The Elder Blood Chronicles Book 3 From the Ashes (26 page)

“Then grab a coat or cloak because it is
bloody cold in Glis this time of year,” Valor said as he wrapped
the coin tighter in his hand and watched her with an unreadable
expression on his face.

Nodding, Jala gave Valor a faint smile and
pulled her white fur lined coat from the trunk. “I’ve thought about
what Vaze told us about the Divines and their manipulations,” Jala
said.

“And?” Valor asked hesitantly.

“War was the only one that came right out and
said what he wanted. War tried to help me, and conflict is coming
regardless.” Jala paused as she tugged the coat on and met Valor’s
eyes once more. “He says that the Avanti will come for us and our
only choice will be fight or surrender. I’d rather die than
surrender to an Avanti, Valor. We could, of course, flee back to
the city but that doesn’t save us from what’s coming. I think this
whole world will feel the breath of war before this is over.” Valor
nodded slowly, his gaze moving to the Bendazzi who was sitting up
and stretching his powerful muscles. Looking back to her he nodded
once more. “Did they have Bendazzi in Merro before its fall?” he
asked.

Jala shook her head and glanced at Marrow
then back to Valor. “I think the climate was too warm for them
here. Merro rarely gets much snow in winter and it’s very humid in
the summer. Why?”

“They say a Familiar is the reflection of the
Sorcerer’s spirit,” Valor began and gave her a faint smile. “We do
have Bendazzi in Arovan and they are frequent in Glis as well. The
commons have a saying there.
Never pick a fight with a
Dazzi
. It’s rather commonly used for describing anything that
would be considered foolish. Everyone in Arovan knows to hunt a
Bendazzi is to seek an early grave.” Valor paused and watched
Marrow jump lightly down from the bed to pace over to Jala’s side.
“When we return I’ll start building your army, Lady Bendazzi, and
we will teach the rest of the world an Arovan saying if they
attempt to attack Merro.” He still swayed slightly where he stood
and the slur was still evident in his words, but his eyes were
bright with determination.

“Thank you, Valor,” Jala replied quietly.
“Never pick a fight with a Dazzi,” she repeated with a glance down
at Marrow. Running her hand across his broad head she focused on
Glis and the area she had sensed the strand from Sebastian. She
held out her hand offering it to Valor then flinched as she saw the
state of it. Without the pain present she had almost forgotten how
mangled it had been. She hadn’t even bothered to look at it until
now. Whoever had healed her had done a poor job of smoothing the
scars on her flesh. Jagged bumps could still be seen where the
fragments of the focus stones had been. The worst however were the
two stumps that were all that remained of her little finger and
ring finger. With a sharp breath she hurriedly lowered the hand
once more and offered him her other undamaged one.

Valor shook his head frowning at her and
refused the offered hand, moving instead to the damaged one. Gently
he took it in his own and studied the missing fingers critically.
“Never be ashamed of scars that you earned with honor, Jala. This
is a mark of courage, not an embarrassment.”

“I doubt the rest of the world will see it
that way, Val,” Jala murmured, her eyes drawn once more to the
hideous mess the healer had left behind.

“If they know the story and still find it
offensive, most likely they are on the opposing side and we are
about to kill them anyway. Slighting you just gives me more reason
to drive the sword through their chest,” Valor replied.

Nodding slowly, Jala gave Valor a considering
look but remained silent. Focusing once more she began the spell
that would transport them to Glis. Magical transport was risky,
especially during the current times, but then everyone thought Jala
Merrodin was on her deathbed.

The Darklands

The throne room was silent aside from the
sound of his own ragged breath. Finn stared at Death with more
hatred in his mind than he could ever recall feeling. His body was
quivering with rage, but he was entirely unable to move. The Divine
shifted on her throne and glanced up at him with a wicked
chuckle.

“Calm yourself, she will be back here soon
enough, and your child as well,” Death whispered, her hands already
weaving another spell. The Divine had been steadily weaving magic
since the shadows had dropped him at her feet.

