C.P.D. Harris's Blog, page 12

Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.7T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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“I’ll grind your bones to paste, runt!” bellowed the leading bull as the Bloody Axe charged. 

The big bull thundered toward Retaak, massive hammer bouncing on his shoulder. Stepping forward to meet him, Retaak sensed the Orcs of the Hand of Death Warband bracing behind him. This was good, the Hand of Death had no real reason to aid him in this fight, only offended pride that had been aggravated by Bloody Axe attitude.

“I hope you fight better than you talk, Foolborn,” Retaak snarled in response.

Calm washed over Retaak like a wave as his opponent reached him. It was always like this. The rage that boiled him from the inside was dimmed and everything seemed clearer as he fought. It wasn’t that he no longer raged, he could hear himself roaring back at the bull, but rather that his focus sharpened and the rest of the world, all his concerns, seemed to drop away in the fight.

The bull heaved his enormous hammer into a wide swing, parallel to the ground, roaring with fury. Retaak backed just out of reach with a precision that belied his massive frame. As the hammer passed, he swung out with his new axe. The back-spike caught the hammer on the haft, just underneath the head. The bull, towering over Retaak, was still bellowing as he was yanked off balance. As he stumbled past, Retaak slashed him across the back. The falchion, expertly weighted and keen of edge bit through metal armour with a splash of blood. The bull, more irritated than alarmed swiped at Retaak with a massive backhand, bellowing fury. Retaak parried the attack with his sword and then brought his axe down on the arm, crushing the metal.

All around them the fighting raged. The other bull hacked down two Hand of Death orcs before the Grey-Haired veteran speared him under the arm and twisted, piercing the Ogre’s heart. The Bloody Axe goblins fired into the melee, cackling as their arrows struck flesh. Their laughter was cut short, however, when one of them fell, a bolt in his throat.

Retaak took all of this in as he fought. The bull roared as Retaak hacked at his arm again and surged up, pushing him back. Frothing with rage, the big bull heaved the hammer at Rttaak. Sidestepping, Retaak swung his axe at the bull’s head, but the bigger ogre shouldered into him as it connected, spoiling the blow. The bull heaved his hammer up again, bellowing as he brought it down. Retaak, not as dazed as he appeared, stepped out of the way and buried his axe in the bull’s shoulder. The huge ogre bellowed and pushed forward despite the wound but Retaak saw an opening and shoved the tip of his Falchion into the bull’s mouth and up into his brain. The massive bull went cross-eyed and then fell.

The remaining Bloody Axe fell. The Hand of Death did not pursue. Retaak felt the calm leave him. he was satisfied though, having cut down a worthy opponent in a fight that he did not provoke.

The old Orc came to stand beside him, looking down at the bull. “That was well done, Retaak Wildborn,” he said after a moment. “He didn’t even hit you.”

“He was a fool,” said Retaak. “He could not see that your men were superior to his, despite the disparity in size.”

It was partly a compliment, meant to put the other at ease, but it was rooted in truth. Only two of the Hand of Death had fallen, killed by the other bull. The arrows and spears of the Blood Axe orcs and goblins had failed to overcome their armour.

The orc nodded. “Nonetheless, it was a pleasure to fight with you. I will remember this day, Retaak.”

Retaak nodded, and they clasped hands firmly.

“You may pass into the territory of the Hand of Death, as an ally in battle,” said the old Orc.

“You honour me, veteran,” said Retaak.

They exchanged words and then one of the younger orcs led Rataak through Hand of Death territory.

He did not shake the feeling that someone was following him.

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Thralls of Dread Lord (1.6T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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Trying to lose his pursuers, Retaak took to the winding tunnels of the Twilight Warrens, where the most prosperous of the spawn, below the lords and their close allies, made their homes. Life under the yoke of the Dread Lord was harsh, and those who lived in The Twilight Warrens earned their place through skill, cunning, brutality, or sheer numbers. The Warbands this close to the pinnacle were large and well-organized, and some even carried banners that dated back to the very first Dread Lord, the creator of the Fell Spawn.

