Janrae Frank Dark - [Dark Brothers of the Light 08] - Blood Hope

by Blood Hope [lit]

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  Renaissance E Books

  www.renebooks.com

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  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION:

  BLOODY ANKSHA

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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  DARK BROTHERS OF THE LIGHT

  Book iiI

  BLOOD HOPE

  By

  JANRAE FRANK

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 978-1-60089-389-6

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2008 by Janrae Frank

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  PageTurnerEditions.com

  PageTurner Editions

  DEDICATION:

  To Team Daverana:

  Mark Prins, the Boy with the Bodacious Book

  Natalie Daniels, Saber-toothed Engine of Destruction

  Phil Smith, Evil Overlord and Mad Genius

  Steven Beeho, the Gittiest of Gits

  Tabitha Brown, the Grand Inkslinger

  Thanks for everything.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BLOODY ANKSHA

  Blow softly ill wind of omen

  I smell her scent, not born of woman

  The Beast's scent is on the breeze

  Through darkling woods she stalks

  Through halls no sane mon walks

  Her glance, her scent will make you freeze

  A rush of lust brings you to your knees

  She never listens to your pleas

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night.

  She'll take your body, soul, and blood, leave your corpse lying in the mud.

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night.

  Those slain not become her slaves

  Her dominance-link the soul depraves

  In madness longing for her fangs.

  Children listen, adults heed well

  She is pretty, but she is fell,

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night

  If underneath the moonlight bright

  You should glimpse her in the night,

  Flee before she nears you, mon

  You have not strength to fight her,

  And no magic will affright her,

  Anksha, Bloody Anksha stalks the night

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Once there were three brothers, Brandrahoon the vampire, Isranon called the Dawnhand, speaker to spirits, and Waejonan the Accursed, first of sa'necari. Isranon defied his brothers and was destroyed, his descendants forced into the darkness. In those days there rose up three women, Asharen, Danae, and Rowan. They built Shaurone to hold back the brothers darkness. And then there was Abelard who will be born again into his own lineage to ride once more beneath Rowan's banner. Mage-paladin to the God Kalirion the Lord of Light, healing and prophecy, Abelard's return will signal a god-war. Should he fail or perish, then only the Children of the Risen Dead will stand between the Fathers of Darkness and the destruction of the world.

  St. Tarmus of Lorendon

  Priest of Willodarus, God of the Woodlands and Wild Creatures.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER ONE

  TOO MANY QUESTIONS

  The winds of late autumn tasted of frost and a promise of early snows as it set the last fading leaves dancing upon the stalwart maples and stout oaks trees. The Army of the Renunciate had skirted the edges of the shattered city of Zol to turn northeast and journey deep into the demon-haunted forest of Terramere. That night they shivered in their tents, camped for the night, spread across the muddy roadside.

  The towns and villages they had passed along their line of march had either been abandoned for several years or occupied by the stubborn remnants of their previous populations. Demons and dark creatures had emerged to besiege the latter; and their beleaguered survivors now went north with the Army.

  Four years ago, the Sacred King of Rowanhart marched home from Charas. She crossed the Hillora River and persuaded the people to go north with her. All the priests of the Nine Elder Gods of Light had spoken of omens and signs portending disaster if the people failed to follow her to safety. Now, those stalwart souls who had refused to flee found themselves besieged by monsters and demons, the advance guard of the Hellgod-Queen of Minnoras, Gylorean Galee. Time and again, the Army of the Renunciate had halted their march to aid those folk.

  The mass exodus worked to the advantage and disadvantages of the army. Fewer eyes saw them pass; however supplies were harder to come by. The roads were rougher and inclement weather slowed their progress to a crawl.

  A flag flew on a pole outside a dark blue tent. An ebony bar sinister split the banner, with the blue gryphon clutching a willow branch in the upper left of Nans Gryphonheart, and the Renunciate's symbols of a solar disc framed in flames on the lower right; all upon a hunter green field.

  The Renunciate, Lord Isranon Dawnreturning, sat at the long trestle table in the command tent, which was one of the few pieces of large furniture the army had brought with them, besides his big bed that lay to the far side of it behind a curtain partition. The table, like the rest of the furnishings the army had brought with it, could be taken down and stored flat in the back of a wagon.

  Built more like a blacksmith than a mage, Isranon was of average heightfive eight. His sturdy frame had once carried more muscle than he currently had. Arcane wounds, from an assault that left him for dead nearly two years ago, had stolen much of his physical strength and were stealing his life an inch at a time, despite everything that both gods and myn could do for him. His black hair, pulled into a tail at his neck, was a mass of loose curls and wavy strands. The sunburst-cradled-in-flame godmark of Kalirion shimmered on his brow, partially hidden by a lock of dark hair that had come loose and fallen across his forehead.

  Sunlight entering through the open flap did little to illumine the dim interior. The sleeping area had been curtained off more heavily since Isranon's increased appetites showed no signs of lessening. For the first time since early adolescence, it seemed like he could not get enough of either blood or sex and it troubled him as much as it did the others. For years he had prided himself for having those aspects of his sa'necari heritage under firm control; now it seemed that they controlled him.

