Heirs of the Fallen: Book 04 - Wrath of the Fallen by James A. West Page B

of the North, and he kept his word to help where and when he could. Over four lifetimes of men, he and his warriors trod the face of a broken world. Four lifetimes—
     
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
     
    “—of men, I have trod the face of a broken world,” Ba’Sel whispered, snared briefly in the murky fog hovering between mislaid years and the present. His eyes shone wet and hot in the deepening gloom. He didn’t remember the sun setting, but it had. So, too, had the puddle of water evaporated.
    “Mother?” he pleaded. “Nazeen? Ishin?” he cast about, searching dark corners, and found their faces peering at him, expressionless, dead. All dead. Everyone he knew, gone. And yet he lingered still. Ageless. Afraid. Alone.
    Hide.
    Ba’Sel flinched violently. No one was with him. Had the warning come from his own mind? “H-hello?”
    Hide.
    “Who’s there?” He pressed himself into a tight ball, head buried under his arms.
    A thudding boom came from across the room. Ba’Sel saw a flickering light outlining the edge of a door he had previously missed. Or did I come through it? Must have, and now someone has followed .
    “Go away,” he whimpered. “Gods good and wise, leave me in peace.”
    Boom! The noise reverberated and rebounded off itself, pounded into Ba’Sel’s skull. Boom! ... Boom! ... Boom!
    Slow, deliberate blows. Jagged cracks showed in the door.
    Boom! Boom! Boom!
    A long, splintered length of wood flew inward, bounced over the floor. Ba’Sel could not stifle a scream.
    Boom! ... Boom! ... Boom!
    Now there was another noise. A growling voice, deep, guttural. The words savaged his wits like the flashing teeth of wolves. He knew what spoke, knew the face it wore.
    “Leave me be!” he wailed.
    Rough laughter tore through the gaps in the door, and a last crashing blow ripped it off the hinges. The Alon’mahk’lar ducked into the room and stood straight, lifting a torch with one six-fingered hand, and in the other it held a brutal sword, more like a plank of edged steel. Wavering torchlight danced over the creature’s black-slashed crimson hide and dense slabs of muscle. Its head turned slowly, one pair of twisting horns brushing the ceiling. The second pair curled down around its neck. When it lifted it blunted snout to catch the scent, Ba’Sel saw the telltale glint of dull silver behind its protuberant eyes. He began to tremble uncontrollably.
    The Alon’mahk’lar came closer. Ba’Sel tried to edge back from the flood of torchlight, and when he could not, he skittered to another corner. It was no use. There was nowhere he could flee that the demon-born could not follow.
    “Long have we sought you,” the beast said, face twisting as if the taste of human words was excrement upon its tongue.
    Ba’Sel caught a subtle flicker of movement behind the creature, heard the barest scraping of a boot over the dusty floor. “You do not seek the Brothers of the Crimson Shield, demon-born,” intoned a deadly soft voice. “It is we who seek you .”
    Whirling, the Alon’mahk’lar smashed its sword against the doorjamb. Splintered wood and broken stone flew. The beast’s target had joined with the shadows, shifting one way, then the other, a being cut from the cloth of night. The length of two blades, one short, the other long, shimmered with beads of blood in the torchlight.
    Steel flashed without warning, and the demon-born roared a curse that froze Ba’Sel’s blood. The creature’s antagonist spun in, sword darting, dagger slashing, then spun away to rejoin the undulating darkness beyond the light.
    Enraged, the Alon’mahk’lar hurled the torch, and a shower of sparks exploded off the wall. A deeper darkness fell over the room. Bellowing, the demon-born became a thrashing mass in the dirty orange murk. Where it blundered, its enemy danced easily away, steel flashing. Another cursing grunt filled the air, and an arc of scalding wetness splattered across Ba’Sel’s face. Blood . He recoiled, brushed at