Undeniable Vengeance

3. Immortals Do Die

Immortals Do Die

Sethia

Iazzo's body lay twisted among the rocks in the Sethian desert, gases from rotting flesh and baked blood forming a miasma. Balls of maggots squirmed in empty eye sockets, and the flesh on Iazzo’s face bubbled where they tunneled toward his nose. Two red-beaks feasted at his stomach, flapping large black wings as they squabbled over entrails and other choice morsels.

Pack Leader Drogg led the Wolfen through the blistering sands at Sethia's outer border. His pointed ears stood tall, high above the coarse-gray fur bristling in the wretched heat. A three-fingered hand, long since evolved from a paw, brushed sand from the sheath that housed his long knife.

Drogg cursed Sethia, and its heat, and its sand. How he longed for the cold mountain air and the snows that his ancestors had romped in when packs swelled with pride, and the Pack Lord led the Winter Hunt.

He stopped, head raised, and bared ivory-white teeth as he caught hold of a particular smell. His sleek snout twitched to identify the scent. "This way," he said, and headed west. His hand stayed loose, ready to reach for the leather-wrapped hilt of his long knife, or the curved sword draped across his shoulder. A silver wolf's head adorned that blade. He stopped again, sniffing. "Keep searching, Pack. Something is dead, and it's not far."

The Wolfen spread out, padded feet leaving few marks on the desert floor. "Pack Leader, I saw two vultures land behind the rocks ahead."

Drogg snarled, and a guttural growl emerged. Red-beaks! "Don't let them feast, no matter what is dead."

Meetcha nodded and rushed to investigate. "Over here,” he called, a moment later.

Large boulders guarded a narrow pass leading up the mountain. As Drogg made his way through the pass, four vultures flew away.

vulture

Red-beaks have no honor.

Drogg's ears pricked to attention as he stooped to examine the body, scouring the remains with his amber eyes. "It's Iazzo. We must tell the Master at once." He stood, scanning his pack. "Meetcha, you and Karff bring what is left of him.”

For two days they carried Iazzo through the barren sands, reaching the city as the sun began to rest. "Open the gates," Drogg called to the guards. "I carry Iazzo with me."

The pack leader marched to a remote spot in the courtyard before stopping. "Set him down, Meetcha, and guard him well. I will tell the Master."

Drogg's fur bristled as he stared at the palace—the Throne of the Sun. It stood several stories tall and was faced with black granite on the right side and white granite on the left side. Arches and domes dominated the architecture, and broad sweeping steps rose to an entry that looked as if it might take Drogg to another world. His stomach tightened, and his throat constricted. "Stand tall, Pack. The Master is watching."

Drogg breached the entrance and shivered at the greeting from cold, damp air. How was the air inside so cold?

His eyes wandered, anything to take his mind from the mission he must complete. Plush Farizi carpets sat atop marble floors, and tables carved from emerald and blackthorn held Pomandan crystal and Khataran pottery. For all of the beauty and elegance, sofas and chairs sat empty; Drogg didn't even see guards.

He focused as he trod along the corridor to Lukaan's chambers, soft padded feet making less sound than his racing heart. When he turned the final corner, the doors swung open, and the coldness of the chamber leaped out and swatted him. A shiver raced from shoulders to feet, when only moments ago his fur had burned. He wondered again how the air was kept cold when it was so hot outside.

corridor leading to Lukaan’s chamber

Drogg stopped, arms pressed against his sides.

"Enter."

The command—heard only by Drogg—reverberated in his head, rumbled as if it were thunder.

Inside the chamber, mist swirled and writhed. It climbed the walls and crept through the air. Drogg walked along a clear path, but fear slowed his steps. A dark beacon shone through white mist atop steps lined with floating globes of light. He saw a form ensconced on the throne. It was a dark, forbidding form, surrounded by a darkness that drank the light.

Drogg turned quickly, afraid he might be drawn in himself.

"Where is the body?"

Drogg trembled. He fell to his knees, head pressed against the marble floor. How did he know? Fear, not courage, found words for Drogg to speak. "In the courtyard, Great Lord. We—"

"Where did you find it?"

"Hidden in a small enclave of rocks along the path to Mount Riesle"

"You may leave, Pack Leader Drogg. You have done well."

