Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  A handshake of sorts.

  “This one’s mine,” he said immediately, lowering his hand. “Definitely. I choose this one.”

  Fransa smiled. “Looks like the feeling’s mutual.”

  “He’s beautiful,” Lily said and reached up to stroke his mane. “What do you want to call him?”

  Only one name came to mind. It was the right one.

  “Zander. His name is Zander.”

  CHAPTER 8

  T he low mage was inexcusably fat.

  Even Basher had difficulty dragging him through the dungeon’s corridors. Or maybe the Berserker was just disgusted by the man’s blubbering nervousness. Iolus would have lit a fire spell to better see his surroundings, but the darkness seemed to be having its intended effect on the prisoner.

  “Please, Iolus,” the low mage said. His name was Velgar, son of Immordred. “Was it one of the slave women? If she was yours, I didn’t know. I swear it. I—I don’t even select them. Servants do that. Oh, don’t lock me up down here. I’ll do anything!”

  Basher grunted as he pulled Velgar along. “He stinks.”

  “Fear sweat,” Iolus said, walking blindly down a corridor lined with jail cells. “I’m surprised it repels you, Basher. I thought Berserkers ate that sort of thing up.”

  “It’s his lack of a spine that repels me, sir.”

  “Oh, gods, please,” the low mage cried.

  Iolus cast a fire spell that wrapped his hand in flames. The light picked out the sweat beads dripping down Velgar’s enormous face and made the expensive threads of his purple silk robe gleam. They had pulled him out of bed less than an hour ago.

  “Open a cell,” Iolus said.

  Basher fumbled with the set of keys. He dropped them and cursed. Iolus shook his head with a sigh. Finally, the brute managed to get the gate open, threw the fat mage into the cell, and locked him in.

  Velgar got on his knees and gripped the bars.

  “Master Iolus, I’m yours to command. Anything you want. Please, just don’t leave me here with—with…”

  A diseased rat scurried up his robe.

  “Ahh! Oh, gods, have mercy!”

  He swiped the creature away, then wiped his hand frantically against his robe as if to clear it of germs. But germs were the least of his problems now.

  “I’ll do anything,” Velgar pleaded. “Just don’t let them touch me anymore!”

  “Here’s what I want,” Iolus said, dropping to a crouch in front of the bars. He reached into his dinner jacket—earlier he had pretended to be outrageously drunk at a royal party which Kovax, infuriatingly, had not even attended—and pulled out a small, gray disc. He tapped it once, and a hologram sprang to life, spinning slowly above his fingers.

  The image was of a rare type of blood crystal. Anyone in Velgar’s brotherhood would surely recognize it.

  “Do you know what this is?” Iolus asked him, just in case the man was an idiot.

  Velgar squinted as he studied the stone’s diminutive size and deep red color, particularly the black tendrils branching out from its core like threads in a human brain cell.

  “Why, that’s a God’s Head bloodstone. Of course I know what that is.”

  “Then as you are probably already aware, this little piece of godly substance can hold the same quantity of blood ether as two tons of regular crystals.”

  “Yes. Yes. You’re right!” Velgar nodded frantically, making his jowls quiver. “They’re very rare. Worth a lot of money. I could get you more. I know where Kovax keeps them.”

  Iolus smiled proudly at the mage. “Very good, Velgar. You’re sharper than you look.”

  Basher chuckled at this. “Shouldn’t be too difficult for a man that round.”

  “Yes, yes. Funny,” Velgar said with a shaky grin. “I get it. You’re very fu—”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Iolus said, and the low mage clamped his mouth shut. “We’ll laugh when we’re dead. Until that happens, you’re going to run an errand of sorts for me.”

  The low mage listened intently. “What do you require?”

  “I’m sure you’ve guessed already.” Iolus brought the hologram inches from Velgar’s face. “Kovax keeps a handful of these in his lab. As Head Brother, you, Velgar, can do what no one else can—you can undo the warding spell on the doors and get inside.”

  Velgar’s lower lip trembled as he spoke. “What you’re asking me to do—to steal a crystal of such value from the emperor himself—is simply unthinkable.”

