NOVEL WEB Aftermath and Excerpt from following book.
Aftermath/Epilogue
Oroniel winced in pain but ignored the agony cascading through his body as he descended the stairs. He willed himself to move. One more step, he told himself. He had to temper his body, to teach it to ignore the confines of the mortal. Clutching the white linen garment loosely draped over his frail frame, he gasped heavily for breath. After what felt like an eternity soaking his lungs with the stale air, he continued his descent.
The healing comfort of his luxurious chambers did very little to alleviate his condition. Neither the supposedly soothing prayers of the clerics nor the bitter potion concocted by the alchemist did grant him respite. The she-beast stalked him through the dreams -- ruthlessly. His sleep was interrupted by fear and sweat soaked his bed every night.
A sharp twinge of pain shot from his arms forcing him to struggle with his footing for one precarious moment until it gave away. Oroniel could not help but tumble through the rest of the steps. He found himself lifted by strong yet non-calloused hands.
“Oroniel, give your body the rest it needs to repair. I am concerned about your health.” Zelaphiel admonished his friend gently.
Oroniel slid his weight rest on the offered support of the Grand Paladin Champion. Hearing the soft voice of his oldest friend, his tears broke through his iron-willed wall of self-restraint.
“I have failed you Mirnovian,” he uttered between sobs. “My recklessness has cost us all.”
“We have been betrayed, Oroniel,” said Zelaphiel as he led him towards a comfortable divan.
Gently, letting Oroniel settle, Zelaphiel made one more careful study, ensuring that his herald is safe he approached a pitcher of clear water on the other side of the room.
Oroniel, slowly stroked his arm. His severed arm. Now, patched to his body again. Patched. Not healed. Despite the best efforts of the high elven healers and miraculous spells woven to attach, the arm felt different. Gone was the vibrancy and the suppleness. Instead, his arm with its dried dark skin, more akin to tree barks, resembled a rotten piece of twig festering through his body.
With his back still turned to Oroniel, Zelaphiel spoke, pleadingly. “Promise me Oroniel that you will put your own safety before creed. What transpired was not your fault. No one could have predicted the wicked thoughts of those traitorous humans.”
“Mirnovian,” Oroniel’s voice held a tiny sliver of concern for his friend. “What happened when I was...”
“...treated by the healers.” The pitcher in Zelaphiel’s hands shook, spilling the clear fluid over the pristinely maintained marble floor. “Fort Halcyon fell.”
Shocked marred Oroniel’s already feeble face. “Orcs? The boar lady could not have mustered such a huge force on such short notice.”
“No. Humans turned on us. A bunch of ruffians, elf-haters masquerading as a knightly order joined them and then their cuirassiers and their stahlknechte joined.” As the Grand Paladin Champion spoke, potent venom gradually consumed the silent regret in his voice.
“Despite the overwhelming odds, our paladins and knights still held the fort but that wretched orc commander Lobrock deserted with his contingent of orcs but not before opening every gate and entrance.”
“What happens now?” Oroniel could not stop the knot of anxiety twisting like coiling serpents inside him.
“If High-Crag Hold falls, the horde will overrun Stormaire’s lands,” Zelaphiel uttered with a hard grit devoid of any sympathy.
The ambitions of the One-Horned Warlord, grand and powerful, could neither pose a significant threat nor delay Zelaphiel’s own goal. Such a transgression cannot be allowed. Not when the fruit of his labor, a divine calling he is tasked to fulfill, is at a crucial moment. The pregnant secret that Cyrene revealed seemed more and more probable with every fleeting instant.
Zelaphiel set the pitcher down. The purpose for taking the pitcher eluded him and his mind, too preoccupied with thoughts about a certain young queen, failed to grasp mundane events, including the threat at High-Crag pass.
Dellynthelaara! His thoughts gyrated around her very being.
His illustrious title provided no credit before a queen. The marvelous feats he claimed was a dust mote in comparison to her own abilities. Even the magnificence offered by his celestial heritage is insignificant before the Divine Reeve herself. An insurmountable obstacle and yet he must.
The new Matron of House Aealaninth was heavily guarded by her mother; almost raised in captivity. No grandiose debutante ball introduced her, for that was not the way of the dark elves. Even intelligence reports from the Exarch Rebellion shed very little on her private life. No lad or lass, she fancied. Not even a stolen glance or indulgent conversation. When it concerned Delynthelaara, there was one common consensus, unanimously agreed; she is inexperienced in certain matters.
With realization, a thin smile crossed his lips. Perhaps, there are other ways to gain her attention.
Excerpt from Second Book of the series.
Excerpt I
Every assembled face stared at Urganza. There was curiosity in some while others held sheer disgust for the one who seated before her. An Overlord of the Orcs was never meant to stand while another took the seat, much less assume a humble stance. Yet, she was about to do the unthinkable, To betray the hope and faith of her people; of orcs who willingly elected her.
