44 – A Threat Dismissed

Victor stood on a hilltop overlooking Polo’s ornate, marble tomb. The graveyard was large—a vast, park-like area enclosed within tall white walls. Victor hadn’t seen it before, as he’d had no reason to, but he’d known it existed. Even so, he was surprised by the number of graves already there. Had so many people died since they’d established the Free Marches? Of course, he’d learned the answer to his question as they’d walked to the ceremony. Most of the graves were marked with cohort names and ranks; these were soldiers who’d died fighting the invasion from Dark Ember.

The ceremony had been longer than he’d have liked, but it was probably cathartic for Rellia—and Lam, who’d been even closer to Polo Vosh. They’d each given long eulogies, and so had Polo’s surviving son. Now things were winding down, and Victor walked along with the rest of the procession, flowers in hand, ready to lay them upon the great axe-warrior’s sarcophagus.

When he came to the open tomb door, he ducked inside, nodded respectfully to Rellia, Lam, and Polo’s family, who were standing around the stone coffin. He set his black lilies—a gift from Arona, and Victor had no idea where she’d gotten them—amid the other bouquets, then turned to leave. Before he could take a step, though, Polo’s wife, Frenia, stepped forward to rest her delicate, fur-covered hand on Victor’s wrist. “Thank you, Lord Victor.”

He tilted his head, looking into her big, moist black eyes. “I’ve done nothing deserving thanks.”

“You slew his killer, did you not?”

“Thank you, Lord Victor!” Polo’s son said, echoing his mother.

Victor glanced at Rellia and saw in her eyes that now wasn’t the time to protest or vent his frustrations about the situation. So, he nodded and looked Frenia in the eyes. “I only wish I’d been here sooner. Polo was a great man.”

She smiled and nodded, and Victor continued on his way, walking out of the tomb and then following the path down to the broader central lane, which was lined with marble benches. He saw Edeya, Thayla, and Tellen sitting on one and strolled over. “That was a nice ceremony, was it not?” Tellen asked. “Very different from how we honor our dead, but still…nice.”

Victor smiled, inhaling deeply, enjoying the fresh air in his lungs. “Yeah. It reminds me of how things are done on my home world. I mean, for rich people.” He chuckled at the thought.

Thayla took Tellen’s hand, looking up at Victor. “Well, I thought it was lovely, and I think it meant a lot to Polo’s family.”

Victor looked back at the tomb. “And Lam and Rellia. This was good for them.”

“Will you leave today?” she asked.

“Not today. I’ve been in contact with Bryn via Farscribe book, and things are going fine on Dark Ember. She’s just organizing units, and the army’s been drilling, drilling, and more drilling.”

“I bet Lesh is loving it,” Edeya said, smiling at the thought.

“Oh yeah. I had the idea for him and the other high-tier iron rankers to team up with the steel-seekers from Ruhn. I want to build strike teams that can, hopefully, help me take out some of the, um, lesser Ancient Lords.”

“So we can advance on more than one front?” Edeya asked.

Victor nudged her shoulder with his knuckles. “Exactly, chica.”

“Won’t you need to know where those lesser vampires are?” Tellen asked before Edeya could complain about being called “girl.”

“Yep. That’s why Bryn’s already coordinating scouts—the fastest of the steel seekers.”

“So you can stay with us a while?” Thayla asked, bringing the conversation back in a neat circle.

“Yeah. I’ll stay a while. Valla got permission from her…school, I guess. She’s coming to join the delegation to Sojourn.”

Tellen perked up at that. “That’s wonderful! I was concerned I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to, but Valla will alleviate that!”

Victor laughed. “Not a chance, anyway. My cousin is joining, and she’ll talk your ear off. She’s bringing that guy she’s always talking about, too. Issa’s husband.”

Thayla joined him in laughter, but her mirth was directed at Victor. “You’re jealous!”

Victor made a pfft sound. “What? No way.”

“I think you’re right, Thayla,” Edeya teased. “He can’t stand having people impressed by another man. He actually pretended he didn’t remember his name!”

Victor growled, waving his hand in a keep-it-down gesture. “I remember it. Just a sec…” He made a show of searching his memory. “Morgan.”

“That’s right. And what was his System-given title, again?” Edeya grinned evilly as Thayla looked at her with interest.

“What's this? He has a title?” she asked.

Victor groaned. “Fine. Somehow, he’s got a title that says ‘Human Champion’ even though he’s only tier seven.”

“Only!” Tellen groaned.

“He knows exactly why Morgan has that title,” Edeya said, laughing. “I was there when Olivia told him. Morgan was the first human to wake up here, the first human the System met!”

Victor waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. Most of my friends and loved ones aren’t even human.”