As an ogre, Retaak stood head and shoulders above most of the spawn that he passed. He could not lose himself in any of the crowds, even if he found one that would not challenge the presence of a stranger. Wildborn were not welcome in these halls.

Retaak, sensing that he was still being followed but not able to see by whom, decided to take a swift corner.

“Who comes?” challenged a broad shouldered Orc with a grey top-knot and the white face paint of the Hand of Death, the largest Warband in the warrens. The old orc was backed by a dozen of his fellows, bristling with weapons and clad in metal armour.

“Retaak, serving Ushochhushi on the seneschal’s business,” said Retaak, holding up his empty hands.

“Truth, Wildborn? Have you a writ?”

“These seneschal gave me no writ,” said Retaak, shaking his head. “Allow me to pass and I will speak well of you to him.”

The old orc’s eyes narrowed, calculating. His companions growled and a few of them cursed Retaak under their breath but he paid them no mind; now was not the time to fight.

“Hands, give us the Wildborn,” came a growl from behind them.

The Orcs bristled, turning to face the newcomers. Retaak’s hands flew to his weapons when he saw a pair of bulls, Ogres even larger than himself with enormous tusks. Behind them stood six orcs and a pair of goblins with bows. The bore the sign of the Bloody Axe, an infamous Warband that served anyone who paid.

The old veteran’s eyes blazed. “That sounded like a command, scum.”

The largest of the ogres, a massive brute who carried a hammer on his shoulder than looked like it might outweigh the orc veteran, snorted. “Those who have the strength, give the orders, grey-hair. Is that not the way of things?”

“The Bloody Axe would risk war with the Hand of Death over this one?” snarled the orc veteran.

It took all of Retaak’s restraint to keep his mouth shut. The Hand were prideful, and they could not afford to back down and show weakness so close to their territory. The Bloody Axe saw only the power of the bulls that led them and were far too cocky.

“Would you risk death to keep him from us, grey-hair?”

Retaak almost smiled.

“You will regret threatening us, Bloody Axe,” said the Orc veteran. “The Wildborn stays with us. Come get him if you dare.”

The bull laughed. The Orcs formed up behind their commander, locking shields.

Retaak drew his weapons. It felt good to hold well-made steel, even if his purpose was crude. “My blades will sing for the Hand of Death today.”

“Then you will die together!”

The Bloody Axe charged, two massive bulls thundering toward them. Retaak roared and stepped out to meet them.

<>

Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.5T)

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Retaak ate well as he listened to Ushochhushi’s instructions, which were laid out in great detail. He took care not to overeat, however, since as soon as he descended into the lower warrens an over-full belly would be a hindrance.

While the plan was too complex for most spawn, Retaak had no difficulty grasping the specifics. He would need to infiltrate Greyrock through a secret passageway. There were three keys which would open said passage, all of which could be found on high ranking prison wardens. Stealth was of the essence, since their quarry would be well guarded, but they would enjoy a distraction in the form of an assault on Oystkivat.

Retaak nodded, absorbing the details, listening for any hint of what cunning Ushochhushi was really planning. The Dread Lord’s Seneschal had many enemies, chief among them being the Ogre Gurgumaar who controlled much of the military power in Bemachhorak, the nation of the Spawn. Gurgumaar was not as powerful as Ushochhushi here in the warrens, but had more direct influence almost everywhere else, especially among the Dread Lord’s hordes and far-flung outposts. The Dread Lord’s subordinates were always scheming against one another, and Retaak expected that this was part of that web of rivalry and backstabbing for position.

In truth, Retaak would rather crack Ushochhushi’s skull open than serve him, but the other’s power over him was nearly as absolute as the Dread Lord’s. A mere thought from Ushochhushi could hurt him more than Waachear’s hot irons, thanks to the Dread Lord’s magic invested in the Seneschal. He had no choice but to serve, at least for now.

“Retaak? do you understand the mission I have given you?” asked Ushochhushi after a full hour of explanations.

