Devil's Dominion Read online

  Kallin had woken up when Daliana said ‘Deshik warrior.’ Now he whispered at El Darnen. “You know what it is that’s out there?”

  “I have my suspicions, and if I am right, then the one that Daliana senses is just a scout for a hunting party of something much more dangerous than Garnothrim.”

  “What are they El Darnen? If we need to run, we need to know what we’re running from.”

  “As soon as it starts to get light, we leave. We need to be gone before hunters get here. There’s a reason no one lives on this side of the mountains. The plains between here and the wastelands are patrolled by hunting parties of giant animals. Rumors reached me in my old stronghold that they sometimes walk on two feet like a man does, but that they can run faster than a horse. I’ve never seen one myself, not this close to the mountains at least, but I have seen the remains of those who got too close to one. It’s not pretty.”

  “Then we should move now.”

  “No. In the dark they would catch us far easier. In the light, we can at least see them.”

  “But there’s one right there.”

  “And there would not be only one if there was a pack close enough to us for them to be hunting us, Edya.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “What is?”

  “The creature, whatever it is. I can’t feel it anymore.”

  “It’s gone back to its Pride to get hunters. You’re right Edya, we run now.”

  My Enemy’s Eyes

  The Deshik controlled regions of Dothoro’s southern plains which were one of the few places in Anaria where Morschen actively feared for their lives. The fertile plantations of wheat, corn, fruits, and pipeweed were not allowed to stop their production, but they were no longer maintained by free Dothrin. Instead, Morschen slaves now worked the fields on the Plains of Parda.

  Those slaves were routinely taken to the forest’s edge, especially since the Battle of the Cardor, and executed, their bodies left to rot in the hot summer sun as a warning and a challenge to the Remnant. And that challenge made Xari Gundara’s blood boil.

  * * * * *

  A Deshik soldier walked into the room slowly, bowing a few paces in. “War Chief,” he said in his own language. “I have a report from our latest slave execution.”

  The War Chief leaned back in his chair. He folded two of his hands in front of him, with another he reached for a cup of water, and he scratched the top of his head with the long, sharpened nails of the fourth. “I trust that it went much as they always have, and that the Morschen did nothing.”

  The soldier paled slightly. “I believed that the executioners were taking too long to return, so I sent a patrol to search for them.” The soldier came forward and laid a broken Deshik axe on the desk. The handle had been burned in half, and there was a handprint and the symbol of a torch burned into the blade. “The patrol found no sign of the slaves, but obviously, the Morschen answered this time.”

  The War Chief picked up the bladed end of the axe and examined both the blade and the burned handle. “How did the executioners die?”

  “The patrol found nothing except ashes. There was no sign of Morschen dead, either.”

  “No, the Morschen wouldn’t leave their own fallen behind. But there was no sign of any message?” The War Chief set the axe head down.

  “No, War Chief.”

  “Then the message was the attack itself.”

  * * * * *

  Two days later, War Chiefs from across the Plains of Parda were called together. There had been two attacks, one each night, since the slaying of the executioners at the forest’s edge.

  “One of my own slave executions was stopped,” one War Chief from further west yelled. “I had twenty-one soldiers guarding the executioners, and the Remnant killed them all.”

  Another War Chief, whose lands were close to the first attack, spoke next. “The Remnant attacked my hold. They burned half of the buildings that housed my soldiers. I lost seventy warriors in one night.”

  The War Chief who had called the meeting, the first to know that the Remnant had finally taken the challenge, stood and tossed the axe head into the middle of the circle of Chiefs. “Have either of these symbols been seen anywhere where the attacks took place.” The two affected Chiefs took turns examining the blade, and then handed it back. Both nodded.

  “But why a torch?”

  “Maybe it is in mockery to our Lord, The Kindler?”

