The Dawn of the End (The Rising Book 3)

by Kristen Ashley

  The Dawn of the End

  Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Ashley

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischief

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Contents

  THE DAWN OF THE END

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred & One

  Chapter One Hundred & Two

  Chapter One Hundred & Three

  Chapter One Hundred & Four

  Chapter One Hundred & Five

  Chapter One Hundred & Six

  Chapter One Hundred & Seven

  Chapter One Hundred & Eight

  Chapter One Hundred & Nine

  Chapter One Hundred & Ten

  Chapter One Hundred & Eleven

  Chapter One Hundred & Twelve

  Chapter One Hundred & Thirteen

  Chapter One Hundred & Fourteen

  Chapter One Hundred & Fifteen

  Chapter One Hundred & Sixteen

  Chapter One Hundred & Seventeen

  About the Author

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  Connect with Kristen Ashley

  81

  The Schemer

  Jellan

  Underground Lair of the Beast

  WODELL

  He felt it, even in his weakened state.

  The veil, it was growing strong.

  The prophecy, it was advancing.

  When he also felt he had company in this dark hole where they allowed him to go when they weren’t using him or making him serve, Jellan curled deeper into himself, pressing his abused body closer to the stone wall.

  He could tell them.

  He could use his knowledge of the prophecy, his feel for the veil, to better his circumstances down in that dirty, cold, ugly hole.

  “Hungry?”

  It was her.

  Marian.

  The Mistress of the Beast.

  His Beast.

  That fiendish creature should be his.

  Not hers.

  The thing liked using him.

  Perhaps Jellan could turn that around, gain control of…

  She kicked him in the back, and Jellan tasted blood as he bit the insides of his mouth to stop from crying out.

  He’d given them his tears. His pleas. His moans of agony.

  They would have no more.

  They would take no more from him than what they could force from him.

  “I asked, are you hungry?” she demanded.

  He needed to keep his strength.

  “Y-yes,” he answered.

  He heard something drop to the ground close to him and turned carefully, battling the pain that seemed to infuse every inch of his body.

  He could not make out what it was in the dark, a joint of some animal, not very much meat, lying in the dirt.

  He took it up anyway, thinking he had to plan.

  He had to plan.

  And he had to have strength to plan.

  He had power.

  He was a Go’En priest, for Bedi’s sake. A member of the Society of the Beast. One, if not the most powerful sorcerer in all of Triton.

  He was born to master the Beast.

  He was made to master the Beast.

  He had to find a way.

  He had to plan.

  She started to move away, but he called to her, forcing timidity into his tone.

  “C-can I ask you a question, Mistress?” he requested.

  She turned, moved back to him, and he braced.

  Like a woman, her moods were inconstant and sometimes volatile. He could not know if she’d kick him, call to the Beast and demand Jellan be used again or stroke his hair and coo to him.

  In the end, he would lash her to the ritual ground, Jellan vowed it. He’d call the entire Society to have their way with her. He’d stand over and watch her take each cock and then he’d stand over her and watch her take each blade. And finally, when she was beaten and humiliated to the core of her soul and praying death would come fast, he’d give her that by drawing the final blade across her throat.

  All of this looking right in her eyes.

  All of this with the Beast at his back.

  “What is your question, pet?” she asked.

  So it was his benevolent mistress this time.

  “I…the last quake, there was a demanding cry from the creature. I thought that he…I was not at that ritual, I thought that he—”

  “Was calling to you?”

  He nodded, gazing up at her but not meeting her eyes.

  Fearful.

  Submissive.

  Beaten.

  She needn’t know he was none of that.

  “He wasn’t, he was calling out to me,” she explained. “He sensed me. I’d been visiting him. And he was tired of your vicious shenanigans. Thus, he was calling me home.”

  “But, if he has no power down here, how does he make the earth quake? How did he call out like that? How does he pull you down? Me? The other women?”

  “He has no magic, but he does have feelings. And just like everything with him, his feelings are stronger, more powerful, more sweeping than anything a mere mortal would have. They move the earth. When he makes the surface, if he should not get his way, they’ll probably shake the heavens.”

  Jellan shuddered at that thought.

  “But how does he pull you down?” he pressed.

  “He doesn’t. I did that.”

  He blinked up at her.

  “I brought you,” she went on, “and your brothers, our girls. That is my power. He reached to me, but my magic gave him that power. And my power brings him to the surface. But once there, the merfolk’s binds on his magic are erased. And once we feel the time is right, we will surface and make all of Triton bow to us.”

  Not if the prophecy goes forward, Jellan thought. Not if the lovers wed, consummate their love, ally all kingdoms, learn their gifts and how to use them. If they do, he will not be banished back to this under-realm, you won’t either. He’ll be slaughtered. As will you.

