His eyes ached for tears, but his body was too dry for any to flow. “I will follow you into the next life before the coming day is done, my Captain.”
Marek had long since untied himself from Andrigar’s body. Using his hands and the captain’s scabbard, he scraped out a shallow trench. When he could dig no further, he squatted down to share a final sunrise with his captain.
A blush of rose brightened the eastern horizon as the full moon set in the west, casting the highland slope they had descended into inky black. The edge of the sun hurt his eyes as it crested the silhouetted horizon.
“The brightest light and the darkest black together,” he said, turning to look down on Andrigar’s body as it moved.
Marek leaped up despite being weak and sore of limb, and staggered back a step. Andrigar pulled his cloak over his pale face and twisted his body to huddle beneath it.
“Andrigar!” Marek croaked out the name. “I thought you dead!”
He stepped forward with his hand outstretched, but hesitated when a low moan escaped the balled up figure. “Andrigar?”
Marek crouched down and laid his hand on the man beneath the cloak, repeating the captain’s name once more. The figure shivered at his touch.
“Marek,” Andrigar said, his voice coming clear and strong, though muffled by the cloak.
“I am here, my Captain.”
The figure beneath his hand writhed, clenching in a powerful spasm. “It is in me, Marek.”
Marek pulled his hand away as though stung. “What is, Andrigar?”
Another moan escaped from beneath the cloak. “It is but a small portion of itself. Dakkar is its name. I sought to die, but it clings to me, denying me.”
“Is it-,” Marek paused, taking another crunching step backward in the gravel. “Is it the thing that chased us; the thing that rose out of Blackdrake?”
“Yes. It mixes with my blood, seeking to make me its creature,” Andrigar hissed the words while another spasm twisted his body. “Marek, you must kill me. While the sun shines and it is weak, you must kill me.”
Marek took another step back and Andrigar’s sword was at his feet. He bent, grasping it by the hilt while shaking his head. “I cannot, you are all I have left!”
“It makes me hunger, Marek. My body cramps with need for your blood,” Andrigar moaned the words. “Please. My heart no longer beats nor does air fill my lungs. Dakkar has already driven all life from me, yet denies me death.”
Marek took a step toward the form huddled under the cloak as distant thunder sounded. “Andrigar you are unwell. Starvation is clouding your mind.”
Andrigar rose to his knees, cocooned within his cloak. “Marek!” the captain barked. “There is no time, you must slay me now. Listen, my Palla returns.”
Marek hesitated with his captain’s sword in his hand. The thunder had grown louder, coming up the riverbed, and there was storming hatred in its mind. The gravel beneath his feet shook and rattled. He spun, the weight of the sword staggering his weakened body several steps to the side.
A beast charged down upon him, morning sun shimmering off white scales. Its muzzle stretched long and blood red as though it had dipped deep into a fresh carcass. Black fangs lined a mouth that hinged near the back of its head. Eyes that had been round and deep now narrowed to slits. White smoke trailed from their corners to flow past a mane of long, hooked scales. Its four legs were long and powerful, ending in broad, short-taloned feet. The tail that trailed in its wake undulated like a thick serpent.
Only his stagger to the side saved him from the snapping jaws that splattered black saliva on the ground. The beast halted in a spray of gravel and dust before the form of Andrigar and wheeled about, slashing toward Marek with its taloned forefeet.
His step back landed in the trench he had dug, sprawling him on his back and flinging the sword from his hand. He dug his heels and elbows into the gravel to scramble backwards, but the beast was already standing over him. Its sole desire was to tear its black fangs into Marek’s belly.
“Palla, hold!” Andrigar’s shout echoed up the highland slope. The tall figure of his captain stood beside the beast, one hand on its muzzle. The murderous thoughts of the beast cut off, canceled out by Andrigar’s gift. The cloak had fallen to his shoulders. One up-flung arm shielded his eyes from the risen sun. His captain appeared unchanged, if anything his cheeks were fuller, the effects of his privation erased.
“Rise and flee Marek, while I hold Palla and the spirit of Dakkar within me in check.”
He scrambled to his feet, but when he reached for the fallen sword, the beast snorted and scraped a furrow in the gravel. He jerked away from the sword. The beast’s message was clear, touch the sword and none of Andrigar’s efforts would stay its venom.
