Page 29 of Feral Gods
THANE
M y blood hums in anticipation as I track the retreating dark elves through the forest surrounding our temporary refuge.
We abandoned the temple sanctuary three days ago when the purna witch and her forces breached our defenses, fleeing through the eastern tunnels to this abandoned hunting lodge nestled high in Causadurn Ridge.
The primitive stone structure lacks the temple's ancient protections, but its isolation and the treacherous mountain paths leading to it provide their own security.
The scent of fear and wounded pride hangs heavy in the pre-dawn air, guiding me unerringly toward my prey.
Five elite warriors, remnants of the force that followed us from the temple, their trail weaving through dense stands of tiphe trees still shrouded in morning mist. They move quickly but carelessly, making no effort to conceal their passage—a tactical error that will cost them dearly.
I pause atop a rocky outcropping, surveying the valley below through the predator's eyes.
My crimson gaze pierces the gloom, tracking the dark elves' progress as they approach a narrow ravine.
Perfect. The confined space will limit their mobility and prevent them from surrounding me.
Let them think they've escaped, right until the moment they discover the trap they've wandered into.
With practiced silence, I launch myself from the ridge, wings extended just enough to control my descent without creating telltale wind currents.
I land on a massive boulder overlooking the ravine entrance, my iron-black skin blending with the shadows cast by ancient conifers.
The twin blades strapped to my back remain sheathed—this hunt calls for more intimate weapons.
The first dark elf enters the ravine, sword drawn, violet eyes scanning the path ahead while completely failing to look up.
The second follows, then the third. I wait, patience honed through centuries of warfare, until all five have entered the natural bottleneck.
Only then do I move, dropping from the boulder to land directly behind the trailing warrior.
My claws find his throat before he can cry warning, severing arteries with surgical precision. He dies silently, his body lowered to the ground with more care than he deserves. Not from mercy, but from tactical necessity—silence is my ally until I choose otherwise.
The fourth elf senses something amiss, turning just as his companion's body touches earth.
His eyes widen, hand reaching for the horn at his belt.
Too slow. I close the distance between us in a single bound, driving my fist through his chest armor as if it were parchment rather than enchanted steel.
His death rattle alerts the remaining three, who wheel in formation, weapons drawn.
"Gargoyle," hisses the leader, a tall female with captain's insignia on her pauldrons. "The battle-hungry one."
I bare my fangs in what might charitably be called a smile. "You remembered me. I'm flattered."
"You're outnumbered," she returns, gesturing for her remaining warriors to spread out.
"Incorrect," I reply, flexing my blood-slicked claws. "I am simply giving you the opportunity to die on your feet rather than running like prey."
Their attack comes simultaneously from three directions—well-coordinated and professionally executed. In my former life, I might have admired their discipline. Now, it merely presents a more interesting challenge than hunting them individually.
I meet their charge with savage joy, centuries of enforced stillness transformed into explosive violence.
My wings snap fully open, the sudden expansion knocking one warrior off-balance.
My talons find the vulnerable seam between helmet and gorget of another, while I deflect the captain's sword thrust with my forearm, the enchanted blade scraping harmlessly against my stone-like skin.
"Impossible," she gasps, violet eyes widening as her weapon fails to penetrate.
"No," I correct her, seizing her sword arm and wrenching it until bones splinter beneath my grip. "Merely inevitable."
The battle becomes a dance of death, my body moving with fluid precision honed through countless conflicts before our cursing. One warrior falls, then another, until only the captain remains, her broken arm hanging useless at her side, blood seeping from a gash across her cheek.
"Yield," I offer, not from mercy but curiosity. A live captive might provide valuable intelligence about King Kres's plans and the purna witch's involvement.
Pride straightens her spine despite her injuries. "Never to a monster."
"Monster?" I laugh, the sound echoing through the ravine. "You forget, Captain. I was once like you—elite guard, servant of Liiandor. The only difference between us is that I've shed my pretensions along with my dark elf skin."
"Then you admit your betrayal," she spits, backing toward the ravine wall. "The histories speak the truth."
The accusation ignites fresh rage within me. "The histories are written by victors and liars. We were betrayed, not betrayers."
