Rite of the Omega Page 5

  “I have every faith in you.” Endi’s full lips tipped up into a smile, nostrils flaring as she caught his musk. A warmth simmering in the rich depths of her umber eyes, her fingers trilled over his arm before she looked aside and stepped away.

  A submissive act he did not appreciate at all. Lip lifting in a silent snarl, he caught Endi’s arm. Pulled her with him away from the watchful eyes of advisors and common men alike.

  “Do not do this now, woman,” Er’it said through a low growl.

  “Your visions showed your victory, and they did not include me, my king,” Endi whispered, refusing to meet Er’it’s gaze.

  “Do not say the words as if you believe them. You do not put stock in my people’s ways any more than I believe in your one god.”

  “What would you have me say instead,” Endi said with a snort that managed to sound graceful. A flick of her wrist took in the mass of bodies that rolled in waves of restive anticipation of the battle to come. “We have far more important things to worry about than my feelings on your religion or anything else, Er’it. I’ll not fail you or them.”

  “I know you won’t.” Now he tugged the glove free, smoothing his palm over the springy curls she kept back from her heart-shaped face with a thick woven braid of red silk. A last reminder of her past and the status that fell to dust in the wake of an army not so different from his.

  “Your Majesty, it is time.” Ath'asho cleared his throat, eyes averted as he stood a respectful distance away.

  “Have there been any other signs something is happening down there?” Er’it indulged himself in one last caress of Endi’s cheek before he fell into step beside Ath'asho, tucking the thick glove into his belt.

  “Still silent as the grave. There’s damage to a section on the west hall, looks as if part of the roof has caved in.”

  “Think it’s too much to ask that we have a friend in there?”

  “Never ask a deity for a favor. You won’t like their offer,” Ath'asho said with a grunt, the last three fingers of his left hand touched to his brow to ward off evil.

  Taking a deep breath, Er’it prepared himself. Seeking that space inside of him where his magic churned and twisted, a vicious roar within that never quieted. Reaching out with that sense, he touched on the shimmering colors blazing in the night that were the other mages in his command. Soft blue, dusty green, sun dipped yellow. Sliding his thumb across the blade slung on his belt, his power surged through him as the first sticky droplets of blood smeared over the metal. Of all his mages, only he had chosen this path, the vivid crimson of his power crackling through his veins.

  “Now,” Er’it hissed into the blistering wind beginning to swirl around him, the command carried through the ranks.

  The first wave trampled Otaso’s protection into the ground. Six mages against the old spells were more than they could withstand. Exploding into a fiery spray that arced through the night sky to illuminate the hordes of black armored men charging through the dusty fields toward Er’it and his people.

  They met the same end.

  Er’it couldn’t just feel the blood soaked deep into the barren land. The energy cried his name and reached for him. Surging through the darkness, powering through his shields to delve straight into his soul. Threatened to rip him apart until he expended much of it in a glorious wave of fire that overtook the castle walls with a deafening roar. Killing yet more of the armored maggots while Er’it’s mages yelled orders to save those fleeing the inferno. Glimmering orbs of swirling blues and greens battled the liquid flames leeching over stone and wood that scorched it to crumbling dust with a magnitude of power that made Er’it’s blood sing.

  Inside of the fortress was not much different. Screaming servants, or perhaps slaves, clinging to one another as they bolted past Er’it and his army. By some act of the Hat’or or will alone, the damned place didn’t burn down around them as he continued to use the bastard’s own magic against him. No longer fighting the filthy strands of it, he grabbed them up. Twisted them in his hands and soaked up their power to send it hurtling through the wide halls.

  Deafened to his own voice, he charged through the rooms, pulling on those slimy threads, seeking their owner. Drawing closer to Otaso with every purposeful stride until Er’it found himself at the blasted door leading into a ruin of a temple.

  A glance showed him it wasn’t a temple at all. A sacrificial shrine, permanent and rooted deep into the ground. It was only its recent destruction that had leeched so much power into the land. The bite of something cold and fresh on his tongue warning Er’it that Otaso had no hand in it.

