Devil's Dominion (The Anarian Chronicles Book 2)

by Stephen Trolly

  “Well, no, not honour really, I suppose.” Volkure smiled, a warm smile instead of a feral one, like he was enjoying a joke. “I mean, it isn’t this part, the meeting you and talking to you, which I find to be an honour. I mean, killing you, and taking your head. That will be a truly great honour. Your head will be the crown jewel of my collection, and Riin-Dair will be a trophy that is handed down through the future line of Kings of Anaria that will be my House.”

  “Oh really. You seem so certain of that.”

  “The Kindler has already promised me a princedom in exchange for twenty-five Morschledu heads. If one of those I bring him is yours … He may even give me the Queen.”

  “You want my head so badly? Try and take it. I’ve killed bigger men than you!”

  Volkure drew his sword. “I would say the same, but it would be in metaphor only. You’re easily the largest Morschen I’ve ever seen, let alone had the privilege of killing.” Volkure licked his lips in anticipation. “I’ll give you every chance to deny me my right. All six of you, against me. I’ll kill you one at a time, or I’ll fight and kill you all at once. The choice is yours.”

  Norrin still wasn’t having the Armandan bravado. “I know enough about you to know I can kill you easily.”

  Volkure crouched into a ready position. “Then just to make it fair, my Deshika will not interfere. After all, you can’t beat me. A hammer has no place on a battlefield.”

  One of Norrin’s guards, outraged by the insult, leapt forward, attacking Volkure without any notice. Volkure countered, knocking the Eschcotan’s sword down with a heavy slice, then spinning through the move to bring his sword back around, slicing off his enemy’s head from his left to his right. The Eschcotan fell, and Volkure grabbed the removed head by the hair before it had the chance to fall to the ground. He lifted the dead man’s head so that he could look it in the eyes. “I killed seventeen Drogs by decapitating them. I killed and took the head of a Torridestan spy.” Volkure threw the head to one of his War Chiefs and then faced Norrin. “I will take the heads of your guards, and then yours. They will be preserved forever, a testament to the rise of House Volkure. I will be the Hand of the Queen, as well as her King. Anaria will be my plaything to do with as I please, and the Morschledu Remnant will be my slaves.”

  Two of Norrin’s guards attacked him this time, trying to force him in between them. Volkure traded blows with both of them for a few seconds, but then stepped backwards to avoid one guard’s sword and ducked underneath the other. The sword that he ducked continued, biting in to the shoulder of the other guard, who dropped, dragging the other guard’s sword with him. Hialed Volkure stepped back into range and, with two strokes, added two more heads to his collection. “Those two heads make twenty-one, Morschcoda Shrevneer.” He picked them up and threw them to his War Chiefs as well. “Your men are making this too easy. But do you know the real pity? When I take your head, I will only have twenty-four. Maybe my lord The Kindler will be gracious enough to count yours twice.”

  Norrin’s final two guards had had enough. They moved slowly, determined and precise. They didn’t care if they died, for there was no escape whether Volkure was killed or not. They simply wanted him dead. And they wanted to be the ones to kill him.

  The first attacked from Volkure’s right, trading a flurry of blows for almost two full minutes before Volkure ducked underneath one. The missed attack left the Eschcotan off-balance, and facing the wrong way. His body fell, but Volkure caught his head by the hair and flung it to a War Chief, just in time to block an attack from the last guard.

  The last guard fared well against Volkure. He had managed to get a read on the way the Armandan moved with a sword. It was just enough. He landed a blow, drawing blood from Volkure’s right hip. It only enraged the Armandan. He grabbed the Eschcotan’s sword with his left hand and swung his sword as fast as he could with his right.

  Norrin reacted even faster. His hand found one of the chisels hanging from his belt, and the chisel flew straight, shattering Volkure’s right hand and forcing him to drop both swords. The guard tried to kill Volkure, but Volkure brought his knee up into the man’s groin, bringing the man to his knees. Volkure then kicked him in the head, snapping his neck.

  He picked up his sword with his left hand and awkwardly hacked off the final head. He dropped his sword to pick it up and toss it underhand to one of the War Chiefs who did not yet have an Eschcotan head to hold. Volkure then picked up his sword again and pointed it at Norrin.