“I do, lord,” said Retaak. He was full, and after sitting in the comfort of Ushochhushi’s luxurious meeting chamber, he felt good. The pounding in his skull, from Waachear’s brutes, was almost gone, and the pain from his recent breaking was almost faded. I understand what you are telling me, slavekeeping scum, and I will learn what you are keeping from me if I can.

Ushochhushi eyed him critically. “Very well then. Gurgumaar begins his attack on Oystkivat in twelve days. It will take you seven days to march there. If you fail me, Waachear will get his dearest wish. Do you understand?”

“Yes, lord,” said Retaak, trying to appear respectful. It was best to let Ushochhushi think that he was somewhat pliable.

“Then go,” said Ushochhushi.

“Without weapons, lord?”

Ushochhushi’s piercing eyes widened, and for a moment Retaak thought that he may have pushed his new patron too far. The Seneschal was known for his love of weapons, and there were many fine specimens on the wall.

“… going into the Warrens without a weapon, carrying two bars of silver, is suicide, lord.”

A long exhalation, escaped Ushochhushi’s lips and he shook his head. “I can see the logic in that Retaak, but you go too far in asking for something from my collection. Would you prefer axe or sword?”

“Why not both?”

“… so be it.”

The Seneschal snarled a series of commands in Brouvian and the two elf slaves returned. One carried a heavy battle axe with a long beard and a brutal looking back-spike while the other carried an ogre-sized falchion. Both weapons were immaculately cared for and not the usual crude metalwork found in the warrens. Retaak smiled and bowed.

“Thank you, lord,” Ushochhushi nodded, and he left.

<>

Retaak was escorted away by a squad of Elite orks clad in dark armour. The rode the lft with him down from the upper reaches of the Warren, standing silently as statues. They left him in the mustering halls, near the forges. One of them spit at his feet as the lift began to ascend again, but Retaak ignored the offence.

He needed to find help. He could not fulfill his mission without a skilled scout and someone familiar with the wilderness. Extra fighters would be useful as well. As he stood, considering where to start, he noticed a small band of orcs start to walk toward him, looking angry. He turned and began to travel around the enormous pit on which lifts traveled, but he saw another group, led by a big bull head towards him.

Retaak, wondering which of his many enemies had sent this new threat to greet him, turned toward the hive of tunnels that contained the smaller shops and pushed his way past the crowds, hoping to lose his pursuers…

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.4T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

<>

Retaak waited. Ushochhushi was no fool, however bad their history may be. If anyone could find a way into Greyrock it would be the Dread Lord’s seneschal. Full of tricks was Ushochhushi.

“I know of a way in,” said Ushochhushi. “Even the Elves have secrets from each other. At great expense to myself I have uncovered a secret entrance into Greyrock. It is a dangerous path.”

“Even if we can get into Greyrock, how can we escape with this prisoner?”

“There will be a distraction, Gurgumaar will be leading an assault on Oystkivat. The Brouvians will be busy fighting the general’s spawn while Greyrock itself will be swollen with fearful town-elves.”

Retaak tried to quell his curiosity, but could not. What sort of secret route did the seneschal know of and why would he not use it simply to capture Greyrock and gain the Dread Lord’s Favour that way? He just hoped that Ushochhushi did not notice how intent he was; it would be used against him; an eager servant had little bargaining power.

“Do I have your interest, at least, wildborn?”

Retaak looked around at the opulent room. It was a far cry from the drake-hide tent where they had last met.

“I am considering, lord,” said Retaak. “But I have recently come from Waachear’s ministrations. I have eaten not but the paste the torturer fed me for days, and precious little of that. Perhaps some food and a chance to rest my feet will help me consider… lord.”

The flint-eyed Ushochhushi looked Rettak over, and for a moment the Ogre wondered if he had pushed his luck too far.

“Of course,” said Ushochhushi, taking a small silver bell, a trophy of plunder, from his desk. “Let it be said that Ushochhushi treats those who show him loyalty with the hospitality that they deserve.”