  “I’m not asking you to steal one. I’m telling you to steal four of them, since the fifth will most likely be in the machine. Also, I’m telling you to do it tonight.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Oh,” Iolus said, standing. “You will.”

  He tapped off the hologram and slipped the disc back into his pocket. Then he reached into his blazing hand and pulled a wriggling, worm-like monstrosity out of the flames, dangling it in front of the bars.

  Velgar scrambled to get away. Even Basher stepped back in disgust. The creature looked as if it had been made of blood mixed with lava, and the way it curled could only be a sign of ravenous hunger.

  “Keep it away,” Velgar said. “Please don’t do what you’re thinking!”

  Iolus threw the glowing parasite into the cell, where it went immediately for the mage’s warm, fat body.

  Velgar screamed with such ferocity that a family of rats leaped through the bars to get away. Despite his struggling, the parasite slid easily up his leg and disappeared inside his robe. It reappeared a moment later at his neck, swiveling its tiny head until it locked on to its destination on the fat man’s face.

  Velgar clawed at the parasite, to no avail. It wriggled upward and slid gracefully into the man’s nostril, then disappeared inside his head. All Velgar could do was whimper and curse his luck.

  “Shut up,” Iolus said, “and listen.”

  Sobbing now, Velgar sat back on his haunches. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “What in the gods’ misery was that vile thing?”

  Iolus beckoned for the mage to sit closer to the bars. Velgar hesitated but finally inched forward until his knees touched the metal.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Iolus said. “That was an elemental parasite of my own creation. You won’t like what it does. In about five minutes, it’ll start feeding on your body’s fatty tissue until it bloats with offspring.”

  Velgar’s breathing became panicked. His nostrils flared. Sweat dripped into his eyes, which he didn’t bother to wipe away.

  “Once born,” Iolus continued, “those children—and there will be hundreds of them, all very hungry—will go after your internal organs and turn them to soup, which they will greedily consume.

  “Usually it takes several weeks for this process to run its course. But a man of your size has enough blubber for all the children to feast for months. They might neglect your organs entirely and have their fill of fat until they, too, can breed their own offspring.

  “On the bright side, you’ll notice yourself getting slimmer, maybe even turning the eyes of court ladies who never noticed you before. But all the while, you’ll know the truth—that your body is slowly caving in, infested with one of the most gruesome parasites the realm has ever known. Death will be your only solace at that point, the only cure to your suffering. Once the breeding begins—and, oh, the feasting—even I won’t be able to stop it.”

  Velgar stared in dumbfounded shock at Iolus. “You’re a m-monster.”

  Iolus dropped his flaming hand, making shadows dance along the walls. “Even monsters have their reasons. Now, are you ready to do as I ask?”

  Velgar squeezed his eyes shut. He gave a tight nod.

  “Anything,” he whispered.

  VELGAR HURRIED through the castle corridor.

  This was, by far, the worst night of his life. As Prime Brother of the Low Order, not to mention Salt Mage of Necromancy and blood magic consultant in the emperor’s court, Velgar was arguably the fourth
or fifth most influential man in the empire, charged with overseeing the castle’s protective spell barriers, among other vital tasks. He had been the most loyal of Kovax’s servants, even when Corgos was around.

  And now, he’d been reduced to a terrified, bumbling thief and a traitor of the highest degree.

  That must have been why Iolus had chosen him in the first place, because of his unique rank. Most likely, the sorcerer had been planning this operation for months.

  But how had a notorious drunkard like Iolus managed to come up with such a plan? Even more astounding, how could Kovax have been so oblivious to such a high-level traitor in his midst? Velgar pondered these mysteries as a pair of black-robed priests turned into the corridor.

  Tylax and Zotgard. Notorious gabbers and gossips, they were perhaps the last two men in the empire Velgar wanted to see right now.

  “Ah, Lord Velgar,” Zotgard said. He was a pale, stocky man who shaved his head and eyebrows, giving him the look of an oversized infant. “We were just discussing whether to call on you at this late hour.”

