Age of the Gods: The Complete, twelve novel, fantasy series (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga)

by Laszlo,Jeremy

  Now, for the first time his father and his wife would meet, and though it was an important event in anyone’s life, Seth thought the introduction was more or less just a formality as there were more important things to discuss at present. The decisions made in the next moments would change the course of the battle, perhaps the course of the human race. Seth needed to know what his role would be in the days to come.

  Approaching the King of Valdadore, the death mage with his vampire wife and werewolf second-in-command came to stand before those whose lives relied upon them.

  “Well Garret, we survived again,” Seth said sarcastically. “Dad, so glad you could make it; it seems we have some catching up to do,” he added with a sarcastic smirk.

  “Yes, we do Seth,” James replied, matching his tone. He was glad that in light of the current situation both of his sons were still the young men who had left home so many months before. Minus, of course, the blessings by gods, marriages, mutated human servants and such.

  “You must be Sara,” James said and reached out to shake the woman’s hand.

  “Careful Dad, she bites,” Seth said trying not to laugh. Borrik too choked back a laugh. Garret simply shook his head.

  “Now that we have that behind us, perhaps we should discuss a strategy,” suggested Garret.

  All gathered nodded, their mood changing to one of a more serious nature.

  “Forgive me if I am mistaken, but it appears we are grossly overpowered, outnumbered, and possibly outmatched,” James said.

  “That about sums it up,” Garret replied. “However, considering that, we did quite well today.”

  “You think so?” Seth asked. “It seems to me I lost more than half of my troops.”

  “Yes, but the enemy lost more than we did,” Garret stated.

  “He also has significantly more troops than us, Garret. At this rate we will not survive through tomorrow,” Seth responded, “not that it actually matters.”

  “What do you mean?” Sara asked, a quizzical look upon her face.

  Everyone surrounding Seth looked at him, and the longer they looked the more serious they each became. They could see the gravity upon his face. Moments passed and Seth thought about his reply. It was obvious and yet no one else realized it. It was a secret held by the gods, and there could be consequences to exposing it. But only if it changed the way the world operated.

  “I realized something I think is very important today. Not only is it important, but it is a realization that could change the world. If we killed all of Sigrant’s troops tomorrow the kingdom of Valdadore would be the victor, but not the winner. The same is true, though the opposite, if we all die tomorrow. No matter who wins this war, humanity loses. We are all pieces in a game played by the gods. They want the life they have given us back, and the only way to get it is if we die. They create champions to kill en masse to speed the process. Every birth is an affront to their cause, yet every death makes them stronger. If we have to have a war, then the trick is not to obliterate our enemy, but break their will, or destroy their reason for attacking,” Seth explained.

  Both Borrik and Sara nodded their understanding. They all knew Seth to be right, and appreciated that he had revealed the rules of the game, even though he was sworn to the cause of a goddess. Garret and James, however, seemed conflicted.

  “So you suggest asking King Sigrant to retreat with his forces so that the gods don’t win?” Garret asked.

  James stood thinking, as did Jack.

  “No, obviously he did not bring this large a force to simply turn around, nor is it likely he can be persuaded. What I suggest is that we find a way to end the war which involves killing as few of his troops as possible.”

  “So kill only his blessed troops, sparing the common soldiers?” James suggested.

  “Perhaps, if we have to, but there is actually another course of action that would require just one death,” Seth said.

  “Kill the king,” Garret nodded. “What if we fail though? We cannot just stand and take the blows for long, eventually we will have to fight back.”

  “Perhaps you are right, but there are always options, are there not?” Seth asked.

  “Killing the king sounds like our best one,” Borrik said, his feral mind understanding the importance of taking out the leader of the pack first.

  “Killing him could be difficult,” James added. “There could be twenty thousand troops between us and him, how do we get to him?”

  “If we knew where he was, Borrik could get to him easily enough, but we don’t. We need someone to infiltrate the enemy lines and locate and kill King Sigrant,” Seth declared.

  “Do you have someone in mind?” Garret asked, looking first to Seth, then to Sara.

  “I do indeed, although I would prefer two separate people for the job. I can make it easier for them too,” Seth responded.

  “Who could you possibly have in mind?” Garret asked as all gathered looked to the death mage questioningly.

  “Thousand Hole Tommy,” Seth replied with a grin. “Who better to send than a man who cannot die?”

  “Tommy is here?” James asked, obviously recalling the name from his past. “By the gods, I cannot believe that man is still alive.

  “And who else, Seth?” Garret asked.

  “I don’t know. Someone fast, who can think on their feet, and is experienced with killing.”

  “I’ll have the captains find us a volunteer who meets your criteria,” Garret responded.

  “What of the rest of us then?” Borrik asked, his voice coming as a growl from his throat.

  “We are the backup plan,” Seth began. “If our assassins fail, we still need to end the war. Our jobs are to kill only Sigrant’s blessed champions, those the gods themselves are depending upon.”

  “How do we do that?” Sara asked.

  “By creating even more champions for ourselves, and improving upon those already created. We draw them out. Toy with them, then destroy them. All the while we have to retreat to stay ahead of the main forces so that we are not killing those who don’t have to die,” Seth answered.