Retaak nodded. Before he could say more an Elven woman, golden haired and collared walked into the room carrying a tray of meat and bread followed by another carrying a thick legged stool. The slaves were both nude, and like all elves she was graceful and beautiful, but the stranglechain collar they wore filled him with pity rather than arousing his desire as such slaves were meant to. They set down the food-ladden tray and the sturdy stool before him, kneeling gracefully but not meeting his eye.

“Do you like what you see, wildborn?”

“The meal looks good, lord. I thank you and your… servants,” In truth Retaak’s belly rumbled as he looked on the meat and inhaled the spices and the scent of bread, fresh bread! The sight of the Elven women, prostrate before him only filled him with rage. If he could have survived the act he would have broken thin Ushochhushi’s neck and released them, enemies of his people or no. No one deserved this, no matter the enmity that existed between the Fellspawn and their kind.

Ushochhushi laughed. “Go.” he said to the Elves.

“All that time in the Places of Pain and you have not changed at all, Retaak,” he said as Retaak helped himself to a perfectly square slice of red meat, chilled but still bloody. The taste was exquisite and he quickly washed it down with some water and helped himself to another morsel. “You would not even punish those who would see us dead with the slavery they deserve?”

“My feelings on these things have not changed, lord. Out of respect for your hospitality, I will not resume my old argument.”

The seneschal sighed. “There is an old saying, Retaak; the reed that does not bend, breaks.”

“Better to break once than to bend and bend, again and again, until you are trampled into the mud never to rise again… lord.”

Ushochhushi nodded. “You have said this before… but you are right, I should not be surprised by this, I know your feelings well. Has the meal refreshed your mind, Retaak?”

“It has. I am interested. I am also grateful that you do not compel me to this task, lord,” he wolfed down another slice of meat, this one darker and tasting of pepper. When had he ever eaten so well?

“I take it back, Retaak. I think you may have learned some manners from the Hobs, after all.” said Ushochhushi. “You would fit in well among the Dread Lord’s elite.”

“Thank you, lord,” said Retaak, wolfing down a hunk of break that seemed to melt in his mouth. Only later did it occur to him that it was likely baked by one of the slaves.

“I want you to pick the spawn that you need and return to me,” said Ushochhushi. “I will pay you in silver, in preparation and after completion. You will break into Greyrock fortress while Gurgumaar attacks Oystkivat and steal the prisoner away while everyone is distracted. There will be fighting, I am certain and you will need stealth and a spawn who is handy with traps and locks.”

As he spoke of silver, the seneschal placed a two bars of the bright metal in front of him. Retaak licked his lips involuntarily. Such wealth!

Ushochhushi smiled.

<>

 

 

 

Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.3T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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“What do you want of me, Lord?” asked Retaak, standing as straight as he could, in spite of his injuries.

“I have brought you here because you served me well in the past,” said Ushochhushi. “Do you remember the battle of Uyaagaapegaag?”

Retaak nodded. He had been broken three times, perhaps four since then but he remembered it well enough. Leading a warband of trolls and orcs, Retaak had served under Ushochhushi’s bright green banner that day. It was rare for an Ogre to follow one of the smaller spawn, let alone a half-breed hob, but even then Ushochhushi had a remarkable reputation. But Retaak had always something to prove, so he joined the green banner in battle against the great old Ogre bull, Tudishot, who fielded an elite army under his Red Fist banner. Ushochhushi had picked the ground carefully, a rare concept for a people to whom fighting began with the charge and ended with a chaotic melee.

Retaak could still picture the climactic moment of the battle. The Ogres, Orogs, and their supporting warbands were floundering, mired in the mud of the flats and unable to gain ground by pushing against the Green Banner on the hill. Ushochhushi, his two swords gleaming, stepped forward and shouted a challenge to Tudishot, one that the old bull could not ignore. Though the big Ogre was strong, his cleaver was too slow to defeat the swift and cunning Ushochhushi, and the battle ended with his bloody dismemberment.