Edeya’s smile went from teasing to sweet in the blink of an eye, and she stood, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. “That’s right, Victor. You’re our champion, right?”

He squeezed her back, careful of her wings. “That’s right.”

###

Victor sat at a small wrought-iron table on the patio outside his quarters. It was bordered by part of his gardens, and the scents of blossoms and the fresh sea air put him at ease. He sipped a cup of hot, herbal tea and watched the sky grow dim as the sun seemed to dip into the Silver Sea. He could hear the girls in the distance, playing some kind of game in the field outside the garden wall. Nearer at hand, his ears could pick up the soft murmur of conversation as his guests chatted with each other over drinks.

His home, never meant to entertain a large household, was full to the brim, but that was fine. The rooms were large, and the grounds were extensive—plenty of space for tents and pavilions. He’d already had a full house with Arona, Edeya, and Lam, but now Rellia and Valla, Tellen’s family, and the party from First Landing were staying over. Everyone was there to see off the delegation to Sojourn in the morning; Victor would open the portal for them after breakfast.

They’d had a big meal, and he had, of course, finally gotten to know Morgan Hall. Every time Victor had gone to First Landing in the past, the “Hero of First Landing” had been off on some mission or adventure. He was an impressive figure, Victor wouldn’t deny. Huge for a human, with wings that reminded him of the Warlord’s, only black. That had been interesting, at least, learning a bit about another human’s bloodline. It turned out that Morgan had some kind of ancient winged people in his ancestry.

All in all, Victor thought he was a cool guy, and he couldn’t hold it against him that he’d happened to be the first human the System met. After they’d had a few drinks, Issa had told a pretty funny story about Morgan trying to give up the title when some of the other humans had complained. Morgan had laughed good-naturedly, but, looking into his eyes, Victor hadn’t seen much amusement. For an iron-ranker, he had a pretty damn heavy aura, and Victor thought he’d do well helping the others with the negotiations in Sojourn.

Since he’d killed Thoargh, Victor had spent many hours chatting with Rellia about what they ought to do about protecting their people. They’d agreed that, for the short term, they needed to continue with their plan to make arrangements with some veil walkers on Sojourn. In the long term, though, Victor didn’t like that they needed to depend on others. He wanted to protect Fanwath. He wanted others, like Morgan, Olivia, Valla, Rellia—and a dozen others they’d discussed—to keep leveling, working their way out of the iron ranks.

Nobody had argued, and Rellia had a newfound urgency about it. Victor knew that she’d drive herself harder than anyone, but she’d also push the others to keep at it. Valla wouldn’t need any encouragement; she’d already gained a full tier while studying with her strange sea-creature mentors, and she had every intention to keep up the pace. That was what they needed: people who loved Fanwath who were strong enough to defend it.

Victor sighed and finished his tea. He’d begged off staying up drinking and talking, and he’d been honest as to why—for the most part. He’d claimed he had a natural treasure to consume and that he wanted to be done with it before leaving. He did have something to consume, but… Victor summoned Thoargh’s heart and set the tacky, blood-covered organ on the table before him. “You’re not exactly a natural treasure, are you?”

The sight of the heart, minus his feelings about Thoargh, made saliva gather in his mouth. As soon as he thought of the corpse from which he’d yanked the organ, though, his stomach threatened to rebel. He scowled, growling at himself and giving voice to his thoughts, “Why shrink away from eating it? Thoargh was my enemy, and that’s what the Quinametzin do to the hearts of their foes!”

Thoargh hadn’t been undead, after all. His flesh was still fresh, still warm at the center. More than that, he’d been powerful in his own way. In the not-too-distant past, his species, the Vesh, had branched off from the Degh, who had been titans. The heart was a perfect candidate… and still, Victor hesitated.

He thought about procrastinating—not in those words. No, he contemplated visiting Khul Bach. He could tell him of Thoargh’s demise and his intention to make time for a quick visit to Coloss. Black—no, he’d use his name now that Thoargh was gone—Ardek would be able to rally his people and go about collecting the rest of their Ancestor Stone’s shards. Some titan pride stiffened his spine, though, and he pushed the thought aside. He could visit Khul Bach later; now was the time to fully conquer his foe!

Before he lost the nerve again, Victor grabbed the Warlord’s heart and took a huge bite. Once the coppery tang of warm heart-meat touched his taste buds, he didn’t have to think anymore; his body took over and he munched it down, tearing the tough muscle between his powerful jaws and swallowing great, bloody chunks.

Heat exploded in the pit of his guts, and he felt the rush of Energy pour through him. A savage smile split his lips as he thought about what he was doing; a tiny piece of the Warlord’s spirit had been taken away in that heart, and now Victor was absorbing it, ripping it down to its fundamental essence and burning it up in the forge of his spirit. “May you be weaker in the next life, pendejo.”

