Storm of War Read online

  Storm of War

  Harlan Cole

  © 2017

  Created in the United States of America

  Worldwide Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form, including digital, electronic, or mechanical, to include photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, except for brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Devastated by the murder of his daughter, her spirit taken captive, King Fenris struggles to defend his lands against the encroaching armies of his one-time companion turned enemy, Emperor Thade. Torn between his duty to his kingdom and his desire for revenge, the volatile king strives to achieve both by accepting a conditional offer of magical power from the Demon Lord Azag Ilu.

  Accompanied by his brother Garack and the far-seeing Scryer Lord Si-darion, Fenris goes to war to reclaim his child's spirit and to protect his lands, but as his allies and hopes crumble around him, he finds the worst is yet to come.

  Storm of War

  One

  With his quaking hands held out to capture the warmth of the sputtering fire, Mithrun shakes his head in an attempt to ward off the tiredness that often strikes him around this time of the morning. He takes a deep breath of winter air, its frigid touch chilling him from lips to lungs. He releases it in a huff; his exhalation swirls like tiny clouds before him as he slips his leather gloves back on. He looses a resigned grunt then returns to sentry duty.

  With heavy-booted steps, he trudges to the edge of the tiny village of Itrus and once again resumes his circuitous route. The path he’s walked since nightfall is still visible despite the steady, light snowfall that flutters down from above. He falls in line with his previous trail and circles the hamlet a dozen more times, his eyes becoming heavier with each unexciting lap. The weight of his snow-covered boots only adds to his weary burden, each step a test of his flagging will. Exhausted and bored by the mind-numbing repetition, Mithrun reaches down and grabs a handful of snow and rubs it against his face; the bite of its glacial wetness snaps him back to alertness. Sudden chills dance across his spine as he wipes the cold wetness away.

  Now clear of mind, he rubs his palms together to remove the remnants of the snow from his thick gloves, then returns to his vigil. Just as he begins to walk he catches a glimpse of a shadowy figure that appears out of the darkness beside him. Before he can raise his voice in alarm, or even unsheathe his sword to defend himself, he feels something drawn across his throat. Its touch is even colder than the night air. Mithrun immediately notices a warm wetness that runs down his chest followed by a rush of searing pain that envelops his neck and spreads downward from there. He instantly understands what has occurred and without so much as a glance at his attacker, he realizes his life is forfeit.

  Despite that fact, he stumbles toward the nearest hut in the hopes of attracting attention so that he may warn the rest of the villagers. He takes only a few short steps before he again feels the sting of the assassin’s blade. This time it is thrust deep into his back; its razor sharpness allows it to easily penetrate Mithrun’s leather cuirass. The long dagger sinks to the hilt inside his torso where it punctures the sentry’s heart, the tip coming to rest within its muscled center. With only the slightest gasp slipping past his lips, muted by the gaping wound of his throat, he drops to his knees. His warning is forever silenced. The last thing Mithrun feels is the strong hand of the man who murdered him pressing against his shoulder, knocking him over onto his face. He is dead before he strikes the ground.

  With an easy tug, the cloaked assassin pulls his dagger free. Its ebon blade seems to absorb all of the ambient light as it’s freed from its victim, making it nearly impossible to see in the pre-dawn gloom. The cloaked one then slips the black blade into an ornate sheath that hangs alongside two others of similar design. The hilt of the first is a glittering gold while the second is a deep scarlet.

  With a satisfied smile on his face, the assassin glances around the tiny village. His feral eyes pierce the darkness yet he sees nothing to indicate that his actions have been noticed by any of the village residents, tucked away inside their huts. Satisfied by the silence that greets his ears he gestures toward an area in the woods that stands a short distance from the village. Without waiting to see if his summons has been seen, he turns back to the hamlet and continues his surveillance.

  A slight smile creeps across the rugged face of General Arron as he spies the assassin’s signal, his eyes having become accustomed to the dark of the night during their hours long vigilance.

  “Let’s go,” he whispers to the pensive group of men that sit crouched around him. Their black-dyed leather armor creaks with their movement as they stand to follow their commander. Arron steps out from behind the cover of trees and walks boldly into the village, his men follow a few steps to his rear.

  As the group reaches the assassin’s side Arron waves his hands and his soldiers fan out to surround the few remaining huts that make up the tiny hamlet, leaving two of their number behind. Within seconds, the men disappear into the night. Once gone, Arron turns to look at the cloaked assassin who meets his gaze with confidence.

  “Which one is it, Delphos?” he whispers the question despite knowing it’s too late for anyone to interfere with his plans.

  The assassin points to the centermost hut, a self-assured grin on his lips.

  “I’m not going to be disappointed again, am I?”