“You served me well on that day, Retaak. You fought against you own kindred and killed two of the Red Fist Banner’s bulls.”

“It was a good day,” answered Retaak. Lurking under the veneer was that Ushochhushi had later sent him to Waachear for disobedience.

“So it was. I wish to repay your service and give you a chance to work your way back into my good graces,” Ushochhushi smiled, but it did not extend to his piercing eyes.

Retaak shrugged, a gesture of startling rudeness to one who could have him killed without a second thought. If Ushochhushi noticed, he made no sign. “I will listen to your offer, Lord.”

“Have you heard of the town of Oystkivat?” asked Ushochhushi.

“I have.”

“There is a fortress there–“

“Greyrock,” interrupted Retaak, impatient. He was eager to get away from the warrens. At least in the field he had some freedom, even if he was still a slave to the will of Ushochhushi and the like.

“Laksyaibyin to the Brouvians,” said Ushochhushi, seeming to savour the language of the Great Elven Empire in a way that most spawn would consider downright indecent. He too was a questioner, or had been.

“What of it, Lord?”

“There is a prisoner within Greyrock. I want you to bring that prisoner to me, unharmed. Both the Elves and some of your brethren will try and stop you.”

Unable to help himself, Retaak laughed. It rumbled out of him, causing the burn marks scored into his flesh by Waachear’s poker to break open, painfully. He laughed for a long time, unable to gain control. The idea of raiding Greyrock was pure madness.

“Why not just kill me, right here?” Retaak asked, eyes bright. “It would take a siege to break Greyrock,”

Ushochhushi smiled.

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.2T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

<>

The brutes dragged the struggling Retaak out of the Hall of Screams and out toward the nearest stairs. He relaxed, hoping to lull them into a false sense of security. After a few twists and turns through rough hewn warren and smooth ancient Dwarf-construction, he felt their grips relax fractionally.

With a rumbling growl, Retaak planted his feet on a rough wall pushing his captors off balance. The motion must have surprised them because one of them feel to the ground with a clatter and Retaak found himself free. He wasted no time in running toward the nearest side passage, confident that he could lose the brutes in the warrens.

He made it two paces, feeling the rock beneath his feet and freedom in his heart before a rock hit him in the shoulder, hard enough to send him tumbling. Retaak cursed his weakness as he fell hard, scraping his skin against the rough stone as he came to a halt.

One of the brutes chortled.

“Can’t outrun me rocks,” came the dull voice.

Retaak heaved himself up, but before he could gain his feet the brutes were upon him. He hit the first in the knee, staggering him, but the second caught his hand and smashed a cudgel against his head. Darkness came swiftly.

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The sound of a female’s laughter, mingled with a male’s, both familiar, both loved. Is it a memory, or a fantasy? Retaak does not know.

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Though his head felt like it was being stepped on by a giant, Retaak immediately noticed the sweet, cool air of his new surroundings. The glory of it filled his lungs. Retaak was so used to the dank fetid air of the lower warrens was he that he almost coughed.  As his eyes fought to focus, he reasoned that he must be somewhere important.

He was laying on something soft, a rich red carpet, definitely plundered. The room was filled with similar trophies with racks of weapons lining the walls, and works of art taken from the the enemies of the Dread Lord displayed in a disciplined fashion. A chill went down Retaak’s spine.

“Tsk, tsk,” that sound confirmed Retaak’s Fears. He was in the chambers of the Dread Lord’s seneschal and spymaster, Ushochhushi. “The Paingivers were a bit rough with you, Ogre. Or did you give them trouble?”

“Both,” said Retaak warily. Ushochhushi served the Dread Lord and was no fool. he was one of the most powerful Fellpsawn in the Warren, charged with feeding the Dread Lord information and rooting out traitors. Though he was half goblin/half-hob and Retaak could break him with a single punch, he would never land his attack. Like all of the Dread Lord’s most trusted servants, Ushochhushi had a touch of the compelling; with but a thought he could cause pain worse than the Hobs and their tools of torture, or even kill Retaak. He’d seen many die that way in his time and he knew than the time to struggle was over, for now.

