by Isaac Hooke
EMPEROR
MONSTER TAMER BOOK 4
Isaac Hooke
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Thank you for supporting Monster Tamer
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About the Author
Acknowledgments
In Closing
Copyright © 2019 by Isaac Hooke
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.IsaacHooke.com
Prologue
Vorgon coalesced from the nothingness.
He stood upon an undulating landscape of pale, glassy shale beneath a gray sky. That landscape was barren, save for a tree that grew beside him, almost to his height. That tree had sprouted a spattering of leaves—the only sign of life in an otherwise dead land.
He turned around ponderously, searching the land around him, wondering what had awakened him from his long, laborious sleep. He spotted his ax abandoned upon the shale. The blade and haft were pure black, no longer surrounded by his characteristic blue flame. His own body lacked said fire—he was made purely of shadow.
A tiny woman stood next to the ax. She was dressed in a red robe, and held a strange crimson-colored sword in her hand. It seemed to be made of pure crystal. Vorgon resisted the urge to crush her.
“What do you want?” Vorgon said.
“I have come to enlist your services,” the woman said.
Vorgon laughed heartily. “I serve no one, Witch.” Once again, he suppressed the desire to pound her into the shale. Vorgon was too weak to challenge her, not in his current state. Already he could feel his form dissipating. He glanced down, and saw plumes of dark mist rising from his body, confirming this.
He turned to go.
“How much time do you think has passed since you lost this realm?” the woman pressed. “Decades? Centuries?”
Vorgon paused. He was uncertain.
“It has been only weeks,” the woman said.
“Impossible,” Vorgon said.
The Paragon had almost killed him. He would not have had the strength to assume bodily form for centuries. And yet, here he was.
She had to be lying. And yet, why hadn’t he awakened before now? Even with the damage he had taken, in a few months’ time he would have recovered enough to at least be aware of the passage of time. And yet he remembered nothing after the encounter with the Paragon.
“Who are you?” Vorgon asked.
“It does not matter who I am,” the woman replied. “Know only that I am a messenger of Denfidal.”
“Ah,” Vorgon said. “I sensed another Balor’s hand in this. I will not serve you, Witch, and I definitely will not serve Denfidal.”
“Not even if it means giving you the realm of men?” the woman asked.
Vorgon stared at her in confusion. “And what does Denfidal get in return?”
“The Black Realm,” the woman replied.
Vorgon stared at her, and then chuckled, a deep, booming sound that reverberated across the shale.
The woman was unamused. “You find that funny?”
“The Black Realm cannot be conquered,” Vorgon said. “Twelve Balors rule the land. Twelve Balors who have survived the many purges and wars, and consolidated their power over thousands of years. They cannot be defeated.”
“Other Balors said that of you, once,” the woman told him.
Vorgon conceded the point. He had fallen quite far.
“Denfidal has taken my territory in the Black Realm?” Vorgon asked.
“Of course,” the woman replied.
Vorgon had left some of his most powerful units guarding his territory. It would have cost Denfidal dearly to take the land. But it was a price the competing Balor was willing to pay, apparently.
“I want it back,” Vorgon said.
The woman hefted the ruby sword, and Vorgon’s disintegration accelerated.
“The terms are, you may have the realm of men, and no more,” she said.
Vorgon stared at the woman. “What precisely does Denfidal require of me?”
And when she explained, Vorgon smiled. “That is all?”
“That is all,” she said.
“I agree,” Vorgon said.
The woman nodded. “I thought you would.” She raised her sword, and the ruby blade glowed a bright red.
Threads of darkness appeared around Vorgon, and flowed into his body. His form became more substantial with each passing moment.
Soon he was fully formed once more. Blue flames erupted from his body, covering his form. He knelt, and retrieved his battle ax from where it lay beside him. When he hefted it in hand, the blade lit up with the same blue fire.
Smiling, he spun, swinging that ax in an arc, hitting the tree at its base. The blade passed right through the trunk, and he watched in satisfaction as the severed wood tumbled over and struck the shale. The branches cracked loudly as they broke away. The destruction filled him with joy.
He planned to do the same to the realm of men when the time came.
Oh, but he was looking forward to crushing the Breaker.
Vorgon would have his vengeance. And then he would have the realm of men itself.
“Now, come with me,” the woman said. “We must finalize the agreement with Denfidal.”
She turned around, and began walking away from the ruins of the tree.
Vorgon considered striking her from behind, but he suspected that would be unwise at the moment. He did not know the extent of her abilities. She was obviously powerful if she could restore a Balor from the state Vorgon had been in. And yet, he wondered if that power was hers, or the sword? Probably the latter. It had to be some kind of stamina transference artifact, something that allowed her to tap into the reserve essence of this realm.