  “Take her.” Quavering and raspy, the voice came from the far corner.

  Er’it stopped short, boot trying to skid over the loose rubble littering the floor. Facing off with his enemy for the first time, he took in the measure of the man who had held such promise of being a worthy foe. Ignoring the words spilling from the bloody shambles of the Black Mage’s mouth, Er’it sneered at the creature huddled in a chair. Remnants of power gave the illusion of health and vigor, sporadic and failing as Otaso quit wasting what little clung to him. A man not so far past his prime, gray peppering inky hair and deep lines etching his features, he wasn’t as old as Er’it might have guessed. Strength aplenty in the arms that trembled as Otaso pulled himself to stand by handholds on a shattered table.

  Then Er’it realized what the man was saying.

  “Take her, have all the power you wish,” Otaso said, hanging on to the broken wood. “Do whatever you wish with her.”

  “Take who,” Er’it asked, lip curling at the very idea he was conversing with the Black Mage and not taking his victory there and then.

  “The girl, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? So take her.”

  “I know of no girl.”

  “Pah! Lies. Filthy… witch… bugger.” Otaso fumbled for the chair, landing hard enough the entire thing groaned and cracked, threatening to spill the wheezing mage to the floor.

  Er’it grunted, refusing to rise to the bait of the insult as he began picking his way through the room. Enormous chunks of rock littered the floor, their crumbled remains scattered everywhere. Tables lay in pieces, some little more than kindling now. Whatever happened here, it had been a mighty battle. Enough so that Otaso appeared stripped to the very dregs of his power. Perhaps fending off someone else that came to claim this girl, maybe even the one who created such an intense show two days prior. Though it made no sense for the Black Mage to offer the prize if that was the case.

  Then came the altar itself. Shattered in two, split right down the middle in a jagged line, the edges melted and scorched as if by lightening. Mages like Otaso spent decades perfecting them, imbuing the impervious rock laden with residual energy with yet more power. Using magic to shape them as they saw fit, the only force that could.

  “Who else is here, old man?”

  “Take the girl.”

  Growling low in his throat, Er’it forgot all the fanciful words he’d envisioned for this exact moment. Staring into the murky brown gaze of his supposed challenge, the victory that would be honey sweet on his tongue now bitter ash, he felt nothing but abject disgust. Imagining a magnificent battle, his power against the Black Mage, his skill with a sword against them all. To face a grumbling old man too frail to even stand was an insult all its own.

  He had planned for something slow, something befitting the man whose exploits were tales told to children to frighten them. Standing before him now, Er’it was offended at how paltry a thing this victory became. Perhaps the Hat’or told him something with this. To return home to the kingdom that was his again, had been for decades now.

  To remember what it was to smile and laugh. Find pleasure in something more than the basest of needs.

  “Take the O—”

  Er’it roared as he unsheathed his sword, the edge as clean and sharp as it began that day. The cut was swift, an arc of blood spraying the wall behind the twitching body of Otaso as he and all of his power fell to the floor. The last of Otaso’s magical reserves flared, skimming over the pooling blood with an iridescent shimmer. A fire sputtering and dying before the bright embers of it could even finish their descent, fading to ash as they met the floor. A quick and bitter end.

  Er’it felt no relief as he stared at the other Alpha’s life seeping all over the stone. The burden of revenge, the need to conquer it all remained locked tight around his neck, stifling and hot.

  “Majesty,” Ath'asho called, solemn as ever and twice as cautious as he came into the room.

  Er’it nodded, unable to turn away from the sight of the old man staring back at him from the other side of death. So many years, so much hatred. For nothing. He still felt empty, hollowed by the effortless triumphs in his name. Just another death at his hands.

  “Your Majesty, please come outside. Breathe the air, see the dawn coming. Pray to the Hat’or with me for seeing us through this.”

  “Yes, all right.” He felt nothing now, not even gratitude for the Goddesses and their visions. Footsteps heavy, grinding through the pebble strewn dust, Er’it made his way towards Ath'asho. Forcing his spine erect, refusing to allow anyone else to see him so defeated by this lackluster victory.

