Chapter 6
Gordack, Scheming Massacre, and Dinner
Through his hexed spyglass of blood-stained bronze, Gordack surveyed Chemarin, the sprawling city of stone and cobble, from atop of the thousand-foot cliff of solid rock overlooking the place. Scanning the messy maze of tightly packed streets and scrawny short buildings soon to be rubble, he grinned at the panicked lightlings screaming for help from his darkling hordes.
Breathing in the warm fresh air, the smell of blood and death welcomed his finely trained nose and discriminating tongue.
Made his stomach yearn for the taste of roasted human based in blood gravy.
The lycan packs slaughtered plenty of their human nemesis without mercy or pause. Yowling like the beasts they were. Their claws shredding the human’s puny fabrics and overpowering their wimpy resistance. Their twisted expressions showing every ounce of yearning to feast on human flesh raw. Drink the blood fresh and hot as it squirted out of their dying prey’s necks.
But Gordack did give one thing to the lycan. The coppery taste of fresh hot blood was better than the dull lightling drink called wine.
Even better when the two were combined in proper proportions.
His fellow ratlings, giant rat warriors big in muscle and brain, as clever and resourceful as their smaller four-footed brethren, herded the lightling enemy properly. Directing them through the incoherent tunnels and canyons these humans called streets. Slaughtered them easily. Driving the panicked survivors toward another pack of ratlings, who patiently waiting for their change to slaughter and finish off the enemy.
The human’s few feeble attempts at fighting back with their tiny daggers, fists, and sharp sticks useless.
It only made them easier to chop down.
Because, unlike their stupid lycan counterparts – or any of the other darkling races aiding in the battle – each ratling wore thick solid steel armor as dark as their fur. An axe and sword in each hand sized to match their seven to eight feet in height. Each forged to handle the strength of their huge powerful limbs.
And as sharp as their trim black claws.
Those bags of human flesh were as dead as penned livestock. Fit for eating. Roasted alive was best. Better than any pork that wander those streets.
Especially with the smell of blood and death as thick as the gravy made from their blood and fat.
His stomach groaned at the thought of simmering the blood drenching the cobble street. Put it all in a giant iron pot and put it over a fire for a few hours till it congealed into a gelatin. Spice it every half an hour with the right cyanides for that strong bitter taste that no almond could match.
That few races could stomach without an agonizing death. Lightling or darkling.
Gordack licked his chops. His two brothers stationed on opposites sides of the city. Using the classic pincher move to kill enough lightlings for the Darkest Third, the Third Greatest Lord of Darkness, to make his move. Even if the only lightlings in this city were humans, the Darkest Third titled the Soul Magus would savor every corpse, whether lightling or darkling, when he decided to arrive and use all of them to create monsters worthy of the Darkest One, the Greatest Lord of Darkness.
Use them to draw out the only wizard still left alive.
The lonely worm dubbed the Earth Wizard.
The only lightling being powerful enough to counter the Darkest Lords’ plans. The other three wizards destroyed by some crazed yet powerful lycan witch – her very existence, her very power, an oddity few knew about or dared speak of openly – her potential supposedly high enough to risk destabilizing the current ranks of the Darkest Lords.
Yet the very lycan witch who would of gained the most by the insane hope of the Four Wizards. The hope for peaceful coexistence between all races.
Now crushed beyond repair.
By the very lycans who needed it the most.
Or, more accurately, would soon need it the most.
When Gordacks’ spyglass landed on a disturbing sight.
A giant dark-skinned human crushing his darkling enemies like a tomcat exterminating pinkies. His build as brawny as a full-grown midget of a ratling. He even wielded it, like his blade, as skillfully and deadly as any of the three Butcher Brothers, including Gordack himself.
And for one of the Butcher Brothers to think of such thoughts, let alone their leader, of complimenting a human’s fighting prowess …
Then a red-haired girl popped into his view. One that both humans and ratlings would call small in the right places and big the better places – but toward different kinds of appetites. Her peachy skin and delicate physique made Gordack’s tongue moist.
Despite her clear fighting prowess nearly matching the dark skinned human … a single ratling feast worth butchering the city – just to obtain a single bite.
The fat in those breasts, the lean tender meat in her thighs, the savory marbled meat in her torso …
Gordack Ubellich, the Greatest of the Butcher Brothers, the Commander General of the Darkest Third’s hordes would pursue that prize personally.
When his spyglass caught sight of something even more disturbing.
A human boy, dressed the same as the dark-skinned man, ran alongside a lycan tigress. Not from her.
But like companions fleeing a mutual foe.
A tigress he recognized instantly. One both humans and ratling would call even better than the red headed girl if she were sweet tasty human rather than a bittersweet, bordering on gamey, lycan.
And the very same Ivy Reap the lycan showed off to him before this battle. Had bragged to him about as this generation’s greatest fighting lycan.
Behind them was an even more disturbing sight. Something that made his fur stand on edge.
A lycan female unlike the wolves and tigresses. A white vixen. Fox ears and tall. A coat with streaks of light blue in choice spots. Highlighting her chest and other feminine curves, as the humans would say. Or the most tasty bits in a pot, as Gordack and his brothers would say. Her coat was definitely more lush than any wild lycan ever was.
And a lycan none of the other lycan had bothered to mention to him. Their biting sweet beast stinks had suggested their only thought was their victory was absolutely guaranteed.
But nothing was guaranteed in war.
Any ratling who gained rank and kept it learned that lesson early and quickly.
So Gordack twisted his spyglass. Magnified it further onto the white vixen.
