PROLOGUE
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A |
lyndra tiptoed through the damp grass toward
the vine-covered arbor within the Grand Spire’s courtyard, using the gentle
moonlight and the soft, swirling colors in the sky overhead to illuminate her
way. As she drew near the towering wooden pergola, her skin tingled as if she’d
been dunked in frigid water. While not a painful sensation at first, the
feelings intensified as she approached. She had experienced this before, the
night Rhorghast shattered the Scepter of Cymathu along the desolate banks of the
Infernal Chasm.
Ever since returning
to the inkeli capital of Zumvyre, the enormous statue known as a Daylyn by the
magi, housed within the sanctuary, compelled her to visit alone. The sculpture
depicted the Goddess of Magic, Brizyss, who brought thaumaturgy to the world of
Zarune. History told how Brizyss bestowed four identical Daylyns across the
land as symbols of her power. In the beginning, their radiant energy mirrored
the vibrant, shifting hues once displayed in the heavens above. That all
changed after the Arcane Wars, 1,500 years prior, when the great eight-headed
dragon flew across the sky, siphoning magic, rendering the statues dark and the
tones in the sky faded and dull.
Although she had
tried on several occasions since her homecoming to commune with the Daylyn, she
could not break away from her mother’s watchful eye. After having been away for
months, her family was overjoyed when she reappeared and showered her with constant
attention. While she understood and cherished the devotion, her mother’s
continual hovering stifled her. The one time she snuck away, various magi
scholars discovered her and inundated her with requests to recount her heroic
tale of surviving the Mayhem Arena and thwarting the nefarious vragoths.
Tonight, her parents and sister slept, so she seized the opportunity to slip
out under cover of darkness and answer the call.
A sense of
tranquility overtook her when she entered the arbor and gazed at the dusky gray
Daylyn. It appeared as any other lifeless statue, and depicted Brizyss as a
woman, wearing a crown topped with four long prongs, one jutting forward like a
great unicorn horn, two curling around like ram horns, and one projecting
backward. The woman’s fingers came together before her, touching a sphere
inlaid with a four-pointed diamond.
With a steady hand, Alyndra
touched it. Intricate mystical patterns ignited with a radiant silver
luminescence. The gleaming light started at the pinnacle of the crown and raced
down the effigy’s head and into the hands clutching the sphere, then spread out
through each of the fingertips and into the diamond, which flared brilliantly.
Alyndra gasped when
her own skin emanated the same silver incandescence, and the tingling
throughout her body became a jolting current that paralyzed her. Panic gripped
her, and were it possible, she would have run. Instead, she felt herself
falling, like sinking into a bath’s warm embrace, as a beautiful woman’s
luminescent face appeared before her. As her vision faded, her final perception
was Brizyss’s reassuring smile, dispelling any fear.
CHAPTER 1
FAILURE’S REWARD
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V |
iolent
urges stabbed Rhorghast’s brain—Rip! Tear! Kill! Eat!—as he struggled to
remain upright upon a sandy dune, overlooking the arid expanse before him. He
rubbed his temples with his two upper hands, while resting the two lower ones
on his knees and squinting his eyes to ease the pain. It wasn’t the first time
alien thoughts had assaulted him. The initial intrusion occurred several days
after he’d destroyed the Scepter of Cymathu, and the experience left him shaken
and disoriented. When it happened again a week later, he knew madness was
overtaking him. He feared that the crushing defeat he suffered in the battle at
the Infernal Chasm triggered a psychological breakdown, which allowed his
subconscious to run amok. However, he now recognized the urges were not of his
mind, although, much to his frustration, their origin remained a mystery. He
heaved a sigh, realizing even that conclusion may be incorrect, and he was
losing his grasp on reality.
Red, brown, orange, and yellow tones stretched as far as his
three eyes could see. Only the occasional cactus or hardy weed revealed life
within the barren wasteland. Ulphram’s black spires peeked above the craggy
hill before him, marking his destination.
He bent over and scooped a handful of sand and rock. His lips
curled into a sneer as the coarse earth trickled between his burgundy fingers.
The totality of his travels had revealed the stark contrasts the rest of Zarune
offered that the Zoth’tolluz Empire did not, and that inequity stoked the
furnace of anger roiling within him. Undeserved circumstances relegated the
vragoths to this life-draining, arid landscape, while the other races, even the
skrons who recently waged war, thrived in the lush blues and greens of nature’s
embrace. The world was beautiful, and the vragoths experienced little of it. It
hadn’t always been this way. Once, his kind ruled it all. Had he been
successful, they would have again. In disgust, he flung the remaining debris to
the winds.