“Urganza.” The rich softness in Dellynthelaara’s voice could not conceal the cold steel of a monarch oozing through. The eyes of the young Queen deliberately bore into Urganza even as she tried to avoid it. “Given you a precarious situation, you will find my offer, most gracious.”
Urganza dared to cast one more glance at the rich opulent figure standing before her. Silken long hair, pitch black like the abyss, danced behind her back, shrouding her in a cloak of eternal darkness. But it was her eyes that unnerved the powerful Orc Overlord. Those eyes, familiar and yet unfamiliar, disturbed her deeply. The shape, identical to her wife Antilorwe, staggered Urganza for a brief whimsical moment. Where Antilorwe’s hazel eyes held warmth, a sliver of sultry mischief and inviting to lose herself completely, the eyes of Dellynthelaara were saturated with the raw primal ability for domination, sending quivers down the bones of even one illustriously called the Overlord.
“In the land of demons, what authority does the queen of dark elves hold?” uttered Urganza in defiance.
Dellnthelaara straightened her back. With a swipe that is almost too regal not to admire, her ring-encased fingers adjusted the folds of her robe. The heels of her feet tapped the ground twice. The uncomfortable sound reverberated, attracting attention back to her. Allowing a brief moment to settle, she crossed her legs. The toes of her raised foot pointing and waggling at Urganza in a not-so-subtle display of her position.
“The Dame of the Demesne will not be denied where the Queen is ignored.”
Urganza knelt, in total submission. She spared no thoughts. Neither the protests of the Orcs nor her fading self-worth held a modicum of interest to her. She would willingly surrender, for her own dignity paled before the love of Cyrene.
[..]
Arcane essence flared within Dellynthelaara luring every nerve, vein, and fiber to assimilate till the young queen became a potent vessel of saturated effervescence. Concentrated enough to mar the reality around. Mystical arcane winds visibly swirled around the young Queen. Raw primal element beckoned, responded to the flick of her wrist. Ash! volcanic ash rose from the grounds and ebony stone, finely polished obsidian, spat out from cracks leaching on the surface.
Urganza became the locus of a volcanic tempest of ash and stone till they converged. And, the Knight of Ash and Smoke strode out.
Excerpt II
[..]
Antilorwe stared at the two demons in front of her with cold unblinking eyes. Disgust razed inside her forcing rotten bile to surge. With her own emotions, unconcealed and laid bare, that time for decorum and pleasantries was beyond them. She ignored the subtle lull of the ominous chamber and its silent whispers of gratifying unfulfilled fantasies. Even the mellifluous ambiance slowly filling the empty void could do very little to hinder the accusatory tone in Antilorwe’s voice.
Cyrene slowly reached to touch her wife’s arms. Through the intervening layers of fabric, her naked arm snaked around Antilorwe’s own, giving it a tight squeeze reassuringly.
“I have made peace with my choices. You too should. Besides, Urganza needs you.”
Despite the earnest plea, Antilorwe’s accusatory gaze, steeled in resolve, remained unwavering. Only rage remained at the two being standing on the lambent suface of black marble and the extravagant lair that they called their residence. Hiding behind the brightly-lit radiance of the place, there hid a deep veneer of darkness, visible only to those who dared to seek. Antilowe vowed not to let her innocent sugarplum thaw in such a realm.
“I assure you, Antilorwe. My succubus here is personally chosen and she is fairly competent.” The way Zar’Amaris’s lips pressed and released and the full circle it formed made the prime demon’s intention undoubtedly clear on what she planned for Cyrene.
The succubus stared at Cyrene with predatory eyes. Unshamed, her crimson eyes slowly drank in the scantly clad form of Cyrene, stripping them mentally and relishing in the intoxicating knowledge of the sight she would be feasting later on. Her movements, feline-like grace mingled with a generous measure of sultriness to incite latent arousal, darted toward Cyrene in a not-so-subtle manner. Split tongue flicked over her luscious lips as if tasting the hapless Cyrene. The talon-like nailed fingers ran over the handle of the whip, coiled and held around her waist, in a caress promising more. She alluringly swayed her tail, taunting Antilorwe. The tail, slick and glistening in length, with a bulbous protrusion tip throbbing with blood made the dual purpose evident.
Rage, like molten magma, flew through Antilorwe’s veins inciting every suppressed emotion to shatter their shackles and act.
“Did the contract stipulate her tormentor?” asked Antilorwe defiantly.
“Tormentor?” Zar’Amaris clicked her tongue in an exaggerated dismissal. “That is a prejudiced view. Her handler would only seek to liberate her true potential. Sooner, fulfill the terms of the contract, and earliest she is bereft of her debt.”
Wrenching the whip from the iron grip of the succubus, Antilorwe declared in an orotund voice that filled the chambers. “Then, let me do it. No one gets to hurt my wife -- except me.” The last part was left unsaid.