Blood of the Fallen (Tainted Blood Book 5)

by Jeff Gunzel

  In a vocal burst, an incoherent murmur of nonsensical sound filled the cave. Gasps, whimpers, and defiant protests all blended together. Jarlen turned his attention to one lerwick near the back, a man whose strong objections seemed to rise above the others. A flesh blade flashed, stopping an inch from the man’s eye. Not only did that quiet his complaining, it quieted everyone else as well.

  “Is that fear I hear in your sniveling little voice?” Jarlen asked, his extended blade hovering with a slight quivering near the tip. “Need I remind you of who we are, what we stand for? In the coming years, the ghatins will likely continue to slaughter the humans like sheep. Physically, they have no equals,” he grinned, “except for us. They fear us more than the humans fear them. And for good reason too.” He extended his blade a bit more, prompting the lerwick to lean farther away to keep it from piercing his eye. “As far as they’re concerned, we are the perfect predators. The same way they can kill the humans with minimal effort, we too can tear through their ranks like weeds.”

  It was a slight exaggeration, but not by much. The lerwicks really were their natural enemy, superior to them in many ways. Realizing that the humans were actually a bigger threat to the lerwicks made the balance of power feel strange and surreal. Three dominant species in the world, each matching up very differently with one other, and only one could come out on top. Jarlen was certainly correct about one thing. A new era had begun, and each species would have to find its place in this ever-changing world.

  “Look around you,” Jarlen ordered. Uneasily taking his eyes off the blade in his face, the lerwick glanced around at the familiar cave walls he and the others had been looking at for so long now. “Do you wish to spend the rest of your days in this mountain cave, or is it time we finally took back what is rightfully ours?” Finally retracting his blade, Jarlen nodded at him, indicating that his aggressive display had been nothing personal. But a point had to be made.

  “I know that things have been hard.” It was Jarlen’s turn to glance around at the cold stone. “But through thick and thin you have shown me your dedication. Even after Orm’rak was killed at the hands of my sister, you all still remained loyal.” He reached down and scooped up a handful of sand off the cave floor, letting it sift between his fingers. “Have we not lived like animals long enough? Let me repay your loyalty by providing us with exactly what we deserve. A city. A human city that no longer belongs to the humans...or the ghatins. It belongs to us!”

  Jarlen’s words were met by mesmerized stares from the silent group. He had their full attention, and they were hanging on his every word. Although he was still not the charismatic leader that Orm’rak had been, he had taken another step in the right direction. Patience was key, a lesson in leadership he had only recently learned. It was easier to guide an unsure mind than to force it in any particular direction. But this alone was not enough in the long run. Victory in their upcoming campaign was essential, or their waning loyalty would fizzle out like a candle. Jarlen needed to deliver on his promise.

  They needed to take back the city...

  * * *

  Leaning against the windowsill, King Milo gazed out at the city from his solitary perch. He watched the men climb up on scaffolds as they worked quickly to repair the outer wall. There was no way of knowing if or when another attack might occur. If it were to happen now, then Shadowfen would likely be wiped off the map. They needed time to make repairs, and each passing second felt like time they couldn’t afford. The king was on edge and for good reason.

  He had already received word of Redwater’s fall. If all the follow-up reports were true, these messengers were nothing but ghosts by now. The city had been purged, and not a single surrounding city had sent aid of any sort. What would it have done anyway? More sacrificial bodies for the ghatins? No, the times of treaties and loyalty were over. It was every man for himself, a governing strategy Milo just happened to excel at. If Shadowfen sent for aid, would any of our neighbors come to help? But there was no reason to think too hard on the matter. The king already knew the answer.

  “My Lord?” The king jumped, whirling back to face the cleric standing in the doorway. His body only leaning halfway into the room, he looked extremely nervous and unsure. “You requested that we send for you when the time came.” The red-robed cleric bowed his head. “My king, it is time.”

  “I will come down shortly.”

  Head still bowed, the cleric slipped back into the hall. The king stared at the vacated doorway long after the cleric had left. Long had he waited for this moment. And now that it was here, the king actually felt uneasy about it. If this last attempt to bring back his shaman were to fail... “I will kill the lot of you,” he growled.

  * * *

  Clerics huddled in small circles around the room, their nervous whispers sounding like a pack of buzzing insects. Up on an elevated bed in the center of the room lay Diovok, his massive body covered with a white sheet. Whispering among themselves, not a single cleric even glanced his way.

  The buzzing stopped when the door swung open, heads turning to see the king step in. After a sweeping gaze to evaluate, Milo sidestepped the doorway and began pointing to various spots around the room. Armed men came marching through in a single-file line, their armor chinking with each high step. Taking up assigned positions around he clerics, they stood with their hands resting on the hilts of their blades.

  “When I give the signal, kill them all,” the king said. His patience with these men of magic had run out. Milo would either leave this room with his right-hand man alive and well, or everyone here would be slaughtered for their failure. It was simple, really.

  “My king, you can’t do that!” begged one of the clerics, rushing up to kneel before him. But a swift boot to the chest sent him sliding back the way he came.

