The Crowned (The Blood and Brotherhood Saga, Book 6) (2 page)

With the unnatural pain from reconnecting with mortal flesh
subsiding, Seth leaned forward into the darkness and began to run. The ground
was slick, and filled with ruts and corpses. He could see better in the
darkness now that he had been changed, but even with better night vision and
agility, he was not spared indignity. Time and again he tripped and fell. Time
and again he was injured. Each and every time he arose again to heal nearly
instantaneously and continue running as fast as his body would take him. It
would be hours before he could reach Valdadore, though he knew not if the city,
his brother, and those that needed him had hours.

He had never mastered the magical teleportation that he had
invoked by accident in the past, nor did he trust the ability even if he could
duplicate it. Running in the darkness, he sought a solution. He could easily
give himself summonable wings as he had done for Borrik, but he would have to
carefully create the tedious bindings that held them magically within him. Let
alone it would take him hours to learn to use them. As he had done at The
Choosing and several times in battle since, he could use his power in a torrent
to throw himself into the air and propel himself towards Valdadore, but this
was also a haphazard approach that would likely lead him to more setbacks.

He was physically stronger now than he was prior to his
death. He was also more agile. His immense aura expanded his mind into untold
abilities. He was able to calculate, postulate, and solve things that just
months before he could not have even fathomed. Truth told, the only thing
holding him back was his own fears. Seth shrugged to himself in the darkness as
he stumbled once again.
Ishanya said if my condition was a hindrance, that I
should fix it…
Seth began sorting through the menagerie of beasts’ auras he
contained. Choosing those same pieces he had adorned his most trusted servant with,
he began tearing away portions and snapping them into place within his own
aura.

Concentrating on the mental task, he stripped his armor as
he ran, exposing the newly forming wings upon his back. Black, leathery, ribbed
appendages sprouted from his flesh, growing steadily. Muscles and sinew formed
at odd angles in his back, attaching to ribs and other muscle groups. Seth’s
spine thickened to support the load as he flexed his new muscles. The giant
leathery appendages stretched out, gathering air in their folds, slowing his
run to a crawl. He shifted the new wings and felt lighter on his feet as he
again was able to pick up speed. He didn’t need to master flight, he just
needed the basics.

He had witnessed Borrik’s struggle to gain altitude, and as
such gave himself a larger wing span in proportion to his body. The large wings
felt odd upon his back, changing his center of gravity. Every movement of the
wings caused his stride and gait to change in order to stay upright. Seth
needed to get airborne, and began flapping to no avail. Running still, he
altered the angle of his wings and leapt, flapping furiously. He managed the
span of several strides upon the air, mere feet above the ground. He
could
do it.

Leaning further forward he sprinted with all his might, his
legs pumping harder than he could ever recall. With each step he flapped his
mighty wings and again he sprang into the air. Again he managed to cover a
large swathe of ground before he again returned to the earth. He needed help.
Birds
glided on the wind, didn’t they?
That was of no use though, as tonight a
cold wind blew from the north. In order to utilize it, Seth would have to be
traveling north, facing into the wind like a kite… Unless, of course, he
created his own wind.

Summoning his power Seth unleashed a torrent of invisible
power, guiding it into his wings. Still nothing happened. He tilted his wings
and varied the angle at which his power raged into them. Then… Finally… It
happened. With almost no effort, Seth began to rise into the air, his wings
filling like sails upon a ship. He rose higher and higher into the cold night
sky, channeling his own power to drive him further and further. Higher still he
climbed before he realized that he still was making no progress. He was going
up, but not forward. He knew the trick was changing the angle of his wings to
his magical wind, and likely his center of gravity as well and acted upon the
knowledge. Leaning forward, cutting the angle of his wings into the wind, he
lurched forward for an instant before losing the wind in his wings and
plummeting downward. Yelling as he fell, even though he knew he would heal from
whatever injuries awaited, he tried to right himself. Spiraling out of control,
one wing caught the air before the other, causing him to somersault once before
smashing to the ground, his head folding under his back with a loud cracking
sound.

