JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING II

by JANRAE FRANK

  Despair gathered in her belly. She felt a soul-deep exhaustion spread through her. Josiah was dead. The gambit had failed. No help would come. Her bonds pulled painfully at her wounded arms and shoulders. A gray haze filled her mind and heart, dulling her awareness. All meaning and determination became ghostly wisps of memory. She could not even raise a sheltering anger to sustain her.

  Margren, Mephistis, and the vampire in crimson velvet approached her.

  The vampire bowed low. "Aejystrys Rowan, I have longed to meet you. Ten years ago you routed my forces in a magnificent display of strategy and sheer nerve. I must say you are far less impressive without your armor."

  "Hoon," she growled with a fading spark of defiance.

  "Yes. I am Lord Hoon." He smiled; he could see in the half-glazed expression that she was near to breaking, if not already broken.

  Margren stalked closer, "Enough of this," she growled. Even Hoon was taken with Aejys and that made her furious. Margren intended to put a stop to the way Aejys always lured her supporters and lovers from her. Margren's existence would be better once her sister was gone from it – or so reduced no one would ever want her. No one would want a rotting revenant, not even Hoon.

  Aejys watched Margren take a small object from a pouch at her side. Margren glanced surreptitiously at Mephistis to be certain that he had not noticed her take it out. Every time she had brought the subject up he had forbidden her to do this; to use the hilt to force Aejys directly from life into undeath, lest it interfere with his chances of achieving mortgiefan. Margren's eyes slid across to Hoon's with a small smile, and she glanced at her hand. His eyes followed hers and he saw it. Hoon whispered to Mephistis and they moved away together to discuss something else alone.

  Margren brandished it in Aejys' face and she could see that it was the empty hilt of the blade that had left her soul unclean. A chill ran through the ha'taren. She did not know what Margren intended to do with it, but she knew it would be bad.

  "You are always taking the good things away from me. You have always robbed me."

  "You robbed yourself," she answered, her voice soft and worn, almost lifeless in its tone.

  "I hate you!"

  "I loved you. Our ma'aram loved you. I regret leaving you in the snow castle."

  "Shut up!" Margren shoved the hilt, crosspiece up, between Aejys' breasts. The metal seared through her flesh, the bone beneath, and into her heart where it bonded with the organ. A long cry of agony burst from the ha'taren's lips, and she sagged in her bonds, consciousness mercifully fled.

  Dree screamed.

  Margren whipped around, snarling. "Don't like what you see?" She walked over to Dree. "You're next. Where are my children?"

  "I'll never tell you."

  "I'll kill and raise you. The undead cannot refuse. You will lead me to them."

  "No."

  Margren pulled her dagger, ripping Dree's thigh open. Dree screamed. Margren liked the sound, it made her shiver. She slid the blade into Dree's side just above the organs, not wanting her to die too quickly. Dree writhed in anguish. Margren smiled, liking the dance of pain. She dropped her robes, rubbing her naked body up and down Dree's as she shoved the blade in again and again. Margren moaned low, nuzzling Dree's neck, sliding the blade into the fatty tissue of Dree's breasts.

  Dree closed her eyes, fixed her thoughts on Dynarien, and willed herself to die. Her soul fled beyond Margren's reach, her corpse sagging in its bonds.

  "Nooooo!" Margren shrieked as she felt Dree die before she was ready for her to. She beat and slashed Dree's corpse. Dree's spirit had escaped and she could not be raised.

  "That happens frequently with catkin," Hoon said smoothly as he forced the blade from Margren's hand. "Hang her body up and drain it. She should not be a total loss." He signed two vampires who quickly removed the corpse to a draining-pole. "Out of a thousand catkin deaths, I have only captured a single soul. However, I think you will savor the taste of her blood. Catkin blood has a piquant, interesting flavor. I consider it a rare treat."

  "I want my children."

  Hoon slipped his arm around Margren. "When we find the catkin tribe – and rest assured we will find them – we will find your children."