Finn struggled once more against his magical
bonds and felt the Firym flames building inside him, begging for
release. A broken snarl burst from his throat and his anger grew
further. Valor’s sword lay barely two feet from him, lost in the
shadows near the wall and forgotten by everyone. Two feet from him
and hopelessly out of reach.

A gentle brush on his mind stilled his anger
for a breath and he tried desperately to find its source. Death’s
iron grip upon him was as cold as the grave itself and yet that
faint touch had been filled with warmth. Hope welled momentarily in
his chest and then died in the slow agonizing minutes that followed
as he failed to find any trace of the unknown magic. The rage
returned in full force and Finn settled once more into his struggle
against Death’s bonds while his dark green eyes locked on her with
a glower that would have sent most running. The Divine, however,
showed no sign of noticing or caring that she had angered Finn
Sovaesh. In life, his name had terrified people; in death he was
simply another number on the Divine’s list of souls.

The gentle brush of magic washed over him
once more and his breath seized in his chest.
I’m so sorry I
wasn’t strong enough, Finn. I tried, I really did. I am strong
enough to help you with this, though
. Jala’s voice was barely a
whisper but he could hear the pain in her words as clearly as if
she had screamed them aloud. Finn’s throat tightened and he forced
himself to blink several times to keep his eyes from growing
glassy. It took him several more breaths before he realized the
implications of his actions. His body had responded; he had
blinked. Until the moment of Jala’s words even that simple action
had been beyond him.

Without daring to move a muscle he called on
his Changeling blood as he had so many times before, and began to
make minor adjustments to his body. First the reflexes. With
careful precision he honed them enough to make a cat envious. He
focused then on the muscles, tightening them and compacting them to
bring his strength far beyond what his slight frame should have
allowed. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but it was an
opportunity that he didn’t intend to waste. When the moment came he
would be prepared to strike.

Death reeled on her chair and staggered
upright, her hands flying to her face as an explosion of white
light rocked the throne room. The spirits that had been silently
drifting by the walls began to wail and screech, and somewhere far
above them Finn could hear the battle cry of a dragon. The palace
rocked once more and stones fell from the ceiling as the Divine
staggered again.

Without wasting another moment Finn seized
the sword from the floor and drew it from its scabbard in one
graceful motion. The faint torchlight flickered off the oiled blade
as he charged the Divine. His blood sang as all of his fury coursed
through his muscles and into the two-handed swing that he sent
straight into Death. The blade connected with jarring force into
the sweet spot where her neck and shoulder met. As Finn had
expected, Valor’s sword was of exceptional quality. The blade bit
deep, cutting through the Divine’s leathery flesh as if moving
through hot butter. Death staggered back, with one clawed hand
grasping frantically, trying to catch hold of him. Snarling, Finn
pulled his sword back, amazed that the Divine was still on her
feet. Her head hung limply on her shoulder connected only by a few
scraps of flesh and muscle. Had she been a living creature, she
would be on the floor with her lifeblood pooling around her. Her
hands lashed out once more as she staggered. A ragged wheeze pulsed
from the remains of her neck. Drawing the blade back once more Finn
struck again his sword severing the remaining flesh sending the
Divine’s head spinning to the floor. For good measure he spun the
blade back around placing one hand firmly on the back of the hilt
and shoved it through the chest of the falling body. Droplets of
silver splashed across the dark floor as he wrenched the blade free
and stepped back, satisfied that she wouldn’t be moving again.

The air around the room grew heavy and the
palace shook once more as Death’s body twitched. Stepping back from
the corpse, Finn searched the floor for the missing head and
frowned. The chaos of moments before was gone and the room was
entirely silent aside from a low droning sound. Turning, Finn
searched for the spirits that had been wailing moments before but
found the throne room empty aside from himself and the fallen
Divine.

His gaze brushed across the corpse once more
and paused as he noticed the shadows above it beginning to thicken
and pulse. He took another hesitant step back as the droning noise
grew and the shadows rose from the body in tendrils.