  “Do not profess to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Milo warned. “Besides, every man here still controls his own fate. Give me what I want, and you will be free to carry on with your meaningless lives. However, fail me again and what’s left of your bodies will be thrown into unmarked graves. Your legacies, as well as whatever work you think you’ve accomplished, will be eradicated entirely. No one will never even know you existed. The choice has always been yours, but I’m afraid you’ve run out of time.”

  Crossing his arms, the king stepped back to block the doorway. It made little difference, seeing as how none of the clerics could escape with all these soldiers surrounding them anyway. But the gesture was symbolic, meant as a reminder of how powerless they were.

  “The body has been prepared,” another cleric said, raising his open hands as a calming gesture. “We did the best we could. This should work if we can just find the proper—”

  “Do it!” Milo boomed, resisting the temptation to just kill them all straight away.

  Nodding, the cleric twirled his hands, prompting the others to surround the body. All bowed their heads save for one. The lone cleric raised his head high, holding his hands in the air as he began to chant. Softly at first, his chant was little more than a soothing melody, hypnotic and peaceful. But within a few minutes his voice grew more assertive, angry, even. His chants became throaty and dark, like the grinding of a sword on a sandstone. The others hummed, their bodies swaying back and forth.

  The room began to darken, lanterns flickering from some unfelt breeze. Although they remained lit, their waning light seemed to get swallowed up in the ever-expanding darkness. The king rubbed his eyes, wondering if the lighting trick was some sort of illusion. If these clerics thought they were going to pull some sort of parlor trick and run away...

  A blinding flash lit the room, the light seeming to come from everywhere at once. It was immediately followed by a second flash, then a third. Milo and the soldiers averted their eyes, blinking away the milky afterglow spotting their vision. The bluish flashes strongly resembled lightning strikes, although that was impossible inside this enclosed room. Three bolts came spiraling down from the ceiling. But instead of d
isappearing in a burst the way the other flashes had, the blue energy funnels stayed intact, whirling in place like columns of energy.

  Moving with precision and grace, the crackling funnels drifted along, circling the red giant. All chanting now, the clerics stepped back so as not to get caught in their path. Hands in the air, they twitched their fingers, tilting their heads forward and back in some hypnotic, trancelike dance. Soldiers shielded their eyes, many already drawing their swords.

  The blue funnels began to expand and contract, their energy pulsing in living breaths. A single bolt lashed out from a funnel, striking the dead giant where he lay. But the sheet never went up in flame, or even showed any obvious signs of damage. Instead, his body just seemed to absorb the bolt. The other two funnels did the same, each striking out with bolts of blue energy that appeared to bathe the giant in a swarm of crackling light.

  Diovok’s body lit up with energy, his massive outline on display beneath the sheet. At times his skeletal features sparked into view, a part of his rib cage, his skull, even the bones of his arms and legs all flashing in and out at various intervals. It was as if he were being electrified before their very eyes.

  Suddenly, the energy funnels slammed together in a brilliant flash of light. Even the clerics turned away, shielding their eyes from the burst. Then, in a quick reversal, the room plunged back into darkness. It was so dark, they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces.

  “Seal off the doors!” the king shouted. “Don’t let them escape!” Certain this light show was one of the clerics’ plans to try and flee, he stepped cautiously through the darkness, a probing hand leading the way. Surrounded by the hiss of steel leaving sheaths, he touched a cold wall before turning around. Already he was beginning to regret his order. Getting stabbed in the middle of a blind scuffle was certainly a possibility.

  Slowly, their vision began to return. A dull, orange light filtered through the room as the lanterns’ flames fizzled back to life. All the clerics were still here and accounted for, soldiers surrounding them with blades drawn. The red giant’s motionless body still lay under the sheet. Despite all the commotion only a short time ago, the room was now deadly silent.

  “Try it again!” the king grunted, breaking the silence. Seeing that the clerics hadn’t tried to escape, his focus shifted right back to his top priority. “And again after that! I order you to do whatever it takes.”

  “My Lord,” one of the clerics squeaked, wringing his hands as he dared to step forward. The others stared at him, wide-eyed, shaking their heads in warning. Had only a few made the gesture, it might have been more subtle, but all at once attempting to quiet the cleric sent the message loud and clear.

  “So that’s it, then,” the king said. “You can only try it once. My shaman is gone forever.” He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Kill them all,” he groaned. The businesslike command carried no anger or emotion. It was simply time for them to pay for their failure. Swords in hand, the circling soldiers stepped forward, prepared to make short work of the unarmed men.

  “Wait!” one of the clerics shouted. “Look!” He pointed. The body beneath the sheet began to stir. The clerics began to back away from it, apparently more afraid of the body than they were of the soldiers. Groaning, the body sat up and the sheet fell away, exposing a face that could turn the stomach of a goat. With a creeping hand, Diovok reached for his mask laying nearby. Two of the clerics spun away and threw up at the same time. After sliding it down over his face, he rose to his feet. Sturdy, massive, he stood there in complete silence as he had always done.

  “My friend,” the king said, rushing up to Diovok. Groping the giant’s chest and arms, he patted him down as if trying to prove to himself that this was no dream. “My friend, you have returned to the world of the living. It is good to see you.” Turning slightly, Milo waved a hand as if painting an imagined image in the air. “We have so much to do yet, so much to accomplish. I knew it was not your time.”

