Villains (15 page)

Chapter 1

Crestaos paced the hall furiously. Anger boiled in his veins as he took a sharp turn and grasped the goblin by the arm, snapping it with a loud crack. The goblin yelped and Crestaos slammed his fist across the Goblin’s face, rendering him dead on the icy stone floor. His chest heaved in fury as he foamed at the mouth and spat at the creature.

“Lorac!” There was deadly silence and Crestaos clenched his fist, his mithronian form threatening to explode from his limbs.

Lorac appeared in the doorway, lingering as though he didn’t want to near the angered beast. His footsteps were cautious and calculated as he inched into the hall and stood tall. The others except for Turon stood behind him, apprehensive. Turon strode into the hall past Lorac and paused within arm’s reach of Crestaos.

“More slaves?” he asked with a wry smile.

Crestaos shot him a frosty glare and watched him back away. “I need to awaken the mithronian army. You will find a way to do it.”

Turon nodded. Since their first attempt only penetrated the ground enough to raise the goblins, the mithronians had to be locked in their dusty prisons, awaiting their chance to escape.

“Were we not successful with the drow?” Hortis said.

All eyes turned to him, five careful stares and a sixth that was deadly. Turon quickened his pace towards Lorac as Crestaos steamed with hostility.

“Come here Hortis,” Crestaos said with as much calm as he could muster. In his prime he would have silenced Hortis by turning him to dust, but the Lands of Immortals, the Lands of Beasts and the Lands of Men had changed. His home was called the Land of the Dead, though he didn’t remember it that way. It used to be the Land of the Kings, but the traitor Tor changed everything. Crestaos was more than bitter about the events in the First Era.

Hortis gulped and stole a glance at Valtor and Lorac, both of them unwilling to lend a hand. They nodded for him to approach the ancient lord. Shaking with grief Hortis moved across the floor until he was close enough Crestaos reached for him, clenching his throat in his long bony hand. Hortis stared into his white lightning eyes and something warm trickled down his leg. His face flushed with embarrassment as Crestaos glared at him.

“Avristar was a failure,” he began, his tone lethal. He pulled Hortis off the ground and the apprentice kicked his legs involuntarily. He didn’t dare speak a word.

“The Flame escaped,” he continued, obsession entering his tone. His eyes locked to Hortis’ and he refused to allow his petulant minion to cross him again. He tightened his grip and Hortis gagged.

The other Daed watched with feigned interest. Crestaos had been outraged since they fled Avristar—empty-handed. They refused to speak of it, because they knew what he would do to them if they opened their mouths.

“She evaded me,” Crestaos roared as he hit the apogee of his anger. His gaze emitted a sonic wave that hit Hortis’ irises and rendered the world black. He screamed as the energy burned his eyes. He pulled his hands over them trying to claw them out with his own fingernails but Crestaos dropped him, his head hitting the ground with a thud. Hortis scrambled onto his hands and knees still scratching and clawing at his eyes.

Delotha glanced warily at the others and at Crestaos before sweeping in and pulling Hortis to his feet. The apprentice whimpered from the blow that blinded him. Crestaos didn’t feel guilty; he spared Hortis, showed mercy. In the First Era he wouldn’t have been so kind.

Crestaos brushed his cloak and turned to Lorac. His form lifted off the ground as he spoke. “I must have every last Flame. Find the others before you become meaningless to me.” He pulled his hands together in a loud clap and disappeared from the hall.

“He cannot see a thing,” Delotha assessed once the screams stopped. The Daed stretched out in the hall, assessing the situation before them.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Valtor hissed. He turned to the carcass on the ground and kicked it hard.

“We need to be logical,” Lorac interjected. He winced at the state of his apprentice. Hortis was more of a liability than an asset to them. He couldn’t deny his blindness would make things even more challenging.

“Aye,” Turon agreed. He stood beside Lorac and looked at Valtor. “Crestaos wants a mithronian army and the Flames.”

“How do you expect to fulfill both requests?” Valtor sneered.

“We know where the Carnelian one is hidden. I suggest you retrieve it to silence the master until I can find a formula to raise the mithronians.”

Valtor gave him a lethal stare. “I refuse to take Hortis on this expedition.”