“What the hell,” Finn muttered as one of the
tendrils dropped to the floor and began to slither toward his bare
foot. Stepping back quickly he moved toward the door as the rest of
the shadows twisted and writhed around him. Another tendril shot
toward him and he barely dodged it only to feel two more latch onto
his legs. Scrambling he tried to pull away as more wrapped his arms
and chest. The shining silver sword fell from his numbed fingers
and he opened his mouth to curse. With lightning speed one of the
tendrils shoved its way into his open mouth and he gasped and
choked as his entire body began to scream in agony. His eyes rolled
in his head and his breath came in ragged gasps. Convulsions began
to rip through his body as the dark magic invaded his flesh and he
dropped, gasping to the floor. Head bowed and breath rasping, he
stared down at the black flagstones. He could see his skin breaking
and peeling away with dark shadows writhing just beneath.

“Oh, how I have waited for this day,” a man’s
voice broke through the droning. Finn forced his head up to see the
speaker and watched in agony as the tall red-haired man kicked
Death’s remains with a booted foot. The armor he wore was
mismatched, a chain shirt, plate mail pauldrons and leather
gauntlets. Finn had seen militia among the commons garb themselves
in that fashion after they had scavenged battlefields. There was
nothing about this man that spoke of common however. Even the term
Elder Blood seemed to fall short on describing him. “Well done my
boy, well done indeed,” the man fairly crowed as he gathered
Death’s head from the floor and held it up by the hair, leaning
forward to look it directly in the face. “I told you not to fuck
with me, bitch,” the man chimed happily as he swung the head back
and tossed it over by the body.

Finn gasped, trying to force his mouth to
form words. His body quivered again as more skin peeled back.
Feebly he stretched a hand toward the man in a mute cry for help
but the strange visitor seemed entirely oblivious to his pain.

“To say that, implies that you killed her. It
was in fact Sovaesh that killed her and I do believe her power is
ripping him apart as you gloat over his victory.” The second voice
was low and utterly devoid of emotion. The sound of metal clad
boots rang through the stone room as the second speaker moved from
the door to stop in front of Finn. He was clad entirely in black
plate mail that made his pale skin seem almost translucent. His
black hair was cut short in soldiers’ fashion and the expression on
his face was grim.

Despite how much the man had changed, Finn
still recognized him. “Lord Veirasha,” Finn gasped, his hand still
stretched outward in appeal. He had been barely more than a child
the last time he had seen Damon Veirasha. Then the man had been
full of life and clad in shining silver with a smile on his
handsome face. Now he seemed a shadowed mockery of his former
self.

“Well now that you mention it, he does seem
to be having a bit of difficulty beyond the normal change,” the
first man said with a frown. He chewed on his lip for a breath and
then kicked the body of Death once more, forcing it over onto its
side. Pulling his gauntlets free he tucked them carefully into his
belt and knelt beside the body. Finn struggled to see what he was
doing but his body refused to move. The man rose again after only a
few moments and moved quickly to Finn’s side. Grasping him by the
jaw he forced Finn’s mouth open and poured something in. Gasping
Finn tried to wrench his head away as his mouth was coated with a
sickeningly sweet flavor. The agony inside him redoubled as the
liquid trickled down his throat. His arms collapsed beneath him as
his stomach clenched and he found himself curled on the floor
moaning softly.

“That should do it,” the red-haired man
muttered leaning back on his heels and watching Finn with
interest.

“Are you sure you didn’t just kill him?”
Damon asked in his flat monotone voice that suggested he could care
less if the man had.

“No, he is ascending. It can be a bit
traumatic I suppose. Lutheron’s ascension was worse than this.” The
first man spoke quietly, his gaze locked on Finn’s eyes. The man’s
eyes were dark purple, Finn realized, and nearly laughed at the
fact. It seemed absurd to be in such agony and still noticing such
details. The pain began to ease gradually and he forced his body to
uncurl. His breath slowed and he shakily pushed himself to a
sitting position. Both men watched him as if they were children
that had discovered an interesting new bug.

“Thank you for whatever you did,” Finn
mumbled and wiped his hand across his sweaty face. His body still
felt wrong but it no longer hurt. Now it was simply coiled as if
every muscle was eager for release. “Lord Veirasha, I have to get
out of here. I have to get to Jala. Do you know how to escape the
Darklands?” His voice was frantic as he clambered to his feet but
Damon Veirasha simply watched him silently.