They were the hounds Maeris. Strong and intelligent, but obedient and submissive to Maeris. Their human will was taken from them and replaced with a more animal-like desire to please their master, and anyone who was not their master was their enemy. They were extremely dangerous beings bent on pleasing the god of destruction—and destruction was their specialty. Killing brought back the feeling of being in control; of not being under the thumb of the other gods. Holding the final say over whether a human being lived or died was the key to making them feel alive and in control. They were completely obsessed with it.
The only thing that drove them even more was the idea that some day they could rule all of humankind; the very thought of it bringing them to the state of ecstasy. Control was all that mattered to them. Whether it was brought about by the heavy end of their hammers, or from the fear of their crown, it did not matter. All men would fall to their knees and worship them. Women would not resist them. Gods would respect them. Armies would obey their every command.
All they had to do was kill one man.
Chapter 15
The Zidaoz threaded his long fingers together as he waited. The cold wind outside tugged at the fabric of his tent in violent spurts. Soldiers ran to and fro, securing the flaps and decorating the area with all of the luxuries of Bhoor-Rahn that they had brought with them on their journey. Lamps were lit to brighten the makeshift living quarters, and carpets were laid down to shield their master's feet from the gnawing bite of winter cold. In a few more days, he would enter the city of Taburdum, and no longer be forced to live inside a tent.
When he arrived at Taburdum, he would immediately rename it Zuhr'Awhi, or in the common tongue, New Zuhr. It was taking the occupation at Medora to the next level. To have their city renamed a Bhoor name was a definitive statement claiming that the end of the western world was at hand. With any luck the people of Medora would begin to lose heart, and convert to the one true religion of the one true god, Rohni. Once they converted, there would be no reason to maintain pressure on them militarily. An iron fist would need to rule them and keep them in line, but once they all worshipped Rohni, peace could finally begin.
After all, the Bhoors were a people of peace. They wanted nothing more than to end the bloodshed in their lands, but the blasphemers and infidels of the surrounding lands needed to be stopped. Their twisted vision of society had no place in the world, and threatened the Bhoors and their way of life. War was the only language the infidels understood, and luckily it was a language the Bhoors spoke fluently.
One of the Dirujen, Mekkal, entered the tent. "All is going as planned, Zidaoz. We will let them rest tonight, and in the morning we will take them out ahead of the army and march for a full day. The army is moving too slowly and it is holding us back. We can arrive at the Medoran border two or three days ahead of you, assuming the weather holds."
"How many?" the Zidaoz asked as he rested his bearded chin in his palm.
"We will take all of them, unless you wish to keep some with you. I will only need five or so Dirujen to go along to control them. A handful of us can handle them."
"All 50? Are you sure about that?"
"There were 48 total and two have died, leaving only 46 of them now. But all that remain seem healthy. We have buried the two who have fallen in fear of a disease spreading. Other than that, they have not given us any trouble, and all obey."
"Your leader Lohken told me similar things last time."
Mekkal picked a bit of fuzz from his jacket. "There are no males this time. The markings on their backs mean they are all female. It is not possible to run into the same problems we had last time. Besides, it is my hope that Lohken has captured our troublemaking cousin Vohlhemoneer by now. Last time he was able to control the animals and thwart our plans, but he should not pose any further threat to us."
The Thrahks that had proven to be such a terrible problem in the battle near Burnhamheade in the autumn were once again among the Bhoors' arsenal. It was a decision made when the Dirujen had realized that a large herd of the creatures had wandered north from their lands, apparently in search of the missing Thrahks that had been captured and used in the battle. More than 100 had roamed into Bhoor-Rahn, but when the Dirujen had discovered them, they immediately began slaughtering the males. The Dirujen had decided that the remaining females would be easier to control, as the females were wont to follow the males and mimic their actions. It was far too dangerous to use both males and females and risk one of the males losing control again. The last time that had happened, the animals had destroyed a significant portion of the Bhoors' army.
The Zidaoz yawned. "Have you heard any report from Lohken? Is he on his way back to Bhoor-Rahn, or will he meet us on the battlefield?"
"I do not know, Zidaoz. We have not received any report from him. I assume he will try to return to Bhoor-Rahn, but he will probably see us when we cross the plains going into Medora. He was told that we were going to slaughter the beasts, so he will be taken by surprise if he sees them. But he will understand what is happening and hopefully join us then."
"What makes you think he is still alive? He should have returned to us weeks ago."
"He is immortal. He cannot be killed. He may have been caught up in some sort of trouble, but he is still alive, I can assure you of that."
The Zidaoz huffed a quiet, jealous huff. For as long as the line of his fathers had ruled Bhoor-Rahn, it was their dream to be immortal. Every one of them had lied and claimed that they were immortal; each son claiming that they were in fact the father that came before him. The people of Bhoor-Rahn all believed that there had only ever been a single Zidaoz, and any who dared to question the lie were put to death.