“Nay, he needs to stay with Turon,” Lorac said. He glanced at Delotha who crouched beside the apprentice, watching as Hortis slipped in and out of consciousness. He met their gaze and stood abruptly.

“I will go,” he said.

“And Azdrach,” Lorac ordered.

Azdrach crossed his arms and stared down at Hortis. “He needs to get to a bed.” He glanced at Turon and his strength turned to uncertainty. “And I am due for another dram of necra powder.”

“Leave by nightfall,” Lorac said.

When Hortis came to, the world around him was dark. He opened his eyes but they were glazed over white orbs, ironic in comparison to his darkened world. His other senses felt heightened. There was someone breathing nearby, their scent putrid.

“I thought we triumphed,” he began. The stinging pain subsided and was replaced by an eerie numbness. He didn’t doubt Turon filled him with a drug.

“You deserve to be blind,” Lorac responded.

“What will we do?” Hortis whispered. His eyes darted around in their sockets but nothing was visible. He feared the ancient immortal from the moment they resurrected him. Avrigost was a place none traveled to and Hortis knew why.

Lorac sighed and Hortis plummeted into guilt. For Lorac, Avristar was a high point of his life after exile, the rush of revenge, striking down untrained warriors, and scaring the elders. Hortis enjoyed the look on Lord Istar’s face when he uttered the word Flame. His expression was something he would savor forever.

Lorac took in a vile breath. “We will find the Flames and wait for Crestaos to use them.”

“Use them for what?” Hortis wanted to go home to Cam’Wethrin. If he could have, he would have begged Satarine to hang him the way she planned when he was caught for treason. His escape only proved to cause more trouble.

“The death of Tor,” Lorac breathed.

Hortis’s stomach lurched. He had known Lorac for years and he never expressed the want for power. Their lives were based on the principals of survival and acquisition. When they couldn’t hoard, loot or indulge, they enjoyed the treasures they’d taken. Lorac was never interested in killing Tor.

“You never,” Hortis began, but he felt a frog stuck in his throat.

Lorac laughed. “I want nothing more than to see the High King fall.”

Hortis paused for a moment, what he thought he knew about his leader fleeing him. “Why does Crestaos need the Flames?”

Lorac shifted his weight uncomfortably. “He needs them so he can raise the Valtanyana.”

Hortis’ eyes widened and stitches of burning pain laced his pupils. He closed his eyes covering them with his hands as tears escaped from the corners. “Is that what the Flames are for?” He heard stories of the Valtanyana, but never sought to know more about the ancient rulers of the known realms.

Lorac shook his head. “Nay, but Crestaos won’t release them until he knows he can hold power over them.”

Hortis wobbled his head back and forth in agony as the burning sensation heightened. “What will that mean for us?”

Lorac paced. He paused in the doorway. “Death will take you before you need to know the answer to that. If you fail the brethren again, it will come by my hand.”

There were more screams from the main hall. Turon listened from the adjacent place of arms, his eyes on the maps. Delotha and Azdrach brought the weakest goblins to Crestaos, and the lord spent hours breaking bones and spilling blood. He shuddered and blinked, trying to concentrate on the parchment. He traced the path to the hidden realm of Sallas and was sure a Flame was tucked away there. Sallas was like Avristar, a small realm of endless natural magic protected and secluded from the rest of the universe. He sighed and hung his head. There was no hope they would find the way to penetrate it. He quickly calculated the coordinates and huffed. He threw the marking tool down and slammed a hand onto the table. “Wretch!”

Another scream was drowned by Crestaos’s roar and Turon stood straight and paced in a circle. Being the smartest of the Daed when it came to travel he knew it was up to him to continue the search for the Flames. The painful stab of letting one slip through their fingers made Turon anxious to replace the feeling with an easy victory. But their quest was bleak. He grimaced and turned back to the maps.

“Have you any news?” Delotha asked as he entered the place of arms. He paused at the large stone table in the center of the room.

Turon heaved a sigh. Crestaos would want progress, but he was too preoccupied with his anger. He shook his head. “Sallas is impossible,” he said as the words got lodged in his throat.

Delotha nodded. “Terra is next.”