  “The recalibrations for the warding spell engines,” Tylax said, always so literal and blunt. He was an old, gaunt man with skin like yellowed paper. “You said to notify you when we were finished?”

  Velgar swept past them. “Call on me tomorrow.”

  “Lord Velgar,” Zotgard called after him. “If you are headed to the emperor’s lab, please let him know that the latest shipment—”

  Velgar whirled on them, enraged. “What makes you bone brains think I’m headed for the emperor’s lab?”

  The priests glanced at each other uncertainly. Velgar slipped a hand into a side pocket of his cloak. He wrapped ice-cold fingers around a blood crystal and savored its warmth.

  Zotgard shrugged. “I did not intent to offend you, my lord. I was simply—”

  “Come here, both of you,” Velgar said.

  The priests glanced at each other again. What, were they married? Hesitantly, they took several steps forward. Velgar wanted to strangle them both, one in each hand.

  “My lord?” Tylax said. “You’re sweating profusely. Is everything in order?”

  Velgar removed the crystal from his pocket and took aim. Tylax and Zotgard barely had time to blink. The red beam that sprang from the crystal cut both men in half where they stood. Another spell disintegrated their bodies, leaving only a pair of ashy piles on the carpet.

  Velgar looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the act. The corridor was empty, silent except for the low hiss of the blue torches ensconced in the walls. Fortunately, the idiots had been too surprised to scream.

  Velgar used his sleeve to mop sweat from his brow. This would be over soon. Once Iolus cured him of the parasite, he planned to slip out of Taradyn, never to return. There was no other option now; killing another priest was a crime punishable by death and reanimation, guaranteeing a lifetime of slave labor as a Risen One.

  Feeling the parasite slithering beneath his skin, he tightened the cloak around his body and continued along the corridor.

  My Lord Emperor, he recited in his feverish mind, I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour. Another shipment of crystals has been stolen. (It was true—Iolus, most likely.) My men have captured a suspect. He was seen running from the warehouse. (This “suspect” was an innocent stable hand Velgar had arrested an hour ago.) You might wish to interrogate him.

  Yes, that would work. Kovax had been pressuring Velgar and his brothers to find the thief plundering his shipments of blood crystals. Surely, the emperor would want to see the suspect for himself, hopefully immediately.

  He knocked on the door, expecting to hear cursing from the other side—Kovax annoyed, as usual, at being disturbed. But there was only silence.

  “My Lord Emperor?” Velgar pounded again. “My lord, are you there? I have urgent news.”

  The warding spell formed a misty layer across the surface of the massive double doors. Detecting his presence, the mist shaped itself into a variety of smoky weapons—daggers, swords, and animal claws—meant as a warning for anyone thinking of barging in. An attempt to even turn the door handle without an invitation could cost Velgar a hand.

  He waited a few moments before knocking again. Maybe the emperor wasn’t inside after all. Maybe he had decided—for once!—to spend the night in his sleeping chambers instead of his lab.

  Velgar could only hope that was the case. Raising the blood crystal, he whispered a prayer to Xelios for luck. Then he chanted the spell that would disarm the ward. When it was finished, he nudged the door open, one inch at a time.

  He froze in disbelief when he saw what was inside.

  “My lord?” Velgar said in a shocked whisper.

  The emperor lay curled on the stone floor, using his hands as pillows. Velgar had heard rumors of the man’s tendency to fall asleep while operating Sightwielder, but the actual sight of him snoring on the floor like a drunk passed out in a tavern took Velgar completely by surprise.

  He took a hesitant step into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The place was unreal. The humming, blinking machines packed against every wall were a far cry from the equipment one normally encountered inside a low mage’s personal lab. Sightwielder itself was even more incredible. It hovered, dark blue and featureless, like an ocean-covered planet hanging in deep space.

  To mix low magic and machines in such a fashion was simply unheard of—especially when one considered the bloodstones needed to serve as the main power source. Had Kovax not become involved in politics, he would have been a famous inventor by now.

  Velgar focused on the sound of the emperor’s snoring as he crept across nests of cables toward the table in the back corner. Along the way, he noticed blood filling a tube attached to the man’s arm. It was a wonder the device didn’t kill him.