  The unsettling grin of Delphos of the Dark Heart turns into a full-blown smile, accentuating the sharpness of his devilish features. His deep brown eyes swirl with mischievousness as he strokes his sharpened beard. “Had you placed me in charge of this little expedition from the start you would’ve had your prey long ago.”

  “I’ll take that to be a no.” The general chuckles as he hears the certainty in the assassin’s sonorous voice. “Let’s finish this then, the emperor has grown impatient and I’d much prefer it be good news that I bring home to Albaran.”

  Delphos gives a slight nod and leads the way to the hut. With the two imperial soldiers standing close behind him, he grabs a hold of the door’s latch and finds it is secured from the other side, as expected. Without a word the assassin pulls the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his face. Almost instantly his form turns hazy and indistinct. The assassin’s shape becomes difficult to define as a thick blackness, visible even in the dark night, wells up where he stands. It quickly obscures him and within seconds Delphos disappears within the maelstrom of the swirling black fog.

  No longer restrained by physical bar
riers, the animate cloud drifts closer to the hut and presses itself up against the door. It seeps through the cracks between the door and wall and slips into the hut. For a quiet moment, afterward there is no sound from beyond the door nor is there any sign to indicate he has made entry. Then suddenly, the door swings open and the grinning assassin, whole once more, waves them all inside. Both soldiers draw their short swords and step into the darkness of the hut. Arron is right on their heels, his heart rate quickening in his eagerness.

  Once inside the men race to the two, wood-frame beds that are set to the rear of the single, small room. Without kindness, they pull the startled occupants from beneath the warm furs and cover their mouths to keep them silent. Arron smiles wide when he sees the captives now illuminated by the light of the lantern that Delphos has just lit. Held tight in the arms of his men are a middle-aged woman, her brown hair and eyes wild with fright along with a young girl, no older than ten years of age. The slender girl stares back at the armored general bravely. Her eyes are darker than the night sky and the rage that emanates from them is even darker still. She struggles against the restraint but the soldier holds her firm.

  “She has his eyes,” Delphos comments as he looks the raven-haired child over.

  The girl glares at the assassin when he speaks, her anger overshadowing her fear. While she fails to recognize either man, she understands that they must be here because of her father.

  “And his courage, I see,” Arron adds as he notices the child’s aggressive stance, surprised by the girl’s lack of apprehension.

  Just then, disrupting the general’s thoughts, another soldier enters the room. Arron addresses him as he points at the caretaker. “Take her away and keep her quiet.” He gestures to the other side of the room furthest from where he now stands. “I don’t want her getting in the way.”

  The soldier nods and assists his companion in dragging the frightened nanny away from her charge. The woman looks to the girl, hopelessness flooding across her face but the girl refuses to meet her gaze. Arron, noting her continued bravery with respect, turns back to Delphos.

  “Get the priest and make sure our men have secured the rest of the village. I want them to be able to do their work without interruption.”

  Without a word in response, the Dark Heart slips from the room and Arron returns his attention to the young girl held before him.

  “You’ve led us on a merry chase, Brynn.” She bridles at this stranger’s use of her name. “The emperor has been looking for you for a very long time. He is going to be very happy that we’ve found you.”

  At the mention of the emperor, Brynn’s bold stare gives way to a look of anguish. Her small body goes limp in her captor’s arms, and her face becomes slack yet still no tears can be found in her eyes. As Arron sees this, he smiles and directs the soldier to remove his hand from the child’s mouth. It is clear that she now understands the gravity of her situation, her eyes downcast.

  “That’s a good girl. There’s no point in your fighting us.”

  “My father—” she begins, her bravery reigniting at the thought of what her sire would do to this arrogant man were he here now.

  “Your father,” Arron interrupts her with a teasing laugh, “cannot help you. That’s why he sent you away from Coran because he knew in his heart that he couldn’t protect you from his many enemies. And even if he could, by the time he finds out that his precious daughter is in peril, we will be long gone from this place. You can rest assured of that fact, young one.”

  Brynn swallows deep, believing the general may well be right.

  Just then Delphos returns to the hut, six robed men in step behind him. The assassin moves to the side of the room and gestures for the eldest of them, an erudite looking man in a deep blue robe, to approach Arron. The close cropped, white-haired priest surveys the room and a look of befuddlement crosses his lined face when he only sees the girl.

  “So where is the heretic we were brought here to cleanse?”

  “She’s right here.” Arron points to Brynn.

  The girl’s eyes narrow in confusion as she wonders at what they intend.

  “This cannot be right,” Kail blusters. “She’s just a child. The bishop would never give his approval for an atrocity such as this.”

  “Azrael knows what’s best for him and has already given us his endorsement. You’d be wise to follow suit and do the same.” Arron offers a toothy grin. “You could, of course, speak to the emperor and inform him that you’ve no wish to do as he requests. I’m sure he’d understand.”

