Authors: Laszlo,Jeremy
“We would need a volunteer who was willing to sacrifice their life for Valdadore. Preferably someone elderly without any family. Sara could bite the volunteer, then they could bite more and then they bite more and so on. Then, when Sara kills Sigrant, we lay the volunteer to rest and our kinsmen are restored to their former lives! It’s brilliant, Jonas!”
“We will likely still have a fight on our hands,” Borrik chimed in again.”
“Yes, but against humans,” Seth replied. “I can handle humans just fine.”
Linaya rode her great white Valdadorian war horse with the ease of a veteran. She was thankful to those who followed her, led by Zorbin. They were not the force she had hoped to bring, but they were more blessed warriors than Valdadore had, and as such she was certain they could help. Having left the carnage of the battle with the giants behind, they had rode the remainder of the day and straight on through the night. For the most part their travel was free of incident, minus a dwarf or two hundred falling off their mount. It would take some time for the smaller statured men to learn to cling to the beasts with their shorter legs.
Even so, they pressed ever onward still, racing through the day in hopes of reaching Valdadore by mid-day the very next day.
She prayed often that they would find Valdadore intact, unharmed, and her army bolstered by the kingdom’s people. If King Sigrant wanted a fight, she believed he would find one in Valdadore.
Onward they raced, finally breaking free of the mountain’s forested slopes, thundering out into the foothills beyond. Linaya and Zorbin had spoken earlier in the morning as the sun and moons crept into the sky and seeing a reflection on the horizon now, she shouted and pointed off into the distance.
“Zorbin, it looks like water over there!”
Though the only response she got from the stout dwarf was a grunt and a nod, he veered his brave mount, altering their course, and the course of the many who followed.
Within a quarter of an hour they thundered up to the large spring-fed pond. Dismounting, they cleaned their faces and took their fill of the cool refreshing water. Their mounts drank thirstily, and the thousands of riders let them. Though Linaya was anxious to continue on, it would be of no use if their mounts faltered before they reached the city.
Two hours later, the pond’s water level moderately depleted, they regrouped, remounted, and rode off once again, pushing their mounts to their limits in hopes of saving a kingdom.
* * * * *
Seth sat with Sara, finally alone together for the first time in what felt like eternity. They had spoken a while, telling each other of their affections and how much they had missed one another. But now they simply sat enjoying each other’s company, leaning into a corner of the room together, seated upon the floor.
Seth’s mind, as expansive as it had become, was at present a muddled mess. He believe that he was beginning to unravel the truth that had been kept from him. He no longer believed that Ishanya had
sent
him back. If she had, then what was the purpose of changing him? He found it more likely that it was Sara’s bite that had revived him. If that were the case, then why the ruse?
Why would Ishanya bother with such a hoax? Making him believe he had died and she was doing him some big favor by sending him back. Making him swear to follow her desires precisely. Why, unless she felt she was losing control? Could a god lose control? Could he be beyond her power? Did she have the ability to simply end him like she had threatened? Seth had so many questions that his brain hurt. But the questions alone were enough to bring him to at least some measure of understanding.
Weeks ago, in a temple long forgotten in a land far from his own, Seth had discovered something about himself when trying to revive Sara. His aura was like hers, like every human’s in fact, except that the main connection within him, that swirling maelstrom of connections, was different in him than in any other being he had studied. Inside him it was the exact opposite as it was within every other person. Something about him was fundamentally different than every other human.
Seth wondered. He questioned everything. Lives and collisions, the tree people had spoken of with Sara. He wished he had more time to ponder the things swirling in his mind. But two things were certain. First, he would follow his oath to Ishanya and uphold his bargain. His companions might do different, but he, himself, would do as he had said. Second, he would not bow the knee to a god again, and if faced by one, he would be ready.