  “What if we fail on both accounts?” James asked.

  “We retreat to the city and hope that Sigrant runs out of supplies over the winter and is forced to withdraw,” Seth said.

  Garret stood silently thinking upon his brother’s words. Ignoring the whole god involvement completely, the argument still held weight. If either force was weakened significantly following the battle, another army led by the ogres, trolls, goblins, or who knows what would invade soon enough to finish either or both sides off. It was a battle where both sides lost. The only other alternative was to surrender, but Garret had sworn to protect the kingdom, not surrender it. He would heed his brother’s warnings for now, but if all else failed, he would do what he could to decimate Sigrant and his troops.

  “So it is true that you can create champions, Seth?” James asked.

  “Borrik is one of my champions,” Seth replied, gesturing to the beast man at his side.

  “What do you need in order to create them?” the twins’ father asked further.

  “Power and volunteers, sometimes animals as well, but right now I have all I need stored within me – minus the volunteers.”

  “Let us move then to join the remainder of the army.” Garret turned without another word and began to walk east towards his main forces. The others followed him, their minds filled with puzzling thoughts of gods and champions. The night would prove to be a long one indeed.

  Chapter Four

  For several hours King Sigrant sat at the desk in his makeshift command tent. Though the desk was basically useless, he found comfort in placing his feet upon it and leaning back precariously in his chair. He needed no maps to chart troop movements. He also did not need parchment, quills or ink to list troop totals, rations, and other supplies upon. In fact, the only reason King Robert Sigrant needed a tent at all was for enjoying his women, and sleeping. Usually in that order.


  For the mundane details of the day to day operation of his forces all he needed was his head. Nearly everything about running an army came naturally to the king. At any given time he knew precisely where his units were and where they were going. He knew how many rations they needed and how many sick and injured they carried with them. King Sigrant knew, down to a grain of rice, precisely how much food he needed on a daily basis to keep the army alive. He also knew how much he needed to keep their bellies full and happy, but seldom were the two numbers even in the same realm of reality.

  Instead of taking notes, Sigrant leaned in his chair as a steady stream of messengers poured into and out of his tent, spewing updates that Sigrant nonchalantly added to and subtracted from the totals in his head as needed, paying specific attention to the numbers of losses sustained. Though thousands had died, the number could not be accurate for several commanders reported troops missing altogether, probably sealed beneath the ice of the still frozen lake. More than a couple hundred were injured and were now being transported to healing tents set up deeper within friendly lines.

  Those who had fallen were being treated with respect as well and currently mass graves were being dug for them. However, these were routine things that Sigrant mentally cataloged before being stunned by yet another messenger bringing news that Sigrant found most concerning.

  “Carry on,” Sigrant ordered.

  “Yes, your majesty,” the messenger replied. “It seems thirteen men survived being attacked by the wolfmen as bite marks show clearly upon their necks.”

  “Why is this a health concern?” Sigrant questioned.

  “Though only five have regained consciousness thus far, Sire, all of them appear disconnected, and confused.”

  “Could that not be from blood loss or a head injury?” Sigrant asked, thinking his healers and the messenger might have sustained head injuries themselves.

  “Yes, but the healers report that their blood is restored, yet they have still been blacking out and waking up disoriented. They also say that something within the men prevents them from diagnosing the problem. They fear it is some sort of infection,” the messenger answered.

  “Then monitor them closely. If the symptoms persist by morning then we will put them to death and burn the bodies,” the king decided.

  With a motion he dismissed the messenger, and for now, at least, it seemed the flow of messengers had stopped. Leaning back yet further in his chair he thought hard about the battle of the day. Valdadore had withstood much, yet not without losses. It was a small nation that he could easily crush, but little could be learned from crushed objects. No, Sigrant wanted to bring Valdadore to its knees. He wanted to kill the kingdom slowly, torturously. He wanted to watch the small nation twist beneath his heel. More than anything he wanted to see just how much the kingdom and its young king could take before they snapped. Settling upon a plan, King Sigrant went for a late night stroll.

  First the king, known for his cunning and decisiveness, visited the mass graves that had already been dug, and looking in before they were covered once again he was sadly disappointed. Anger flashed across his narrow face momentarily as he looked around the great holes for someone to accuse. Spotting an officer he unleashed his tongue.

  “Lieutenant, this is unacceptable!” the king shouted, pointing his finger at the junior officer.

  “Your majesty, I was simply following orders,” the officer replied, shame upon his face.

  “You think that this would be acceptable to me?” Sigrant asked mockingly, gesturing wildly at the giant grave with bodies and limbs tossed inside haphazardly.

  “If you would prefer them organized, your majesty, I will see it done.” The lieutenant was already turning to bark the appropriate orders at those he commanded.

  “Organized?” the king questioned. “You fool, look at all the weapons and armor in that grave. Such things have value. Dig it out!”

  “Yes, your majesty!” the officer replied and spinning upon his heel he began to give orders.