Light exploded before his eyes and a burning sensation
washed through his entire body before his vision began to go dark. Fighting the
urge to panic, Seth struggled to remain conscious. Already the burning began to
subside and the sensation of his limbs returned. Rolling to the side, he pushed
his head back into alignment with his spine and waited the seconds until he was
mended enough to rise again.

Just a moment later and Seth was airborne again. This time
he was more cautious, and a few moments of trial and error later he shouted
victoriously as he swept forward through the air, faster than he had hoped
possible. It was not mastery. Hell, it wasn’t even really flight. More like
gliding. But at the pace he was managing, he would make Valdadore within an
hour.

* * * * *

Borrik paced Valdadore’s immense defensive outer wall,
listening for any sign of the enemy’s approach. The day had been lost. Seth had
been lost. Sara too was lost. All that was left to lose was Valdadore, his
childhood home. Most of his men had fallen already, leaving him barely over
half a dozen. His ability to hear his pack’s thoughts made his mind nearly as
empty as his heart this night, as all was quiet, none daring to ponder what the
coming hours would bring. Though every able bodied man and woman who remained
manned the walls, they were as silent as death. The city felt like a tomb to
Borrik, and sadly he wasn’t the only one. Borrik could feel it on the air. Everyone
felt stalked by death. It was only a matter of time.

Stretching his great leathery wings he peered out into the
darkness, searching for movement. He could not see Sigrant’s camp anymore, now
that night had fallen and clouds obscured the moons and stars. That didn’t keep
him from focusing his senses on it though. Again and again he strained in the
darkness, listening for any clue that the final attack was coming. Valdadore
might hold out for a few days. Maybe even a couple of weeks. Eventually,
however, Sigrant’s forces would gain entry to the city and all would be lost.

Cold wind began blasting the tops of the city walls,
creating odd gusts and updrafts. Frost crystals began to form on the stone of
the defenses, and those that paced nervously ceased, for fear of slipping on
the newly forming ice and plummeting to their deaths. Borrik wondered if such a
death would be better than what awaited with the enemy. It was true, he could
flee at any time with little fear of harm, but where would he go? There was no
one to go to, and this was his home. At least in death he would be reunited
with his master.

Shaking his head vigorously, in an attempt to clear his
mental state, the giant, alpha werewolf again strained his senses into the distance.
Though the wind called mournfully as it crossed the plains to crash into
Valdadore’s walls, Borrik noticed a difference upon it. The sound of the wind
was not accompanied by another new sound. Nor was there an odd scent upon the
air. Instead there was neither. Everything in the distance had gone silent. For
hours there had been faint cries and screams upon the wind, but now… nothing. No
animals called out. Nothing stirred. Borrik turned and looked to his second in
command.

“The enemy approaches.” Jonas, the only remaining werewolf
captain, confirmed Borrik’s unspoken thought.

“I’ll give the warning,” Borrik replied to his mottled
colored companion. “Incoming!” Borrik shouted as everyone on the wall turned to
peer into the distance, looks of fear and determination appearing on their
faces. In the distance, somewhere within the city, an infant cried out before
being silenced suddenly, likely by a breast shoved into its awaiting mouth.

That cry was like a trumpet call to Borrik, for it was at
that very moment that he felt the connection. He had never felt it before. He
had not noticed it when it had been ripped away earlier in the day in the midst
of battle. Now, however, in the lonely silence, he felt the small tug at his
conscious. He felt the connection, and having felt it he focused upon it. It
was not one of his men, as his connection to them was different... natural. It
was something more, and yet more subtle. Borrik grinned wickedly, flashing his
wicked canines into the darkness. He barely noted that those humans nearest him
shuddered at the sight, thinking the wolf as mad as the king. He cared not for
their thoughts, for now there was hope. His master had returned.