* * * * *
In the plane of immortals, Gorandor looked out across the tapestry that wove time with fate and destiny. He watched the tiny possibilities grow, knowing that it was a risky thing, playing with fate. He knew the possible outcomes, and knew that the margin between them was uncomfortable to say the least. Even so, Ishanya could not be allowed all her tampering without some retaliation. Looking out into space and time, Gorandor could already see the first stirrings of ripples created by the tiny pebble Valonore had cast into Thurr. None could judge with certainty the outcome of the ripples, but changes were certainly occurring in the world below.
He peered intently into the world he had helped create, and further still into the human kingdom of Valdadore. Delving further he stood in the heavens, looking down upon what was perhaps his most powerful warrior. The king of Valdadore called to him from the floor of Gorandor’s own temple.
He listened to the pleas of his devout follower, the human asking for much of the same that most asked for. And yet Gorandor knew he would provide the mortal with the support he needed. At least for now. Even the fate of this mighty human was uncertain due to Ishanya’s meddling. Ahead, in the ever flowing torrent of time, the warrior King of the human nation would reach a fork in the road. The fork he took would determine his fate. All Gorandor could do was hope that his loyal follower chose the correct path, as it was the mortal’s free will that would be the deciding factor. If the mortal king remained wise and honorable, Gorandor imagined him having a life that spanned centuries. If he fell from grace, then it was likely he would meet his fate much sooner.
* * * * *
It was Borrik and his wolves that had the deed of seeking out that particular lamb that would be led to slaughter. Taking them to the temple devoted to Ishanya, they spoke briefly to the grotesque priestess, and within moments she asked her congregation if they held such a volunteer that would be willing to die for the glory of Ishanya, and likely save the city and her people in the process.
It all sounded a bit crazy when the woman said it.
Glory this, oh heavens that
.
Thee and thou
, and the whole nine yards just seemed a bit over dramatic. Had Borrik done it when he served as the priest here, he would have been more direct. Then again, he hadn’t had a congregation to speak to at all, so who was he to judge?
The great beast of a wolf man watched as the priestess concluded, and hands shot into the air. If you could call the way old, sick, or frail people raised their hands, shooting. To be honest, he didn’t care who was chosen. Any one of them could die and it would make no difference to him. They were old. They were about to die anyhow. Barely the sentiments of a priest, Borrik chided himself. But it was true.
Picking the first hand he saw, the volunteer slowly up-righted herself, first pushing herself with her hands to the edge of her seat slowly, before rocking forward and grasping the pew ahead of her. Another rock and she pulled with her tiny, frail arms and managed to rise to her feet. Hunched over, and looking through her barely visible white eyebrows at them, she began to shuffle her feet towards them. Borrik could have killed her then and there. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, her feet barely moved, not even bothering to lift off of the floor as she inched ahead so slowly, Borrik imagined he could drool faster. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Borrik looked to his men, his annoyance spread to them via their telepathic link. One stifled a wolfish grin, replying with an image of Borrik attempting to carry the woman, her heart failing in the process.
It was true. Any little thing could make this relic keel over. And yet at this pace, she would age another ten years and die well before they brought her back to Sara. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
“Jonas, go and see if perhaps Princess Sara would be willing to come here instead, and as our prince ordered, we’ll leave him out of it.”
“I will bring her, besides, granny here can start by feeding on the rest of the congregation.”
Borrik watched as his next in command darted through the corridor and vanished up the stairs to the street above. He tracked his progress through the city using visual cues from Jonas’s own eyes and thoughts. The wolf was resourceful, climbing to the roofs in order to take a more direct route. Borrik was pleased with the man.
* * * * *
King Robert Sigrant was growing impatient. His power was so vast he could no longer speak with humans or even fledgling vampires. Even slowing his voice and movements as much as possible, he was beyond their comprehension. He needed neither rest nor food, and the desire to feed was long behind him. The satisfaction his harem gave him was no longer enticing, the constant flow of power into him far exceeding the pleasure mortal flesh could bring. He could destroy Valdadore with his own two hands, he believed, ripping the city stone from stone, if not for one thing standing between them.