  “He…he would hum to me. After—” Jellan began.

  She laughed an ugly laugh.

  “This was considering what he’d do to you when I delivered you to him, not for any other reason, pet. Don’t get any ideas in that silly, stupid, villainous, despicable head of yours. It was not your rituals he craved. Not your seed that stirred him. It was knowing I would come to him soon, and when I did, when I found my way to this place, to him, I could bring you to him.�
�

  So, the creature did want Jellan.

  He wanted them both.

  But he also wanted Jellan.

  “You scheme,” she said disinterestedly.

  He stiffened. “I-I don’t.”

  “You do and feel free,” she allowed. “It will get you nowhere. But if hope keeps you performing to our standards…” She shrugged and let that trail.

  Jellan thought for a moment before he decided to say quietly, “I honestly feel I could be of use to you. To you both.”

  “Oh, but you are.”

  “A different use,” he stressed.

  Abruptly, she leaned toward him.

  He pressed himself to the wall.

  “I like your use,” she whispered, and he saw, even in the shadows, the flash of her malicious smile.

  She then walked away.

  And that was that.

  So be it.

  Once she was gone, as best he could, Jellan brushed the dirt from the joint before he gnawed on it, burrowing with his teeth to get all the meat, cracking the bones at their weak places to suck out the marrow.

  He needed to keep his strength.

  For she was right.

  He did.

  He schemed.

  And he would find some way.

  Some way to exact his vengeance.

  Some way to be victorious.

  He would make that happen.

  No matter what it took.

  82

  The Hope

  The Great Coven

  Silbury Henge, Argyll Forest

  AIREN

  In the clearing of the forest, the first flash of light came before the first of the five standing stones.

  The light was marine blue.

  The witch Lena of Mar-el.

  The next came and it was crimson.

  The witch Nandra of Firenze.

  The last was green.

  Rebecca of Wodell.

  And the witch who strode from the last flash did so speaking.

  “I cannot be here, my queen is—”

  “Rebecca,” Lena spoke softly, “We are so sorry. But we had to call to you.” She paused and finished, “Fern has been taken.”

  Rebecca gasped.

  “The gentry of Airen did not even know of the changes that would be made once Cassius was proclaimed regent,” Nandra said. “The moment he heard his son was to marry a Nadirii, Gallienus starting plotting. While they’ve been traveling, with great secrecy, the gentry allied their militias and created their strategy. When their spies noted the Firenz regiments camped close to Airen’s southern border, they knew all did not bode well for the continuation of their regime with the heir to their throne soon to be wed do a Nadirii. Thus, they forged ahead with the first moves of their attack.”

  “And it was Fern?” Rebecca whispered.

  Both fellow witches nodded, but only Lena spoke.

  “Cassius had her guarded, but he could not understand the fullness of their desire to capture and imprison her. They sent great numbers to be certain this was so. His man, Otho, perished during the effort to try to spirit her away.”

  “Oh goddess, no,” Rebecca breathed.

  “This as well as more than thirty other Airenzian soldiers loyal to their crown prince,” Nandra bit out.

  “I did not feel the veil shift due to Fern—” Rebecca began.

  “She is not dead,” Lena told her. “She is only taken.” She tipped her head to Nandra. “We believe they intend to try to use her powers. We also believe, as naught yet has moved forward with it, they do not know that she’s raised an army of her own. Fern’s army has just lost their commander…for the time being.”

  “They further do not know that all nations have allied with Airen to quell such a revolt,” Nandra put in.

  “I fear Wodell may not be able to join in that effort,” Rebecca said sadly.

  Her fellow witches both nodded, their expressions just as melancholy.

  “There were two prongs to their attack,” Lena went on, moving them from that subject. “Taking Fern and besetting Sky Bay. Cassius’s men are holding the Bay, but they’re under siege. They need reinforcements.”

  “I am sure this will be forthcoming,” Rebecca murmured.

  And it likely would.

  “The Enchantments were attacked,” Nandra announced.

  Rebecca blinked.

  “The Go’Doan fools,” Lena mumbled.

  “They didn’t—” Rebecca started.

  Lena shook her head. “They were trounced by the Nadirii. But they used a unicorn horn and Melisse to bring down the shield.”

  Rebecca’s back shot straight and her eyes shot daggers. “A unicorn horn?”

  “The creature will be avenged,” Lena stated flatly, staring her sister right in the eyes.

  This meant whatever glorious creature had been maimed for this vile effort would be avenged.

  “And Melisse?” Rebecca asked.