Ushochhushi chuckled, his sharp eyes raking Retaak.

“You are rebellious, Ogre,” he said, though he stated it as a fact rather than an accusation, and seemed more amused than angry. “But you have served others well in the past, and so you are allowed to live.”

“Yes.”

“I mere living enough for you, I wonder? Do you not aspire to greater heights? I know that you think differently than your kind. You question, you can make your own judgements. It is a both a flaw and a gift. You could rise high in the service of the Dread Lord if you put your will to it.”

Retaak knew better than to say what was in his heart. He cared only for freedom. Closer service to the Dread Lord was simply another kind of thralldom, in his mind.

When Ushochhushi realized that Retaak was not going to name his desire, he continued, choosing to overlook the slight. Many of the Dread Lord’s other servants would have compelled him, ripping the words from his throat. Retaak gained a glimmer of respect for Ushochhushi for not playing the game.

“I have a task for you Retaak…”

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.1T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

<>

The sound of a female’s laughter, mingled with a male’s, both familiar, both loved are chased away by screams as Retaak the Ogre roars back to consciousness. As he opens his eyes he is greeted by the sight of a Hob standing over him holding an iron poker that glows red with heat. Retaak can smell burning meat and knows that it is his own flesh that sizzles on that dread rod. He tries to pull himself up, to escape, but the bands that hold him do not give; he knows from experience that breaking them is next to impossible.

“I will never understand why you waste your strength on this, Retaak,” says the Hob, hard eyes full of malicious mirth. “We always break you. You never escape. You are lucky that the Dread Lord has not cast you to the charnel pit.”

There is a hint of frustration underlying that, however; one that most would miss. Retaak hears it well and knows what it means. The Hob cannot fathom why a Fellspawn of less than perfect loyalty is allowed to live.

“Are you questioning the Dread Lord’s will, Waachear?”

The Hob’s eyes narrow. Impugning loyalty is a great slight, especially to one so devout to their master. The glowing iron darts out, flesh sizzles. After a brief resistance, Retaak roars in pain, then laughs darkly as Waachear pulls back his instrument.

“I would never question his will,” snarls the torturer. “At times I think that he must send you here to test our loyalty, Ogre.”

“Thinking has never been your strong point,” muttered Rataak, pulling against his bonds again. Did he hear the wood creak this time?

“You say that as if it should be an insult,” said Waachear. “But I submit to the Dread Lord’s will; why would waste my time with thought beyond that?”

That in Retaak’s mind was the principle difference between himself and the rest of the Fellspawn in the Dread Lord’s horde; he could think, see beyond the purpose he was bred for. Others said that he was as cunning as a Goblin, but Goblins were meant to be cunning in ways that Ogre’s were not. His ability, his desire, to think beyond the purpose he was created for set him apart from his brethren. It made him an abberation in the eyes of spawn like Waachear.

Retaak questioned everything. Worse yet, in the eyes of his fellow spawn, he sometimes found answers to his questions and acted upon them.

But the ability to think and act beyond what he was bred for and instructed to do was what made Retaak valuable in the eyes of the Dread Lord and his chief servants. Some tasks required a little independence.

Waachear motioned to two ogre brutes, their faces hidden in helms, forward. They removed the chains from Retaak. As soon as the metal was no longer holding him back, he lunged for Waachear but the two larger ogres easily overpowered him. He was weak from torture, after all.

“Such a waste,” clucked the Hob as they dragged Retaak away.

Teaser

Things have been crazy here. The father of my two stepsons died around the middle of the month, leaving a devastating void in their lives. I have been trying to help as best I can, mostly caring for my two younger sons. The outpouring of love from his friends has been truly toughing.

I’m still narrowing down what I want to do for my next serial. Good news is that I should be finished the first draft of Bloodlust: War by next week. Here is a taste of that.

“What is one life more, Chosen,” said Valdarr nonchalantly. “If the gods want my blood, who am I to deny them? And if they want yours on this day, all the better.”