  * * * *

  Dynarien sat beside the scrying pool, eating a handful of grapes and kiwi-fruit. The garden would grow anything he asked it to. He was not scrying; this was simply one of his favorite places to sit in the garden. Once his initial alarm had passed, he had begun to appreciate the golden flowers Kalirion had filled it with as a gift to his sister. The water shimmered, then roiled, and settled. A torn and bloody ghost rose through the water and hovered in front of him. Dynarien dropped his lunch.

  "Dree! Who did this?"

  "Margren. They have Aejys. She saw Josiah fall."

  Josiah. Grief rushed through him. Then he remembered that Talons was out there somewhere, and fear for her shoved the grief aside, replacing it with anger and determination. Talons and Aejys would need him. Dynarien summoned his golden armor, his weapons, and a satchel of medicinals. "Show me where they are."

  Dree turned to the pool, waving a pale hand above it. A picture appeared in the surface. Aejys hung unconscious in her bonds. Several shifters worked on a crude bleeding table before her. The scene changed and Josiah clung to Talons' waist to avoid falling from Little Bit's back as they flew. Relief came then, for Josiah was alive.

  Dynarien sent the satchel back and switched to a backpack: Josiah would need alcohol. "I can find them. Dree, your human form is dead, but I may be able to bring you back as the calico. Are you willing to spend the rest of your life as a cat?"

  "Yes."

  "If they mutilate your body too much, I won't be able to bring you back."

  "I understand."

  Dynarien pulled an empty soul gem from his pocket and extended it to her. Dree's ghost touched the crystal and was drawn into it. The sa'necari would not be able to raise her as undead. Her soul was safe. Dynarien tucked the crystal into his pocket.

  * * * *

  Talons and Josiah found the large encampment as daylight waned. Josiah looked worse with each passing hour, the pain of his wounds dragging at him. Talons had never fought undead before and, although Josiah assured her that he could and had, she dared not count on him considering how badly he had been hurt. The camp was too large, too heavily manned, and her cloak of shadows would not deceive most forms of the undead. Even Little Bit could not handle this. The horn appeared to be the key. She put it to her lips.

  "They'll hear it," Josiah said, putting his hand on hers to stop her.

  "Sephree's Horn is only heard by those to whom it speaks," Talons explained. "Kalestari used it at the Battle of Minnoras."

  Josiah shook his head. "Why didn't Skree tell us that?"

  "He probably didn't know. He's salt water; Sephree was a Fae with naiad blood, fresh water. Most do not fully understand the horn. It's like the whistle I use to call Little Bit."

  "You know a lot for an assassin."

  Talons gave him a thin smile. "Sephree is counted among my ancestors. We lost track of it after the horn was loaned to the windmon, Faera during the Great War. It was lost for more than a decade after she perished." She put it to her lips and blew. Josiah did not hear it.

  She passed the horn to Josiah. "Your turn. We need all the help we can get."

  Josiah blew. This time he heard it. The note was long, high and sweet, yet demanding, a clarion's call. He started to blow it again just to hear it, but Talons stopped him. She took the horn and hung it around her neck.

  The scent of roses swept over them and a voice asked, "Talons? What?" Dynarien appeared beside them. His backpack looked heavy, full, but he moved as if its weight was scarcely felt. "Josiah. Thank the Creation, Dree thought you were dead." He reached into his pack, and pulled out a bottle of Dragonsbreath, passing it to Josiah.

  "Nearly was. Shifters pulled me down, but Talons got them." Josiah tore the top off, drinking in long sucking drags. P
ower flared. He silently cast a spell to take away the pain, strengthen his torn limbs, and sustain him. With the spell reinforcing him, he could take a lot more punishment. However, the spell could also exhaust his body into death when it faded if he was not careful. It was one of the most desperate measures a battlemage could take, intended to allow him to make a final stand against insurmountable odds. It was a chance he was willing to take and a price he was willing to pay.

  "They have Aejys and Dree," Talons told him quickly.

  "Dree is dead," Dynarien said. "I was on my way here before you blew the horn."

  Josiah's mouth twisted with sadness. "Poor Dree. She tried hard."

  "Need some help?" A freckled face with huge ears and a leather cap and goggles, strode into the clearing.