It had been a month, and his defeat still clung to him like a
sour odor. How had a motley group of inferior beings bested him? None of them
were his equals. His punishment would be severe, but he deserved it. He
extended his broad wings, wincing as he did. Despite being almost fully healed,
they still ached when he stretched them out. At least they had mended, unlike
his tail, which would never recover. Should Supreme Emperor Malgoraz decide to
execute him, he would only regret not exacting revenge on the half-skron
Grimlock and the human rogue who had sliced the twin spikes off his tail. Both
men relentlessly pursued him from Oxglen to Vestraak and finally to Caazsie,
before defeating him.
He crossed the dune and trudged up the steep hill. Ulphram,
the vragoths’ stronghold, stood over the next rise. Leafwane had yielded to
gloomfall, and with it came a drop in temperature across Zarune. His homeland
was no exception, but it was markedly warmer than anywhere else. He paused a
moment to bask in the sun’s radiance, his return’s only solace. The
concentrated heat permeated his skin, fortifying his resolve against the
forbidding task awaiting him.
When he crested the ridge, the capital’s full glory revealed
itself. Spires of black iron stretched upward to pierce the sky. Towering walls
of jagged obsidian stretched to the horizon. Ape-like molgroths and cunning
ozgroths stalked the parapets. Both were inferior vragoth species to a
gel’gonoth like himself, but he grudgingly admitted they had their uses. Beyond
the walls, magnificent structures of slate and stone stood as testaments to
vragoth resilience. Although he was home, anything but a joyous welcome awaited
him. His chest seized tightly, but he shrugged it off with a growl, flexed his
brawny legs, and launched himself airborne, savoring the wind rushing over him.
As he approached the capital, the guards below assembled and
pointed at him. Soon, two sizeable gel’gonoths emerged from a tower, each armed
with jagged swords. They unfurled their leathery wings and propelled themselves
in his direction. He recognized them as Augnaak and Jegrun. To his knowledge,
both were still overseers, neither having yet achieved the rank of overlord,
but things could have changed in the months he’d been away. Gel’gonoths were
ambitious, always seeking to improve their station.
The two wore determined expressions as they sped toward him, only
to be stunned when they recognized him. They pulled up, catching the air
currents and hovering with minimal effort. “Overlord Rhorghast?” Augnaak asked
in surprise.
Hovering himself, Rhorghast nodded, pleased they remembered
him.
“You’ve been gone so long, we feared you dead,” said Jegrun.
“You were wrong.” That remark stung Rhorghast’s pride.
They should have greeted him as a triumphant hero but assumed he had been
killed.
“Apologies, Overlord. This is a glorious day,” said Augnaak.
This surprised Rhorghast. He had braced for a hostile
reception, but glimpsing their jubilant expressions, he understood they
believed his quest was successful. Now was not the time to shatter their
illusion. “That’s more like it.”
“Supreme Emperor Malgoraz will be eager to greet you. Come
with us,” said Augnaak.
Against his better judgment, Rhorghast dared to hope the
supreme emperor would hear his tale and conclude it was not an abject failure.
The trio of gel’gonoths landed atop the stone rampart amongst a group of armed
molgroths. A gathering throng gazed at him with astonishment. Upon closer
inspection, it was not astonishment alone, but also … pity. He felt the gawking
eyes on the jagged scar at the base of his neck, where the bear-beast had
bitten him, and on the crease in his side, where the rogue had slashed him, and
finally on his disfigured tail.
Shame threatened to drown him with its icy pull, but he
countered it with blazing fury. How dare these lesser vragoths pity him! Let
them snicker. Let them stare. Whatever his fate, they would find no weakness in
his bearing. That silent vow straightened his spine, swelled his chest, and
lifted him to his full, imposing height—towering and broader by far than the
lowly contenders by his side.
Augnaak pushed open one of the tower doors and strode in,
waiting for Rhorghast to follow. Jegrun trailed them both. They descended
numerous flights of stairs until they reached the citadel’s main floor. He knew
the supreme emperor’s audience chamber was their destination. His feigned
confidence briefly faltered when a tingle of fear raced up his spine, for he
had witnessed firsthand the fate of those who failed the emperor. Every
molgroth guard they passed in the final corridor bowed respectfully. Once he revealed
his failure, would he ever again receive such fealty? Doubtful.