Maybe. But he didn’t know, and that was the point.
So, he reluctantly followed.
He already knew that Denfidal planned to betray him. There was no way the Balor would allow Vorgon the realm of men.
Vorgon would go along with this woman and Denfidal for the time being. He would bide his time, lurking in the shadows. Perhaps he would even allow Denfidal to destroy the other Balors one by one. In fact, that might even be advantageous, because it meant when Vorgon finally struck out and slew Denfidal, Vorgon would take the entire Black Realm for himself.
Yes, Vorgon would bide his time.
In the meantime, he would destroy the Breake
r.
1
Malem ate supper with his companions in the common room of the inn.
“So, how long are we going to be holed up here?” Ziatrice asked. The blue-skinned night-elf was picking at her food, a meal of roast chicken and legumes. “Is the main palace finished yet?” She wore her usual green and purple corset with the skirt of black blades. She sat at the edge of the table, her halberd leaning against the wooden surface beside her, within easy reach.
She wasn’t the only one armed. Though Malem wasn’t wearing armor, his scabbarded sword rested on the broad table as well, within easy reach, as did the weapons of almost everyone else.
“Every night you ask the same question,” Gwen said. The green-skinned half-gobling wore a formfitting tunic and riding breeches, with her hair held in a tight pony-tail. “It’s getting old.”
“That’s because I’m a queen, and deserve a palace!” Ziatrice said.
“The oraks are working as fast as they can,” Malem said. “I could transfer some of your night elves to help out with the task if you like, diverting them from the construction of your personal residences.”
“No, no,” Ziatrice said. “Let’s not get hasty.”
“I don’t know why Ziatrice, Mauritania, Abigail, and Wendolin get ‘personal residences,’” Xaxia said. The bandit wore a magic leather corset that provided the flexibility of a shirt but the strength of plate armor. It also pushed up her bosom and accentuated her figure quite nicely. “From the floor plans I’ve seen, they’re equivalent to private palaces. Meanwhile, the rest of us only have quarters in the main palace. That’s not really fair is it?”
“It’s completely fair,” Wendolin said. “The four of us are all queens.” The queen of the tree elves looked like she was twenty years old, but her big blue eyes shone with a wisdom many times that. There was also cruelty in those eyes, in equal parts to the intelligence. As a half elf, she had black hair, unlike her peers, and her features were probably the most immaculate, and beautiful of the entire group. She wore a silver-trimmed blue dress today.
“Abigail isn’t a queen,” Xaxia said.
“Yes,” Abigail said. “But I’m a princess. Almost the same thing.” The pretty half dragon wore a red gown today, without any gold trimmings. It was her way of marking herself as a fire mage, for those that could recognize such attire. She glanced at Ziatrice. “By the way, have the night elves been able to secure the shipment of Duramite?"
"No," Ziatrice said. "We're going to have to coat the walls later." Duramite was a substance that was resistant to all types of dragon breath.
Abigail nodded. “I suppose we don’t really have an urgent need for it at the moment anyway.”
“Who’s ruling the tree elves in your absence?” Sylfi asked Wendolin. Sylfi was another half dragon. She had a pixieish face, and short-cropped blond hair.
“My brother has taken over,” Wendolin said.
“You still haven’t decided if you’re staying with us?” Brita asked. She was Sylfi’s sister. The resemblance was so uncanny, that if it weren’t for the different color of her hair—she was a brunette—Malem would have probably had trouble telling them apart. Brita was fiery and opinionated, Sylfi more quiet and reserved.
“Not yet, no,” Wendolin told her. “I’m considering a six months per year type of arrangement. Spend six months here, then the next six months with my people. That sort of thing.”
Mauritania nodded. “I might have to do that too.” The pale queen of the Eldritch was resplendent in a gown of black satin with swathes of blue silk under the ribs and shoulders. Long black locks framed her chiseled face, and fell to her thighs. She had two blunted horns on her head that held up a gold and silver tiara inlaid with emeralds. Her eyes shone with a green that was too deep to be natural, a sign of the Eldritch magic that flowed through her veins. She towered over the others, even while sitting down.
“My homelands are mostly undefended with my army out here,” Mauritania continued. She glanced at Malem. “And I don’t think they’ll be needed, at least not for a while yet. Once they’ve finished pitching in with the construction of our new city at the heart of the Midweald, I’m going to send half of them home. If that’s all right with you?”
Malem inclined his head. “That’s reasonable. I’ll still need a force here though, to defend against the monster attacks.”
