144: Wrath (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Along the northern shore of Waysmale, a glowing city stood like a forgotten monument in a forsaken land. Surrounded by great walls, the main gate was the only safe way in or out. A molten river of fire flowed through the center of the city, bubbling up from the earth far east of the capital. The farthest edge was a sheer cliff that dropped several hundred feet to the roiling sea below.

Floating above the city, like an otherworldly guardian, was Exandercrast’s Bastille. The immense obelisk was set two stories above ground level and towered two hundred feet higher into the tepid air. Four great stone pathways, twenty feet wide, anchored the structure in place and provided the only means of egress to or from the bottom level. The tower was made of polished black stone that reflected the orange glow of the lava gushing beneath its base. Its four sides boasted ten windows each, stacked above the other at every level except for the top, eleventh level, which only had one window opening to the south.

Bones lay piled in heaps, and carrion scavenged amongst the rubble of scorched stone for unclaimed scraps of flesh. The buildings were ramshackle and bare, made from slabs of stone or piled rocks. A great open area lay at the forefront of the town, its cobbled stone stained with years of spilled blood. The walls were made of jagged boulders fused together and smoothed flat on the outer edge, the rough side facing in provided natural crenellations and easy climbing for those behind its shelter. The gate was a mass of writhing, undead corpses that demanded payment in blood for any who might enter.

A bloodwing swooped overhead, returning to its nest with spoils drawn from the northern waters. Dark clouds like thick, grey smoke filled the sky and blocked out the twinkling of distant stars. A faint orange glow, like a distant fire, spread across the entire southern horizon. Night refused to relent to dawn in this dark land, and only on clear nights, which were few, did the moons ever choose to grace the forsaken landscape with their light.

Ibor crawled throughout the city, gliding with their thin wings outspread and leaping their way from place to place with no clear destination. They acted as a war-band encamped with no army to attack. Their strong bodies slammed together as they fought amongst each other in various places around town, releasing pent-up anxiousness and aggression. In all truth, they were little more than guard dogs in this vile city and Exandercrast their cruel master.

High above the city, in an opulent room large enough to hold an Erus whale, Exandercrast sat on a throne carved from hematite and covered in luxurious purple pillows with gold fringe. The floor beneath him was tiled black with large, five-foot marble squares. Matching columns stood in the corners, and a tapered archway ran from each and crossed in the middle of the ceiling. Heavy black drapes garnished the walls; each capped by golden crown-molding. A long table set at the far side of the room with strange, glittering orbs adorning its surface; each on its own stand.

Exandercrast had once again discarded his draconic appearance for the less intimidating form of a Peltin man. His hands bore five rings between them, jeweled in red, blue, brown, green, and silver. He kept the red-stoned ring alone on his right hand and played his fingers across it whenever his mind happened to wander.

He had returned from his game at Five Islands University a few hours earlier, but already he found himself wallowing in languor. His right leg shook restlessly, and his lips were tightly pursed. In this body, he sat upon his thrown, lord of all mortals. He drank in their fears and gained strength from their corruption. Any who would dare challenge him had long been silenced, and in his reign, he had grown overly comfortable in the ease with which he swayed the dreams and nightmares of men. Each day these mortals became more docile and servile. Not that he minded the servility, but he missed the days when the threat of war was always looming. He very nearly missed his brother.

What a great waste the university had been. He had allowed its formation, hoping that the concentration of power there - for the university had existed to train the One-Forty-Four to use their Gifts - might prove to be capable of threatening his regime. Sadly, its leadership was either too corrupt or too lazy to unify the students who lived there into a force that might seek to challenge him. In the end, Exandercrast had been forced to make the first move, but was disappointed with how easily they were destroyed.

Beside his throne, a dark figure stood stalwart. He was shorter than Exandercrast, but thicker in the arms and shoulders. He wore heavy plate mail made of Exandercrast’s own scales that drank in light and consumed it. His helmet concealed all but his deep, blue eyes, which were hardened by years of bitterness and despair. He was Calec Kas Dorian, the eternal guardian of Exandercrast.

Calec stood silently beside his master, one hand always on the hilt of his ebony blade.

Exandercrast drummed his fingers on his armrest, his eyes searching the ceiling for inspiration. He stood and paced for a moment before walking over to a large window set between two massive black mirrors. He gazed out over the city of Firevers, across the rocky terrain of Waysmale, and found it all too stale.

Tall doors barred the throne room. They were made of gold and embellished with the image of Exandercrast’s true form. His clawed fingers were the handles, and they rattled as someone struggled to open the heavy doors from the other side.

The doors swung open, and a frail, gaunt Narculd rushed into the room. His purple robes swished along the marble floor. His face was ashen and sunken in, and his large eyes bulged from their sockets. He looked like a Peltin man who had been dead for weeks, but as far as Narculds went, he was the pinnacle of health. Their kind were unusually long lived, feeding on others’ essences to extend their own lives.