* * * * *

Garret stood upon the wall, staring out into the same
blackness that held everyone on the wall enthralled. His shoulder ached like
the seventh abyss, but he dared not attempt to have his arm restored again, in
case the enemy attacked in the middle of his mending. He stood because the act
of sitting seemed an impossibility. Worn and weary, the beleaguered leader of
Valdadore watched the darkness numb, hoping the enemy would come and end his
mental anguish.

In battle his mind was singularly focused, leaving room for
nothing but killing and killing some more. Now, however, on the silent wall,
his mind dared recall every hideous detail of the day. Everything he loved was
gone. His father and brother were dead. Jack, a man he had admired for all his
life, was dead. Seth’s wife, Sara, was likely dead as well. His army was all
but destroyed, and the two people he loved that remained, he had sent on a
fool’s errand into the depths of the Dwarven nation. He would never see them
again. Of that he was sure. Silently, against his own will, he whispered
goodbye to both, his brother in arms, Zorbin, and the woman he loved and
intended to make queen, Linaya.

All that remained was Valdadore and those helpless citizens
that remained within its walls. Garret no longer really cared what happened,
seeing defeat as inevitable, so long as he took as many of the enemy with him
as possible when he crossed into the realm of death. Some still talked of
holding out through the winter, especially since the night turned bitter cold,
but Garret knew they wouldn’t survive that long. All that was left to do was
wait. He didn’t wait long.

“Incoming!” one of Seth’s great werewolves half shouted,
half barked from further down the wall. Garret grinned into the dark. His end
approached.

Turning, Garret watched as his weary, ragtag troops rose to
defend their positions. It might still be an hour or more before the enemy
arrived, but it seemed, like himself, they all wanted to watch them come.

Minutes passed, then a quarter of an hour, and still no sign
of the enemy. Garret could not help but wonder if the giant wolf man had been
mistaken. He turned to be certain that all was prepared as best as was able, an
act he had repeated hundreds of times over the last hour, when he was crashed
into by someone rushing along the wall.

Recovering himself from the unexpected collision, he looked
down upon the person who had run into him.

“Excuse me, m’lady,” Garret said halfheartedly.

“No, milord. Excuse me,” the woman replied.

Garret looked to the girl, all auburn hair, skin tight
leather, and girlish curves, with a flash of her red eyes at him briefly before
looking away, apparently ashamed. She was no longer a girl, but neither did she
have the confidence of a woman.

“What are you doing upon the wall, girl?” he asked, thinking
her too young to witness what was coming.

“I thought I might help,” replied the girl. “I can spill
blood as easily as the next woman,” she replied wickedly.

Garret pondered her words, looking her over.

“It appears you have already spilled some,” he said,
reaching up to wipe blood from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. She had
apparently cut herself somehow when they had collided, as the blood was still
fresh. “What is your name,
soldier
?” he asked hesitantly.

“It’s Anna, milord,” she said with a mischievous smirk,
tilting her head to one side as a series of cracks sounded from her neck. Turning,
she strode away from her king, swaying her hips like a teenage girl on the
prowl. Garret certainly did not envy the girl’s father. Turning once more, the
king of Valdadore resumed his watch upon the fields surrounding his city. If
the enemy
was
coming, he hoped they’d hurry the hell up.

* * * * *

King Robert Sigrant sat in his tent upon an over-stuffed
cushion. His feet were propped up on a pillow and he sat with his head tilted
back towards the heavens. Though his eyes were closed, they shot back and
forth, fluttering beneath the lids as ecstasy washed over him hundreds of times
per minute. The vampires, as his healers had labeled them, were a wondrous
race. Their plague spread like wildfire through his camp, once he had unleashed
the infected whores to have their way with the men who usually used
them
in a bit of role reversal. Now the power flowed into him with no end in sight,
as the tens of thousands of his troops were being changed into blood thirsty,
superhuman warriors. At this rate he would be ready to destroy Valdadore the
following night, but such a man was King Sigrant that he had no intentions of
giving the Valdadorians a full night of reprieve.