Dark Legacy Series: Vol I: The Bearer of Secrets

Daniel walked alone, stumbling drunk through the streets of Ralloc, searching for a specific establishment that came highly recommended. While he made his way there, his thoughts were never far from Meristal.

Every time he laid eyes on her, an overwhelming need to slap her arose, to tell her to wake up. Why couldn’t Meristal comprehend that he loved her? He could offer more to life than what she settled for! What did she see in Daniel that repulsed her? Why did she pine for Warlock Lakayre when he’d take her, damaged goods and all? Daniel shook his head in disgust and spat.

The Heir of Valin rarely made it to Ralloc, but when he did, he loved to have a good time. Visiting Ralloc brought the promise of pleasure, the claws of his vices burrowed deep. It was one thing to party with your brothers of the sword, the Krey, and you could fuck the hell out of your sisters of the bade, but it just wasn’t the same as Ralloc.

Daniel had a specific taste in women, and no one matched it at House Eti, save one. He remembered when he laid eyes on Xenomene for the first time; his loins ached at first glimpse. But she was too young, and why would she want Daniel, a man old enough to be her much older brother and possibly father? Still, her taut young flesh … but she had an innocent aura to her, and Daniel didn’t want to be the one to corrupt her.

He entered the establishment he was looking for: The Gentle Touch. He stumbled in, nearly running into a bearded man clothed in fine silk robes of deep green, brown, and gray. The man smiled at him. “Welcome to Lord Brenton’s The Gentle Touch, how may we serve you this evening?”

Bleary eyed, Daniel blurted, “Redhead.”

“We have plenty of red-haired females for you to select from this evening, what’s your select specialty?”

Confusion rippled across Daniel’s inebriated face. “What the fuck are you talking about, man? Where are the girls?”

“Would you like to view the girls before selecting your specialty?”

“Of course, man!” Daniel belched, then swayed.

“Follow me, sire,” The host led him up the stairs and through a locked door. Beyond opened into a foyer. Red-haired girls of all ages and types lounged there, all half-clothed, only covering their breasts and their groin. Daniel’s eyes went wide, gasping as he beheld women of every size: wide, thin, large and small breasts with variations in between, some with red pubic hair as they flashed him, others with black, some lacked hair altogether. He saw a rainbow of eye colors: green, blue, brown, gray, but he didn’t see lilac or amethyst.

None like Meristal’s.

“Find anything to your satisfaction, sire?”

Oh yeah! He nodded emphatically.

“Which specialty would you like?”

“What’s this specialty you are talking about?”

“All our girls possess skills in the fine arts of love making from all known cultures. However, each girl has a unique skill they’re better suited to than others and are often hired for such skills.” The host clapped his hands, and the girls moved off into groups. “These girls,” he said, pointing to the left, “their specialty is oral stimulation. The girls to the middle achieve multiple orgasms with the slightest touch. These girls have superb massaging skills. These girls to the right are from the Isles. The girls over by the wall are skilled in prolonging your orgasm to last for minutes rather than seconds and hail from Cronele. Another selection of girls can be made available with other skills if you do not find one to your liking. Which would you prefer?”

“How much?”

“Four hundred scepters for a girl of no formal skill, six hundred for a specialized companion.”

“Shades, you’re expensive! How long do I get to play?”

“Until dawn,” the host supplied. “The price is because we cater to the elite.”

“I’ll take three specialized girls,” Daniel said, handing the host an ingot—an ingot was worth six thousand scepters. The host’s eyes went wide as he grasped the ingot.

“I want an oral girl, a girl with good fingers, and a girl to prolong my orgasm,” he said.

“Since you are paying for more than two, we’ll throw in an extra girl. Let’s say a girl from the Isles, if you like, sire.”

“Sure, fuck it, why not?”

“Take your pick of girls, sire.”

Daniel sauntered closer and the girls made themselves available to him. After seeing how much money he just gave without batting an eye, they were clambering all over themselves to win his favor. Daniel walked among them looking for each girl that closest resembled Meristal’s face and body type. If he couldn’t have Meristal, he’d fornicate with each of these women as if they were her.

The long, cold fingers of decay reached out and brushed the Betrayer. He shuddered, acquainted with the Ruins of Sheol, one of the three cursed grounds in Ermaeyth. Here, death lingered in partial metaphysical form. The sheol, creatures of Xilor’s design, born of his machinations, both incorporeal and corporeal planes, remained in a state of animating flux. The Betrayer made the near-impossible journey to the Ruins in five days. The slave-by-fateful-choices breathed a sigh of relief. With another shudder, he put the Ruins to his back and faced the grotesque, small horde of trolls waiting for him to speak.

Xilor instructed him to incite an uprising, stirring the trolls into action, launching an unprovoked attack against a useless colony, a small town barely registering as a fleck on the map. When he called to his master, Xilor rewarded his diligence with his reasoning for the attack. Firstly, it’d start the second Wizard’s War. Secondly, it’d mask the presence of outsiders and their journey across the foreign soil. Xilor didn’tspecify what the outsiders were other than vague hints about creatures who had never set foot on land, wisps of smoke from the Underworld itself. The Betrayer paled, and his stomach fluttered when Xilor commanded his return to Gryzlaud with all due haste once his task was complete. The last bit of ill news he didn’t greet fondly, a command to return to Xilor’s clutches meant only one thing: he neared the end of his quest to return to solid form.