  “That’s right. The Mason. Pity you didn’t think of it sooner. Or maybe, the worst thing is that you missed …” Volkure’s grin turned into a wolfish sneer. “That’s right, isn’t it? You never miss, do you? You aimed for my hand.” Volkure held up the bleeding wreck that had been his right hand, now smashed beyond healing. “You could have killed me easily, Morschcoda Norrin, and long before now. You could have taken off my head, Morschcoda. How ironic would that be? Hialed Volkure, the Morschledu Hunter who takes the heads of his kills, decapitated in return by Morschcoda Norrin Shrevneer.” Volkure laughed, a dark, menacing laugh. He sounded insane. “You have more of them, don’t you? Why don’t you throw one? Why don’t you kill me now? You know you can!” He was shouting now. Norrin felt each question like a slap. He could have done it. Volkure could have been dead long before this point. Maybe if he had, the Deshika would have been disheartened, possibly even afraid, and wavered long enough to escape. Norrin didn’t know these things. What he did know was that he still had his hammer, and that Hialed Volkure was clearly not capable of wielding his sword left-handed. Norrin could kill Hialed Volkure. And he was going to.

  The two circled around each other. Volkure had scavenged a shield from a Torridestan body around the edge of the Deshik circle. He had strapped it to his right wrist incredibly tightly. The strap acted as a tourniquet, stopping blood from leaking out of his destroyed hand. Norrin wielded Riin-Dair two handed. He knew that all he needed was one good blow. The shield was made of wood, with no iron or steel reinforcement. If he could force Volkure to block, he could land a heavy enough blow that the shield would shred like paper.

  Volkure didn’t give him the chance. He had continued to circle, inching closer with each sideways step, little by little narrowing the gap between them so slowly that Norrin barely even noticed until Volkure swung and underhand cut that sliced into Norrin’s thigh.

  Norrin yelled in pain and rage, whipping the hammer around with his left hand. Volkure bent backwards, underneath the blow as he had done twice before. Norrin got his hammer back in time to deflect a stab that would have killed him if Volkure had his right hand, but it still caught him in the muscle above his hip. Volkure pulled back and tried a high cut towards Norrin’s ear, as Norrin drove the head of his hammer into Volkure’s chest.

  Volkure staggered as Riin-Dair broke three of his ribs, but Norrin dropped to one knee as Volkure’s sword clipped his nose. Volkure rose, heaving and gasping for air. Norrin rose, trying to stop the blood that was pouring into his mouth.

  Norrin was at least grateful that the cut wasn’t to his forehead. He could still see. Volkure bitterly lamented the loss of his good hand. But, while he was down, and while Norrin had been distracted, he had loosened the strap of his shield just a little.

  Norrin recovered first, raising Riin-Dair for a killing blow. He intended to execute Hialed Volkure as though he was wielding an ax and not a hammer.

  Hialed twisted and whipped his right arm towards Norrin. The shield flew off the stump of his hand and hit Norrin just below his neck.

  The giant Eschcotan staggered, now gasping for air himself. He didn’t look up. He didn’t feel anything as the honed edge of Hialed Volkure’s sword came down on the back of his neck.

  *

  Hialed Volkure stared at the row of heads he had taken that day. Six heads, five of which he had already preserved, floating in sealed and heavily enchanted glass jars. Five nameless Eschcotans of the Mountain Guard, and the last to be prepared, Morsc
hcoda Norrin Shrevneer. Beside Norrin’s head lay the hammer, Riin-Dair. Volkure couldn’t even lift the damn thing; he’d had to have a War Chief carry it to his tent, along with others bringing the heads. He was tempted to just take another, random head from a corpse and claim twenty-five. But he had a perverse sense of honour, and he wanted to earn all of the heads honestly. “Maybe The Kindler really will count Norrin’s twice. He was a Morschcoda.” Satisfied with himself, for the moment, Volkure left the tent to retrieve his Ring.