  The priest bridles at the obvious threat but remains silent, not wishing to put himself at any further risk. He nods meekly in response. Unwilling to press his luck with the vicious general, he agrees to do what he was brought here for.

  “Good. Now unless you have any more objections with regards to your business here, you should probably get on with it. I haven’t all night.”

  Cowed, but yet seething inside, Kail turns to his men and barks at them to begin their preparations. The red robed clerics jump to follow his command. They immediately clear the center of the room of furniture save for a single, large table. One of the men sweeps his arm across it, knocking everything from its face. Two others begin to draw mystical symbols and sweeping lines across the top of it as a third nails metal cuffs to its foot and head.

  Arron smiles in anticipation as the clerics go about their work. Intrigued by the process he almost fails to notice the building commotion near the back of the room. In frustration, he tears his eyes from the preparations and looks over at the soldiers in the back of the hut. He sees them tearing at the clothes of the caretaker whom they had captured when they first entered the hut, the look on their faces are lascivious.

  He shakes his head, irritated by the interruption then marches across the room. He draws his sword as he approaches them. Without a word, he stabs the woman in her bare chest, pushing the blade in and through her torso until the hilt slams into her sternum and halts its forward motion. The look of surprise is frozen on her face as she dies instantly. The shock on the men’s faces, however, quickly turns to fear as they backpedal away from the woman, putting some distance between them and their irate commander. Now at attention, they stare at the floor as they await the consequences of their insubordination.

  “We did not come all this way just so the two of you could get your stones off with the girl’s nanny.” He exhales angrily as he yanks the blade free of the dead woman’s chest. “Now go outside and help secure the compound before I give in to my urge to stab someone else.” Arron glares at his men who immediately race for the exit, grateful for the unexpected reprieve.

  With a growl of annoyance, Arron watches them scramble through the door past the recumbent Delphos who leans against the door frame, chuckling at their hasty retreat.

  “This is taking too long.” Arron complains, his mood soiled by the actions of his men. “Are we still shielded?” he asks the assassin, a hint or paranoia in his voice, as he cleans his blade on the torn nightgown of the dead woman who lies at his feet.

  Delphos turns and gestures out the door to a cloaked figure that stands staring at him, only a short distance from the hut. The figure nods and Delphos turns back to face the general.

  “We’re fine.”

  Arron sighs in relief at the confirmation, sheathes his weapon and turns around just in time to see the clerics finish with their arrangements.

  “We’re ready,” Kail tells the general, his tone venomous.

  Arron ignores the attitude and motions for the offended priest to begin. Kail, reigning in his disgust at what he must do, turns to the soldier that holds the girl and calls him over. The man lifts Brynn up easily and carries her over to the priest, her fear and uncertainty keeping her docile. Once at the table, he lays her down on her back and steps away. The clerics grab each of her limbs before she can shake off the terror and begin to resist them.

  They shackle her wrists and ankles leaving Brynn able to sta
re up at them but unable to move. With her bound, each of the red robed clerics takes his place and kneels at one of the four compass points that surround her. Kail steps forward so that he stands just behind her head. Another cleric stands to his left, this one in black. With a sad glance down at the girl, the priest grits his teeth then nods to the man at his side.

  “Begin the ritual, Halor.”

  Without hesitation, the black robed cleric moves around to the girl’s left side, a small golden hammer in one hand and a large, serpentine nail covered in steel burs in the other. Brynn, grasping some part of what they intend although not why, begins to scream to be left alone just as the nail is placed against the inside of her wrist. Her fearful pleading turns into a piercing screech as Halor brings the hammer down on the head of the nail, the sound of its impact buried beneath the child’s screams. The hard blow drives the nail through her tiny arm so forcefully that it sinks into the wood beneath, pinning her arm. Blood erupts from the wound sending a crimson geyser into the air. It runs off the edge of the table in thick, red rivulets as Brynn continues to howl in agony.

  As the hammerer pulls another nail from within the decorated pouch that hangs at his waist, the four other clerics that surround the girl clasp hands and begin to chant in unison. As they do so, their enjoined hands glow with a soft, orange light. Suddenly, Brynn’s wrist stops its bleeding and the puncture knits itself back together, closing around the spike. In pained shock and disbelief, Brynn looks at her arm through eyes blurred with tears. Repulsed by the sight of the spike impaled inside it, she turns to look up at the priest, her eyes silently praying for his death.

  “You have the power to end this, child,” Kail tells her, meeting her frigid stare with one of sad resignation. “Give in to the inevitable and your ordeal will be cut mercifully short. I have no desire to cause you harm but I will do what I must, regardless.”