Rumor had it the Dark Prince had returned from the grave, and if that were true, then even Sigrant dared not guess the extent of the black mage’s power. Instead of risking himself against the prince, Sigrant would wait until his army was complete, a goal that was only hours from being met, and unleash the entire horde upon Valdadore.
If nothing else, it would be a good test to see whether or not the prince lived, and if he did, what were the extents of his powers. Though trying to wait the remaining hours, a task that equated to several months for someone who lived at such speeds, was hard enough, the real task over the previous day had been keeping the army in check.
Nearly every one of his troops thirsted for blood. All of them could smell the human city and see its walls, knowing blood was just beyond them. Some resorted to biting one another but the result was less than desirable. It seemed that vampire blood made vampires incredibly ill. Some to the point of a rapid death. Word had spread quickly and fortunately no more of his troops were succumbing to such a disgusting fate. Containment was becoming the issue, though not nearly as much during the sunlight hours.
Sigrant paced around his camp, the sun no more than an aggravation upon his skin and eyes. It was like a dryness that simply will not go away. Even his harem could withstand the sun now, and the whores below them could manage it, though not without some scalding, boils, and blisters. So it was up to Sigrant himself, and the dozen women he shared seed with to keep all the troops in camp. The thirst was driving them to extreme lengths and some even attempted to brave the sunlight in search of blood. “Only a few more hours,” he reminded himself.
Deciding to get things moving a little earlier, and knowing that the gnomes’ machines needed time to warm up, Sigrant wrote his orders on a sheet of velum, the only way he could communicate with those who were significantly weaker than he. Frightening the abyss out of the messenger he walked up to, the poor wretch probably unable to see him coming at such speeds, the messenger read the order and dashed off like a snail, eliciting a glaring look to his backside.
* * * * *
Sara reached the temple just as Seth arrived with a handful of his new rat troops. Behind them they pulled a cart covered with a canvas tarp. From the way they strained, she knew something heavy was in the thing, and thinking back to her recent journey she had a fairly good guess what might be beneath the tarp.
Smiling to her husband as she passed, Sara floated down the stairs like a graceful dancer, admiring the statues of herself, Borrik, and her husband in the entryway. Gliding into the main hall of the subterranean temple she spotted Borrik quickly, who stood grumbling, an elderly woman leaning dangerously close to him, petting his arm as if it were a cat.
Nodding to the giant wolf man and his comrades, they took the cue and evacuated the building to stand guard in the street. Then, trying her hardest to be gentle, Sara stepped behind the old woman and grasping her head she pulled it back daintily and sunk her teeth into the old woman’s neck. Having sworn to herself not to feed upon another person, Sara did not latch onto the woman, drawing blood into her mouth, instead allowing the blood to naturally flow from the wounds, mixing with her own through the deformity in her jaw.
Having been bitten, the old woman fainted, but Sara caught her easily and lowered her to the floor. The congregation watching, a mixed audience of shock and horror, Sara left the room without so much as a good bye, a thank you, or a fuck you very much. One of her late mother’s favorite sayings.
With a single leap she was up the stairs and out of the temple. The door slammed closed behind her as she passed, and Borrik and Jonas both slid a huge timber into place, barring it closed from the outside. In an hour, maybe two, the old woman would rise and begin to feed. Her victims falling unconscious, she would have free reign to change the entire congregation, serving her, Seth’s, and Valdadore’s purpose perfectly.
Thanks, Ishanya
!
Joining her husband, she grabbed him around the neck in a hug before planting her lips in his.
“Whatcha got in the cart, love?”
“A torture device from Valdadore’s dungeons,” Seth replied, an odd smirk on his face.
“Aww!” Sara replied. “For me?” she added with a giggle.
“No, for your progeny,” he answered pulling the tarp from the cart, revealing the device beneath. “It’s like a coffin, but solid iron and barely big enough to fit a person in. It locks closed with these seven clasps, and turning each of these knobs tightens a chain wrapped around each extremity and neck.”