  “Or maybe it is something more personal to whoever it is that leads these attacks. Either way, I have summoned Dothoro’s Master of War. He will arrive tomorrow, and—” Alarm bells and shouts cut off the War Chief’s statement. The gathered Chiefs ran to windows to see what was happening. One shouted as he caught sight of a figure, hooded and cloaked, running alongside of a wooden building with their hand outstretched. Fire spread from the path of the figure’s hand, quickly eating into the dry wood of the structure. The being carried a sword of red steel in their right hand, and swung it easily, effortlessly cutting down any Deshik warrior foolish enough to get within its reach. An archer on the roof above the War Chiefs took aim and released at the figure’s head, but the arrow caught fire and crumbled to ash about a foot from its target.

  As the night wore on, more buildings burned and more Deshika reported seeing the cloaked figure. Some said it was a beast with breath like lava and a sword made of fire. Some said it had scales and wings, and that its eyes shone like the sun. Some said it was a Dragon, some said it was a god. Some others even said it was The Kindler himself, displeased with the Deshika and that he was punishing them.

  When Dothoro’s Master of War arrived in the morning, he heard all of the reports, he listened carefully to every detail, and he examined every burned building personally. With him came forty-nine Deshik Death Stalkers, battle hardened, wearing black armour, and two Armandans, a man and a woman.

  The Master of War sat down, two hands folded in his lap, one hand stroking his hairless chin, and the fourth taping on the armrest of his massive chair. Because so many War Chiefs had already been summoned, only the most important of those assembled were permitted to have seats. The two Armandans stood, one on either side of the Master of War.

  “I am here,” he spoke in Morschen Basic, due to the Armandans, “because all of the War Chiefs under my command do not themselves know how to command.” He looked at each of the sitting Chiefs. “More importantly, there were dozens of sightings over the past four nights, and all that any of you can tell me is that this being is either one of the Morschen gods come down or an avenging ghost has arisen in the form of a Dragon.” He looked around the room again. Only a few of his Chiefs would even make eye contact with him.

  One of the standing War Chiefs spoke up. “Master of War, these are just the reports of our warriors, and ...” The Master of War silenced him with a glance.

  Beside the Master of War, the woman tensed. Then, he slammed the hand that he had been using to stroke his chin down on the wooden armrest of his chair, cracking it. The woman began to walk towards the offending Chief. The man was still relaxed. The woman drew her sword as she walked. Several Chiefs laughed. Some looked amused. But not even the offending Chief looked afraid. Until his skin started to char and burn. The closer she got, the faster it happened, until he was writhing in pain on the ground, screaming. The sword flashed in the light cast by the burning Chief. It took off one of his shoulder horns, and an intricate necklace identifying him and telling his story. She picked up both and walked back to her place beside the Master of War, the War Chief still burning and screaming behind her. After another minute, he died. The laughing was replaced by fear and a morbid curiosity.

  The Master of War looked at the charred corpse on the floor. “We have been fighting the Morschen for years now, but we still do not understand them, or the powers that they wield. These ones,” he gestured to the Armandans beside him, “are not so limited.”

  The man stepped forward. “You see the woman here with me? She just burned a
War Chief alive.” He paused for a moment. “Without even touching him. Does her power remind you of something?” One by one, the collected Chiefs understood and nodded. “The being attacking you is nothing more than a mortal; a Morschenic Ringlord sworn to the traitors who serve the Remnant. A Morschledu.” He turned and faced out of one of the windows which overlooked one of the many burned buildings. “I and my companion are Morschledu Hunters.” He leaned against the sill of the window. “You are dismissed, War Chiefs. Return to your settlements. We will deal with your ... avenging god.”

  It took several moments for the War Chiefs to realize that the comparatively short and fragile looking man with red hair actually did have the authority to issue them orders. Once they did understand, with more than one cautious look at the Master of War, and then at the woman, and then at the charred remains of their fellow War Chief, they departed.

  The Master of War spoke once they were all gone. “They’re all idiots.” With two hands, he rubbed his face and temples, and with the other two, poured three drinks.