The Energy continued to swell at the center of his being, and soon it reached a point of discomfort. Victor grunted and stood from his chair, one hand on his stomach as he stumbled through the patio door and into his room. Inside, he aimed for the rug before a little couch and sat down, shoving a table aside. “Oof,” he grunted, again, leaning back as the fire in his stomach became a solar flare.

On his back, he closed his eyes and looked inward with his inner eye. A conflagration of Energy was taking shape not far from his Core space. It was stretching and straining the pathway where it had taken root, and Victor could see it was still growing—like there was a seed of Energy in that meat, sprouting and stretching into something vast that threatened to grow past the firmament of Victor’s pathways. He knew what to do.

He took hold of some of that Energy and tugged with his will, guiding it through his pathways and into his Core space, pulling it into his Core, and letting the vast weight of his hope-attuned Energy draw it in, like gravity taking hold of a comet’s tail. As the Energy flowed, Victor felt a relief from the pressure in his pathways. His Core was taking in the Energy faster than it sprouted from the meat of the Warlord’s heart.

No longer in pain, he sat up, folded his legs beneath him, and closed his eyes, focusing on his Core. He took two more threads from the Warlord’s Energy and pulled them into his Core space, sending them into his fear- and rage-attuned Energy bands. With some careful stretching and pulling, he evened out the flows so that his Core was swelling smoothly, and none of his affinities grew out of balance.

Before long, he felt an immense pressure, and his Core expanded, ripping through the ceiling into a new tier. Victor grinned as the Energy continued to flow. As the night went on, he broke three more tiers, and when the Energy finally ran dry and he saw the sunrise coming through his window, his Core had advanced to the ninth rank of the legendary tier. If he could break through one more tier, he’d find out what was next.

Victor stood and stretched, then he summoned a glass of juice from his spirit space and drank it down. He felt good; how could he not? The Warlord’s Heart had given his Core—his cultivation—a massive boost. He couldn’t find it in himself to be disappointed in that. What more would he have wanted? He certainly didn’t want to gain any of the Warlord’s traits. No, if the man had one thing to offer that Victor might have envied, it was his stubborn, mind-numbing talent for cultivating Energy at a snail’s pace over the course of centuries.

In Victor’s experience, people gained power in different ways—bloodlines, classes, raw levels, affinities, Core strength, attribute points, feats, abilities, spells. There might be a hundred others, but it didn’t matter; his theory was the same either way—that what separated average, ordinary Energy users from monster Energy users was that some people excelled at one or more of those aspects.

He was a good example; how many times had he thrashed someone who was “higher level” than he? His bloodline, combined with his classes and abilities, made him formidable. Thoargh’s Core had been exceptional, not just because of his pool of Energy, but because he’d stolen all sorts of affinities. Now, some of that exceptionality was Victor’s.

Yawning as he stretched once more, he stepped out into the garden. It was time to wake everyone up. The war on Dark Ember was waiting for him.

###

Xelhuan stirred. Some tickle of Energy, hot and uncomfortable, intruded on his slumber. He opened his eyes and peered into the somber darkness of his bedchamber. His flesh was warm, and when he stirred, he knew why: blood tickled his flesh. He peered around blearily, allowing his vision to adjust. There was no light in the room, but still, his eyes had been closed for a long time. “How long?” he asked, his voice a papery whisper.

“Eighty years, Great One.”

Xelhuan recognized the voice. A face swam into his mind’s eye from the depths of ancient memory—bronze and smiling, teeth bright and white, eyes like young hazel nuts. The image warped, and he saw the same face, but old and sallow, lined with a thousand wrinkles. The eyes were no longer bright, but clouded with cataracts, and the teeth—they were few in number and more black than white. “Itzcoatl.”

“Yes, Great One.”

“And you yet live?”

“Yes, My Great Lord. As you commanded, I have supped upon a drop of your blood once per year.”

“And?” Xelhuan could feel the man had more to say.

“And, an entity came here, Great One. Only recently, in the last few years. It calls itself the System, and it connects everyone to the great Energy that you—”

Xelhuan sat up, and his bath of blood rushed away from him, slopping over the sides of his marble bed. His head brushed against something, and he peered up to see the dangling corpses of several thralls, their throats slit so their life’s blood would warm his bed. “You have touched the Energy?”

“My Great Lord, yes, though not by choice. The System invades every person’s mind.”

“And the thralls?”

“They dwell in ignorance. Your Blood Serpents take any who gain much power. Your church preaches the evil of the System and your priests punish and reward accordingly.”

“Then why do you disturb my slumber? Is there news of Citlalmina?”

“I beg your forgiveness, Great One, but no. She yet remains distant, and her priestesses rebuff our efforts for parlay.”