With a raspy voice, he cried out, "Master, master! Terrible news."

Exandercrast did not turn his gaze from the window. "What is it, Consular?"

The Narculd stopped, falling on his face in reverence for his lord. "It’s Olagon, sir. Kas Dorian…"

"Has escaped," Exandercrast said. "I had all but forgotten we still held him there."

"But, my lord," the Consular whimpered, "the prison in Olagon is inescapable. What he did is literally impossible."

Exandercrast turned from the window and walked back toward his throne. "Consular, you should not abuse words for effect and in doing so distort their meaning. Most of the wards on the prison are magical, making his escape all-the-more possible."

"Then, my lord, shouldn’t," the Consular stammered and paused. "Shouldn’t more effort have been put into containing him there?"

Exandercrast’s eyes blazed. "You dare to question me? You insolent worm!"

"No, my lord. Never, my lord." The Consular did his best to slide backwards without altering his submissive posture. "It’s just that Kas Dorian has met up with Matthew the Blue. It is possible they plan…"

"Enough!"

Exandercrast’s dark eyes swelled, and black veins radiated across his face. He roared, and the room shook. Only his guardian was unmoved by the tremor. The Narculd consular screamed and his body shriveled and smoldered. Bones snapped and skin tore as his insides evaporated. The pathetic creature’s last breath came out in a black mist, which Exandercrast inhaled with a satisfied sigh.

"I’ve never tasted so much terror caused by a simple, mortal man," Exandercrast said with a note of admiration. "General Kas Dorian. No doubt you have a score to settle."

Exandercrast motioned to his guardian.

"Calec, make ready. I should like to give my old friend a warm reception."

Calec nodded and left the room.

Exandercrast returned to his throne, his mind swimming in excitement. A man from a time when mortals dared to challenge gods.

"Come to me, Polas. Bring your sword and hate and fear. Your grief will break you."

CHAPTER EIGHT

The hard dirt rushed beneath pounding hooves, flanked by fading summer grass on each side. The Rhamewash Forest loomed to the west, its thick canopy creating a nocturnal illusion within its deciduous walls. To the east, the land was an open book, rolling out into a hilly plain. A strong breeze ran along with Polas’s horse, cooling them both and urging them forward.

Polas loved riding and, for a moment, forced himself to forget about where he was. He even forgot about when he was. He simply let himself be swept up in the freedom of the open road and let the path ahead of him become nothing more than a steady clatter of the horse’s steps. He let the suns warm his back and dispel the chill of the morning air.

He kept his horse at a quickened pace, but not so urgent as to tire it recklessly. He had no idea how much farther he needed to travel. He was barely keeping his bearings by following the forest’s edge. All of the markers he once knew had wasted away ages ago with the rest of his life. He stopped before noon to rest at a pond a few hundred paces from the wagon trail. He ate conservatively of the rations Matthew had provided and allowed his horse ample time to drink. His back was sore and his legs stiff, so he walked around the water’s edge, but not so far that he lost sight of his mount.

From the road behind him, he heard a loud crack and the grunts of a team of pack animals. Someone with a gravelly voice was shouting curses Polas had never heard before. He dug in the pack Matthew had given him and found a coil of rope. He made a quick knot, looped it around the horse’s neck, and tied the other end to a tree.

As he made his way back to the trail, he saw a covered wagon that had lost a wheel. A barefoot woman tried desperately to calm a pair of haggard looking oxen, and a bent, greasy man struggled with the lost wheel near the back of the wagon.

"Ho there," Polas called out to them. "Need any help?"

The woman froze.

The man snapped his head around, looked back into the wagon, and took a few cautious steps toward Polas. His hair was stringy and brown, and his shoulders curled forward unnaturally.

"We have nothing of value, good sir," the woman stammered. She dropped her head toward the ground and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, covering her stained and torn dress.

"I mean you no harm," Polas said, holding his hands out wide. "Apologies for my appearance. I’m sure that I look like the worst sort of person to run into along the road, but I am not even armed. Looks like you could use a hand with that wheel."

The man gave Polas a dubious look that slowly shifted into a toothless grin. "Well met, fellow traveler. Never can be too careful with all the ruffians about these parts. We would be much obliged for any help you could offer."

Polas walked to the fallen front end of the wagon and tried to lift it. He strained, but could hardly make it budge. He shook his head and stepped back. His shoulders sagged and lips turned up in frustration.

"Must be carrying a heavy load," Polas said. "Might be too much for the old boy. Let’s see if we can brace the back wheels, and we’ll have the Missus back the team up a bit. That should help."

Polas started toward the back of the wagon, but the man darted in front of him.

"Oh, I’ll handle that part," he said with a gummy smile. "Have just the thing for it. Mind moving the wheel into place?"

