Chapter 15
Nightfall arrived faster than Madan anticipated—the deadline for Azriel to be given the names of those who would be stepping up to take Kall’s place as the lead for Auhla’s soldiers.
Though their late friend had regularly delegated tasks and drills to others—Whelan for flying, Gavrhil for grappling, and Lhuka for sword work—he’d taken on everything from schedules to overseeing the training to ensuring those he trusted were expecting the high quality he desired.
Now the schedules landed on Madan’s shoulders, and with Gavrhil dead and Lhuka stepping down from his position, he hoped that the newcomers had as much discipline as his friends.
Though Jakhov had been a top candidate for working with the clans’ soldiers, Madan had a feeling the dhemon wouldn’t hesitate to instruct them to cut down any vampire they laid their eyes on, soldier or civilian.
His hate for them ran deep, and keeping him from holding too much power was as strategic as it was self-preservation.
After all, Jakhov was one broken bond away from stumbling down the same path as Ehrun and Azriel.
And with Ehrun struggling to master the new fae powers he now possessed after the successful ritual connecting him to Keon, along with his more-than-questionable past, he would never be a candidate.
Yawning, Madan made his way down the valley slope from Auhla with Whelan toward the expanding encampment created by the steadily growing number of dhemons, high fae, and lycans.
Azriel had given him four names total. The first two came from Thorin, who split the responsibilities of grappling and swordsmanship in half.
A wise choice to be sure with the number of dhemons they now commanded.
The others were chosen by Edira and Luce.
“A one-armed vampire sent to give us orders,” a dhemon grumbled in his language near the edge of the makeshift village. “I volunteered to kill them, not join them.”
Madan’s steps faltered, and he slowed to a halt before turning back just in time to grab Whelan’s wrist. His partner had been on edge since Kall’s death and Azriel’s spiral. The last thing they needed was for him to cause more problems by confronting their soldiers in a bond-blind fury.
“The goal of this army is not to wipe out all vampires,” Madan said in the dhemon tongue, surveying the pair of dhemon men sitting together near a fire.
Both were young, the spiral of their horns hardly tucking behind their pointed ears.
“If you cannot fathom brokering a truce with them, perhaps you should return home.”
This was far from the first time dhemons treated him as such.
After five centuries as the only vampire in Auhla protected by the Crowe, he’d grown more than accustomed to listening to dhemons attempt to get a rise out of him.
Usually, such things didn’t bother Whelan, but something overprotective had wormed its way under his skin.
Something not unlike Azriel’s own initial descent into darkness—and didn’t that frighten Madan even more?
“The Valley is my home, leech.” The first dhemon glared at him.
“And our goal is to return you there,” Madan said in as even a tone as he could muster. “But running out vampires who’ve also made it their home for five thousand years isn’t the solution.”
The second dhemon spat at Madan’s feet, drawing a loud growl from Whelan. He smirked. “Had to keep yourself safe amongst us with your guard dog, bloodsucker?”
“He is my mate,” Whelan snarled, “the King’s brother, and your superior so long as your clan is under oath.”
Sharing a glance, the dhemons’ cobalt faces paled a shade. The first sucked on his sharp teeth as though contemplating what to say, but it was his companion who made a face and leaned forward to ask, “You bonded to a leech?”
“Lies,” the first hissed despite his obvious uncertainty. “Dhemons bond to dhemons only.”
Whelan lifted his lip in a snarl, his beautiful face twisting with hate. “Would you like to test your theory?”
“Calm, my love.” Madan gave Whelan’s arm a firm tug, dragging his attention away from the pair of dhemons. “We have a job to do down here. They will learn.”
With a grunt of affirmation, Whelan turned stiffly away from the two antagonizers. Madan breathed a sigh of relief, and they started off again. They weren’t worth the trouble of trying to change their minds just then. They’d come around eventually.
Until, of course, one of the dhemons behind them mumbled, “I can’t believe we’re here serving a half-breed who calls himself King.”
Before Whelan could react, Madan had drawn his blade, swung back to the snickering dhemons, and held the tip of the blade against the closer man’s throat.
A bead of crimson slipped down the sharp edge before dropping into the dirt underfoot.
Their amusement died in an instant as the one whose blood was shed froze with wide eyes.
“Speak ill of my brother again and I’ll feed you your tongue.” A boiling cold took up residence in his veins, settling into a deadly calm.
