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

by Laszlo,Jeremy

  Time and again Borrik was forced to stop and dodge magical ballista before continuing. After each incident he hurled dual fireballs back at the attacker out of spite before grabbing the king again and moving on. After several minutes of pulling and jerking the king by his legs it became quickly apparent that his true master, Seth, had finally put up with Sigrant’s mages long enough.

  With an earth shattering sound like thunder a hundred times over, the ground began to shake and heave and Borrik witnessed through his soldiers’ eyes a great chasm opening up in the ground. Following that was yet another unnatural sound as an unworldly wind blasted across the plain ripping soldiers from their feet and shredding their bodies, sending them to rain both into the chasm and upon the remaining troops across the land.

  Moving as fast as he could, Borrik dragged the fallen king as far as he was able before his master unleashed a giant tidal wave of fire decimating even more of the enemy. From then on pandemonium broke lose over the field of battle. Enemy mages began casting again, and even a few brave soldiers picked up the fight where moments ago they had paused for fear that they too would be destroyed by the death mage’s wrath. Once again Borrik was forced to dodge magical attacks whilst dragging the king. Seeing his predicament, a common soldier, perhaps an officer of some sort, took up the call for a healer as Borrik passed. The call was echoed throughout the battlefield and a clear path was opened for Borrik and Garret.

  No sooner had Borrik felt he might actually reach a healer before the king died than an image flashed across his conscious. A mournful howling erupted over the battlefield to which Borrik lent his voice. Anger and hatred filled Borrik as he dropped the king and leapt into the air.

  Though the right thing to have done might have been to locate some healers and fly them to both Garret and Seth, Borrik was overcome by his feral instincts. Pack mentality dictated that he had to see his dead master for himself, and immediately. Already the surviving troops under Borrik’s command began to gather around their fallen deity.

  Only a minute and a half after the bolt impaled his master, Borrik plummeted from the sky. Spreading his wings at the last moment, he landed within a great cloud of dust. There before him, after the dust settled, were his master’s corpse and the body of his master’s wife which was smoldering as her flesh burned away beneath the sun. Borrik raised his wings casting the area in shadow, protecting the princess. Falling to his knees Borrik growled in anguish, a mournful, sorrowful call that was taken up by his men who then began to kill anything that moved. Naught but Borrik and Sara remained at Seth’s side, both willing to die beside the man who had made them the monsters they were.

  * * * * *

  The call for a healer had come through the lines of soldiers like a battle hymn that had picked up volume each time it was repeated. The king had fallen somewhere upon the field, and the call was as yet unanswered as nearly every healer in the Valdadorian arsenal had fled far behind the lines. Rising from his current patient, Ashton reached down and helped the soldier back to his feet. The man had been lucky. Had he not found Ashton he likely would have bled to death upon the field after sustaining a slash wound through the artery in his armpit. Now the man clasped wrists with the healer who had saved his life, and grabbing his spear and shield he rushed back through the lines to the fight.

  Ashton looked around the field to determine where the king might have fallen. Climbing a slight rise in the terrain he could see sunlight gleaming off a large mass a few hundred yards away. With no time to waste Ashton began running full tilt through the crowd, ducking and dodging any obstacle that stood in his path. Against his oath, Ashton forced himself to pass two other injured soldiers in his attempt to reach the king. With his bloodstained robes flapping as he ran, Ashton sprinted the last several yards as the king came into view and he was finally certain of his destination.

  The scene was a mess. The king lay unconscious upon the ground in a massive twisted heap. A great smoldering hole lay upon his ribcage, and on his opposite side his entire arm was missing, shoulder and all. In its place was a gaping hole from which copious amounts of blood had been lost, but now barely trickled. Ashton did not even know where to begin.

  Unsure what else he could do, Ashton dropped to his knees beside the giant of a king and began to pray to his goddess. Within an instant Ashton exploded in white light, his entire body becoming enveloped in power. In the past few months Ashton had grown immensely as a healer. He had surpassed all of his instructors’ expectations, and now had outstripped many of their abilities as well. Even Ashton had limitations, however, even if he didn’t know them all. But first things first, Ashton needed to assess the king’s injuries.

  Placing his hands upon the king Ashton felt more than looked for many moments within the fallen body of his friend. So great were Garret’s injuries, Ashton wondered how he had survived at all. Besides the fact that Garret had lost an arm, shattered a collar bone, and had a gaping hole where that arm should have attached to his body, the lung upon that side of his body had been torn as well and had filled with blood and other fluid. His opposite lung had been charred, as had been his heart and several major blood vessels. Another hole had been blasted in the king’s side; the only thing holding his insides within him were the charred bones of his ribcage upon that side.

  Ashton began work on the blood vessels. If they remained damaged, no matter how much power and time Ashton expended, the king would die from blood loss. After a few moments all the blood vessels, both minor and major, had been repaired allowing Ashton to move on to organs. Next Ashton repaired Garret’s heart, reconnecting the destroyed fibers of the muscle in each chamber and repairing the valves until the heart again was whole. Then Ashton moved onto the lungs, first forcing the king’s body to reabsorb the fluids within them and then mending the damage and charred tissue.