  “Yes, there is much to be done,” Diovok rumbled, a dry, throaty voice. Astonished, the king pivoted back around to face the giant. Years and years Diovok had been by his side, and not once had he ever spoke. “There is but one problem.” His eyes seemed to glow from behind his mask. “I no longer serve you, my king.”

  Milo couldn’t find his voice. Stunned, he couldn’t even move as the giant’s meaty fingers rose up to clench the sides of his head. Although the effort seemed minimal, Diovok’s iron grip was like that of a grizzly. Mouth gaping wide open, the king slapped and clawed at the giant’s meat-hook hands. “Diovok, please,” he gurgled in a strangled voice, eyes rolling up into the back of his head. Lifted off the ground, his body convulsed, legs quivering in spasms. With a crackling crunch, the sides of his head caved as both eyes popped free of their sockets. Diovok dropped the sack of wet meat, letting it fold down to the ground like a spongy blanket.

  Although not a small man by any measure, the king’s corpse seemed tiny now, crumpled and limp like a noodle. As a puddle of red pooled out from the crushed head, Diovok stepped over the corpse to stand before the clerics.

  One would think the mousy little men might run in terror, begging for their lives after what they had just witnessed. But they did no such thing. Many of them smiling, not a one looked surprised by the outcome. “Welcome back, my Lord,” one cleric said, dropping down to one knee. Without hesitation the others followed his lead, all dropping down with their heads bowed. “We worked hard to bring you back, and now we only wish to serve you.”

  Confused, hardly able to believe what had just happened, a few of the soldiers made a break for the exit. But when Diovok raised his hand, the door slammed shut. An invisible force picked up one of the soldiers and sent him flying into the far wall. The impact was so great that his bones crunched into dust, leaving a wet red splotch against the stone. Running wildly with no real direction, one by one the others met similar fates. Panicked soldiers rose up off their feet before soaring across the room.

  Metal armor bent, ribcages imploded, and skulls flattened until all the king’s men were little more than crumpled piles of flesh and broken bone. With all of them dead, there was not a single witness left to report what had happened here today.

  It came at the sacrifice of some of their brothers, but the red clerics had completed what they set out to do. What they had always intended to do. King Milo was no longer the ruler of Shadowfen. It was time for another to step into power. They had now chosen that leader.

  Chapter 19

  Viola ducked just as the weapon flashed above her head, then dove into a forward roll, easily evading the next two that came stabbing in. Springing back to her feet, she spun back with her weapon ready. Crack. She stopped the third wooden sword cold in its path. “You missed your opportunity!” Viola said, evading another clumsy strike before kicking the woman in the shin. The blow was not hard, but it was enough to disrupt her balance, sending her stumbling back.

  Stepping away to reset, Viola twirled her wooden sword in one hand while eyeing her students. “I was vulnerable for a full second, an eternity on the battlefield. Yet you never seized the opportunity.” Since she was taking on five lerwicks at once, it was hard to be sure who she was scolding in particular. All of them most likely. “A moment’s hesitation can be the difference between life and death. Remember that.” She slapped her sword against her thigh before dropping into a low stance. “Again!”

  After only a brief hesitation, two rushed her head-on while the other three tried to flank her from each side. Clumsy and unskilled, the lerwicks came in at all angles, flailing and stabbing in chaotic fashion. Had they displayed any competency at all, they might have overwhelmed her by sheer numbers alone. But the awkward display was more like children swinging sticks at bees than anything resembling a skilled sparring session.

  But it was just as well. Viola recalled when she, too, had had no idea how to handle a weapon. They had to start somewhere. At this early stage she would not judge them o
n their skill, but on their heart and determination. So far, the signs were encouraging. Their skills would increase as long as they were willing to put in the effort.

  Viola spun left and right, her blurring blade solidly deflecting blows she shouldn’t have been able to see coming. Wooden swords rained down on her, each deflected blow occurring only a fraction of a second before the next. Any coordination at all would have made the group effort indefensible, but their lack of teamwork allowed Viola to show off her highly tuned swordsmanship. Timing their strikes, sensing their unwavering patterns even if they themselves were not aware of them, Viola kept in tune with the whirling pattern.

  Knowing just where and when the high strike was coming from—having already seen it done multiple times in a row—Viola quickly dodged two more strikes before exploding her weapon into the predicted spot. With tremendous force, Viola’s blade arrived a split second earlier than the other. It caused the lewick’s sword to shatter in her hand, sending hot vibrations rattling down her wrist.

  Kicking the woman in the chest, Viola sent her sliding back along the ground. Barely recovered from the direct assault, she looked up to see Viola’s flesh blade pointing right between her eyes. “What have we learned?” Viola asked, not really expecting an answer. “Hesitate on the battlefield and it might cost you your life. But if you become predictable, you are dead for sure.” They all nodded, although it was unclear whether or not they really understood. But that was all right too. At worst, it only meant they were eager to learn. Viola could live with that. It would take time, but she would make soldiers out of them yet.