Now it was Whelan’s turn to laugh, and when Madan flickered his attention between the two immobile dhemons, he found the second had lost control of his bladder while watching the encounter. Madan lifted a lip in disgust.
“What are your names?” Madan cocked his head.
At first, neither spoke. Then he added a touch more pressure to the blade, drawing a hiss from the dhemon before he said, “Zamhul.”
“Bril,” said the second.
“From which clan do you hail?” Whelan asked, stepping up beside Madan now with his arms crossed over his chest. An ease had returned to his partner’s demeanor, and Madan threw a prayer of thanks to Keon for not allowing him to lose himself.
Zamhul stretched his neck to the side in a vain attempt to move away from the blade. “H’axinhum is our clan leader.”
Whelan grunted. “It’s your lucky night, boys. H’axinhum was just named Sword Master by the half-breed King.”
“On your feet.” Madan stepped back and motioned with the sword to stand. “I was on my way to speak with her, in fact. Join me. I’m certain she’ll be thrilled to hear your thoughts about the Crowe.”
Bril swallowed hard, looked down at himself, and made a pained face. “May I change first?”
“I think not,” Whelan chuckled. “If you’re man enough to dissent so openly to the King’s brother, I believe you’re man enough to walk through this encampment with your trousers covered in piss.”
One after the other, Zamhul and Bril stood and followed Madan as he made his way down the lanes created by the tents and newly erected buildings.
Indeed, Auhla was no longer just the dhemon keep built into the side of a mountain.
The valley below was quickly turning into a village filled with people from all across Myridia.
Speckled amongst the dhemons, high fae, lycan, and mages made this place their home, temporary or not.
When they reached the larger stone buildings reserved for the clan leaders positioned around a large central fire pit, Madan turned to the dhemons in tow. “Which one belongs to H’axinhum?”
To his credit, Bril did not hesitate to gesture to one on the far side of the circle of homes.
They crossed the distance, and Whelan slapped his open palm three times on the stones near the curtain that served as a cover for the front entrance. Doors had yet to be made, then.
“Enter!” The voice beyond was light and feminine and matched everything about the dhemon woman who lounged at the foot of an ornate bed in the room beyond.
H’axinhum was, by all accounts, the smallest dhemon Madan had ever seen—shorter, even, than him.
Her curly black hair was piled on top of her head like a glossy mass of raven’s wings between her horns, which were just as petite as the rest of her and decorated with chains that dangled from the curves and glistened with gems. Eyes more pink than red swept between them, glowing faintly as she stood.
A long, rosy linen robe lined with white fur hardly covered her lithe, otherwise naked form as she spread her hands wide in greeting.
“Our King sends none other than his Princes to escort a couple of filthy boys to my chambers. Why?”
Whelan lifted his chin, baring his throat to her in a sign of respect while Madan bent at the waist like a common vampire in hopes of easing the dhemons into understanding their customs.
“The King has named you Sword Master,” Madan said as he straightened again.
H’axinhum squealed and clapped her hands. “I knew Thorin would choose me. What a delight. These little bastards have no idea what’s coming for them with those Valenul soldiers, and I aim to make this army an absolute terror.”
For someone as small as she, Madan was taken aback by her words. He’d imagined a large woman with burly muscles and far fewer crystals, for as she moved, he noted more of the gems shimmering from her hands and throat.
“Why, though, have you brought these two in here?” H’axinhum scrunched her pretty face in disgust at them. “They smell terrible.”
Wicked joy sparked in Whelan’s gaze. “On our way here, they expressed their displeasure at being forced to work alongside Madan here and serve a half-breed King.”
The disgust shifted into muted horror before landing on a simmering fury. H’axinhum stepped closer and flicked the fresh wound on Zamhul’s neck, making him hiss in pain, before turning to Bril. “Take those trousers off immediately and toss them outside. You reek.”
Dhemons were not ashamed of bodies, nor were they afraid to be naked—as depicted by H’axinhum’s nudity flashing in and out of view every time she moved. The command to remove only half his clothing, however, had Bril hesitating. “I will go wash them immediately, ma’am.”
“No.” H’axinhum slammed her hands on her hips, spreading the robe wide so both her breasts were exposed. “If you want to make a fool of my clan, boy, you will make a fool of yourself first.”