  Sigrant strode off to see what other mistakes his simple-minded soldiers were making. Along the way he visited several figures of worth, including the head of his mages, and Vulgan, the captain to the Gnashers. The bone-clad warriors were his most ferocious troops, and tomorrow he would put them to use among others of his favorites.

  Near an hour into his stroll, the king paused briefly as a series of screams pierced the relative quiet of his encamped army. Turning in the direction of the cries he located the healers’ tents. The screams ended rather abruptly and, resuming his course, King Sigrant presumed that the particular surgery being performed had not gone well. Mentally he added another to the dead.

  Though his information had been anything but accurate, Sigrant could not help himself but to walk near a mile deeper into his army to visit a newfound friend. Once there, the guards stepped away from the cart, allowing their king to be alone with the mage prisoner.

  “Vladmere, I find your company quite enchanting, yet your inaccuracies… Well, to be honest they disgust me,” Sigrant said to the disrobed mage confined within the cell on wheels.

  “What inaccuracies?” Vladmere questioned, assuming his condition would only persist until the king trusted him.

  “You said Valdadore was lacking in champions; the army was naught but less than a dozen knights, a hundred mages of average talent, and the mage prince. Today my forces faced hundreds of giant wolfmen, flying beasts who threw fire, blessed knights, mages, and more. Tell me you knew not of such things.”

  “I did not know, your majesty. The prince must have created more champions,” Vladmere replied.

  “Created champions?” Sigrant asked, disgusted. “You compare him to the gods?”

  “Of course not,” Vladmere sniveled, “he is but a pretender. Slay him and see how his champions fall around him.”

  “I will, Vladmere. Do not worry, but if you are incorrect again, though, I will have you delivered to my torturers. They have means of deriving the truth.”

  Without awaiting a response King Sigrant turned and strode off into the night. Returning to his tent, he sent a messenger to retrieve his royal harem, and within minutes his tent was filled with the scents of flowers and women of varying ages and experience. Tactically he put them to use, adding his seed, subtracting their clothes, and dividing their legs. From time to time he multiplied the pleasure by including several of his women at a time.

  Hours later, exhausted, the king slept amongst the many nude woman who had spent the previous hours pleasing him. Morning would come soon, but none would feel better rested than King Sigrant.

  * * * * *

  Seth sat next to a large fire as the night turned savagely cold. Sara had come to join him shortly after midnight, and together they leaned into one another. Each of them found comfort with the other, at least momentarily, before Seth’s volunteers began to arrive.

  First to come was the famed Thousand Hole Tommy. He was a man appearing in his late seventies, but who was probably closer to two or three hundred years old. However, as a man blessed by Vikstol, he had aged slowly, and served his god well. It was said the man could not be killed. He had sustained every known injury over his lifetime, but every time he rose again to continue fighting. Tommy’s every organ had been pierced by a blade or arrow at one battle or another, and three of his four limbs had been reattached at least once.

  Tommy would make the perfect assassin. Beyond his refusal to die, there was nothing special about the man. He was of average strength and size, and even his intellect was nothing impressive. Seth looked to change that. Sorting through the menagerie within him, Seth sought out those attributes he felt would make Tommy a more promising killer. Seemingly decided, Seth began piecing together the puzzle that would create for him an assassin unlike any other.

  Again and again Tommy cried out in pleasure, his body wracked with spasms with each new torrent of power that entered him. Seth gave him no reprieve. After each attribute was given, Seth sou
ght the next and snapped it into place, making the pieces work with one another.

  Borrik, Garret, James, Jack, and Sara watched on as Seth created a harbinger of death out of a legendary hero. As the great fire lit the process, its growing and waning tones of red, yellow, and orange made the whole thing look surreal, casting odd shadows that crawled and sputtered over the entire scene. It was a memory each of them would carry until their final breath. Few could hardly blink as the man squirmed upon the ground as his body changed in new and horrible ways.

  When the process was done the man stood. He moved awkwardly at first, as if his memory refused to conform to action within his new form. Yet turning to face the fire, his nude body completely exposed, Tommy stood for all those gathered to appraise him.

  Seth could not smile at the man’s appearance, but he was happy with the result. He had tried things that he had only theorized about before and each had worked, if not with at least a little manipulation. Instead of replacing entire appendages Seth had gone deeper, making alterations from within the bones themselves. Tommy was no longer recognizable as human at all anymore. His visage was so gruesome that hardened battle veterans briefly turned their gaze away, only to return to look upon him again in awe.

  Tommy’s head had expanded slightly as Seth thought it important to thicken the skull to prevent injury. Beyond that his forehead pushed out and his neck was made more stout. Over the top of his head all traces of hair had been removed and in its place were rows upon rows of short knobby spikes. Seth had made his head a weapon, something he could use to bash an opponent.

  His face had changed immensely. Nearly all definition had been lost as his sunken eyes had grown and smoothed out with the rest of his face, each of them turning a dark purple color. His nose had completely vanished beneath his flesh leaving behind only a pair of slit-like nostrils. His lower jaw bone had thickened slightly, and opening his mouth a forked tongue flicked out between rows of small, razor sharp teeth.