  "Kalirion, liege-god to my heart, soul, and faith... Isranon rubbed his hands over his face as he struggled to frame a prayer. What kind of monster have I become? Am I doomed to be what I was born? Where lies the strength to reject my nature?"

  Sa'necari-born, the vile appetites of his race filled him with self-hatred. They were necromancers who had stolen all of the powers and abilities of the undead that they could take or control, assuming them through their rites, mastering and perfecting them in addition to their native arca
ne talents. Their gifts had been gained at a price, for they also had the needs and cravings of the undead; the unnatural hunger for blood and souls. After generations of sa'necari being created in the rites, their very genes had altered until more and more of their descendants began to be born sa'necari with those appetites and talents manifesting in puberty. Their rites of blood, rape, and death had become merely the means for increasing their arcane potency through the shattering of souls.

  One small band of sa'necari-born rejected the rites, living lives of strict and unremitting pacifism: the Dark Brothers of the Light. Deemed heretics, the sa'necari massacred them except for one frightened twelve-year-old boy who took refuge among the lycans of Clan Red Wolf, the largest and most powerful of the hereditary chiefdoms of the wolfweres.

  Reaching down to a long narrow pouch that hung from his belt, he caressed it, and his thoughts turned to the flute inside. His dead father had told him that so long as he could play the flute and enjoy it he would never be truly evil. Fact as well as philosophy had been blended into his father's statement. The more lives the sa'necari took in the rites, the more painful the music of a flute became to them.

  The flute that his father had given him had once belonged to their revered ancestor, Isranon Dawnhand. Two years ago, one of Isranon's sa'necari attackers had broken that flute to prevent Isranon from using its power to stop them. The flute resting in the case at his side had been a gift from his first liege-god, Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity.

  Yet Isranon had been afraid to touch it for weeks. He felt unclean.

  Isranon closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to his clasped hands as he found his center, and prayed ever more fervently to his liege gods, Kalirion and Dynanna, for the forgiveness that he found impossible to grant himself. In still moments alone, he grappled with his memories of the four imps at the village of Chyniolus, how they had screamed and twisted in his grip as he sank his fangs into them one at a time, draining them to death in the madness of hunger. Amiri had insisted that his draining of the imps had been a hemovore's natural response to the stress of a prolonged battle. Yet he could not forgive himself, and doubted that he ever would.

  He had departed so deeply from his dead father's teachings of absolute non-violence, of not taking a life out of appetite or for pleasure, that Isranon knew there could be no turning back to the way he had been raised. When his father had found the blades that his lycan mentor, Nevin, had given him, Isranon Soulspeaker had told Dawnreturning that the only way he would ever be able to keep the teachings would be to die. He had been a month shy of twelve-years-old and two weeks later his father and all of the Dark Brothers were dead.

  Sometimes he thought he heard his father's voice condemning him in the night as he struggled for sleep and finally resorted to drugs to gain the slumber he needed.

  Each day when he rose from sleep, he felt again for the godmarks on his body to reassure himself that their favor had not been withdrawn from him: Kalirion Sun-Lord's sunburst godmark on his forehead; Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity's squiggle on his scarred chest; and Dynarien's rose on his neck. They were all still there.

  Isranon tried to focus on his prayers, but his thoughts kept flickering back to his father with intense feelings of shame. His hand went out to the enchanted staff of his ancestor and namesake, Isranon Dawnhand, and caressed it as if it were a talisman to ease his heart. At eight years old, Isranon had vowed to find it; and his father had chastised him for being arrogant. A year ago he had persuaded the God of Cussedness to relinquish it to him from her hoard.

  He ran his eyes down the staff known as Warrior and managed a small smile. Even from where he sat Isranon could feel the power and energy coiled around Warrior's six feet of hard rock maple. Nine inches of diamond had been magically grown onto the butt and the shaft was incised with intricate Kalirioni runes amid vines and leaves in jeweled inlays. The upper body, head, and wings of a pegasus topped it, so solidly done in heavy burnished kendaryl that it could be used to strike with that end also.

  Anksha darted into the tent, threw her cloak over a chair, and wiggled her body in gratitude to the warmth of the spell Isranon had placed over the tent.

  "Baby's growing. She slipped into her comfortable patois as she rubbed against him, patting her puffy belly. She could speak perfectly in several languages, but often reverted to the way she had spoken as a child. The tight curl of her tail showed how happy she felt. The tiniest bit of fur, so sleek as to be indistinguishable from the skin of her face, throat, and hands, showed beneath the edge of her neckline. Except for that it was easy for her to pass for human. Anksha not one of a kind anymore."

  Isranon caressed her with a fond smile. For centuries, his wife had been the only surviving member of her species. No one had ever realized how profoundly lonely she felt until he came into her life. His rogue magic had crossed the boundaries of their species and given her the child she had always craved. The pregnancy had relieved her abiding sense of isolation. She was his lion on love's leash; and he loved her with all of his heart.

