Blood Wraiths

Hoon passed into darkness. At least he believed it was darkness. Perhaps it was simply the absence of memory. Perhaps he still journeyed, but so deeply he could not touch it.

Once more the rats came rustling in the straw, chittering along the edges of the dank stone walls. This time they did not touch him and Hoon questioned whether there was simply not enough left of him to interest them. That lent a new horror to his returning awareness. By then they could have chewed his arms and legs off and he would not have been able to feel it. Hoon wondered if his limbs were still there and how much of him remained. That terrified him into the darker corners of his mind, reaching for the hope of madness.

Amalthea. Her name sighed through him, soothing him strangely. Amalthea, my love. My dearest love, my greatest love. I wish I might have tasted your blood so that I might remember it now. How it would comfort me to remember the taste of your blood as well as the warm wet sheath you gave my sword when we lay together.

Galee had made the first of the Lemyari and the first of the sa'necari. But where had the others come from? The lesser bloods, the varied species and lineages? Had her cursed sire created them all? He and his people? Were they here in these lands or were they in the uncleansed lands? Demons were all over. Were they all his?

Amalthea.

I did not know we could do these things. Not at first. I learned. My brother learned. He learned more swiftly than I. Forgive me. Dreams. No. Please. No more dreams. No more visions. What did she intend for Dawnhand? What was she going to make from him? What third creature? And when he refused her, did she tell Waejonan to murder him? Was that how it happened? Was it Galee's doing and not because he refused to participate in the rite that butchered Dynarien, favorite grandson of Willodarus the Woodland God, bringing the god's wrath upon their kingdom of Waejontor?

The scaffolding where they would perform the principal impalements began at the edge of Torment lake and stretched like wooden nightmares toward the distant homes. Bleeding tables were being set out on the grounds in front of the scaffolding, members of Waejonan's sa'necari cult and his guardsmyn moving efficiently among them. Their black marble tops insured that no blood would be wasted by soaking into the surface. It would be caught in basins as the victims died and then the corpses would be sent to Waejonan's sanguiner for draining into golden preserving bottles that kept it fresh as if it had come straight from the veins, still warm. The chosen victims for the rites had not yet been brought out, they were mostly captives from the most recent war for territory. It seemed as if Waejonan was forever finding a reason for another war.

Brandrahoon stood at the edge of a crowd of onlookers with his wife and children as his brother, Isranon Dawnhand, was brought forward onto the scaffolding. His hands were spellcorded behind him to block his powers. He staggered between two guardsmyn, forcing them to hold him up. Brandrahoon swallowed uneasily, feeling fear and anger gather in his stomach like rocks being piled in his middle.

His youngest brother, who had made himself king, had ordered that all of them be present to watch this. He wished his children could have been left out of this viewing, for Brandrahoon had had to spell the youngest of them so that she would not look away, as he knew she would, lest Waejonan take that as an excuse to rite the child. He had forbidden looking away just as he had forbidden them to shed tears.

A herald unrolled a parchment and read from it the mon's crimes. The accusations were treason and conspiracy. Lies, all lies, Brandrahoon thought, but dared not express it. Dawnhand would rather have left than oppose Waejonan, because of the love that had once been between the three brothers.

His youngest brother strode up to him, laughing with some of his friends. "Enjoying the show, Brandrahoon?"

Brandrahoon said nothing.

"If you or any of your family fail to watch. Or if any of you shed so much as a single tear, you'll join him up there," Waejonan reminded him.

"You said you wouldn't kill him," Brandrahoon said stiffly.

Waejonan laughed. "Surely you never believed me. You suspected why I wanted his staff stolen."

The herald withdrew and the guards stripped Dawnhand of his clothing, leaving him completely nude. Brandrahoon's stomach tightened at how terribly marked he was by the torturer's tools. Waejonan must have spent all the hours after Dawnhand's arrest last night committing these atrocities. Guards lifted Dawnhand to a table and tied ropes to his ankles. His legs were pulled so far open it looked as if his hips must soon be torn from their sockets.

Then the executioner came forward, wearing a black mask over his features. He was as muscular as a prime bull. His assistant held a thick pole with a sharp steel head. The executioner nodded and his assistant began greasing the head, while he examined the condemned's anus. He took out a short, broad blade and opened this entrance for the pole wider with small, considered cuts. The condemned mon shuddered at each quick slice.

Revulsion tightened in Brandrahoon's gut, but he could not look away.

"Galee!" Dawnhand screamed. "Galee, my scions will cast your soul to the winds!"

GODWAR CENTRAL

Blood Wraiths