  “With respect, War Master, few Deshika in Anaria have ever seen a Ringlord’s powers truly brought to bear. Deshik Shamans have skills, yes, but comparatively little power.”

  The Master of War drank. “What is your plan, Hunter?”

  The man walked over and picked up his own cup. It was a pale white wine than smelled of citrus. “Currently, I have no plan. Whoever this is though, I assure you they will die.”

  The Master of War sipped his own wine. “And you?” he asked, turning to the woman.

  “I’m going to examine some of the buildings and try to read the magic shards. I should be able to follow them and track down our rogue.” She turned to the man. “With your permission, I start my Hunt.” She bowed slightly.

  The man nodded, and the woman left.

  The Master of War was intrigued by the exchange. “Is she your student?”

  The Lord Egrin swirled the wine in his cup. “No. Queen Guinira made me the Chief Hunter of Dothoro. I once made the very grave mistake of trying to ignore my superiors, so now, I insist on that formality.” He returned to the window and watched as his companion walked out of the door below him and across the street to the nearest of the destroyed buildings.

  “She shows promise. Do you think she will succeed?” The Master of War set his empty cup down.

  “In finding whoever this is? Yes. In killing or capturing them? The trail will lead into the forest. She will die before the sun begins to descend.” He sipped his wine and gave the goblet an approving nod, recognizing the vintage. “We should focus instead on where this person will strike tonight, and not where they are now.”

  “Why would they strike tonight? They just hit a hard blow.”

  “Except for two things: one, you just arrived, and two, the only War Chief to die was killed by my Hunter. This was an attack for the sake of attacking. But tonight? Tonight is the fifth night since the attacks started, and there has been one attack each night for the last four. Five is a Holy number for the Morschen. Tonight, the blow that is struck will be one that is designed to destroy Deshik control in Dothoro.” He looked at a map. “Where is the largest Deshik garrison within two leagues of the forest edge?”

  The Master of War pointed at a small dot. “Here. At Sirin.”

  Lord Egrin nodded. “Then I’m going to Sirin. And I need your Death Stalkers.”

  * * * * *

  Xari Gundara doused her fire with a flick of her wrist the second she felt a resonating power coming from the south. “Nyjeta!” she whispered, knowing it was already too late to run very far. Instead, she stepped back into the shadow of a large maple and pulled her hood up over her head and down over her face. Only a minute later, the female Hunter walked out of a stand of ash trees just south of Xari.

  She knelt at the ashes of Xari’s fire. “Fresh, doused without water. My lord was right. A rogue Armandan, you are.” Xari didn’t take the bait. “I know you’re here somewhere. I know you can hear me. You put this out minutes ago, if not seconds.” The woman shouted it. Xari began to wonder if she really did know where Xari was, or if it was a guess.

  ‘Maybe,’ thought Xari, ‘if she’s loud enough a Ranger will find her and kill her.’

  “If you won’t come out I’ll burn you out!” Xari remained silent. “Have it your way!” The woman knelt in the ashes of Xari’s fire and put her hand on the ground. Flames spread from her fingertips, eating the grass in every direction. Slowly, they spread outwards, but the fire died the further it extended from Xari, until finally, there was a misshapen arrow of burned grass pointing straight to her. The woman looked up and saw for the first time, the difference in the brown of the cloak and the tree. “An Armandan traitor in a Dothrin cloak. You may have beaten my eyes, but you cannot fool the Fire.” She walked towards Xari. “Face me as a warrior or die like a coward.” Xari stepped out of the shadow, but still did not remove the hood. “Some of us collect heads as trophies to display our prowess. I choose other, more distinguishing pieces. But what trophy should I take from you?” Without another thought, Xari drew her sword. The woman’s eyes went to it instantly, and then back to Xari’s face hidden underneath her hood. “Xari Gundara herself. My Queen will reward me well for this. A pity I can’t take you alive ...” The woman drew her own sword and took a step closer to Xari, unintimidated by Xari’s reputation with a blade.