  She searched his face for signs of his mood, the tip of her tail beginning to twitch. You're brooding, again?"

  Isranon kissed her forehead. Always."

  "You are a good mon, my Isranon. She watched his expression.

  "No, I am not. The darkness in my soul does not yield easily to my good intentions, Pet."

  Anksha blinked and considered. Hoon is bad. Sometimes... She paused and thought for a bit more. Sometimes, I think I always knew it. He did not kill Dawnhand, but he stole the staff so that Waejonan could do it. I was a baby. Anksha extended her hand to indicate how small she had been. I forgave him. I was always forgiving him."

  Isranon heaved a sigh and shook his head. If you are saying that what I have done is forgivable..."

  "No, not saying that. You're not a bad mon. You're teaching me not to eat little children. I liked the taste of babies. I still do. But now I want to know if they are good children or bad children before I eat them. She gave him a cheeky grin, displaying her huge tearing fangs. Anksha had the instincts of a cat that liked to play with its food and steal nestlings out of trees; armed with a feline's claws and fangs and possessed of a taste for blood and fleshespecially the blood of the powerful. I only eat bad children now."

  "You should not eat children at all. He ruffled her thick mane of black hair.

  Anksha scowled. I want to eat Stygean. He's bad."

  Isranon stiffened. He could not let go of his belief that he could turn Stygean Loosestrife from the path leading to the darkness of the rites of mortgiefan, before the boy's soul could become tainted by them.

  "Promise you won't eat him or take him as a blood-slave, Anksha. Please? Isranon remembered the way he had suffered when Anksha took him as a blood-slave, setting her Dominance-Links through all the fibers of both his physical and psychic body; and he shivered at the thought of her doing the same to Stygean.

  "If he's bad..."

  "I should be the one to decide that."

  "Jingen likes my candy. I give him candy all the time. Stygean says mean things to me when I offer him candy."

  "Give him time, Anksha. He will come around. Isranon's thoughts strayed to the two boys. Jingen would be thirteen soon; Stygean already was. They were sa'necari-born and had already matured into their fangs, powers, and appetites for both blood and sex. Many of Isranon's companions had tried to pressure him into having both boys killed on the grounds that they were too old and indoctrinated into the ways of their people to ever change. Isranon felt driven to try and salvage them. Jingen parroted Isranon's teaching at everyone. Stygean constantly threw his sa'necari beliefs in their faces and rejected the teachings. Yet, Isranon felt most drawn to Stygean; seeing something of himself in the boy. Defiance had been Isranon's sword and shield after he lost his family to sa'necari raiders at twelve. Stygean's defiance reminded Isranon of his own.

  "I have a dream, Anksha. I am the last Dark Brother of the Light, and
I have chosen a path that leads counter to some of the teaching. I think salvation for my people can only be achieved if I found a new Dark Brothers. One based upon a middle path. You captured twenty-eight sa'necari-born children during the fighting at Ocealay. I want them. I want to teach them to follow my path."

  "Including Stygean and Jingen?"

  "Yes."

  "Stygean wants to kill you."

  "Possibly. Isranon gave a weary shrug. Stygean is sa'necari, born and raised. However, he is not yet tainted by the rites. He's known love, and I'm certain he still craves it. How can I hope to end the cycle of hatred if I fail to turn boys like Stygean from the paths of darkness?"

  "I eat them. No more hatred."

  "It's not that simple. He stroked his fingers through her hair. Redemption is not cheaply bought. Neither mine nor his."

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  Randilyn stood in the doorway of the tent she shared with Amiri, gazing out at the hard rain sheeting down. The dense black clouds had turned that late afternoon as dark as midnight. Her pale hair and skin looked ghostly against the backdrop of the overcast day, limned by the lamplight from the table behind her. Autumn had arrived with a vengeance, forcing the Army of the Renunciate to halt frequently and wait for it to break before moving on.

  She was an Ymraude nibari. They were made, not bred, or born. Most of them began life as humans, although a few sylvans could be found in their ranks. Potions and spells moved them into the change from whatever species they had begun life as; and the initial action of the potions was to extend their life spans through the use of Blue Moon's Mourning. They all had one thing in common: they had been born male and wished they had been born female. All things came with a price; and Ishla the God of Love and Technology offered them a trade. She would make them female, but only if they agreed to become nibari and ultimately vampires.

  Compared to the Lemyari vampires, the Ymraudes had no power of any consequence. When the godwar broke out, it went swiftly against the original pantheon of light. All of the major and more powerful gods fell to the onslaught from the hellgods; and finally only Ishla remained. She was a gray god, neither fully of the light or of the darkness; secretive and subtle. Powerful secrets stolen from her temple by her high priest, Zarlec, who betrayed her, had given the hellgods their victory. The Lemyari resulted from a bastardization of her initial research into vampires which Zarlec had given to the hellgod Gylorean Galee. In order to buy herself time to open the last surviving Gate Arcane through which she could bring allies, young gods, to her aid, Ishla unleashed her two most powerful remaining weapons: the demon-eaters and the Scavenger, a being so terrible and unstoppable that she vowed never to create a second one.