There is no room for thought in my head, no room for decisionor choice. I hack at a slavering, slime-crusted face, my sharp sword slicing the top of the skull away to reveal soft brain matter. Then my elbow bends, and I tip back my head, and the black juice of demonic blood pours down my gullet.
The effect is instantaneous.
Darkness wells up from deep within—darkness which has been there all along, dormant but waiting to be awakened. Waiting for that inevitable moment when I, in my desperation, would turn to it again. It rises, extends shadowy arms, and takes me into its embrace.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor!”speaks the voice in my head, which has been dulled to a nearly inaudible murmur all these years, but which now roars like thunder.
I smile, black spittle flowing down my chin. “With pleasure,” I breathe.
Then I drop my sword, whirl, and hurl myself at the nearest hobgoblin, catching it with my bare hands. No need for weapons now. This is beast work, primal and instinctual. I rip, tear, claw, gouge. My teeth find a throat and rip, and I glory in the taste of blood and bile. My hands rip into flesh, penetrating soft tissue, ripping out bones, which I then use like clubs, beating the hides of all who dare draw near me. With an inhuman shriek, I turn and drive both bone shards deep into the eye sockets of an oncoming foe, and all the while I glory, worship, and revel. This is what I was born for! The thrill of the kill, the gush of life’s blood pouring over my bare hands.
Yet still thevelrapulses. Drawing me after it. I haven’t forgotten.
“Worship me, Taarthalor!”commands the voice in my head.
I will. I will, I swear I will.
Only give her back to me.
Let her be spared.
“Pour out blood unto me!”
I will soak this plain with every drop of hobgoblin blood if that’s what it takes. Then I will turn and rip through the hosts of Noxaur and, yes, even my own people. No sacrifice is too great for the dark Thing I now worship. I would tear out my own heart and chew it with my teeth if that’s what is required of me.
But Ilsevel . . . she must be spared.
I must find her.
Dead bodies litter the plain, illuminated by a sliver of moon as the clouds break to reveal all that I have done. Guts spilling, throats ripped, blood pooling. Hobgoblins howl and moan and flee in terror, making for the distant city, their sights set on new victims, their brothers and sisters forgotten in their vicious desire for carnage.
I approach a knot of hobgoblin corpses, which lie spread-eagle in a circle, as though they were all caught and knocked back by the same blast of energy. They surround a fallen form, which still sparks with multi-colored fire. A licorneir—even in virulium haze, I recognize the beast, though I cannot in that moment rememberher name. Dead. Ripped apart by many vicious claws. One hind leg is nearly torn from her body, and a pool of silver surrounds her. Lying in that pool, covered from head to toe in the pure, pulsing power of licorneir blood . . .
Ilsevel.
I bend to pick her up, cradle her against my chest. Silver blood matts her hair, mingling with the black stains of virulium pouring down my chest. Her head lies against my heart, and I feel the faint inhale and exhale of her breath. My blacked-out eyes, searching her over, discern no sign of serious injury. Small cuts and scrapes, nothing worse. But she lies in my arms like one dead.
The voice in my head, though reduced once more to a whisper, is no less rapacious:“Give me to drink, Taarthalor.”
I am tempted. Were I not already sated on blood, I might give in, might snap her neck for the sheer joy of feeling that fluttering pulse of life leave her mortal frame.
But no . . . no, I came all this way to find her. I will bring her back. Alive.
“Pour out blood unto—”
“You’ve had your blood,” I snarl, spitting black bile with each word. Turning once, I look back at the broken body of the licorneir. Sometime soon—tomorrow perhaps—I will feel the enormity of this loss. Not now. Now all that matters is that I’ve found my wife. Ilsevel.Ilsevel . . .
Limbs trembling, I stagger back across the plain towardthe distant lights of the encampment. All the rush of supernatural strength floods out from my limbs, leaving me weak despite this renewed proximity to my wife. With an effort, I lift my head. Through a film of flickering darkness across my vision, I see Elydark approaching, but I cannot hear his song. This is strange, but it does not feel like loss. Merely a faint uneasiness in the back of my mind.
Beyond Elydark another rides toward me. A golden licorneir bearing Kildorath. Oh yes—Kildorath. A flare of rage sparks inside me, and my fingers tighten around the small body in my arms. Kildorath allowed her to ride out into this plain on her own, let her be put in danger. Kildorath should die. Yes. Yes, that is what must happen. Kildorath should die, pour out his blood unto—
“Luinar!”A voice calls to me, drawing my attention away from the licorneir and warrior. I turn to see Halamar approaching on horseback. He yanks his mount to a halt, leaps from its back, and approaches me with caution.“Luinar,”he says, holding out both hands. “You need to give her to me.”
“She’s mine!” I answer. It comes out a wet snarl, and black bile spatters in her hair and across her ripped gown.
Halamar nods slowly. “Yes. Yes, she is. But you don’t want to hurt her. You have saved her. You have done what you must, and you have saved her. Now you need to rest,luinar.”
His voice is soothing, rhythmic. It calls to something deepinside me, and I become aware of my own exhaustion. Some small part of me remembers this—the sharp come-down that follows when the initial rush of rage has passed.