  The Dance of Flame and Shadow

  Hialed Volkure took his time preparing his worktable. He cared about the preservation of the head of the former Morschcoda Norrin Shrevneer. The other heads he had taken had belonged to proud and honourable Morschen, men and women both, but Norrin Shrevneer was the only instantly recognizable name among the two dozen he had killed since he had become a Morschledu Hunter. Whatever the other heads would look like days or years after the jars were sealed, he did not care. That they existed would be enough. But with the Morschcoda’s head, he wanted that to be recognized by prisoners and slaves that served him when he ruled Anaria as King. He wanted the broken people of Anaria to recognize the face of the man who could have ended his despotism before it began, and he wanted them to curse both that man for failing and their gods for that man’s failure.

  First, Volkure raised the ruined stump of his right hand. After recovering his Ring, and managing to work it onto the middle finger of his left hand, he had burned his right wrist to cauterize the flesh, sealing the wound. He then spoke three quick words to create a ball of flame around the wrist. Picking up Norrin’s head with his left hand, he ran his hand along the base of Norrin’s neck, cauterizing the severed flesh, sealing inside what little remained of the blood and fluids. He then set the head aside and lifted a jar onto the table.

  First, he filled the jar with water, then, holding the jar between his hand and his right wrist, he increased the heat from his hands until the water in the jar was boiling, then kept making it hotter until the water had all evaporated. He then poured more water into the jar, which he mixed with a gelatinous, almost tar-like substance of his own creation. He took a large brush and painted Norrin’s face with the tar. Then, as part of the process of making sure it would continue to be recognizable permanently, he used progressively smaller brushes to paint the details of the dead Morschcoda’s face so that they would continue to be noticeable. He then slowly lowered Norrin’s head into the jar, whispering enchantments that he had learned from Vorteez for the preservation of flesh. He placed the lid on top of the jar, and placed his left hand on top. He heated the lid until it had melted and fused with the jar, and only stopped when his handprint, complete with an indentation for his Ring, was noticeable on the top.

  Volkure stepped back from the table and stretched his back. He then lifted the jar and held it up, so that he could look Norrin in the eyes.

  “Welcome to your new home, Morschcoda.” Volkure laughed, something between an insane cackle and a chuckle, and set the Morschcoda’s head back on the table. He stopped as he heard someone step into his tent. “What do you want?” He shouted. He turned and went to draw his sword, forgetting for the moment that it hung from his right hip now, not his left.

  The War Chief bowed, terrified at how quickly his General’s mood could change. “My apologies, my Lord.” The War Chief bowed. “A messenger is here, demanding to speak with you.” The War Chief backed out of the tent.

  Volkure rolled his shoulders and growled, but followed the War Chief out of the tent. An Armandan man, older than Volkure, dismounted when he saw the General.

  “Who are you and what do you want? I’m a busy man.”

  The messenger bowed. “Your pardon for the interruption, my Lord. I bring a message, from the Lord Vorteez.”

  Volkure rested his stump on his sword hilt. “Read it.”

  “Pardon, my Lord?”

  “You heard me. Read it. That’s an order.”

  “But the Lord Vorteez himself instructed me that this message was for your eyes only.”

  “And I am deciding that since the message is for me, I can choose who sees it.”

  “But, my Lord—”

  “Which of us is more likely to kill you right now: the Lord Vorteez, or me?” He paused to let the threat sink in. “Now. Read!”

  The Armandan trembled slightly as he broke the seal on the letter. His eyes flicked across the opening line. He managed to say two words, “Greetings General,” before his eyes burst into flame. The fire quickly spread to his hair, slowly burning its way down to the flesh on his head, which started to melt and burn as well. The messenger died slowly, burning until all that remained of him was a charred skeleton.

  Volkure looked down at the blackened skeleton, intrigued. Privately, he doubted that Vorteez had meant the trap for him. What would the Master of Pain need to fear about his messages being intercepted if the messages themselves could kill anyone but their intended recipient. Still, he wanted another test of his theory. He ordered one of his Deshika to read him the message.

  Slowly, the soldier picked up the parchment, fearing its apparent power to burn its readers to death. Slowly, he raised it, hoping that Volkure would say enough before he would have a chance to look at the words. But Volkure didn’t stop him.

  The Deshik soldier didn’t even get as far as the Armandan messenger before him had. The second that he looked at the first word, he dropped the paper and started to writhe in pain, clutching at his stomach. A large, sharp, black rock forced its way through the Deshika’s skin above his stomach. Then others started to form and force their way out. Blood poured from the tip of each rock as they continued to grow out of him, until finally, he collapsed, dead.