Xelhuan reclined again, his mind drifting toward darkness; this world of light and life held no interest to him.

“My Great Lord, I awoke you because another lord has sent an urgent message.”

Once more, Xelhuan’s eye cracked open, and he peered up at one of the swaying corpses. She would have been pretty, he supposed, were one interested in the flesh of simple mortals. “What is it?”

“Lord Requena sends word. Balazar the Huge is dead, and Fausto, in his mountain retreat, has also met his demise.”

When Itzcoatl fell silent, Xelhuan closed his eye again and let the images of distant memories drift through his mind. Balazar—the giant storm fiend. Fausto, the weaseling little vampire from somewhere on the old eastern continent. “And I should care that two worms are fighting over a bit of maggot meat?”

“My Great Lord, the messenger claims that those vampires didn’t slay each other. He says there’s an offworlder there. Someone who wages war on those who walk through the veil of death.”

Xelhuan sighed and sat up again. This time, he willed his body to rise, and he floated out of his marble resting place. “What hour is it?” he asked as he hovered over the black marble floor, dripping a torrent of warm blood.

“Midnight, Great One.”

Xelhuan glanced at his oldest servant. He looked no worse for the eight decades of added age. Xelhuan let his gaze slip through the man’s flesh and into his Core space. He was surprised by the size and strength of the Core he found there. “You’re nearly immortal.”

“Closer to halfway, according to the System, Great One.”

“It tells you that?”

“Yes, My Great Lord, it measures progress in something called levels, and I’ve recently surpassed level fifty.”

Xelhuan frowned. “Impossible.”

“I swear, Great—”

“Silence—a mere stray thought.” After a moment of puzzling the idea around in his head, Xelhuan asked, “Why do I not hear from this entity? This all-knowing System?”

“I don’t know, Great One. You should be able to check your status at least. If not, perhaps in your slumber you rejected—”

“Enough. I will speak to it when I deem it appropriate.” Xelhuan settled to the ground and padded on bare feet toward a long, smooth, marble wall. He motioned with his left hand, and the wall sank smoothly into the ground, exposing the upper level of his ziggurat. The night air came to him, cool and cloying with the scent of orange blossoms on the breeze. He stepped outside, peering up at the moon. “It’s late summer?”

“Yes, Great One.”

Xelhuan walked toward the stone parapet and peered out over his city. Thousands—no, millions—of lights met his eyes, shining up from far, far below. His ziggurat was a stone mountain at the center of his city, and his people were ants beneath him. “How many?”

“More than a million thralls live in your great city, Great One.”

Xelhuan inhaled deeply, stretching the stiff flesh of his dusty lungs. “I can feel their Energy.”

“Yes, Great One, they exist to serve and sustain you.”

“Good. You’ve done well, old servant.” Xelhuan lifted his gaze, peering toward the horizon where his great city met the sky. “South.” He turned and walked around the top level, savoring the air and the glow of the moon as he stepped to the northern parapet. He angled himself so that he was facing northeast, then he stepped outside himself. He billowed up in the sky, a great, dark spirit that blotted out the stars with its passage.

He soared through the air, his spirit devouring the miles. With each slow, grinding beat of the ancient heart back in his body, his spirit surged northward a hundred miles. Before long, he was gazing down at frozen, icy plains, and he could see the jagged teeth of the Harrowbone Mountains ahead. In seconds, he flew over them, and he looked down on Fausto’s valley.

Something had pushed out the death-attuned Energy. He scanned the frigid landscape, and when he saw Fausto’s mean little city, he surveyed the thousands of bright little souls below. Yes, there were some strong mortals there. He even saw a handful of bright Cores that had clearly broken through the mortal veil. Still, they were children beside him—candle flames trying to shine brightly in the face of the sun.

With a thought, he streaked, impossibly fast, back to his body. When his eyes opened, he looked down at Itzcoatl and waved a hand dismissively. “They are but insects. Let them slay the rotting, weak lords. When they meet one of the five, they’ll be undone.”

“And if they come here first, Great One?”

“Am I not one of the five?”

“You are the greatest of them, My Great Lord!”

“Then you have your answer. Now, my slumber awaits.”

“Of course, Great One, though we’d love to spend time with you—me and your other servants, the priests, the Blood Serpents, the—”

“Give me peace. Sleep calls me, Itzcoatl—my dreams of my youth are not done with me.”

“Yes, Great One, of course. I will prepare your bed.”

“Good. Perhaps I’ll dine before sleep. Bring me someone young and strong, someone who will try to fight a bit.”

Itzcoatl bowed, his feathered, ceremonial crown tilting precariously. “Yes, Great One. I know just the one.”

“Good. And send a messenger to Requena. He will tithe me a dozen cattle’s weight of gold and one hundred of his best thralls as compensation for his hysterical message.”