Already the monsters of the Midweald had begun assaulting the defensive walls Malem’s army was putting into place. Most of them were giant spiders, hill giants, and ettins, with a few ghrips and rogue gobling tribes. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to build in the heart of monster territory. Malem could Break monsters, but there were only so many he could control at any given time.
Mauritania nodded. “Understood.” She tapped her lips. “You know, in the past, I would have been looking forward to sending away some of my men—it would have meant less of them trying to kill me. It’s kind of a love hate relationship I’ve always had with them: on the one hand, I need them. But on the other, I could do without the assassination attempts.”
“You’re weird,” Brita said.
Mauritania shrugged, and glanced at Malem. “On the plus side, the attacks are way down since you’ve killed Vorgon. In fact, I’ve only had two attempts on my life. The Eldritch respect me more now, I think. I follow a man who can slay a Balor, after all.”
“I didn’t kill Vorgon,” Malem reminded her. “I damaged the demon badly, but it still lives.”
Mauritania shrugged. “What you did is the same as killing in the eyes of my people. Vorgon will not return for hundreds of years, if ever.”
Malem nodded. “I’m going to have to watch out for assassination attempts myself. I’m sure there are a few Black Swords who are resentful of the fact I’ve taken away their power, and demoted them to mere rank and file.”
“You should just execute them,” Ziatrice said with a shrug. “As I always tell you to do. Like I did with that presumptuous fool Faran.” He was the night elf who had taken her place as Black Sword in Vorgon’s army.
“You can’t solve all your problems by killing people, Ziatrice,” Malem told her.
She shrugged. “Can’t you? Worked for me. I haven’t had any problems since.”
Weyanna stood up and walked to the buffet area to grab some desert. The half dragon was Abigail’s cousin, and wore a white dress whose skirt reached to the ankles. The back portion of her dress was open, revealing her bare back almost to the crack between her buttocks, but she wore her long black hair down to conceal most of the exposed skin so that the remaining visible portions merely tantalized.
Speaking of tantalizing… Weyanna tilted her hips sensually as she walked, and when she glanced over her shoulders and saw him watching her, she smirked.
“Try not to drool all over your plate or anything,” Gwen commented.
Malem looked away. He glanced at the other male members of his party, Solan, Gannet, Timlir, and Goldenthall. The former three had the sense to avert their gaze from Weyanna, knowing full well who that sensual walk was meant for. But Goldenthall on the other hand stared at Weyanna with undisguised lechery.
“Hey, Goldenthall,” Malem said.
“Mmm?” the former king asked, not looking away from the woman.
“Goldenthall!” Malem repeated.
Goldenthall shot his gaze toward Malem. “Yes, my king?” The man had upgraded his wardrobe since the fall of Vorgon. Gone were the rags and rusty sword, replaced with clean riding clothes and a well-oiled blade. The former was composed of leggings, a shirt and tunic, and a long flowing cape. He also wore a small cap to hide his growing bald spot. He’d cut his hair, so that it no longer hung to the shoulders, and his beard was well-trimmed, and combed. He looked more the king he once was, than the possessed mendicant he had become thereafter.
“Eyes to yourself,” Malem told him.
“Ah yes,” Goldenthall said. “I sometimes forget myself. It happens. This can be expected of one who i
s possessed by a Balor.”
“That’s right, blame the Balor for your lechery!” Timlir said. The dwarf had forsaken his chainmail armor today, and instead wore a simple brown shirt and pants. “Since when does a Balor lust for a mortal?” He tore into a thick chicken leg.
“It happened to me,” Wendolin said. “Vorgon wanted to make me his bride, if you recall.”
“Yes,” Timlir said. “But that was only a marriage of convenience. Vorgon wanted you because of the power you would grant him over this world. He cared nothing for your body. Honestly, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re ugly compared to a dwarf woman. You all are, except Xaxia maybe.”
“Hm,” Xaxia said. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult. I’m leaning toward the latter, because dwarf women are known for being notoriously ugly. And you just compared me to one.”
Timlir shrugged. “Take it however you want to take it, lassy. I always intended it as a compliment.”
Weyanna sat back down with a plate containing a long, cylindrical cream pastry topped with icing, called a Log, appropriately enough.
“Dwarven women?” Gannet said. The half dragon had an aristocratic mien: with that handsome face and muscular build, and the way he clothed himself in rich silks, one might have mistaken him for a prince or king himself. He was the kind of man Malem always imagined women would be throwing themselves at. If Malem was less secure in his position, he would have been jealous. In fact, in his youth, he almost certainly would have been.
