Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 12: Chasing Warriors in the Woods

"Rebels!" Corvere snarled. "It's always farking rebels around here! If they're not in Oathsburrow, it's Kairnsborg. If it's not Kairnsborg, it's bloody farking Middlefort now. I'm wasting my damn time chasing after these incessant dogs."

He threw a hand out in disgust, smacking at a tree branch and spooking his horse in the process. The creature gave a mad snort, rearing back as its rider held on for dear life. He pulled on the reins, forcing the animal to calm, snarling and spitting curses all the while.

The other riders were quick to look away, more interested in the dead forest or the tidiness of their fingernails. Even with Fenris riding drag the noise alone would have caught his attention, but his mind was elsewhere. Back at the castle. In the High King's throne room.

He still remembered the double doors slamming shut behind him. A clap of awful finality between life and death. The boom of thunder. The snuffing of a candle flame. Before him, darkness rose up in solid sheets of black ice, creating pillars, archways, and a towering, iron throne. Atop it sat a figure cloaked in hoarfrost, a crown of black glass wreathed over ashen temples. Beside it, resting in the crook of one fleshless arm, sat a sword clad in midnight black.

Dawnruiner.

The name alone sent a shard of ice stabbing into his spine. Seeing it reminded him of the dead world he lived in now. The hard life he'd been born into. The hard death that waited for him at the end of the road.

Only when the High King stirred from his frozen throne did Fenris remember what true fear was. He still couldn't recall what his sire had spoken of. Terror had blocked out the memory, but there were bits and pieces he could still recall. The clicking of air as it wheezed through the dead king's lungs, the soft shimmer of light dancing off Dawnruiner's glittering surface, and the faceless woman staring at him from the corners of his vision. Whether from around a pillar, beside a window, or behind the King's throne, she was always there, always out of reach, always watching.

"Go to Middlefort," Fenris mumbled absently on his horse. "And kill them all."

"Something interesting back there?" Corvere turned in his saddle, snarling at him like a child spoiled by his tantrum. "Something you'd like to tell us?"

"Not at all, sir. Merely going over our orders." Fenris flashed a mean grin, putting an edge to his voice. "Find the rebels and kill them all, aye?"

The Butcherman narrowed his eyes, studying him. "Aye, seems Jarl Kriggith's been dipping his toes in the wrong side of the river, and now we have trod off to the boonies to teach him a lesson. Why couldn't our great King have sent Jaina to do this?"

"Jain's in Ogdensand," one of the rider's piped up. "Heard a rumor old Bright Eyes was skulking down there. Couldn't pass up the chance."

"Oh, well bloody good for her then," Corvere spat, pushing a low hanging tree branch aside as they descended down a narrow valley. "She gets to chase after rumors to her heart's content, and I have to actually do my farking job around here. Bloody, useless woman. I hope she gets her head crushed in with a rock."

A few throaty chuckles clamored from the crowd, some out of fearful respect, others for the sheer delight of the idea. Ruthlessness was much beloved by the king of death, and he would see it in his chosen few. Those worthy enough to rise as his honor guard and share in the eternal blessing.

For people like Corvere, they revered such gifts for trivial purposes like power and status, but Fenris knew better. He knew that to reach the top was to reach perfection. A place where he would never know weakness again.

Which would have been ideal for Fenris right about now. His gaze drifted over to Darendel riding close by with a few others, talking in hushed voices. It had to be better than whatever Corvere was droning on about. He wanted desperately to sneak over, to be a part of the conversation, only to remember the last time they'd talked..