  Nearly half an hour had passed since Ashton first got the call that the king was down. Now he repaired the muscle tissue between the king’s ribs, wrapping them all in a protective layer of sinew but otherwise leaving the wound open. Double checking his progress he moved to the king’s shattered collar bone and carefully pieced the bone back together before interlacing the fragments once again with new calcium. The majority of the life-threatening damage repaired, Ashton sat back a moment, assured the king’s vitals were normal, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Around him the battle waged on, but Ashton and the king were relatively safe, being some distance from the front lines.

  Now the real work started. There were but a handful of healers throughout the history of Valdadore that could completely restore a lost limb on their own. Generally such large undertakings were done by a group of healers working together as it was a rather complex process. Ashton had a natural knack for it, however, and as such he maneuvered around the immense king before placing his hands to either side of the gaping wound where an arm should have been.

  Over the next hour Ashton stood locked in concentration, straining himself and his abilities to reproduce a perfect arm for the king and his friend. He began by forcing the king’s body to produce new bones, muscles, ligaments, tendons, nerves, and blood vessels. As the small arm formed, Ashton helped Garret to produce the required hormones and chemicals to speed the growing and aging process of the newly formed, infantile limb. He did not bother at this point to restore skin to the limb, as it was easier to monitor the proper growth of each component with them exposed.

  Further and further Ashton pushed the growth of the limb until it reached the proper length. Then Ashton forced more and more lean muscle tissue to grow on the limb to match the king’s other massive arm. Finally satisfied with his work, Ashton began to cover the arm and ribcage in new skin to ward off infection and protect the raw nerves from painful overstimulation. Soon, the mending of the king would be complete.

  Chapter Eleven

  He stood overlooking the tests going on in the vast tent erected upon the shore of the frozen lake. Moments before a messenger had relayed that the death
mage had been killed. Sigrant smiled and waved the young man away. The death mage had cost him nearly a quarter of his common troops.

  Before him, the beasts his healers were calling vampires were being experimented upon. They were stronger than humans, faster, more agile, and for each person they fed upon they grew yet even more superior. Already, in mere hours, Sigrant and his healers had learned much about the infected species.

  It became evident quite quickly that the species had one major weakness. Once exposed to the sun they lit up like a candle and burned away until literally nothing but ash remained. Once dead, all those infected by the deceased became human once more with no lingering side effects. Sigrant calculated the risks and benefits of such an infection. Calculations were a part of any campaign. At present he saw no reason such a species could not be used for his own purposes. He had never been a strong man, but cunning had more uses than strength. Sigrant ordered the vampires to be killed and exited the tent to prepare his next attack.

  All hope for the defending army had been broken. The vast majority of their champions had fallen, and now their most valuable weapon had been destroyed too. Finally Sigrant could move forward with his latest plans. Strolling across the bloodstained field with his personal guards surrounding him, the invading king called for a pair of messengers. Waiting just moments until they appeared, King Sigrant gave his orders.

  “Destroy Valdadore,” he ordered. “Hit them with all we have available.”

  The first messenger bowed low and sprinted off to relay the orders. Sigrant turned to the remaining messenger and relayed his next order. He and his healers had spent hours studying the vampires. He understood their strengths and weaknesses. He knew how they moved and what drove them. He understood how their species spread, and he realized that there had to be a source. Smiling menacingly, King Sigrant made a decision on his next move. He would need something to complete his plans, and he knew just who to send for it.

  * * * * *

  Without invitation, and without further delay, both Drummit and Zorbin strolled through the massive arched doorway into the capital building of the dwarven nation. Linaya followed behind them, trying her best not to look like a fool even though the immense building, and the carvings upon it, caught her attention, and could keep her busy for months. She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand, reminding herself that the man she hoped to one day marry, and the kingdom she called home, were both in terrible danger.

  Following the dwarves into the building she glanced around briefly and noted that though the entry chamber was vast, it was not quite as ornate as the exterior. Like a giant hallway the room had doors down either side at regular intervals. Beyond those, a singular massive door stood in the far wall, and to either side of it a staircase spiraled up into the floor above. Dwarves bustled about the building attending to business of one sort or another and each and every one of them was elegantly dressed either in bright shining armor or silken garments laden with gems. The amount of wealth the nation of dwarves held was vast, almost to a point of disgust.

  As they crossed the chamber many a dwarf nodded to, or greeted, Gumbi and he in turn replied to them. Linaya wondered what exactly his role within the kingdom was to be so well known. The city had to house a few hundred thousand souls, yet this man, who appeared but a guard, seemed to be a common sight in the capital building. There was more going on here than she was being led to believe. Oh how Linaya wished she had studied dwarven as a child! Resigned to follow and listen, however, the most beautiful woman Valdadore had to offer kept both her eyes and her ears sharp.