The Betrayer looked out at the assembly, small, squinted eyes regarded him, black as flint. Curving tusks rupturing between engorged lips dripped with saliva. Large, wide nostrils flared with each exhale, their nose hairs dancing like spider legs. A wreaking stench slithered through the air; they hardly smelled better than a slop-infested pig pen. The Betrayer felt diminished and insignificant standing in the presence of such large beasts. Their altitudinous height towered above a tall man, their shoulders easily one and half times his own. Like wizardkind, their skin tone was as diversified, ranging from light green to shades much darker, a sickly gray rivaling granite, and every earthly tone between. He swallowed, stilling the quavering apple of his throat.

As much as he feared them, he feared Xilor more.

With that knowledge, he spoke, orchestrating a weave of words he hoped would do as Xilor commanded. Trolls were not animals as most races pretended, just readily swayed. A charismatic speaker could enthrall them almost to commit mass suicide. Xilor used the analogy of a farm, comparing trolls to the oxen pulling the plow. While the troll population was much larger than the gathered, it was enough to send a message, both to the trolls and to Ralloc. The trolls would side with Xilor in the coming war.

He clambered onto a boulder, speaking from a respectable height, watching their expressions and their rapidly blinking eyes. Shadows hid his face, his hood drawn to obscure his features. The trolls stood rooted, listening to the messenger speaking on behalf of the returning dark lord. The mindless brutes cast their allegiance to the Xilor before, but their loyalty was whimsical at best. Xilor needed to solidify their resolve and have their unwavering dedication for his plans to work. He needed sacrificial pawns in this game, and he’d leave them to die. Ralloc would hunt them down after this atrocity against Wizard’s Pass. It’d be a slaughter. The capital would shift its attention to them, turning their backs to the amassing army under Xilor’s banner.

They had gathered to hear words of hope and inspiration and promises. He swayed them with a speech crafted to bolster morale and mystify them. Though they lived in a land filled with many races, they were the least educated of civilized society, they’d always be captivated by a standard they’d never achieve. The finery of the elyfian, the nobility of wizardkind, the riches of the dwaven, the upper caste of the goblins, all beyond their limited reach. Education and magic eluded them much like the concept of soap and water. What they didn’t understand was that these words spelled their doom, pawns abandoned for Xilor’s calculated ambition.

The Betrayer weaved his spell of influence, and a great roar of eagerness rippled through the massive crowd. Gaping maws opened wide to bellow their admiration. He continued about the rebirth of their master, the injustice inflicted upon them, and the promise of prosperity, unity once they crushed Ralloc beneath their heel. Even oblivious barbarians recognized the sting of oppression. More cheers exploded from the crowd. Some trolls, so overcome by excitement, began to speak amongst themselves in their native tongue—consisting of grunts and growls—instead of speaking the principle language of Myshku.

The echoes of their cheers reverberated and the Betrayer perceived the creeping chill of death pour down his spine. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears; the sheol had congregated behind him, curious at the amassed beings so tantalizingly close. With another shudder, the Betrayer tried to put them out of his mind. With the promise of such rewards on the trolls’ minds, he gave them focus by directing them towards their target, a small settlement. The trolls never balked, never question the logic. It made sense, and they wanted to please their master.

They dispersed, and the sole wizard weaved between them, listening to their conversations. What he could understand confirmed that the trolls would comply with Xilor’s wishes. A smile, not of satisfaction but relief, pulled at the corners of his mouth, knowing he proved his usefulness to the dark lord. He’d live another day, and so would Olga and Miza, wards in Xilor’s care. Wading deeper into the press of large bodies, he distanced himself from the sheol.

Guilt gnawed at his insides. He obeyed his master, and in doing so sealed the fates of untold citizens residing in Wizard’s Pass. Personally, he hoped the trolls failed. Xilor couldn’t fault him for that, but he still endured the shame from the reprehensible act. He delivered others, innocent and unsuspecting people, so that he might live.

Excitement raced through the crowd; a chant started up, massive fists pumping the air. They called out Xilor’s name, igniting a frenzy. The chant carried out into the night, swelling in volume. The Betrayer picked his way carefully through the trolls, dodging the massive beings as they jostled each other. Trampled to death wasn’t the way he wanted to go.

A cringe of disgust rose from his stomach and settled on his face, less to do with their scent and more with being the dark lord’s pawn, forever bound to do his will. But what could he do? He needed to find a way out the mess he allowed himself to get into. If he did, a much harder task lay before him: learning to forgive himself, if such a thing were possible. Forgiveness was something he didn’t warrant, he knew. He’d go to his grave at the end of his life filled with remorse and angst, however long that turned out to be.

There was nothing left here for him, his task complete. With a sigh of relief and trepidation, he set out for Gryzlaud Palace.