But he was different than his fathers before him. He had searched the world between worlds and actually found the great god Rohni. His mission was to please his god and earn true immortality. It had become clear to him that the name Rohni was one of many names that his god used. Some people from other lands knew him by other names—one being "Inshae", and another being "Oderion". The people of the west falsely believed that Rohni was a god among many other gods, which most certainly drew Rohni's ire. There was only one god; a single divine being that oversaw all creation and all destruction.
The Zidaoz himself would oversee the total destruction of the west, and the creation of a new world devoid of the filth and greed of the Medorans and Vindyri. Those who would accept the truth of the one god Rohni would be enslaved, but spared, and any who did not would be sent to the next world unprepared. Their blood would crash down on the new world, wave after glorious wave, drowning the hopes of the last few who chose to resist. Only then could there be peace. Only then could the Bhoors lay down their swords and break the shafts of their arrows.
And in a few days the final war would begin. He would tear down every blasphemous temple and building. Every block of marble and granite would be thrown into the ocean. He would use the Vindyri and the Thrahks to annihilate the Medorans, and then turn his armies on the Vindyri who helped him. They had done much the same thing to the Medorans, and deserved their fate for their traitorous ways.
Soon the rivers would run red with blood. Soon all would worship Rohni.
Chapter 16
Song dropped the charcoal onto the paper, ruining some of the perfect lines. His headache had suddenly intensified greatly, and for a moment his vision flashed white. He brought his hand up to his forehead to try to comfort himself, not realizing that he was smearing his face with charcoal from his fingertips.
Daphne noticed and gave an attentive bark. Song ignored her as he tried to deal with the sudden pain. He opened and shut his jaw a few times, hoping that it would somehow help. He realized he was forcing his eyes closed very hard as he grimaced, and so he relaxed and opened them, again in a futile effort to dull the pain.
He began to realize that something was very wrong. He had never had a headache come on so quickly, and it didn't feel the same as other headaches. This was a piercing pa
in right behind his eyes, and not an aching throb throughout his skull. He stood in a panic, pushing away the nearly perfect charcoal drawing, smearing it in the process. He didn't know what good standing would do, but he did not want to remain seated.
Then the world got wavy. The pain somehow materialized in the real world and all the objects in his vision looked as if they were under water. He felt a bit of dizziness, but not enough to send him to the floor. Daphne had jumped down off the bed to come to his side. She barked, but he could not hear it. He reached down to calm her, but he could not feel her fur on his palm.
He began to think that he was about to die, and a cold panic shot through his body. He had not yet done enough. He had not had a chance to truly leave his mark on the world and no one would remember him except his dog. Guilt and sorrow filled his soul as he thought about how sad she would be with him gone. The poor dog would probably starve to death before anyone ever realized that he had died. The thought of her dying alone and sad began to haunt him more than the idea of dying himself.
Then the noise began. There was a distant, high-pitched screech beginning to drill into his skull. It grew in volume and intensity until even the pain he was feeling was preferable by comparison. It was as if every sound in the entire world was being made all at once, and it completely drowned out all reality. Nothing was real except the terrible, twisted sound of all of eternity screaming between his ears.
And then something truly odd occurred. After what seemed like hours of unbearable noise, there was a lull. But it was not just a period of quiet in the chaos; it was a clearing of his vision as well. It was as if all of his senses were experiencing the exact same phenomenon, and not separate elements of an event. His ears no longer rang with the horrid sound, and his eyes no longer beheld the world. His vision was gone, and yet he could see. His hearing was gone, and yet he could hear. He was experiencing the world in an entirely new way, but the world he expected to see was no longer there. His dog and his home were gone. The walls were not there. The ground beneath him was not there. The ceiling or sky he expected above him was missing. What he saw was emptiness. It was not black, as if his eyes were shut—it was nothing.
Then suddenly the words rolled by him. They were written words, mostly in his own handwriting, but they were unfamiliar to him. They were old words that he could not read with his eyes but his mind somehow knew them anyway. They raced passed him in his vision, teaching him things that made no sense to his mind but spoke clearly to his soul.
Amulets and jewels surrounded him. Weapons and armor appeared from the emptiness. Information streamed into him and he soaked it all in. It made no sense, but he watched it all happening and tried to understand why. The sun rose and set ten thousand times. The ice of winter thawed into summer rain. The green leaves burned away in the inferno of autumn. This happened over and over countless times in a beautiful display or perpetual, reliable change. It was the heartbeat of reality manifested.
And then there was the blackness. It was beyond any darkness he could ever have imagined, and he instantly knew it was the pit of the void itself. He stared right into the open jaws of the terrible nothing; that devourer of souls. It called to him to enter so that his soul could momentarily sate its unquenchable hunger for the spirits of men.
But the void held no power over him and he remained in that strange world between it and reality. He watched inside the void and saw passed the blackness. There were things inside that nothingness. There were swirling, boiling souls squirming to find an exit. There were cities of men in realms unimagined. There were creatures of all shapes and sizes clawing or biting, but there were also beautiful creatures gliding through the void with perfect grace.
He realized that he was not looking into the void itself, but the words were showing him what was inside. The image was only painted in his mind with the words he saw rolling by in his vision. But the words were not part of that vision—they were entirely real.