  As the trio approached the opposite end of the building from which they had entered, her dwarven companions slowed. As if they had both had the same thought, they each turned to look over their shoulders at her.

  “M’lady Linaya, it would be best if you did not speak unless asked a question. There is much more at stake here than you might believe, and though we have a mission, at present it is secondary to the fight in the street this very day,” Gumbi stated while Zorbin nodded his approval.

  Linaya slowly indicated her understanding as they reached the massive wooden door standing between the twin spiral staircases. She watched as Gumbi approached and tapped its surface lightly, and observed as a small portal upon the door slid open and a face appeared through it. Gumbi and the face exchanged some words, the small portal closed, and with a deep moaning sound the giant wooden door swung open, straining upon its hinges, to permit the pair of dwarves and their human companion to enter.

  Past the door was an odd vaulted room that had a ceiling so high and arched that the actual peak of it was imperceptible from the floor. There were many cushioned seats within the room, and though they were told the wait might be a lengthy one, none as of yet had decided to sit. Instead, they stood quietly, no one certain what to say to disrupt the semi-solemn mood.

  In contradiction to the warning, only a handful of minutes passed before they were gathered by a dwarf so richly dressed Linaya imagined his clothes alone would be enough to finance the building of a small city. Following the dwarf, they were led through yet another passageway, and further still through a small but lavish chamber before finally entering a room that Linaya could only describe as unexpected.

  Within this room not a single decoration clung to any of the stone walls. No overstuffed cushions adorned richly carved furniture. Not even a rug had been laid out upon the floor. Instead, within the room only a circle of the most basic stone stools sat in a ring around a hole carved into the floor. Though the hole was an unexpected sight itself, it was the vast chamber that existed below it that caught Linaya’s attention. Immediately she knew that this was where dwarven kings were chosen. Where they clashed with both steel and wit, their strength and resolve were the only things they could use to lead themselves to victory.

  It was here, upon one of the plain stone stools, that Linaya first saw the king of the dwarven nation. She had very much expected to see an old dwarf, but the man was beyond her wildest dreams in reality. Though old dwarves were commonly referred to as old grey beards, this man had not a single shot of grey anywhere within his hair. Instead, it was white, if even it could be called that. So lacking of color was the hair of his head and beard that even the white seemed to be fading and entire bunches of strands now appeared semi-transparent, as if it were made of crystals or glass.

  His skin was so wrinkled and craggy that he appeared less a man and more the stump of an oak tree with a beard. His bushy eyebrows were so great they brushed against one another as the ancient dwarf looked upon those who had entered the chamber.

  Belaying his age and surmised antiquity, the king stood abruptly to greet his guests, his armor sparkling in the sparse lighting of the room. In one of the fashions common in the capital, the king was dressed in an armor created of scales, only instead of metal like most wore, the king’s armor was made entirely of diamonds. Each scale had been cut and carved from the most revered of gemstones to create for him a nearly impenetrable armor of the hardest substance known to man. Like his beard and hair, the armor had a ghostly, almost transparent appearance to it that made the dwarf look as if he stood between the realms of the living and the dead.

  His lips parting, the king’s gaze swept to meet all the eyes in the room before he began speaking.

  “Zorbin of the house Ironfist, it has come to my attention that you have killed a dwarf in the good standing of this nation who lived by the name Drummit of your same house.” The king turned his gaze to meet Zorbin’s eyes. “Do you deny it?”

  “No,” Zorbin replied simply.

  “It has also come to my attention that he attacked you without provocation, and that you did your duty to teach him the error of his ways. However, it has come to me to decide whether your current standing with the nation supersedes your birthrights as a dwarf within my kingdom.”

  The king looked again to each of them, half expecting someone to come to Zorbin’s defense. None did. Linaya felt the a
ir in the room thicken, as if something beyond her understanding was transpiring. She watched as again the king began to speak.

  “This is a difficult decision even for one as old as I to make. What I decide will be written in my history and will serve as precedent for any similar decisions in the future of the kingdom. Do I wish to be remembered as a king that was merciless and lacked compassion for my fellow dwarves? Would I wish to be remembered as a king who saw it fit not to serve justice to those who abandoned their heritage only to return and murder another of their own kind? You see, my decision on this matter is one that usually would require months of thought. At present, however, I do not wish to ponder such things for months. I am old, I am tired, and I am wearing thin, and for this reason I am going to put the decision within your own hands, Zorbin of the Ironfist clan.”

  Zorbin bowed his head, his thick bushy eyebrows knotting above his bulbous nose. Linaya wondered what battle waged within him, to be torn between two nations, sworn to one by blood, the other by destiny.

  The king, it seemed, was not yet finished.

  “Do you, Zorbin of the Ironfist clan, admit to killing Drummit of your own house?”

  “I do.”

  “Were you, by your recollection, attacked by aforementioned Drummit?”

  “I was.”

  “Did you, as is custom by our people, attempt to show Drummit the error of his ways before laying to rest his body?”

  “I did.”