  "Pieface!" Dynarien exclaimed, grateful to see his sister's little paladin. "There's an undead army down there and they've got some friends of ours."

  "Ready when you are. Over and Out." Pieface unhooked a pie pan from his belt and started down the slope toward the camp. "If I get scared, duck and cover."

  "We must get down there." Josiah, the bottle shoved into a pocket of his pants, running toward the camp before anyone could stop him.

  A tremendous Gate Arcane shimmered into existence on the far side of the camp.

  "Carliff has come. He must have heard the call," Dynarien said, then ran after Josiah with Pieface and Talons close behind.

  "How do you kill the dead?" Talons shouted.

  "Take their heads off. Break them apart. Cut their hearts out. Burn them."

  Pieface got there first. Although the humans had longer legs, he picked his up and put them down faster.

  "Hey, stupid!" He shouted at a trio of skeletons guarding the perimeter.

  They turned and saw him, drew their swords and charged. The pie pan sailed from the Nym's hand. It arced, took two heads off and returned to Pieface's hand, then sailed out again to behead the third.

  Josiah shook his head in wonder as Pieface ducked around a tree and disappeared. The mage drew his sword, filling his other hand with blue fire. Six skeletons rushed between the tents, swords and shields ready. Josiah took out four with a small blue fireball. He parried a sword cut, kicked the shield in and rolled fire across the first one as it hit the ground. He dodged around the second and cut its head off before it could turn. He stalked through the camp, firing the tents as he passed. Two sa'necari came upon him. Josiah wrapped power around the nearest one, but the sa'necari broke loose with a word. The necromancer's sword engaged Josiah's, striking high with a snaking twist to the side and down. Josiah blocked with his blade and struck with a lance of flame. The sa'necari screamed as the spell fire took him in the chest and crumpled. Josiah dodged the second's lunging thrust, heard others racing up to his right. He retreated, turning, trying to keep them all in sight. A blade raked his ribs and another caught him in the side. He staggered back, recovered, and slashed a mon's throat. The spell held and he did not go down.

  * * * *

  As Talons ducked between the tents something grabbed her legs and she fell hard, kicking instinctively. Her boot connected: she heard bone crunch and came free rolling. She summoned her claws as she gained her feet.

  "Sweet meat," the vampire said, grinning at her, exposing impressive fangs.

  Talons danced back.

  The vampire's power darted into her mind and sent her reeling. Hadjys' mark sprang to life, burning away the intrusion, but the vampire seized her before she could recover. She felt his fangs break the skin on her throat and shoved blindly with her claws. The vampire released her, clutching at his face. Talons ripped his throat out. The vampire dropped to his knees. Talons kicked him in the chest, knocking him the rest of the way down, then stomped his throat to crush and sever the neck bone.

  "Hit the dirt!" A high voice shouted behind her. Talons dropped. A pie pan sailed over her; taking out two skeletons she had not heard approach.

  "Come on," Pieface said, "There's more of 'em over that way."

  Talons stood. She touched her neck and winced at the blood. It sickened her. She thought of the nameless, faceless vampire that had left the marks on her body; who had been in her mind with such ease. That one had to be powerful indeed. She needed a soldier's weapons. Her claws and techniques did not serve as well in battle as they did in small skirmishes, especially with the undead and the sa'necari. She had trained with the sword and, although it was not her favorite weapon, she decided to start carrying one.

  "I need a sword," she muttered.

  "I'll getcha one," Pieface said. "I got some good ones in my collection."

  "What do you want for it?"

  "A big smacharoni right there!" He patted his cheek. "Make Dynarien pure green it will."

  Talons bent and kissed him.

  A huge grin spread across the Nym's face. He picked up one of the swords from a fallen foe. "Use this in the meantime."

  Talons and Pieface walked out into the killing field, past two bodies tied to draining poles. A sa'necari and a nearly nude necari stood near the south edge, watching the fighting which had drawn away most of their forces. They must have sensed them because they turned and looked. The sa'necari brought his hands up, wove a quick spell, and threw it.

  "Hit the dirt!" Pieface shouted, flinging himself on the ground.

