The high winds sent ice skittering across the cheerless camp, like powdered glass. Up and over the supply wagons and onto the thick, black, oily cloth of the tents it blew. The hasty retreat from Til-Thorin and Tämä-Un to the south of the Highlands had left the Vallen exhausted. The Täuku now clung to life, expending the full strength of their crafts to hide and speed the movements through grass, mud and snow, while the Beast Masters drove the soldiers by their whips.
The storm continued to rage through the night sky overhead.
It was enough. The humans did not have the resources to pursue from Til-Thorin, much less be an immediate threat. There was time. King Robert would regroup. He would find reinforcements and eventually give chase, to rid his lands of the enemy. It was his way.
But the High King would fail.
Soldiers huddled around the pit fires, passing the heated blood of the days kill in steel mugs. Meat roasted on the bone over open flames, the feast for those fortunate to be alive, while trying to ignore the screams.
The screams. Cutting across the howl of the wind until their labored pitch would stop suddenly, cut short. Eyes would dart about the camp, fearful of who might be next.
Were the six enough?
The battered bodies of three dozen littered the ground, creating an outer circle around the black dwelling. Bodies of those who dared run when the quake shook the world, mingled with the human slaves from the local villages. Piled two high, they smoldered from the dark magic which slowly consumed them.
The ceremony, however, was not yet complete.
One more life was needed. The most difficult life.
A life given, not taken.
Chains dragged through the mud, snow and across hidden rocks as the procession made its way to the tent. Eyes watched the prisoner who had not fought, not resisted the call, bowing his massive frame as he entered the tent of summoning.
This Vallen was unlike the rest. There was no fear in his eyes as his Lord looked up from the Kala’iskul.
Thule nodded to the guards.
With swift movements, they unshackled the male, garbed in his loin cloth. Bowing to their Lord, the guards quickly retreated, leaving the two in silence.
Ignoring his prisoner, Thule knelt over a crumpled body in his ceremonial robes. Midnight black with trim the shade of blood, the double breasted cut of cloth and high collar were held together by beads resembling snake eyes. The red stitching at the end of each cuff, ran up to mid forearm, like splatters of blood. He held the victims throat open at the inflicted wound and carefully collected its treasure onto a white cloth. One of six cloths, twisted and wrapped into circles on the floor, saturated in the hot liquid of life.
Each circle was surrounded with small red stones, the center of each containing etched symbols.
With a sure, swift motion of the ceremonial blade Thule carved the eyes from the skull cavity and placed them on top of the cloth. Muttering softly under his voice, smoke slowly rose as eyes melted into the fibers of the cloth.
The prisoner silently observed his masters labors.
Only one cloth remained. White. Untouched.
Rising to his feet, Thule studied the naked captive with great interest. It hasn’t fled.
“Your name?”
Red eyes set on the general. “Veskodin,” it growls, rubbing his wrists as eyes passed over the Kala’iskul without recognition or curiosity.
Death Bite. Interesting. Thule watched Veskodin as the Vallen focused instead upon the circle around him. A lingering attention to the blood drenched cloth placed among the engraved stones. It’s trying to understand what it sees. Putting the pieces together. Thule grinned. Its stance is strong. Sure of itself. It does not tremble or show any sign of fear.
“Do you know why you are here?” Thule asked aloud, moving slowly about the outer edge of the circle, towards Veskodin. His movements are sure, steps precise, careful not to disturb the contents of a single circle. Rubbing the blood into his hands, the dried drops flake and fall to the floor.
Veskodin sniffed the air, nostrils flaring.
It’s intelligent. It dares to measure its own strength against my own. Good!
“I am told my duties displease master,” it snarled, “that life is now forfeit.”
Thule’s good eye peered over the Orb. “And you disagree.”
The creature stood erect, jutting out its chest. “It is a lie.”
“Is it?” Thule let the tone of his voice imply the challenge, more than the words themselves.
The beast snarled, “I have not failed a command. I lead many to victory. Shed blood of many for Lords. I know I am being used. I do also as I lead. Fuel for fire of my command,” he dropped his head, peering at Thule from under a massive brow, “and meat for my table!” Nodding to one of the blood soaked cloths in the circle, “Your fire is greatest, Lord Thule.”
Thule clenched the ceremonial blade in a reverse grip and drew it once more from his scabbard. The prisoner didn’t flinch…didn’t even blink. He just stood, breathing evenly, arms at its sides, hands in loose fists.
The blade was seven inches long, with a slight curve and hook on the tip for skinning, though double edged. The hilt was shaped as two green snakes wrapping around one another, their tails holding an emerald at its base. Two jagged horns, made from dragons teeth protruded out either side of the hilt acting as a hand guard.
“You are not afraid?” he muttered to the prisoner.
Veskodin growled long and deep. “I live to bring pain. To rend flesh from those who stand in way and to pave paths for darkness. I fight in this life and will fight in the next!” The prisoner raised his powerful arms and gave a mighty roar, deep and thunderous, “It is fear I bring!” As the sound trailed off, he lowered his eyes, filled with bloodlust, glaring at the greatest of all Vallen, Lord Thule.
“My life not forfeit,” Veskodin growled, “It is given!”
Thule moved closer. “We shall see,” he grinned in another challenge.
The prisoner said nothing. It bared its teeth in a wicked snarl and Thule knew, it was ready to rend his flesh. A magnificent creature of violence.
“The lifeblood of those outside,” Thule began, “are used to animate the inanimate. They were weak, yet they serve a purpose. The shadows are without a leader.” Thule paused, holding the beast’s stare, “Do you know of what I speak?”
Veskodin stood motionless.
“There must be one who will command these forms and bend the shades to the Dark Lords will.” Thule gripped the ceremonial blade by the knifes edge and pulled quickly across his palm without flinching or showing signs of pain. Red blood dripped from between his fingers. Animal to animal, Thule knew the way of the Vallen curs. “Only one can lead. He who can shed his own blood and place his will within it. The blood of a servant, not a victim. Only he who is master of his pain will rule the darkness and wreak havoc on this land.”
Veskodin’s eyes fixed on the white cloth between them, folded neatly upon the ground. It’s brilliant white was an abomination among its black stained brothers.
Silently, he knelt and leaned over the circle, stretching out his neck and lifting his chin.
“No,” Thule hissed, holding out the ceremonial knife, hilt first, “To become lord over the dead, it must be by your own hand.”
Silently, Veskodin took the blade in his left hand, leaning his torso over the cloth. Without a whisper, the powerful hand plunged the blade deep into flesh and pulled it across its lower belly.
Blood and entrails covered the cloth, bathing the circle in black.