  Xari swung her sword up into a defensive stance, and an arrow flew from behind her over her shoulder, and took the taller Armandan woman in the throat.

  Xari turned around and saw another arrow, aimed at her face. She put up her left hand, palm out, and slowly lowered the tip of Galdren and pushed it into the ground. Then she lowered her hood.

  The Dothorin relaxed his bow slightly and came forward. “No one comes this far south.”

  “This is Dothrin land. I’m just trying to help your people take it back.”

  “And because of you, Armandans are coming after us into the forest, actively hunting underneath the trees. You have done my people no favour.”

  Xari shook her head. “Put your bow down.”

  “You don’t command me.”

  “I am Morschcoda Xari Gundara. I think you’ll find that I do.”

  “I know who you are, Morschcoda, but you have only added to the danger to my people, inside and outside of the forest. You have earned no loyalty or favour from me this or any other night.”

  “I have saved dozens of captives that the Deshika had enslaved, just in the last four nights. Tonight, I go back. If I am successful, the Dothrin may once more walk freely outside the trees. If I fail, I die. Does that seem fair, Ranger?”

  He lowered his bow and put the arrow back in his quiver. He walked over to the dead Hunter. “I never had to kill a woman before today. As dangerous as I know this one was, it leaves a foul taste in my mouth.” He pulled the arrow from her throat without looking at her face, then spread his left hand, where a gold and emerald Ring graced his third finger. Grass and vines began to cover the woman, and tree roots lifted and pulled her body underground. He closed his hand and the forest around them settled.

  * * * * *

  Xari pulled herself up the low wall that surrounded Sirin. The wall was Deshik construction, straight, but not smooth, so the climb was not difficult. She kept as low as possible as she pushed herself over the top, A Deshik soldier walked towards her, unaware of her presence. She drew a knife as quietly as she could and threw it, hitting the Deshika in the eye, more by luck than skill. He dropped without a sound, and more fortunate still, he fell outside of the wall.

  Taking every precaution to avoid being seen, it took Xari over an hour to make it to the centre of Sirin. In the large park that was the city centre, there was a fountain, which had five statues, one for each of Dothoro’s five Guardian Spirits: a Hummingbird, a Crundark, a Lurnax, a Monkey, and a Wolf. Sirin’s Guardian, the Hummingbird, had the largest statue, in the centre of the fountain, while the other four were facing
one in each direction of the compass.

  Unlike many Armandans, Xari did not fear water that she could not drink, and still being careful to not be seen, she climbed into the fountain and waded out to the Hummingbird. She pulled herself up out of the water and climbed until she was on the birds back, twenty feet up.

  Two centuries before, Xari’s great-grandmother had taught her how to use a rare power called Tongue of Fire. With it, Xari was able to speak with anyone, anywhere in Anaria, so long as they both stood near a fire. This was where Xari’s plan began to seem dangerous even to her. To do what she intended, she would have to declare her presence to every Deshik warrior in Sirin.

  She took one or two deep breaths, then formed a small ball of fire between her hands. Cradling it near her mouth to stay as hidden as possible, she began to speak.

  * * * * *

  In every building in Sirin, a voice roared out of the flames that burned in every fireplace.

  “ANY DESHIKA THAT WISH TO LIVE, FLEE! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES! LEAVE THIS LAND AND NEVER RETURN!”

  * * * * *

  Xari let her small flame die, sucking power through it from every fire through which she had spoken. As every fire in the city was extinguished, Xari grew more and more anxious. ‘Where are they? Why aren’t they running? Did they already leave?’

  There was no mad scramble of Deshika to escape. There wasn’t even an orderly retreat from the city. So Xari stood and climbed to the top of the Hummingbird’s head. What she saw nearly broke her.

  The fountain had been surrounded while she had been speaking. She counted forty-nine Deshika, in black armour that she knew marked them as Death Stalkers. And to the north, she could see just over the head of the Wolf, was one Armandan man. A man she knew: Egrin.

  Her brother.

  Fall from Grace