The Wolfen rose, bowing as he exited the chamber. He wasted no time in rejoining his pack. Despite a successful outcome, he had no desire to linger or to ever visit again.

Lukaan sent a message to the Banished Ones. Examine Iazzo's body, then report to me.

Lukaan sat on his throne, immersed in thought. He remembered a time when he had ruled, when he was worshiped—

Melissara arrived first, interrupting his contemplations. She fiddled with her hair—wrapping long blonde tresses into a bun tied at the back of her head—while waiting for the others. Within heartbeats, Tirzinitzia and Sendra appeared, then Zorn. Last was Ghruehne, who came with fire in his eyes, shaking a fist still red with flames and his body full with power.

"I want Mikkellana for myself. Did you see what she did to Iazzo?"

"Control yourself, Ghruehne. Else I will give you a scar to match the one Antar put on your cheek, the one that ruined your pretty face."

Ghruehne's face turned as red as his hair, but he quickly doused the flames and rid himself of power. To incur Lukaan's wrath would be suicide—worse. He had seen him level cities. Shake worlds. "Forgive me, Great Lord, I—“

"Enough. Let Melissara speak."

"Mikkellana didn't kill him. She would never have left his body for us to find. My sister—”

"You du Savarras sicken me,” Ghruehne said. “Even after what she did to you, you protect her."

"I protect no one, least of all Mikkellana, but I know my sister. She would hide Iazzo's body, leave us to wonder if he was dead, or if he had betrayed us." Melissara stroked her sapphire necklace, one she had chosen to complement her eyes. "And it wasn't Xanthes or Mesan. Mikkellana would never let them off the leash. It had to be Aentarra."

Ghruehne scoffed. "Aentarra is not strong enough. She—”

Melissara stepped forward. "Did you see any marks on him? Any Lightning? Fire? Was he sliced in two by a shield?" Melissara shook her head as she turned her back on Ghruehne. "No, there are no marks because Iazzo fought on the Planes of Mind, and my little sister is wily enough to have beaten him there."

"Even Aentarra would not dare that. She would—"

Lukaan leaned forward. "Never deign to think you know what Aentarra might do. She is more like Antar than anyone cares to admit."

“The madness that claimed Antar's mind has found a new home with Aentarra. The same madness that drove him to launch the assault.” Lukaan adjusted his position on the throne.

"And do not forget the boy. He is strong."

"He's just a boy," Ghruehne said. "I'm not worried about him."

"That's your problem, Ghruehne—you don't worry when you should, and you worry when you shouldn't." Lukaan returned to his position of recline. "You may all leave. I must think."

Tirzinitzia sat in a hard-backed chair while Melissara paced the tiled floor in her desert home. It was sparsely decorated—much like the environs—and what furniture there was had been carved from desert sycamores and hackberries.

"There is something Lukaan knows that we don't. Why would be even mention the boy?" Melissara tapped on her necklace as if it would stir thoughts. "What does he know, Tirzinitzia?"

A long silence ensued—Melissara pacing and fidgeting, while Tirzinitzia sipped te.

Lines of worry creased Melissara's brow. "He knows it was Aentarra, yet he mentions the boy. 'And do not forget the boy', he said."

"He also said, 'He is strong'," Tirzinitzia added. "He said the boy was strong."

"Yes, he did. But—" Melissara's pacing came to an abrupt halt. She stopped fidgeting, and her glare fell on Tirzinitzia. "Do you know something that you're not telling me?"

Tirzinitzia could withstand almost anything. Melissara had been there when Lukaan burned the red suns into her cheeks, like two rubies set in a ring of flesh. She had withstood that torture without so much as a whimper, so Melissara knew she would never pry information out of her if she didn't want to give it. "You must trust me. We must trust each other."

More silence. Melissara turned, pacing again.

Tirzinitzia wrapped slender fingers around her cup of te. She took a long, slow sip, then set it down. "One of the boys has Coldfire."

Melissara spun around like a wolf to the bleat of a lamb. "What! Why didn't you tell me?" She raced over and shook Tirzinitzia. "How do you know?"

"There are things I can detect. Things that others can't."

Melissara chewed on a fingernail, a habit she had abandoned long ago. "My father and Lukaan were the only ones ever strong enough to wield Coldfire. That means..."

"Yes," Tirzinitzia said. "Which one?"

Melissara nodded. "Which one indeed?"