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 w
as 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.”
Chapter Thirteen
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.
*****
Just an hour after dark King Sigrant rode atop his stallion. The entire camp had been torn asunder in minutes and packed upon carts. Currently, each and every whore was unconscious as their bodies changed. In a long line of carts their naked forms were visible, each locked within an iron cage. Though many eyes strayed onto them, none dared risk the consequence of disobeying their king’s orders.
For several hours the huge train of carts and camp followers trundled east, following the army that now chased Valdadore’s dwindling force. Sigrant traveled with the dismantled camp. Behind him, his harem followed upon foot. Though they had carriages to ride in, they each had decided that the freedom of the night offered them better opportunity to realize their new limitations.
The king was impressed with their ability to keep pace. Already they had each fed upon at least two dozen other humans. Naturally they were stronger than the humans. Faster too. But with each new vampire they created, the stronger they became. He too could feel the power that had swollen within him. They each fed him with power.
Now, already feeling lifetimes away from what he had been merely hours ago, King Sigrant was forced to be careful with his reins. He had broken two sets already. Also he had to intentionally slow his words. The faster he became the faster he spoke and although he really didn’t notice, others obviously did. Throughout the majority of the night they trailed the army, growing ever nearer to the foreign capital city. King Sigrant could not wait to walk the halls of the palace as he weighed all of his new options.
Both forces moved at an astounding pace, but rather than press further and risk the camp being incomplete before the sun rose, Sigrant called a halt a full five miles out from the enemy city and ordered the camp erected again. Reports rolled in that the Valdadorians had made the city, and Sigrant was not in the mood for a siege. It would be a full two days before his siege engines and war machines caught up at this pace. He had two days to prepare and create his new army. Valdadore was in for a surprise.
*****
Upon being struck by the bolt that ended his life, Seth’s life force was parted from his body as with any other being upon Thurr, though a bit of his consciousness remained in the flesh, slowly fading as the cells died, and the synapses in the brain stopped firing.
Before all connections to life had ceased in his body, however, he had been removed from the pole, and Sara had shared blood with him. Had more life energy been within him, a residue of sorts, there might have been a chance for him to rise again. As it was, the change to vampire was not immediate, requiring a person to pass through death to be reborn as a vampire. In order to complete the process, they had to start it alive, with enough energy to sustain the change. Seth’s body had contained no such thing.
Over the hours the residue of life died, Seth’s memories fading, and then something unexpected happened. Somewhere in the battle a werewolf died. Though his aura and consciousness were elsewhere, enough residue of Seth remained in the body to cause the werewolf’s life force, a force sworn to the walking god who had created it, to join with Seth’s fallen body.
With new power, the body attempted to reanimate, and Sara’s vampire blood mixed with Seth’s. Within seconds the power was expended as the vampiric properties within Seth’s body attempted to heal the massive wound in his chest.
Again the body began to fade and again another werewolf died. For a few moments healing began anew, then as before it stopped. Again and again the process repeated, and then when the body was nearly completely mended, a retreat was called. No more werewolves died. None loyal to Seth fell, no more life parted their bodies to rejoin the corpse of the deceased death mage. His body, and the last of his consciousness faded, swept away as the brain finally stopped firing random impulses.
*****
Linaya was awakened by a knock upon the door, and rising from the floor she felt amazingly well rested. Running her fingers through her hair, in an effort to make it presentable, she pulled the door open to find Gumbi on the other side. He stood in his polished armor, his impatience to be on the move more than e
vident.
Linaya dared not delay, and stepping out of the door she smiled briefly to her escort before going out into the road at his side. Together they made their way back to and through the capital building before entering that final dark chamber they had inhabited until the night before.
Within the room, unlike the previous day, many dwarven men, most of them elderly, sat upon the ring of stools that encircled the hole in the floor. These were the dwarven thanes, each royalty in their own right. Linaya bowed low upon entering the room, showing her respect.
“My lords,” she said in greeting.
The room exploded in laughter and even Gumbi joined in, his barrel chest heaving with the sound. Linaya was beyond confused, not understanding what it was that the dwarven men found so amusing. It was not until several minutes later, when the chamber quieted, that Gumbi finally explained.
“Sorry, Lady Linaya, it seems there was a rumor that Zorbin of the Ironfist clan had returned home with a hideous human wife. The thanes only laugh because even they realize that the story is obviously untrue, and your description was greatly exaggerated to make the rumor more believable.”
“Exaggerated how?” Linaya asked, somewhat offended, though understanding a bit better the dwarven culture.
“It was said that though you were frightful to look upon, you had backside like a sack of boulders and everyone knows that the men of Ironfist are all very fond of backsides.”
Linaya laughed as well. Often Garret teased that from certain angles she appeared to be a boy, so small was her bottom.
“You’re not near as hideous as we was told neither!” one of the dwarves commented.
“Well, you see, that I can appreciate,” Linaya replied, her smile growing larger. Dwarves enjoyed giving each other a hard time. By picking on her, they were in effect accepting her.
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