“Flee Marek. I beg you,” Andrigar said, his shoulders drooping. He ducked his head below his arm, revealing smoke-filled eyes. “Seek a kingdom of your own, be it in life or death, for mine is neither. Palla and I ate of Dakkar’s dark fruit and now his voice fills us, the voice of that which rose out of Blackdrake. Would you have that, the voice you fled? Or would you have silence and peace for what remains of your life, even if it is just this day?”
Marek staggered back, his dry lips tearing as he grimaced. “I am sorry. I am sorry.” I should have killed you when you asked! I condemned you to this.
He turned and hobbled down the riverbed, no longer able to meet his captain’s smoking eyes. The memory of the hungering, needful voice haunted him. He could no longer hide in the shadow of Andrigar’s gift. Dakkar would find him. He tried to focus on his stride.
Andrigar called out. “Farewell, Marek. While the sun is in the sky you are safe from me, but Dakkar’s voice grows ever louder. Do not let him take you. Set your own spirit free if you must.”
Marek walked, each step crunching into gravel or sliding into sand. He fought the urge to look back, and focused on placing one foot ahead of the other.
His pace was slow. He stuck to the riverbed, though the shifting of gravel under his shuffling feet sent stabs of pain up from his ankles, to his knees, forcing him to limp. As the morning waned, the limp brought pain to his lower back, slowing him further. The ground on either side rose higher and rockier until the riverbed became the floor of a narrow gorge.
Past noon, the shadows of the gorge became icy cold. He dragged one foot forward with each breath. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe.
The more his body ached and the more he thirsted, the more his heart numbed. He did not stop and rest. The pain stopped his anger. Each slow sliding step shot nails of agony through his stiff joints, driving his guilt away.
The gorge continued to deepen, the shadows to darken and grow colder. Patches of frost gleamed in the shadows of rocks and boulders where the sun never struck the riverbed. Marek clutched his cloak closer and ignored the scant moisture the frost offered. If he stopped now he would not rise again, though there was no reason to continue other than the pain it caused.
“Why do I still live?” he muttered between lurching steps. Because I do not want to die. He thought then squinted in renewed anger. Step. Breathe.
He looked up at the slice of blue sky. “I want to die.” Step. Breathe. “Please let me die.”
“Someone lives!” The thought came to him from impossibly far away. It rang loud in his mind, a voice in exultation.
Marek took another step before croaked a reply, “No, I am dead. Let me die.”
An unseen sentry had spied him out. The sensation was the same, delivered by his gift that never wavered. Instead of raising an alarm, the sentry was closing on him, focusing. A warm wind descended from the heights where the sun still shined and wrapped him round.
“I will not let you die. You are too precious to me.”
Marek gasped as he shot upwards, out of the narrow gorge and into the azure sky. The mind that watched him was everywhere, as Dakkar’s hungering had been, but he sensed no hunger. This mind was rage and vengeance, a juggernaut of will lik
e none other.
“Who are you?” Marek asked.
The surrounding awareness spoke from the wind that carried him ever higher, “I am Lord Chreen.”
AcKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my wife, Cathy, who endured my reading this to her over and over. Thank you to my son, Roger, who gave me the first honest feedback. Thank you to Randy and Charla for their time, effort, and encouragement. And thank you to Rick Fernandez for his help with an amazing title design.
Finally I want to thank, you, the reader. I appreciate your time and your interest in reading this story. I sincerely hope you found enjoyment in this tale of Vorallon. The story of Lorace and the other unique characters of this first age of men do not end here. Rather, this sets the stage for many more stories to come.
In writing this book I have taken on the responsibility of author, editor, proofreader, cover artist, illustrator, layout artist, and publisher. I apologize for any typos, mistakes, and glitches—they are assuredly mine. If you spot any such errors, or simply want to share your thoughts on the story, please contact me through one of several methods: Thomas Cardin on Facebook, Thomas Cardin on Goodreads, or through my blog at thomascardin.blogspot.com. I look forward to hearing from you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas Cardin is a digital artist and animator living in Southern California with his wife, Cathy, and his son, Roger. He also shares his home with two larger-than-life Maine Coon cats and a long-haired mixed-breed cat. Besides computer graphics, he has been known to paint the odd rock and dabble in ceramics. His inspirations for storytelling have always been present, in art, books, movies, and role playing games. He has built many worlds and breathed life into many characters around the gaming table, but writing a novel was always something to start working on tomorrow or next week.
Gifts of Vorallon: 03 - Lord of Vengeance Page 19