Polas shrugged. He rolled the discarded wheel over and leaned it against the wagon’s side. A few moments later, the man poked his head around from the back of the cart and gave a wave.

"Alright," Polas said. "Back them up."

The woman, still unwilling to lift her head, gently coaxed the massive bulls back. The yoke caught and the bracing lifted. Polas slid the wheel into place and pushed it back over the axel. A broken rod sat in a hole at the end of the round beam, snapped from strain.

"Looks like you lost a peg," he said. "You have anything else that will manage?"

The man dug around for a bit in the wagon then returned with a long metal bolt.

"This work?"

"Should do fine," Polas said as he knocked the remains of the broken peg out of the shaft and slid the bolt into place. He picked up a rock from the roadside and used it to bend the bolt on both ends so that it would not rattle loose. "That should do it. You'll need to get proper repairs when you get to the next town, but this should hold until then."

"Well, thank you kindly, sir," said the man. "I almost feel bad about doing this."

"About doing what?"

Polas turned as the man unleashed a jolt of electricity from his palms. The air crackled and split with a thunderous boom as the arc connected with Polas’s chest. As quickly as the bolt came, it fizzled out.

He looked down at the small burn mark on his shirt and back up to the man.

The man’s mouth hung open, and his blistered tongue rolled about trying to find a word to shout, but all that came was a long, grated breath. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled a dagger from his belt and lunged.

Polas stepped inside the attack and deflected the man’s arm out wide. He punched him once in the ribs then spun him around and knocked him to the ground.

"What is this?" Polas asked. "Are you a failed sorcerer plying your trade as a cloaked drakken?"

He walked to the woman at the front of the cart and gently lifted her chin. Her eyes were bruised and her lips broken and scabbed.

"There’s more," she whispered. "In the wagon."

Polas took her by the hand and walked around to the back. Inside were eleven beings, all chained together at the feet. Most were Peltins, though a young Ampen and a Cairtol family with two young children huddled together in the rickety wagon. They all had burn marks, bruises, and a metal collar around their necks. Polas stepped up into the wagon.

"No!" The man cried out. "They’re mine! They belong to me!" He scrambled to the back of the wagon and grabbed the end of the long chain that connected all of his slaves. His eyes glazed blue, and a pulse of electricity shot through the chain. The slaves screamed, whimpered, and convulsed until Polas reached down and grabbed the chain, short of the greasy man’s grip.

The electric current stopped at the ancient general’s balled fist. He jerked the chain out of the man’s grip and kicked him in the chin. The man tumbled backward and fell to the roadside. Polas jumped down after him and pinned his arms out wide. He pummeled the man, striking him in the face.

"You’re no sorcerer," he said between blows. "I know those eyes. You’re one of the One-Forty-Four. This is how you choose to use your Gift? Enslaving those whom you should be protecting!"

He finished with one more blow to the temple, which knocked the man unconscious. He jerked a key ring off the man’s belt and stomped his way back toward the wagon.

After releasing everyone from their chains and making sure no one possessed injuries that would be life threatening, he gave the woman the rations he had left and half of his coins. "Stick together and don't ride the wagon too hard. Will that be enough to buy all of you a night at an inn and maybe a hot meal?"

The woman bowed. "Yes, good sir. More than enough. Thank you for your generosity."

"Just be careful."

Polas turned back toward the unconscious man, but the woman stopped him with a gentle touch to his shoulder.

"May I have your name, sir?"

The others had gathered around. The Cairtol family shared a long embrace, and a few of the Peltins extended their hands to thank him.

"I am Polas Kas Dorian."

One of the Cairtol children squealed and hid behind her father.

"Surely not," a Peltin man said. "The Iron Butcher?"

"In my time I was simply Polas, but since then it seems I have gained many names."

"Master Kas Dorian, then," said the woman, "we will thank Leindul for you and pray for your safe travel.

"Save your prayers or spend them elsewhere. I can no longer stomach them."

Polas finished shaking hands with those others who still had the nerve to thank him. He watched them climb back into the wagon, now free men and women, and waited until they were out of sight before retrieving his horse and returning to the slaver.

When the man finally awoke, Polas stood over him.

"Now, I’m going to leave you here. Hopefully you’ll be able to protect yourself with that power of yours, and perhaps you’ll start to understand that your Gift was meant to guard and not to abuse."

Polas mounted and started riding north once again, leaving the man alone on the road. He had always been overly trusting, and it had gotten him into more scraps than he could remember, but the old man’s ruse made him sick. The One-Forty-Four were given great Gifts of power from the Naluni; power that sorcerers and mages spent lifetimes learning how to replicate. To see that power used for such evil made Polas glad that he was a Kas Dorian and incapable of controlling or even feeling the effects of such arcane powers. Power like that was not meant for mortals to possess.