Turon paused and put down the marking tool again. “Aye, but what will we do after that?”

Delotha’s eyes sparkled. “Find another battle to fight.”

Turon shook his head. “That disinterests me. I want to know how to use them, and why he needs all of them. I fear I won’t know until we have all of them.”

“That’s a dangerous task, what about the mithronians?”

Turon growled.

Delotha nodded. “The Flames then?”

“Fruitless. I can’t garnish any information from them. I know not their origins or the source of their power or the details of their abilities,” Turon rambled on while he switched to a map of the Lands of Men. He circled Terra with his marking tool. It was considerably far from Avristar, but it was where they left one of the Flames.

“So you know nothing,” Delotha said. He turned to the doorframe and raised an eyebrow at the screaming and growling coming from the main hall.

Turon looked at the plain stone walls and shook his head. “I know what the reports stated.” Metaphis, his home realm, was known for its sophisticated knowledge of the universe. The elders recorded their accounts with the Flames. The populace knew the basics, and even then, it proved to be theoretical knowledge, reserved for high scholars. They had no conclusions regarding the Flames; they had never been given the privilege of testing one. Turon shook his head, with the primitive materials on Angrenoth all he had been able to do was gawk at the orbs in the chamber. When he held them they scalded his hands. The Iolite Flame’s orb expanded when he touched it, creating an artificial light, but that was the most he knew.

“Avristar should have been a victory,” Delotha said.

Turon had sorted through the memories of the battle. They were stronger than the Avristar folk, even the Elders were weak compared to their sheer force. He laughed when they tried to strike down the Daed. Delotha’s speed, agility and battle skills alone were too advanced compared to their defensive magic and amateur fighting styles. “How did that one escape Crestaos? Do the reports say anything about that?”

Turon winced. He turned to the chest at the far end of the room and contemplated for a moment. “She was unlike the rest, weaker, but clever. Nay, nothing should have stopped Crestaos from taking her. Even if she was fully awakened, and knew how to harness the power of the Flame, he should have won. Her evasion is baffling.”

“It makes me wary of the others,” Delotha stated.

Turon laughed. “How can you be wary when Crestaos possesses four of them? Most on Metaphis don’t even believe in their greatness.”

“What do you believe?”

Turon shrugged. “They have power, but it’s unstable. I fear what Crestaos has planned for them.”

There was a loud crack from the main hall and both Delotha and Turon snapped their attention to the doorframe. A sickly feeling washed through the room as Crestaos’s form filled the room. He was covered in blood.

“I have found a solution,” he stated calmly.

Delotha and Turon stood frozen. They stared at him afraid to move or to speak.

“Retrieve the one on Terra. I will interrogate it. Time is running thin.”

“I will prepare the troops,” Delotha began.

“No troops!” Crestaos snapped. He stopped and looked at Turon. “Tor will take note of Avristar.”

Turon felt his stomach drop. Sallas was impossible to penetrate and Tor was unpredictable. If the battle in Avristar forced him into action then the Judges would be scouring the Lands Across the Stars, and victory would be uncertain. He didn’t like the idea of going without the armies; at least they provided a distraction. “Please, the armies mean nothing to you.”

Crestaos shot him an icy stare. “You have your magic. If you fail me …” he trailed off, the lethal edge in his silence more terrifying than spoken words.

Turon opened his mouth but he knew what Crestaos meant. The Daed hung in the cold limbo of death by any hand. Tor’s Judges wouldn’t hesitate to execute them. Neither would Crestaos if they didn’t bring him the Flames. Turon felt a chill race through him as he realized how expendable he was.

Turon stared at the door, longing to retreat to Cam’Wethrin for peace and quiet. He would have preferred home, thievery, and petty crimes to this quest. There was only one thing keeping him going, the promise of victory. He trusted in the belief Crestaos would restore the realms and give rulership to each of the Daed. He would have his status in the universe restored.

Delotha glanced at the lord. “Are you satisfied with the warriors I brought you?”

Crestaos nodded. “The slaves are sufficient. All of them are dead.” He moved to the doorframe, shooting a terrifying glance at Turon, his white lightning eyes crackling. “Time is not on your side.” He paused and stared at Delotha. “I need more slaves.”

***