And then the blackness returned, only to be sealed shut. The armor and jewels whirled around him once more. A familiar golden sword entered his vision, hovering in front of him with the blade pointed downward. It slowly got closer and began to vibrate and dance with light. An otherworldly humming sound accompanied the light, and he could not look away. He made an attempt to reach out to touch the sword, only to discover that he had no hands to touch with. In fact, he had no body at all. This startled him and his fear of being dead returned. He turned around to try to get back to his world where his dog was surely waiting.
What he saw next frightened him to his core.
Chapter 17
Gorin smelled the men on the wind long before he ever saw them. They crept carefully over the hills and through the trees, but the relentless rattle of their clinking armor had given away their position long ago. Gorin could smell their salty, stale sweat drying on their skin. He could almost taste it on his tongue. The sharp smell of their metal armor could almost be mistaken for the metallic scent of blood; the wonderful aroma filling him with joy and excitement.
Just over the hill, a small group of Vindyri soldiers made their rounds, doing their best to monitor their assigned area. A quick count showed there were about 20 of them, but none of them had even drawn a weapon yet. Oddly enough, they had not seen Gorin standing there on a hill in the open.
He had removed his cloak to expose his massive frame to the soldiers approaching. The purplish color of his skin should have been enough to draw their attention, but it seemed that they were more interested in talking amongst themselves and even joking. They had no idea that danger waited for them mere yards away.
Then one of the soldiers looked up. The man's terrified look brought a snarl of a smile to Gorin's face and he let out a deep growl. The rest of the soldiers paused in confusion for a moment before they saw what their companion saw. When they all finally realized that an enemy stood before them, a wave of fear shuddered through their ranks.
One of them men spoke up, his little human voice squeaking. "Who goes there?"
Gorin growled louder, ending his growl with his name. "Gorin is my name."
"What manner of beast are you?" a man stuttered.
Gorin's response was nothing but another growl. His face most likely showed nothing but anger and malice, but he was actually having a lot of fun. Striking fear into a large group of men was a very special feeling. Most of the time he detested his own appearance, but at times like these, he was happy with his curse—even a little proud.
Another one of the soldiers spoke up, this one a little braver and less squeaky. "What is your business here? We patrol this area and it is off limits at this time."
"I need food and supplies," Gorin responded.
"There is a town to the southeast called Morrat where you can find supplies. We cannot allow you to go any farther north or west. These areas are off limits to anyone but soldiers."
Gorin pulled his war hammer from his back. "I'm not going to Morrat. There are supplies and food here."
Half the men didn't even realize what he meant. The other half had drawn their swords and made ready to defend themselves. Eventually they all realized what was about to happen and pulled out their pathetic little blades. A few jogged out to the sides to flank him. He let them.
A shaky voice made a pitiful attempt to reprimand him. "Put your weapon away and leave this area or we will be forced to take action."
Gorin reached over and placed his massive hand on the man's helmet, crumpling the steel and crushing his skull with ease. His body fell to the cold ground, convulsing as if he was still alive. He wasn't.
The other soldiers rushed in to hack at him with their puny weapons. A swipe of his hammer dented a breastplate so badly that its wearer was unable to breathe any longer. Gorin laughed at the fact that the man would suffocate before he could remove the armor. Another quick hit with the hammer would end his misery, but Gorin refused to do that.
Men rushed in to attack. Gorin swung the hammer again, clippin
g three or four of them in the swing. All of them flew through the air and tumbled to the ground like little discarded human dolls.
One of the men suddenly felt brave and ran straight at him. He let the puny man swing his sword, but he shifted his weight to the side. The sword missed, and the soldier stumbled a bit before recovering his balance. As soon as he did, Gorin grabbed him by the bicep and threw him high into the air. It was not high enough of a fall to kill the man, but enough to break one of his legs when he landed. Gorin made a special effort to go over and step on the man's broken leg and cause him as much pain as possible. It would be a good opportunity to show these humans just how ruthless he would be. When he reached the injured man, he was pleased to see that some bone was sticking out of the meat of his leg. When Gorin put all of his weight on the shattered limb, he felt the broken bones grind and crunch under his foot.
Several of them flanked him and tried to attack from the rear. All their hope fled from them when they realized that there was yet another beast-like man waiting behind a tree. His brother Gewin slowly walked over to the skirmish and began swinging his own heavy hammer.
Both brothers began to sing in unison. It was a deep, rumbling tune, more horrifying than uplifting. The hammer strikes became the drumming rhythm. Grunts and growls became the chorus. Screaming men added their own voices to the terrifying song. The words the brothers sung were in an old language that none of the Vindyri could possibly understand, but the meaning of the song was conveyed precisely. It meant that killing was easy and enjoyable, and should be accompanied by song.
The dark, booming tune went on as the twins smashed their opponents. There were no severed limbs or slashes in this battle, only the violent cracks of hammer on steel or bone. Blood poured from dead noses and mouths. Crushed armor imprisoned the helpless fallen, and would never be able to be removed for burial.
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