  Satisfied with his experiment, Volkure picked up the paper himself. A wicked sparkle touched his eyes as he read the message, savouring the feeling that the words gave him. “We have a new mission.” He turned to his War Chiefs. “Daken Calmi has returned to Meclarya, causing upheaval across the Morieden Plains in Northern Drogoda. He must be stopped. He has taken refuge in the Dragon Graveyard.” Volkure laughed. “Fitting, since that will be his grave as well.” A second sheet shifted as Volkure refolded the paper. He pulled it off of the first and read it, his expression souring. “Unfortunately, it won’t be his grave. Vorteez wants him alive.”

  *

  “Heishtar vur!” Erygan swore loudly, slamming his fist onto his map table and scattering the flags and figures that represented various armies throughout northern Anaria. A servant jumped, and General Domrar Cadrick looked up at his King, both afraid and annoyed.

  “My Lord, this is the best information that we have.”

  “Well it’s not shtining good enough, is it?” Erygan picked up a small black carving that was supposed to represent his son and threw it back down on the table in disgust. “He’s my son, Domrar. He has the power to be wherever he wants to be by thinking himself there, and so do almost one hundred of his soldiers, and he still can’t stay in contact. How did Volkure’s army even get across the Baan-Taar in the first place?”

  Domrar tried to remain calm for his King’s sake. “I do not know, my Lord. Obviously, Prince Eildar’s forces were overmatched or otherwise unprepared to hold the bridge. Prince Eildar, I’ve noticed, is reluctant to spend lives if he believes that the battle is already lost.”

  Erygan groaned and rolled his shoulders, then rubbed his face in his hands. “And what good does that do us, Domrar? How in the Three Hells does saving lives matter if we lose Eschcota and Braldish?”

  “It is a gamble, my Lord. Perhaps the Prince felt that, behind Braldish’s walls, his army could hold the line, and so is trying to find some balance between damage dealt and lives kept.”

  “It could be,” Erygan muttered, only reluctantly agreeing. He sat down across the table that his anger had virtually swept clean. “He is smarter than me, at least about war. He studied tactics under Makret Druoth, you know.”

  Domrar actually
smiled. “I know, my lord. I can remember how pleased he was when you told him he was going to Morieden City.”

  Erygan smiled too. “Leshia wouldn’t talk to me for a month after Eildar left. She wanted to go too.” Erygan laughed. “Every Great House has its share of Garrenin blood, but those children of mine …” Erygan laughed again. “It must be their mother. Something about Meclaryans seems to set off the flood of Garrenin-ness. Taren’s father, Garrick Calmi. My wife, Rashti Calmi.” Erygan took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s just House Calmi.”

  Domrar laughed with his King. “If Queen Rashti were here, I would want to be well out of the way right now. Her scepter does more than leave bruises.”

  “Too true.” Erygan began to replace the flags and carved figures. “So, what do we know about what’s happening to the south?”

  “Which south, my Lord? Far south or near south?”

  “The far south isn’t my concern.”

  Domrar nodded and adjusted Erygan’s flags. “This, here, is us.” He pointed to a flag near the Eschcota-Torridesta border. “This, about three days’ travel west of Lake Miliish, is Eildar. And this,” he set a red token on the map, “about a day north of Eildar, is Hialed Volkure’s Deshika.”

  “And this map is accurate as of …?”

  “Three days ago. We haven’t moved, and there has been no report from Eildar to indicate that either he or Volkure has changed their position.”

  “Nyjeta.” Erygan was slipping back into anger. “Information three days old is two days too old.” Erygan pulled something out of a pouch on his belt. It looked like a black stone, but what it really was was a condensed pocket of empty space. Almost as soon as Portalling had been discovered by the Morschen, they had found a way to bind that magic into a physical form, so that it could be used by those without the ability to create portals themselves. That Erygan, who was more than proficient at Portalling, wanted to use something besides his own magic told Domrar just how upset his King must be.

  Erygan threw the stone at the wall of his tent, staring intently at the spot on the map where his son’s camp was last reported to be. He didn’t look up to see if he had been right. He just turned, walked through the portal, and shouted “Eildar!”