  “She holds to life, but barely. I have not seen good things,” Nandra answered.

  “I told her,” Rebecca hissed, deciding to feel angry, rather than full of despair, for she’d had enough despair for one day.

  “Melisse, like none of us, is perfect,” Nandra replied.

  “And this is why Ophelia isn’t with us right now,” Rebecca remarked.

  “This is why, amongst other things,” Lena responded.

  Rebecca was confused. “But I have felt her strengthening.”

  “I as well, but I urge you, do not put too much hope in that,” Lena advised.

  They all knew.

  What would be with Ophelia was not a possibility.

  It was an eventuality.

  “You have had much on your mind,” Nandra said, unusually gentle. “And much occurring in your realm. But,” she looked to Lena, bringing together their abbreviated circle, “there is hope. The veil strengthens. The lovers grow ever tied to one another. It is the first time I have felt real hope since the quakes began.”

  “This is true,” Lena returned. “But something has occurred.” She looked amongst her two fellow witches as well, saying, “You both must have felt it.”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  “I felt something,” Nandra told her. “Though I did not know what it was. Do you?”

  “The sorcerer who rouses the Beast, his energy is gone,” Lena said.

  Rebecca, for one, had not felt that.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Can we be sure about anything we sense, see or feel through our craft?” Lena asked as answer. “But there is a great change, and it has naught to do with the fact that there have been less orderly quakes. The Beast is not gone, he is not asleep, he is…pacified. But he is the Beast. He has awakened. So he will not be pacified for long.”

  “I do not like the sound of that,” Nandra muttered.

  “I urge you, my sisters, in this time of despair, to hold on to hope,” Lena said. “Much swifter than I ever would imagined with these four, I feel their power building. This means we must protect them at all costs.”

  “At all costs,” Nandra agreed.

  Rebecca thought of what was happening in her home.

  So when she repeated, “At all costs,” her words were full of sorrow.

  As were the expressions of her sisters.

  83

  The Down

  Prince True

  Crittich Keep, Notting Thicket

  WODELL

  The roads to Crittich Keep were lined with deathly silent Dellish citizens.

  And not a one of them appeared surprised that Prince True rode his steed Majesty at a breakneck pace along the cobbles, his mantle flying out behind him, his face set in stone.

  Though there were a goodly number of them who were astonished at just how brightly his eyes were glowing green.

  But True was of no mind to the silent masses that lined the streets.

  Only one thing was on his mind.

  And this was why he’d thrown his le
g over Majesty’s rump to dismount before his horse even came to a full halt.

  The instant he was on his feet outside the prison, he tossed his reins to a waiting guard who had to catch a still-moving Majesty and pull him back before he was yanked off his own feet.

  True did not watch this.

  His lieutenants Luther and Wallace—who had also dismounted on the fly—shadowing him, True stalked under the raised portcullis and through the high, double-wide, stone-arched door. A door that sat dead center in the long one-story section that separated the two tall, stark towers constructed of three-feet wide blocks of black Airenzian stone.

  He was unsurprised that Aramus, Cassius and Mars awaited him just inside.

  He was surprised that Frey Drakkar and Apollo Ulfr of Lunwyn were with them.

  It was Aramus who approached first, his eyes moving over True’s face, and thus his lips knew only to ask, “Which one do you want first?”

  “Carrington,” True gritted, prowling toward the inner hall without breaking stride, his mantle flashing behind him.

  The men all formed a phalanx after him as True took a right turn in the hall.

  He headed to where the prisoners of means were kept in spacious cells with cots with down mattresses, small tables with chairs, smaller irons for heating, with three square meals a day and views of the city from its thin windows.

  The administration offices for the constabularies of all Wodell and their penal systems were also on the lower floors of that tower in the six-story keep.

  To the left was where the commoners were sent. The cells smaller, filled with more than one man (or woman), with naught but blankets, no heating irons, chairs, mattresses or tables.

  And the upper cells had views of the city’s dump, cess-swamp, and the shanty village filled with vagrants, uncommitted lunatics, hopeless addicts of ashesh and koekah and other varied disenfranchised elements.

  This would change, this separation of criminals.

  Soon.

  But not now.

  Now was the time for something else.

  “Where are the others?” True asked, his mantle caressing the corner at the winding stairwell as he swept into it to ascend.

  “Down,” Cassius answered.

  True was unsurprised at this as well.

  For it was as he’d ordered.

  The Down was where the worst offenders were kept. Convicted murderers, rapists, and the abusers of the elderly, women and children were locked there in small cells with no light. Communication between prisoners or with guards was forbidden and only the barest necessities for survival were offered for as long as their sentence lasted, or their life ended, whichever came first.