The Chosen smiled. “By all means then, beseech your gods and fight me, Warlord. Let us end—”

A shadow fell over the Chosen and she threw herself back as the chassis of one the mighty Juggernauts that her men rode, crashed into the mud in front of her. Valdarr saw mighty Giitan, now raising a great horn to his lips, sounding the retreat.

He turned and saw a company of massive black armoured figures, the war-trolls, crashing into the side of his brethren on the hill. At the summit stood a Chosen, who seemed crowned with blades with the red sun dipping down behind him.

The battle was lost.

There was nothing left to do. Valdarr raised is own horn to his lips, echoing Giitan in sounding a retreat.

The Chosen stood casting a blazing wall of flame toward Giitan. The fire washed over the enormous Gold Mask, but he held his blade before him, bellowing.

Valdarr picked up a spear from one of the fallen Krassians and took two steps, hurling it as he drew strength from Moonfang. The Chosen did not react immediately, and it seemed she would be hit, but at the last moment she swept it aside with her trident. Then she tossed a massive spear of ice toward Valdarr, forcing him to throw himself to the ground and crushing several of the Nosgoth behind him.

Before she could attack again, Moonfang, running swiftly. Diliria sat astride the Wolf and she tossed one of her ever-ready glass globes down between them and the Chosen. Thick smoke erupted from the shattered sphere, instantly obscuring them.

Teaser More

Here we go. A teaser from my new draft, Bloodlust: War due on July 17th, 2019.

The Chosen snarled, sending a wave of flame to engulf her foe. The fire left a blackened trail as it licked the ground between them. Even through the hot flames, Valdarr could see the runes of the Lord Reckoner’s armour glow brightly as he pushed forward through the inferno, assaulting the chosen with strange sigils that made Valdarr’s head spin before throwing off the flames and swinging at the woman with his blade.

It was what the Chosen had been waiting for. The Nimble woman slid out of the way of the Lord Reckoner’s powerful attack and slipped around him, driving her flaming blade down across his back.

She was as surprised as Valdarr when the bright arc of that mighty sword turned into a shower of flaming shards, so surprised that she reacted too late to the Lord Reckoner’s own blade, which neatly cut her in half at the waist.

Possessed of inhuman vitally, the bisected Chosen, screaming defiance. still blasted flame at the Lord Reckoner as he turned around. White hot flames washed over him as he lifted his grim blade, only ending when he drove the point of his sword through the Chosen’s chest.

Update and Teaser

Went back to the dayjob after a long paternity leave. I miss my family and honestly I’m surprised work has changed so little after so long.

I am plugging away at Bloodlust: War (Domains book 9), which is consuming a lot of time. Here is a quick taste from the draft:

“At last it is time to make our mark,” said Valdarr, astride Moonfang with Diliria.

Around him, the Nosgoth surged forward, eager to get to grips with the Krassians. Even the presence of a dragon could not dim their lust for blood now.

Of course, if it turned and breath fire on them, that courage would evaporate. But for now, General Coraxia led her Wyverns against the Dragon, harrying from every angle. The crackled of spells and the roar of the beast could be heard even above the shouts of his warriors.

Valdarr did not charge the Legion line directly, The Nosgoth hoped to envelop the Krassian lines, but the strange formation on the palisades, a wedge thrusting outward, made direct attack a fool’s errand.

There were too few troops in the hills behind the lines to stop the Nosgoth.

“Its Chosen Sadira’s Homeguard,” said Diliria.

“Good, she won’t find us easy prey above ground,” he snarled. He remembered the deadly Homegaurd from their little war in the Deepstone roards. Taking Chosen Sadira’s head would make him a legend. “I’ve given orders to avoid engaging her if possible, she is too strong for any of us. Kill her people and she become vulnerable.”

“Spoken like a true Warlord,” purred Diliria, pulling one of her magical gas globes from a too-small ouch.

“NOSGOTH!” bellowed Valdarr, racing into the fray.