Eyes as blue as the northern skies. Warm as the sun.
And made the fur on the nap of his neck tingle.
“Black Fang,” growled Gordack, “Who is the white vixen that befriended the Ivy Reap?”
The black furred lycan slipped out of the shadowy boulders several feet behind and beside Gordack. Right where Gordack permitted him to hide. Built wiry, feral yellows eyes, and a master at poisons, daggers, and claws, two of which lined thick belts along his hips and chest, that lycan Black Fang preferred the empty shadows and the “dishonorable” approach of killing an enemy by any means most efficient rather than the idiotic challenge and “honorable” battle other lycan insisted on.
Including his three idiotic lycan guards assigned for too many years to guard their great General Commander. Two black wolves too chewy looking to feast on except in emergencies. And an orange tigeress too scrawny without the right curves to make her worth the effect to catch, let alone munch down, unless, of course, food got scarce enough.
Really scarce. Assuming she didn’t die sooner.
The lot of them lingered in the boulders. Avoiding Black Fang, like usual. His very presence an insult to their faces.
For their single failure to stop Black Fang, a mere insult was more than merciful.
And just a temporary solution. No point wasting their lives with a swift meaningless death just to grant their corpses some measure of honor.
No. A better punishment would make their agonizing deaths useful.
And like all lycan, Black Fang was bound by any oath willingly spoken uncoerced.
Including that crazed oath reducing any lycan to a mere slave they called purren. That their idiotic race tossed such oaths around so freely, it amazed Gordack they all hadn't been enslaved by their betters already.
But Black Fang's death would come too. Someday. More painful than any other before him.
“Purren! I asked you a question!” snapped Gordack. Knowing the rules and customs of inferior races did come in handy so often.
Whether darkling or lightling.
Otherwise, Gordack would of had to kill this lycan assassin long ago, after the fool attempted to cut his throat after a failed attempt on Gordack’s life. The first pathetic step was gifting the general with the fresh body of a lovely human slave girl and poisoning her roasted flesh with arsenic in the blood gravy.
A gift the Darkest Third also ended up enjoying far more than the lycan assassin ever thought possible.
A way that Black Fang never forget, judging by his glossy yellow eyes and bitter scent every time he spotted the result of his gift after the Soul Magus experimented on it.
Every time the gift now smirked down at him.
“Azura Snow,” rasped Black Fang. His harsh voice a reminder of Gordack’s mercy and ruthlessness. A punishment of the lycan selecting and chugging down his most corrosive poison diluted only just enough to prevent damaging his future usefulness to his new master.
A punishment that clearly wasn’t enough anymore.
Gordack snarled. Careful not to make too much noise and reveal his position on the peak. “More than a name, purren. Tell me what you know of her and her kind.”
“Little I know,” Black Fang said, the lack of fur rustling against his belts a signal he hadn’t even cringed – another sign he needed another punishment soon.
“Tell me what you do know,” said Gordack, “And what you suspect. Make clear which is which, too. I dislike dishonest subordinates.”
And disliked traitors enough to eat them alive. Their flesh not as tasty. Their blood fresh and hot was too coppery and messy.
But it sent the right message every time.
Gordack turned his spyglass’ focus onto the boy with the Ivy Reap. His outfit did truly match the dark-skinned man with decent fighting prowess.
“She was breed in the pelt farms far down south,” said Black Fang, obviously choosing his words too carefully, “Rumor has it a few new breeds of tamed lycan good for pelts have emerged in the farms. Breeding out what makes them lycan. Turning them into little soft pets eager to mimic and obey their breeders. Snow’s time in the village … I heard … showed her more spoiled than the youngest of cubs. She even chooses to be the Ivy Reap’s purren for life rather than prove her womanhood as a lycan. A decision, rumors say, both question the wisdom of now.”
“Wisdom?” asked Gordack, “A single dark-skinned human man below has slaughtered over several dozen of your best trained warriors. A soft, farm-bred lycan might realize her lack of battle prowess compared to her wild brethren and latch onto a sympathetic master with great combat potential.”
Yet Black Fang chuckled at such an obvious conclusion. Unaware his arrogance was the very same reason he now served a better darkling as a mere slave.
Unaware of the boy now with Ivy Reap and her purren was a key target.
“A great potential?” asked Black Fang, “Snow has command of powerful elemental magics few other are even aware of, including her own master. Had she not forfeited her freedom, had she bothered to try training her body at all, she could of easily become the greatest of her generation.”
And too great a threat merely to send Black Fang then.
At least in his current state.
Time to test one of Gordack’s experiments. Created by the magical talents the Soul Magus had instructed Gordack on personally.
The General Commander slipped out a black glass vial containing the tiny undead parasite, built from many of the choice bits of various worthy enemies – a few of the best parts from Gordack’s combat instructor and once master challenging the Champions at Storm Killer.
It would induce the needed changes in any living being foolish enough to consume it.
Induce the right mindset too.
“Black Fang,” said Gordack, holding the vial out, “Take this and –”
A chuckle broke out. Smooth and milky like blood mixed with the purest cream.
Right behind Gordacks.
Sending his fur up even if he knew better than to jump or shiver.
“My beloved general,” said the Soul Magus, “No need to waste your precious creation on a mere assassin dog. Better reserve it for a proper target …”
The Darkest Third’s pale finger, on a deceptively human hand, pointed right at the least expected lightling to target.
A suggestion, command really, that tasted better than any roasted human in blood gravy.
Even better than the red-haired girl it guaranteed Gordack would soon savor.