  He’d find a way. A path back to something approaching humanity, something he’d left behind more often than not in his search for a power to rival the next great enemy to lay low. For nothing.

  Crisp and clean, it was a breath of spring across fresh snow. Searing into his lungs, driving the residual heat from his limbs. Freezing that core of power within on a shuddering sigh.

  “Majesty?”

  Indescribable the way it cleared everything before it, the purest sunshine that begged with a sweet smile. Promising bounties any sane man would d
ie for. Filling the hollowness to the point of delicious pain.

  “Majesty!”

  Er’it didn’t know how he wound up in the main hall or where his steps took him, but he stormed past crowds of shocked faces. Some sooty and burnt, others splashed with sticky crimson, he passed them in a blur. Each stalking stride sure of its purpose, he went down one hall and then the next. Found a staircase where the scent was still faint, but stronger than it was before.

  “Er’it! What in the name of—”

  Racing down the steps, heedless of the steep incline, Er’it flicked his wrist to call up the light needed to see. Made it brighter when the damp darkness threatened to swallow him, an unnerving watchfulness in the waiting shadows. Barreling down, the scent became stronger. Overwhelming the deeper he went. It left him reeling and somehow more focused, a predator on the trail of spilled blood and a waiting meal.

  Not until he saw the leveled floor of rough bricks did he hear it though. Sucking in deep draughts of air to gather more of the alluring fragrance, it surprised him he could. The delicate murmur of it seeming to grow fainter even as he drew closer.

  Charging into the dank dungeon, Er’it ignored the calls and clatter of armor behind him. He went down the aisle of iron gates and back, the space filling with people and chatter before he found the source. Er’it would have missed it if not for the light he sent soaring into each cell, certain of his madness as each remained empty.

  The small, dark form huddled in the corner was little more than a shadow itself. Curled up so tight, caked with filth, it was a wonder he’d spotted it at all. Drawing closer to the gate, brightening the magical orb, he saw so much more.

  Too much sandy skin left bare, the shredded remains of a gown scattered all around her. Thick red welts lining every inch of flesh he could see, her rich brown hair falling in a ratted tangle over her face. Lips reddened and cracked moved with the indistinct sounds of misery that defied all logic and shot straight to his cock. Perhaps it was that delicious smell still that did it. He prayed that it was, because he wanted nothing more than to open the woman’s thighs and feast upon her for days.

  “Er’it,” Ath'asho snapped, grabbing Er’it’s shoulder to turn him around.

  Losing all sense, Er’it rounded on his friend and general. Shoving the other man to the wall with a vicious roar before changing his mind. Hurling the heavy, armored Alpha towards the milling crowd. Ripping at the torn sleeve of his shirt, tugging the ruined armor free, he presented them all with an Alpha gone insane.

  There was no reason for his actions. Sorcery, perhaps, but none that he knew of, and he didn’t care in that moment. That sweet scent was tantalizing him again. He made a false charge to drive the others back. Turning to the gate, he pulled the entire thing free of the stone anchors with a savage burst of magic. Launching it into the depths of the cavernous dungeon to stride into the cell and pluck the fragile bundle of pallid sticks into his arms.

  Fuck, but she smelled even better there. Despite the muck crusting her, of a ripe body in need of a thorough wash, that smell of spring and snow intoxicated him.

  “Please,” she whispered, head falling back to bare the smooth line of her throat etched in grime and lurid red bands as he whirled to face the crowd. The black smudge of her lashes fluttered, parting for a moment’s glimpse of eyes the purest black. Shining in their depths, the glory of a star filled sky. The heavens soaring through the frame of spiked lashes.

  Er’it bellowed as those lights snuffed out and turned her eyes murky. Shaking the bewitching creature, he shouted a wordless denial as she flopped about, rag doll slack in his grip. Clutching the woman tight to his chest, willing his warmth and life into the small body, he charged through the gaping crowd of warriors towards the stairs.