Like most structures in Ulphram, the audience chamber’s great
iron doors were dark, rugged, and sharp. Brutish molgroth guards barred their
entry, but a curt nod from Augnaak had them stepping aside. They tugged the
door open with a groan and allowed the gel’gonoths to enter.
Globes of magical light lining the sconces within its walls
fully illuminated the immense chamber. A seven-pronged chandelier of burnished
bronze, also enchanted with the glowing magic, hung from the high ceiling.
Supreme Emperor of Zoth’tolluz, Malgoraz, sat resplendent upon his high-backed
golden throne, elevated on a raised dais. Maleficum Zirkaaz, his trusted
ozgroth advisor, stood next to him in his flowing black robes edged in red and
silver. Though seated, the emperor’s height matched that of his counselor. Two
molgroths stood attentively at the platform’s base.
Malgoraz beckoned the trio over with a wave of one of the
four tentacled arms that sprouted from his back, each ending in serrated
pinchers. They passed three enormous stone columns on each side of the aisle
leading to the throne. When they reached the bottom of the dais, they dropped
to their knees and bent their heads.
From above, Rhorghast heard Malgoraz’s wings unfurl, followed
by the whoosh of air, before the mighty juggranoth landed with a heavy thud
before him. A second, much lighter landing followed the first. An
olive-complected hand ending in bony talons appeared before Rhorghast. “Rise,
my old friend.”
Rhorghast kissed it and stood. Although tall and mighty
himself, his eyes glanced up to meet Malgoraz’s multi-faceted orbs set within
his reptilian face. Two sets of scarlet horns sprouted from his head. The first
set extended out toward the sides before abruptly curving upward. The second
set curved behind his head and twisted around so the pointed tips jutted
forward. Equally formidable spikes protruded from his muscled shoulders. His
tentacled arms writhed and snapped threateningly.
When he had departed to retrieve the Scepter of Cymathu,
Rhorghast had grand designs of returning as a champion and overthrowing the
emperor. His chances of success were always slim, considering juggranoths were
the pinnacle of vragoth evolution, being so dominant that only one existed at a
time. Had he returned with the dragons at his command, defeating Malgoraz
didn’t seem so preposterous. Now humbled, the idea was utter nonsense. He
recited the ancient Vragothian saying, “Toth sune umteer paramot morgallus.”
When the world bends to us.
The emperor’s hooked mandibles spread apart, revealing rows
of wicked fangs. “Indeed. I feared you were dead. It pleases me to see you
alive and …” His eyes lingered on the overlord’s scarred tail.
Self-consciously, Rhorghast tucked it tight against his back,
eliciting a small frown from Malgoraz and a bemused smile from Zirkaaz.
“Rise, Augnaak. Rise, Jegrun,” said the emperor in a thick,
gravelly voice. The younger gel’gonoths silently obeyed their leader and took
positions on either side of Rhorghast. Malgoraz wound two of his tentacles
around Rhorghast’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Judging by the fact you are
alone and bear many scars, I assume the journey was difficult, but tell me of
your glorious triumph. Surely one of my most trusted overlords did not fail.”
Malgoraz swept his two arms and four tentacles out wide in a grand spectacle.
Fear, which had only been a tingle, now crashed over
Rhorghast in a wave meant to drown him. It was a sensation he rarely
experienced, and he detested it. During his return journey, he considered all
the possibilities before him. Should he hide away, never to be seen again? It
was the way of a coward, and he only considered the option once. Should he
attack their bitter rivals in Valadon, the human stronghold and home to the
Valadian Knights, slay all he could, and die a martyr? While tempting, slaying random
knights would bring only minimal satisfaction. He sought targeted revenge
against those who bested him. Should he return and lie about what happened? A
liar was akin to a coward, and he would not sully his reputation in such a
manner. Moreover, the ever-cunning Zirkaaz, head of the necromantic order,
would divine the facts anyway. No, he would speak truthfully and suffer the
consequences.
Rhorghast explained to his mighty leader how he had acquired
the scepter from the Valadians but framed the skrons and hobgoblins, met with
Highlord Korrax Bonebreaker, and empowered the scepter at Mazzinoth’s Skull. He
described his journey to Caazsie where he readied the six eggs for the
awakening. Finally, he proudly spoke of shattering the scepter, fulfilling the
prophecy, and returning the six dragons. With each exploit, the assembled
vragoths, but particularly Malgoraz, smiled and nodded, clearly appreciating
his cunning and tenacity. Cotton formed in his mouth, and acidic bile crept up
his throat when he recounted how the skron mutt Grimlock, along with the human
rogue, the tiddlor Veiled Warden, the accursed female Paragon, and the inkeli
sorcerer defeated his troops and thwarted him before slaying the dragon
hatchlings. When he finished, the others held their collective breaths.
