Even Gods Must Fall - Christian Warren Freed Page 0,27

left. Leaving for a different land where none recognized him wasn’t possible. He was already committed to the course. One way or another he was going to stand at the end of the storm. Rumors of the Wolfsreik crossing the mountains already reached his ears. It didn’t take much imagination to see their massive force crushing Harnin’s meager defenses in short order.

He needed to find a way out. A way to change the course of the coming war.

“Isn’t it amazing how unimpressive the mortal body is once the spark leaves?”

Badron screwed his eyes shut at the sound of the hissing voice whispering in his ear. His hopes that he’d lost the Dae’shan or fallen out of their favor were dashed like waves upon the rocks.

“Will I ever be freed from your curse?” he asked weakly.

Amar ignored him. “I’ve witnessed thousands of souls flee the mortal shell. Each is…unique despite the appalling similarities in life. More often than not the body clings to what little life remains, desperate to avoid becoming food for the worms. Would it pain you to learn how Harnin One Eye scraped and clung to his fading life, cursing your name with his last breath?”

“That is not the look he held in his eyes,” Badron protested.

“Was it not? What else could a man have who held such hatred for his former mentor?”

Badron finally opened his eyes. “Relief. He was relieved his troubles were over. Does that surprise you, demon? That a lowly man was able to overcome your manipulations, even at the moment of his death, and find a measure of honor? You’re not as all powerful as you wish to believe. There is strength left in this world. Enough to confront your mad quest for ultimate power and control.”

The Dae’shan paused, finding Badron’s change unexpected and disturbing. The northern kingdoms stood ready to fall. Rising amounts of carnage fed the Olagath Stone. Soon it would be filled with enough residual suffering to enact the ritual. Amar Kit’han spent generations cultivating Badron’s bloodline in order to achieve his desired results. The weak were culled in the same manner as over aggression. Over and over he repeated the process until he was sure the bloodline that remained contained all of the necessary requirements.

It was no accident Badron was the final result. He was inherently weak, craven. Badron had no qualms with ordering others to go to war but was a far cry from the warrior kings of old. He’d grown lazy over the years, complacent to the point of lethargy. Amar found killing the king of Delranan’s wife to be almost too simplistic. Surely another, more powerful catalyst was required in order to make the grieving king’s mind susceptible to the Dae’shan’s manipulations? Rather than fight, Badron willingly sank deeper into a darkening world.

Badron’s sudden defiance proved most unsettling. Amar had come expecting him to be weak, ripe for the final push towards Arlevon Gale. Instead he found a man desperately trying to regain a measure of his former strength, his mind healing from decades of irrepressible damage. Fortunately Badron had other blood relatives still alive. Options remained available to Amar and it was time to remind the king.

“It has never been my quest, king. I am a steward. I ward Malweir until the dark gods can reclaim what is rightfully theirs. Would you be the one to deny them? No. I think not. You’ve ever been a coward. Which is why I no longer need you.”

Badron stiffened. His eyes narrowed. Veins popped on his neck and forehead. “What do you mean?”

Amar grinned savagely under his hood. “Your brother and…daughter are both returned to Delranan. Which would you prefer I use in your stead?”

Badron’s voice turned dark, menacing. “I will deal with my brother. My daughter has no use to anyone, much less your lofty ideals.”

“Ah, there is where you err. Your daughter is most powerful. More so than you ever have the hope of becoming,” Amar taunted. “Does it disturb you to know Maleela, a creature you deemed pathetic and a waste of life, has the ability to conjure more terror than mighty Badron of Delranan ever could?”

Swift as a mountain cat, Badron was on his feet with sword drawn. He rounded on the Dae’shan, the point of his blade waving menacingly. “You seek to abandon me now, here? After all I’ve sacrificed to your whispered madness, I am not meant to be more than chattel? You claim immortality but I’m willing to put that to the