  Taking them two and three at a time, Er’it ran as fast as he could. Surrounding them in the fiery ball of his power to lend her more warmth when her teeth began to chatter, body shivering in fits. As her savaged lips grew pale and tinged with blue, a rage he’d never felt exploded within his chest. Drew out a sound of such brutal violence that dozens dropped to the floor in submission as he cleared the top of the stairs into the hall.

  “Er’it?” Endi appeared before him, reaching for his arm as he rushed past.

  Dragging in a breath that tasted of hot ash and burnt offerings, Er’it snarled at the woman that shuffled far from his path when he centered his gaze on her. “Get me a fucking healer. Now!”

  Using his nose and what sense left to him in this blind rage, he searched out a room. Thick with the exquisite scent that continued to distract him, it must have been hers. The old bastard’s reek tainted the front rooms, but it was only her within the bed chamber. That morsel calmed him somewhat, but he had only to look at the deep gouges marring her perfect flesh to work himself into a fury that burned white hot and out of control.

  “Majesty, set her down, please.” Meek and quiet, the dusty green of the healer’s robe sighed over the wooden floors as he came closer. Pausing when Er’it growled at him, palms spread to show he was no threat. “I cannot tend those wounds if you hold her like that.”

  Er’it bared his teeth, sitting hard on the bed with the woman cradled close. Groaning when a cloud of that glorious sweetness burst into the air, flooding his senses once more. The molten tempest of his rage swelled, threatening to spill over the healer refusing to back down.

  “Majesty, she needs—” The healer’s bald snort slapped Er’it in the face, would have earned the spindly man an exceptional amount of pain had he not then gestured at his crotch with a wry smirk and a single brow flying high. “A eunuch, Majesty. No more threat to her than a child. Now if you would be so kind to set her down, before she dies of exposure and whatever else the poor thing’s endured in this place.”

  A cautious sniff at the healer proved it true. Though thick and pungent, his scent was redolent of herbs and old paper alone. Not a hint of pheromones to show his dynamic. Grunting his acceptance, Er’it slid the woman from his lap to the bed with the utmost care. Cradling her lolling head and slack body until it rested in the downy softness of the bed. He couldn’t pry his fingers from around her limp hand, holding fast while standing aside for the man to descend with a solicitous air.

  While the healer did his work, Er’it examined the gentle beauty. Tried to keep the anger scratching at the back of his throat from tumbling into a full-throated growl as he noted every single mark on her body. Wishing he had taken his time with Otaso now, had made the man bleed for what he’d done to the woman. That would give him the satisfaction that abandoned him in that moment. To see him scream and beg, pleading with Er’it’s merciless vengeance for the hurt he’d caused her.

  Tracing the scored edge of her cheek, a ripple of disgust coiled through his gut. Woman was a stretch, at the cusp of it if she was a day. No wonder she smelled of such incredible freshness, the tarnish of years having yet rubbed away the shine of youth. Lips pulled taut, a lingering hint of dismay at his reaction to her and the still uncomfortable tightness in his cock tried to make itself known. Vanishing on his next inhale, a fresh burst of heady sunlight assaulting him as the healer turned her to inspect her back.

  “Magic did these,” the healer mumbled, fingertips ghosting over the thick weal marking her shoulder. As if unwilling to touch it, he leaned far back with twisted lips and a shake of his balding pate. “Old magic at that. Sour and dark, it is.”

  “Fix it,” Er’it snarled, grabbing the man’s robes tight against his throat to drag him close. Voicing the growl that lurked deep in his chest in the man’s face, Er’it proposed no other option.

  “I will, yes, but it will take things I don’t have to hand,” the healer wheezed, keeping his arms at his sides though his fists bunched the thick wool of his robes.

  “Majesty,” Ath'asho called from well outside the suite, voice vibrating with tension as it twisted through the dark rooms. “There’s a greenhouse that escaped most of the damage. I’m sure Maruk can find what he needs there.”

  With a sound too close to rage, Er’it shoved the healer away and turned back to the woman. Girl. Muttering under his breath as he went to a knee beside the lofty bed, his hand dared to traverse the small space between them to feel the rough edge of her lips.