Her uninjured hand moves suddenly to her belt, withdrawing not a weapon but a small neptherium crystal that pulses with communications magic. Before I can react, she crushes it in her fist, the magical discharge sending a beacon skyward—a desperate call for reinforcement.
"Foolish," I growl, closing the distance between us. "Now you die for nothing."
"For Liiandor," she corrects, meeting my gaze with unexpected dignity. "For King Kres."
"Poor epitaph," I observe, ending her life with a single, decisive strike.
The crystal's magic dissipates into the morning air, its signal likely too weak to reach Liiandor directly but potentially detectable by any dark elf forces in the vicinity. Our temporary sanctuary may soon be compromised. I need to return quickly, warn the others, prepare for possible relocation.
I gather the bodies efficiently, dragging them deeper into the ravine where scavengers will eliminate the evidence. No point making our trail easier to follow than necessary. The captain's broken neptherium crystal I pocket Zaphyr will want to examine it, determine its exact capabilities and range.
The journey back to the hunting lodge takes longer than my pursuit, as I choose a circuitous route to obscure my trail and check for signs of additional dark elf activity.
The mountain paths wind treacherously through stands of ancient tiphe trees and across icy streams fed by the ridge's permanent snowfields.
By the time the lodge comes into view, morning has fully broken, sunlight gleaming off the crude stone structure's moss-covered roof.
I approach from downwind, senses alert for any sign of danger. The lodge's surroundings appear undisturbed, and I detect only familiar scents Ravik's commanding musk, Zephyr's scholarly aura, and Kaia's distinctive honeyed warmth, now tinged with the magenta spark of awakened magic.
Hours later, as the scent of smoke and Kaia’s honey-warm aura meets me once more, movement at the side of the structure catches my eye.
She stands beside the small spring that provides our water, filling wooden buckets with practiced efficiency.
Her dark curls have been pulled back with a leather cord, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.
The simple tunic and leggings we salvaged from the temple somehow enhance rather than diminish her beauty, clinging to subtle curves and highlighting the graceful economy of her movements.
She senses my presence, turning with a startled gasp that melts into a smile of welcome. "Thane! You're back."
Something warm and unfamiliar stirs in my chest at her obvious pleasure in my return. "The dark elves won't be following us any time soon."
Her expression sobers as she takes in the blood staining my iron-black skin. "You found them, then."
"And eliminated the threat," I confirm, stopping at the spring to wash away the evidence of battle. "Though not before one sent a distress signal. We should prepare for possible discovery."
Worry creases her brow, but she nods with the practical acceptance that continues to impress me. Six days ago she was a runaway slave; now she discusses combat operations with the calm assessment of a seasoned warrior.
"I'll tell Ravik and Zephyr," she says, hoisting one of the filled buckets. "Zephyr thinks he's found a way to shield my magical signature from detection, which should make tracking us more difficult."
"Good," I grunt, scrubbing dried blood from between my claws. "The witch?"
"Still pursuing, according to Zephyr's detection spells." Kaia balances the bucket against her hip with practiced ease. "But she's following a false trail east, at least for now."
I finish my ablutions, shaking water from my wings before folding them tightly against my back.
Only then do I notice the thinly disguised exhaustion in Kaia's bearing—the slight droop to her shoulders, the shadows beneath her eyes.
She's been pushing herself too hard, practicing her newfound magic while helping establish our temporary home.
"You should rest," I observe, taking the heavy bucket from her hands despite her protest. "Magical training depletes physical reserves."
She quirks an eyebrow at me. "Says the gargoyle covered in battle wounds."
I glance down, noticing for the first time the gash across my forearm where the captain's blade found a rare vulnerable spot between stone-like plates. "Mere scratches. Hardly worth mentioning."
"That one isn't a scratch," she counters, pointing to a deeper wound across my ribs. "It needs cleaning at least."
I shrug, unconcerned. "It will heal."
"Faster with proper care," she insists, and there's something in her tone—a mixture of genuine concern and stubborn determination—that I find myself unwilling to argue against.
"If you insist," I concede, oddly pleased by her attention despite my usual indifference to minor injuries.