Vlicien growled his anger and frustration at the roaring wall of oily flame which writhed and leapt before him. The vicious combustion pushed him back and taunted him defiantly.
The crude bow of the humans still sang and vibrated against his hand.
The rats had fled - but they would not survive this outrage!
They would never escape!
He would hunt them down, the defiant rock would drink their blood.
He threw the bow to the rattling ground.
This was no weapon of a noble prince - it was the tool of a cowardly assassin.
Where was the honour in killing a foe without stealing the life from his eyes, and offering his soul as a gift to Hekubate?
He had allowed his rage and anger to rule his actions and get the better of him - the shallow burden of shame burnt across him.
This was not a befitting way for a Royal Prince to behave.
But he was no longer a Prince.
The title of 'King' now owned him.
On the ground behind, the jewelled collar of Xal lay worthless in the sullied dust; the gems of his ancestors befouled by soot, their lustre gone, their power and symbolism hollowed and rendered meaningless.
The Great Axe of Khal was his to wield in battle now also - but he would trade these petty trinkets to have his father back.
The deep, corrupting anger pulsed through his frame; the burning emptiness raged through him without end.
His rising breath intensified.
Only one drink would slake this bitter thirst - the blood of his enemies.
He stepped toward the flames, determined to fight through, to chase down the wretched thieves and murderers.
The solid thickness of Yulkvas's arm swept round in front of him and grasped across his shoulder tightly. Its sinewy grip jolted his thoughts back to the Chamber of Ancestors.
"No, my King - the fire is too fierce."
The distant words fell from his tutor's lips - muffled, so far away, beyond a remote echo.
"We must find them and kill them! Kill them all!" the burst of words relieved the building throbbing pressure in his head.
"But the flames are too intense," Yulkvas replied, "and we do not know how many more of them are waiting for us in the tunnels - or what snares they have set for us in the narrow passageways - the whole manoeuvre could be a trap."
The strong, faithful arm pulled him further back from the blazing obstruction.
"You are wounded, my King."
Vlicien had not noticed the cuts to his arm, or the gash across his thigh, or the roughened boils of skin where the flames had assailed him. He tried to centre himself, but his breathing seemed to come in heavy, tortured gulps.
The sting of his numbed flesh offered a welcome distraction to the waves of unrestrained anguish which rang out remorselessly through the rest of his being, and hollowed him with pain and doubt and emptiness.
How could his father be gone?
He was just there, alongside him, a heartbeat ago - so solid, so real.
Who would he impress now with conquest?
And their last words were a quarrel - how would this sit when his father reached the Great Hall of Hekubate and took his place at the Eternal War Council?
ВЫ ЧИТАЕТЕ
The Fickle Winds of Autumn
ФэнтезиWhen witches attack, dark secrets begin to unravel. A young girl, who has spent her life behind the cloistered walls of a convent, is thrust into the dangers and complexities of the outside world. She must fight to discover the truth before destiny...