Deafening silence permeated the chamber for what seemed an
eternity until Zirkaaz hissed at Rhorghast. “You said six eggs? The last
communication received from Ravenger Quixxon, as recorded in the ancient texts,
spoke of ten.”
Rhorghast shook his head slowly from side to side. “I am
certain there were only six.”
The maleficum’s brow wrinkled even while Emperor Malgoraz
stepped close to the overlord and spoke in a whisper. “That is most
regrettable. I know you gave your best effort. Your many scars reveal the pain
you endured.” He clasped his hands together. “Some of the finest vragoth
warriors accompanied you, including Ravenger Xezarog and Desecrator Jarzora,
trained by Zirkaaz himself. Not to mention the six ozgroth soldiers I
dispatched to you as reinforcements.” He placed a clawed hand on Rhorghast’s
shoulder. “Your adversaries must have been powerful indeed.”
Rhorghast’s shoulders slumped, and the corners of his mouth
fell. Avoiding direct eye contact with the emperor, he said, “They were more
formidable than I antic—”
Malgoraz’s left hand balled into a fist and, lightning fast,
he reared back and slammed Rhorghast across the face, knocking him off his
feet. On the ground, the overlord rubbed his already bruised cheek and glared
at him. Zirkaaz stood next to the emperor, a green glow enveloping him. He
pointed his long index finger at the supine overlord and unleashed a beam of
sizzling green energy. It hit Rhorghast’s chest, and the withering necromancy
tugged at his life force. Instinctively, fire erupted across his body, starting
off a reddish yellow but quickly turning blue, then white as the heat
intensified, halting the spreading rot. He gritted his teeth and rose, even as
Zirkaaz’s face hardened, and the beam intensified.
The emperor’s mandibles clacked together, and his forked
serpentine tongue flicked out. “Impressive, most impressive.” He raised his
hand, index finger up, and flicked his wrist toward the straining overlord. In
unison, both Augnaak and Jegrun unleashed crackling blue and yellow bolts at
Rhorghast, but the overlord snapped his two lower hands up, palms out,
redirecting them back at the stunned gel’gonoths. Their teeth chattered, and
their bodies stiffened as they both stumbled backward.
Although Rhorghast had deflected the gel’gonoth lightning, it
broke his concentration, extinguishing the fire engulfing him and allowing the
withering magic to spread across his wide torso. His burgundy complexion took
on a cracked, ashen appearance. Strength drained from his body, but he refused
to succumb. Darting to the right, toward Jegrun, who was only now regaining his
senses, he grabbed him with all four arms, spun around, and used the momentum
to hurl him at Zirkaaz.
The maleficum dove aside as the gel’gonoth sailed past him,
slammed against the wall, and fell to the floor. Rhorghast didn’t expect to hit
the necromancer, but at least he broke his concentration and stopped the
rotting beam. He shook his head to clear his mind, already feeling his body’s
diminished strength. Clacking footfalls alerted him to the charging molgroth
guards brandishing spiked maces not unlike those used by his former Lieutenant,
Xezarog.
Unarmed, he backed up and positioned the molgroths between
himself and his quartet of larger, more powerful opponents. The closer of the
two molgroths swung his mace in a chopping motion. Rhorghast leaned back to
avoid it and whipped his tail around, tripping the brute and sending him
crashing onto the stone floor. The distraction allowed the second guard to
smash his ribs. With a grimace, he accepted the blow, reared back, and kicked
the attacker in the face with his hoofed foot. Thick blood spurted from the
brute’s wide nose. He howled, dropped the mace, and stumbled back, pawing at
his shattered face.
Rhorghast snatched the weapon as the first molgroth rushed
him. They swung simultaneously, the heavy metal balls colliding with a crash.
From behind the molgroth, Jegrun and Augnaak took flight in the high-ceilinged
chamber. They fluttered to each side, flanking Rhorghast. Their blue and yellow
glowing hands alerted him to the impending lightning. When the guard attacked
again, he blocked the mace, grabbed the guard with his lower hands, and fell
backward, maintaining his grip while he did. He dropped to the floor, taking
the molgroth with him, just as two bolts of sizzling electricity struck the
creature’s furry back. It spasmed on top of him. The putrid stench of burning
flesh and hair assaulted his nose. When the lightning ceased coursing through
the molgroth, it convulsed one last time and lay still.