  The snoring halted suddenly.

  Velgar’s entire body seized. His heel caught against a cable, and he fell back, landing with a loud bang against one of the machines.

  His heart stopped.

  He lay on the floor, trembling and waiting, knowing the emperor would wake up and see him there. He would know what Velgar was up to. He would kill him and resurrect him, and Velgar would be forced to endure a hundred lifetimes as an undead laborer—a fate worse than any parasite even a monster like Iolus could conjure up.

  The snoring resumed.

  Velgar close his eyes in delicious relief. Thank you, Xelios, for giving me luck.

  He got up quietly and searched the table in the corner until he found a small, gilded chest with a ward spell similar to that of the doors. He whispered the chant that would undo it, fearing a trap laid by the emperor for added protection, but the lid opened without incident, casting a scarlet glow all over the table and his robe.

  God’s Head bloodstones. Four of them! Their glowing cores pulsed gently, despite the incalculably vast energy stored inside each one. Of the five grooves in the velvety surface, four were filled with the black-veined stones. Each one was fully charged and radiantly gorgeous. The empty groove must have been for the crystal now powering the machine, where only Kovax could remove it. Thankfully, Iolus had only demanded four.

  What could that mad sorcerer possibly need all this energy for? What was he planning?

  Velgar decided he was better off not knowing.

  He slipped the crystals into his pocket and crept out of the lab, already imagining what owning a house on the ocean might be like, in a continent far, far away from this one.

  When Velgar reached the stables, he prepared to select the largest levathon that could comfortably and quietly carry a man his size, but a strange sight made him freeze. Someone had left a carriage behind the building. He saw no one inside it or nearby, and yet a line of six black levathons had been strapped in place, ready to go. They were snorting impatiently, as if they’d been waiting there for a while.

  Were they waiting for him?

  Velgar had agreed to meet Iolus at a very specific clear
ing, in a section of forest, far outside the city. Maybe this was someone else’s carriage—someone else on a covert night mission in the king’s courtyard.

  He studied his surroundings. Nothing, only shadows. Then he heard a flapping sound, like the beat of a wing.

  “Goodnight, big boy,” a voice rasped at him.

  The attacker landed on him from above. Something hard—a blackjack, maybe—struck Velgar across the temple, and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness were wings—long, featherless wings that took him away in the night.

  CHAPTER 9

  C alista refused to tell anyone about her tattoos.

  She blamed herself, but that wasn’t why she kept silent. The designs were hers and hers alone—just like the regret she now harbored inside. Athenara seemed to understand this and never brought up the subject. Calista wasn’t even sure if the woman understood why Lance had died—the true reason he had gone out that night.

  Now, he was dead. All because of some stupid patches of ink.

  Artemis had them set up camp a dozen miles outside of Jasparta, in a forest rumored to be haunted. Few visitors came to these woods, so they passed the time training, foraging, strategizing, and training some more without worry of being discovered. They also didn’t have to wear their collars out here and could phase as often as they wanted.

  Phasing was necessary for one of the more interesting tactics they had developed to overcome Berserkers in the field. Artemis called it “toppling.” Calista watched one day as four soldiers dragged a dummy made of wooden boards and bags of dirt into a clearing and propped it up. The dummy, about twelve feet tall, was meant to represent a Berserker and even had a comically savage face drawn on its sandbag head. The soldiers, both Feral, simulated a battle tactic in which they swooped in from behind with tiny Tiberian Steel razors to cut slits into the dummy’s calves. Calista watched dirt leak from the sacks, simulating blood. The soldiers then climbed up the dummy’s front, presumably to distract it.

  The distraction proved necessary. While the first two Feral soldiers stayed in front to distract, two more soldiers came up behind the dummy, darting forward as quick as squirrels and injecting a paralyzing toxin (what Artemis called “a nerve killer”) into the slits using needles. The first two soldiers jumped off the dummy, watched it topple forward in its paralyzed state, and all of them went to work jabbing their Tiberian blades into the brute’s eyes.