  Talons dropped.

  Pieface raised up on his elbows as the spell energy passed above him and launched his pan, but the angle was awkward and it flew crooked.

  Margren grabbed Mephistis, blocking the pan with her body as she pushed him down. It caught her in the back and she collapsed.

  "Noooo!" Mephistis cried. He rose with her in his arms, levitating rapidly.

  "Get them!" Talons shouted.

  The pan returned to Pieface's hand. He closed one eye and measured the widening distance. "Can't. They're moving too fast."

  * * * *

  The lich king of Norendel sat a restless steed with a mane of dancing flames and a body of glistening jet. Skeleton warriors, six hundred strong ranged behind him. A trio of vampire lords in black and gold armor sat their steeds beside him.

  "They are near," Carliff said, his voice hollow and whistling like wind through a graveyard on a winter's night.

  "We are two days east of where we found those bodies," the nearest lord said. "Do you still believe they were from Dree's party, My Liege?"

  "Yes," Carliff answered. "I sensed Dree enter Norendel with Aejystrys Rowan. She is blood of my blood. How could I not know?"

  "If we do not find them in time, Hoon will surely kill them both."

  "I know."

  A horn call echoed across the valley.

  "There," Carliff said. He opened a huge gray gate with a word and a wave of his hand, then gave his steed some rein and led them through.

  * * * *

  The shifters moved Aejys from the tree to the bleeding table, lashing her tight. As her head turned, she saw Dree's body hanging upside down from a draining pole, her blood running into a basin from her slit throat. Her heart broke then and her spirit crashed deeper into the darkness of despair. Her eyes dulled and the world seemed to gray over. She heard them talking around her as if from a great distance, none of it registered. If she had any thoughts she could not hear them. She seemed shrouded in emptiness.

  "I must have the mortgiefan," Mephistis said, staring down at Aejys.

  Hoon bent over her, stroking her. "The spell of the blade is on her," he said, tapping the embedded hilt. "This must be handled delicately. If you disrupt the spell it could have dire consequences for you, my prince."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Leave me alone with her. Let me bring her to the edge, then I will call for you and we will complete it. You will be healed."

  "So be it," Mephistis replied, walking across the green to Margren's side. They settled down together.

  Hoon smiled. "Open your mind to me and there will be no pain."

  "No." Aejys' voice was faint, listl
ess.

  Hoon nuzzled her throat, but then he started talking again. "The spell of the blade already pushes you directly from life into undeath."

  He cut her hand free and showed her the limb already turning blue. She looked at it and felt nothing.

  "You will rise as a revenant, slave to Margren's will. She plans to send you back to devour your loved ones. I can offer you a better choice. If you accept my blood, you will rise as a vampire, possessed of free will, no threat to those you love. What do you say?"

  The long nightmare of being turned against her own was close to becoming reality. She held no hope of rescue. There was no one out there to aid her. Free will. The offer was seductive. She would not be forced to feed on her loved ones. She could still have her revenge. Hoon's offer became irresistible. She would take it. Aejys turned her face aside, offering him her throat. "Do it."

  Joy lit Hoon's face: Margren was but a poor shadow of her sister. To possess the Lion of Rowanslea had long been his dream – ever since seeing her in battle during the Great War. His head reared back like a snake and struck, driving his fangs into her throat. Aejys gasped sharply and her body tightened, but she did not shame herself by giving voice to her anguish. The gray wall wrapping her dulled her feelings. She could find strength for nothing more than passive resistance. She did not know how long he sucked; it seemed like hours. Hoon opened his shirt, slicing his skin open with a long nail. He lifted her head, pressing her mouth to the wound.

  As the blood entered her mouth, Aejys felt a sudden wave of still deeper emptiness – deeper than she believed possible – and total abandonment as the god-given shields that had protected her mind from his intrusion dissolved. She had broken faith with her liege-god and Aroana had deserted her as Hoon's blood slipped down her throat. She was no longer a paladin; she had become a rogue without a god. The blood tasted good, sending a strange warmth through her and with it – hunger. She sucked harder.