.

Squinting about the shrouded room, he asked, “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Is it dark? I had not noticed.”

The man’s eyes finally locked onto her, narrowing in an instant. He was still straining against the gloom, but he was able to see her. Drawing himself up, he ordered, “Get out of my chair!”

Raela raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.

“My, my, Vanson. Your chair?”

Someone had become a little too comfortable in the role he was playing.

The man whom mortals knew as Duke Vanson, the sovereign ruler of the Borderlands, released his hold on the port—sending a soft pop through the hall—and began striding toward her, arms to his side with fists clenched.

“The Sovereign’s Chair is still mine, Raela.”

She eyed the man, choosing not to respond. There was no point. The moment Vanson opened his ears, he would lose interest in her.

He was halfway to her when he stopped suddenly and tilted his head to the half-open doorway. His lips curled up into a cruel smile. Raela rolled her eyes and let out a short, annoyed sigh. He was so predictable.

His gaze on the cracked door, Vanson asked softly, “Do you hear that?”

“It’s hard not to,” muttered Raela.

He took a few steps toward the ruined hall, drawn by the sounds of distress as a nightmoth is to a candle, his eyes wide and alight with excitement.

“Is it not glorious?”

Raela shook her head in disgust, muttering, “Not the word I would have used.” She hoped the others would arrive soon.

Vanson’s gaze flicked to her.

“Do you think I have time to go down to—?”

An abrupt, metal clang cut his question short. Raela stared to the far end of the hall as the left side of the tall doors cracked open a few feet, letting a second, long shaft of light into the dark room. A tall, lithe figure dressed in flowing robes passed before the backdrop of light, entering the hall and plunging back into the shadows. The individual’s elongated arms and legs removed any doubt as to who had just arrived, as did the cool, calm voice that leapt across the hall.

“Not now, Vanson. Perhaps you can indulge later.”

The quiet curse that slipped from Vanson’s lips prompted a slight smile on Raela’s. Was it anyone else, she might have wondered how the figure striding though the dark now had heard Vanson’s question through the thick, wooden doors. However, as Tandyr was in the body of a saeljul, there was no mystery. Ijulan hearing was superb.

Remaining seated in the Sovereign’s Chair, Raela called, “Nice of you to show. I was beginning to think I had the wrong ruined city.”

“I have been busy,” Tandyr replied dryly. “I apologize for my tardiness.” He was close enough now that Raela could see his long blond hair was pulled back, tightly bound.

Vanson asked, “Did your beasts truly have to ruin everything, Tandyr?” He was glancing around the room, peering at the destruction, a frown on his face. “This seems excessive.”

The saeljul reached where Vanson stood and, without breaking stride, said, “I fail to see why it matters.”

Vanson glared at Tandyr as he passed.

“My hall was glorious!”

Without looking back, the ijul replied, “Your assessment of what is ‘glorious’ is much different from mine, Vanson. You have been trapped here too long.”

Vanson continued to stare at Tandyr’s back, but remained quiet. The saeljul stopped at the stairs that lead to the Sovereign’s Chair and eyed Raela.

“Greetings, Raela.”

She nodded.

“Hello, Tandyr.”

She wondered which of them trusted the other less.

As the two eyed each other silently, Vanson moved from the center of the red rug to approach where Tandyr stood, tripped on an overturned urn, and stumbled forward.

“Blast it!”

He steadied himself and looked around the room. Raela felt the soft, faint crackling of the Strands as reddish-orange strings of energy danced dimly before her eyes. Fire was not one of her strengths, but she could still sense it. The two dozen torches still bolted to the walls lit up simultaneously, flooding the room with enough light that Raela was forced to squint against the sudden brightness. Tandyr shut his eyes briefly, as well.

A satisfied Vanson mumbled, “That’s better.”

Vanson moved forward to stand beside Tandyr, all the while studying the disheveled room and shaking his head in obvious disgust.

“We can begin,” announced Tandyr. “It will only be the three of us today.”

Vanson muttered, “Good.” He sounded relieved.

Raela agreed with the sentiment, happy the fourth member of their group was not attending. While Vanson’s infatuation with misery disgusted her, Cardin’s behavior made her ill.

Addressing them both, Tandyr said, “To start with, I wish to report that nearly the entire Borderlands west of Gobas has been secured and the Dust Men rendered useless, while our army has suffered only minimal losses.” He glanced at the duke of the Borderlands. “Thank you, Vanson.”

The God of Strife waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and let out a disappointed sigh.

“I wish I could have been here for the actual attack on Gobas. It would have been glorious to watch.”

Raela shook her head, pointing out, “The confusion caused by your absence made the city that much easier to take.”

Tandyr nodded. “I agree.” Looking to Vanson, he added firmly, “And so did you beforehand. Raela should not have needed to remind you of that.”

A day before the attack, she had visited Vanson, ensuring that the God was going to leave as planned. It was a good thing she had. Vanson had seemed content to sit and watch the city fall around him, reveling in the collective misery of the populace.

Shrugging, Vanson said, “It is difficult to suppress my nature.”

The muscles in Tandyr’s face tightened.

“If I can do it, you certainly should be able to.”

“I did,” snapped Vanson. “For thirty years, I sat in that blasted chair—” he jabbed a finger toward Raela “—fighting what I am meant to do.” His head swiveled to face the cracked door and the faint screams wafting through it. “I simply felt I was owed some enjoyment after so long.” The bald duke alternated his gaze between them both, a wicked smile spreading over his lips. “Perhaps you two can provide me a taste of what I missed.”

Raela recognized the look on his face and did not like what it portended.

“What happened?”

“Something that I am sure neither of you will like. Something that
you
, dear Raela, caused.”

Raela sat a little straighter, suddenly tense. Her eyes narrowed.

“Me?”

“Had you not rushed me to leave, perhaps I might not have made such a terrible error.”

His delaying was distressing her, which was exactly what he wanted of course.

“I have no patience for your games. Speak.”

A soft chuckle slipped from Vanson as his smile widened. Raela glared at the man, digging her fingernails into her thighs, trying hard not to show her irritation. Tandyr, on the other hand, managed to remain surprisingly calm. Expressionless, he swiveled his head to stare at Vanson, his long blond hair—pulled taut and constrained with three black cords—draped over his right shoulder.