The other molgroth had regained his feet and rushed him.
Rhorghast hoped to trip the oncoming attacker by shoving the smoldering carcass
in his path, but to no avail as the brute nimbly hopped over his dead
companion. The guard’s spiked mace crashed into the ground, exactly where
Rhorghast’s head had been seconds before. He rolled to the side and regained
his feet while another bolt of lightning sped toward him. Unfurling his wings
quickly, he launched himself into the air, narrowly avoiding the second swing
from the guard below.
He sped straight for Jegrun, whose three eyes grew wide. The
younger gel’gonoth tried to move, but the overlord lowered his head, his wicked
spiked horns impaling his rival through the abdomen. The momentum carried them
to the ceiling, with Jegrun’s back absorbing the impact. With a hacking cough,
the overseer spat a wad of blood across Rhorghast’s back. He withdrew his horns
with a sickening slurp, grasped Jegrun, and threw him to the ground, aiming for
the molgroth guard, who dove aside, narrowly avoiding the impact.
The maneuver, unfortunately, left Rhorghast vulnerable to a
crackling bolt of energy that slammed into his chest. His body seized and
quaked. The neurological signal from his brain to his wings halted, and they
stopped beating. He dropped like a rock to the stone floor below.
Groggily, he reached his knees and shook his head in time to
see the surviving molgroth standing above him. The scythe-like talon on its
foot angled toward his neck. A quick jerk brought one of his lower arms up to
protect it, but he received a gaping slash along the length of his forearm for
his trouble. With a grunt, he retracted the sliced appendage but simultaneously
cracked the side of the molgroth’s head with the spiked mace. The brute’s eye
burst from the force of the blow, and the side of his face collapsed, bits of
brain matter splattering the overlord. By now, his breath came in heaving
gasps, his strength nearly depleted. Although his defeat was certain against
the overwhelming odds, he didn’t fear it. A glorious death in battle befitted a
gel’gonoth of his station.
As Rhorghast clambered to his feet, Malgoraz stalked him,
Zirkaaz at his side, while Augnaak hovered above them, spheres of smoldering
flames growing in the palms of his hands. “You fought well, my old friend,”
said Malgoraz, his claws clacking in unison. He waved at the overseer above,
who glared at Rhorghast while closing his fists to snuff out the fire within.
“You must grow tired of losing subjects,” said Rhorghast, in
a raspy voice. He tried to stand tall and project strength, but found he had
none in reserve. Simply remaining upright taxed him, causing him to place his
lower hands on his knees for support.
The emperor chortled, staring down at Rhorghast. “Had you
demonstrated this much fight against the lesser beings, we would possess
dragons as the prophecy decried is our right. I deemed you worthy of the task,
but I misjudged you. You are pitiful and weak!”
Rhorghast’s eyes flared, and rage consumed him, granting him
a burst of energy, temporarily counteracting the necrotic weakness. He exploded
from his crouch with a right uppercut that landed flush on the emperor’s jaw,
his talons raking a small line of blood across his chin.
“Still some fight left in you … all the better.” Malgoraz’s
upper tentacles wrapped around Rhorghast’s neck, crushing his windpipe. He
lifted the weakened overlord off his feet while his bone-encrusted fists
pummeled his midsection. The overlord tried to block the onslaught and
deflected some of the punishing blows, but many more landed with devastating
effect. Several ribs cracked before he went limp in the emperor’s grasp. He
coughed and sputtered, blood oozing from his mouth.
Malgoraz turned toward Zirkaaz. “Do you recall a time when an
overlord has been granted so much and failed so miserably?”
“No, my emperor, I cannot,” came the smooth, throaty reply,
after which they both burst into laughter. Augnaak landed beside them, while
Jegrun staggered to his feet, clutching the gaping wounds in his stomach.
Malgoraz released his grip, allowing Rhorghast to slump to
the ground. “I am to blame for not recognizing his incompetence, so I shall
suffer along with him. Following tradition would mean his death, but I command
otherwise. Fit him with a restraining collar and shackles. He will remain by my
side, a constant reminder of my failings as a leader.”
“Most noble of you, Emperor,” said Zirkaaz.
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