Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.81T)
Late last year, I released my latest book, Bloodlust: The Reckoning!
<>
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.
<>
Waachear held the knife in front of him as Retaak took a step into the room. Hands that had been so steady through endless hours of torture now shook as he faced the Ogre.
“Oh how I have longed for this day, Waachear,” said Retaak. “Even now it seems like a dream come true, like all of the other times I fantasized about escaping from your tender mercies.”
“Stay back!” said Waachear. “I am warning you Retaak. I have Kaasukak over you. Don’t make me use it!”
“Why don’t you try?” asked Retaak. “I am going to kill you Waachear. That knife is not going to stop me. Why don’t you try it again. I think we both know what will happen this time.”
The Torturer summoned up whatever reserves of will he had left, standing straighter. “KNEEL” he shouted and in his voice was the compelling.
Retaak felt its power as a pressure in his head, and he set his will against it. This time the struggle was brief and his pain was less. Waachear yelped and stumbled back, clutching his head as blood poured from his nose onto the rich silk cushions in the chamber where Ushochhushi played with his slaves.
“Dread Lord, why?” cried Waachear as Retaak, grinned.
Retaak just laughed. He was truly free of Waachear. It was a wondrous feeling, though tainted by what the Torturer had already taken from him. How many memories had he lost on the rack? How many times had he been broken in the halls of iron and screaming? He almost choked on his own laughter as it turned dark.
“Your masters have abandoned you Waachear,” said Retaak, his voice almost a whisper. “Beg all you want, but the Dread Lord and his Seneschal have no ears for your words now. You have nothing left but that knife. Come at me and die.”
Waachear stood. “Filthy Wildborn scum. They’ll tear you apart.”
“Their hands are far more merciful than yours ever were, Waachear,” said Retaak. “At least they would allow me to die.”
“I tried to make you useful, you ungrateful vermin,” snarled the Torturer. “Fellspawn are made to serve the Dread Lord. I tried to turn you into something useful. The Dread Lord desired your service, wretch that you are, and I made you worthy of his attention. You ruined my work, Retaak.”
“Your work?” snarled Retaak, surging forward and knocking Waachear to the ground with sudden ferocity. “You cut me, you burned me, you stole my memories,”
“I made you stronger!” howled Waachear.
“You took them from me!” roared Retaak as he brought down his weapon, cleaving into Waachear’s skull. His tormentor clung to life for a moment, broken eyes in a broken skull trying in vain to focus and then he slumped over, lifeless.
It was not as Retaak had imagined it. He stared at the body. Waachear had haunted him for as long as he could remember and now he was dead. There was a certain satisfaction in killing him, but with Albyursia in the hands of Ushochhushi it was of diminished importance. He had to escape the tower and rescue his lover.
The sound of a ram hitting the door, wood groaning and spawn heaving, broke Retaak from his reverie. He shook his head. It seemed like none of them had considered looking for secret passages. Perhaps escape was not impossible, after all.
<>
