The War of the Masters

In a flash, Cyrus unsheathed his sword and slashed at Keira. The nimble elf’s reflexes kicked in—she leapt back just in time to avoid a fatal strike. Darting across the room, he followed up with a rapid series of swipes, focusing on pure speed rather than power or technique. Keira blocked the flurry with her silver kite shield, then threw her weight behind it, knocking Cyrus off balance. His skills with a blade were raw and basic, lacking the refinement that came through training and experience.

“Cyrus, Terra! Wake up! It’s me, Keira!” she yelled as he stumbled back.

Cyrus fell into a new series of attacks, showing no signs that he had heard her. Keira cracked her whip, but Cyrus didn’t slow, slicing toward her knees below her shield.

Then a faint whisper entered her mind. Give up, elf. Give up . . . give up . . . give up . . .

Keira stole a glance at Terra—she was focusing her power. Slowly the voices in Keira’s head grew louder.

I can’t take much more of this, she thought faintly. If I don’t do something now, they’re going to kill me!

Blocking the voices out as best as she could, Keira rolled to her right, narrowly dodging another swipe from Cyrus. Backpedaling to create space, Keira brought up her whip and snapped it at Cyrus’s face. The fisherman instinctively jumped back, giving Keira the space she desperately needed.

She couldn’t wait any longer. The maddening voices projected into her head were reaching shouting levels. Keira unhooked the shield from her arm and twisted her upper body, legs bent at the knees.

I hope you forgive me for this . . .

Keira snapped her wrist, flinging the shield across the room. The metal projectile smashed into the Princess, knocking her to the floor. Keira cringed at the sight of her hurt friend, but the shield should only have knocked the wind out of her—at worst she may have a broken rib.

The voices stopped.

Whirling around, Keira barely ducked beneath a horizontal slash from Cyrus’s blade. Breathing heavily, she balled her free hand into a fist and smashed her knuckles into the bottom of his chin, knocking him backward. Cyrus stumbled, but kept his footing. The light from a torch flickered over his face, and for the first time Keira noticed his brown eyes were replaced by a pale gray.

“What’s going on?” Terra’s groggy voice came from the other side of the room.

“Terra, help!” Keira shouted. “Cyrus has been hypnotized. You have to get through to him!”

Cyrus took a quick step forward, and Keira cracked her whip. But his motion was only a feint; before she could bring her arm up again to snap the whip, Cyrus closed the gap between them and swiped at her neck. Keira ducked below the blade, but this time Cyrus brought his knee crashing into her skull. Keira fell to the floor and instinctively rolled. She heard a sharp clang as his steel crashed into the spot on the floor where she had just been.

He’s adapting to my fighting style, she realized. The longer we fight, the tougher he’s getting.

Summoning what little strength she had left, Keira bounded to her feet and lashed out with her whip. A lucky strike knocked the sword from his grasp, but Cyrus seemed unfazed.

“Terra, if you’re going to do something, you need to do it now!” Keira yelled.

Cyrus lunged toward her at a dead sprint, slamming into her before she could bring her whip back up to bear. Keira felt the air knocked from her chest, but Cyrus didn’t slow until he pinned her against the far wall.

Keira’s head smashed against the irregular limestone wall of the cave. Stars blurred her vision, but she could just barely make out his left hand reaching toward her face. Keira squeezed her eyes shut, her mind snapping back to the moment Cyrus had melted through her iron bars with the power of the Akieres. Fear rocketed through her at the thought of what he would do now with that same power.

She felt his hand touch her face. Her heart skipped a beat—though it felt like it skipped several.

Then his hand jerked back. Cyrus slowly backed away, and Keira saw his gray eyes clear like clouds dissipating into the night sky.

Without warning, he pulled out the Akieres Legacy Blade and shot it across the room. The hook was right on the mark, hitting the hypnotist square in his chest. But instead of blood, the silver-haired elf vanished in a puff of smoke.

The brightly lit room faltered, and began to change. The table turned into a rickety, three legged version covered with dust. The bed morphed into a pile of straw, and a loose collection of bones rested where the man had just been.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Cyrus walked over and crushed the deteriorated skull with his boot.

“What in the world was that?” Keira asked, trying to catch her breath.

“I have no clue,” Cyrus said sluggishly, still gazing at the pile of bones before him. “I’m so sorry, Keira. It felt like my mind was overrun by fog. I couldn’t control my own actions, no matter how much I tried.” He turned his head. “Thankfully, Terra cleared the fog up for me.”

“Nice job, Terra,” Keira agreed, sitting down on the cold cavern floor. Her muscles and joints were still coiled and tense. “You stopped him in the nick of time.”

Terra rubbed her hand over the back of her head. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You’re the only one who didn’t get hypnotized. You saved us all.”

“Don’t mention it,” Keira replied, still trying to calm her frayed nerves. “I’m just glad we’re all safe. Besides, elves can’t be hypnotized. He really should have known that.”

Cyrus and Terra exchanged a glance. “Why should he have known that?” Terra asked. “We didn’t.”

“But he was an elf,” Keira explained.

Cyrus looked puzzled. “No, he wasn’t.”

“You didn’t see his ears?”

“I did, and they were as round as mine,” Cyrus said.

“You sure his hair wasn’t covering them when you looked? It was pretty long,” Keira pointed out.

Cyrus looked even more confused. “I saw short, cropped hair.”

All three of them paused, looking at the pile of bones.

Finally, Keira put to words what all of them were thinking: “What exactly was that thing . . . ?”

__________

Prince Lozarrik trudged through murky, ankle-high water deep within the borders of the Unknown Regions. This area had garnered a reputation for its unusually high death toll—a count so high it had earned the nickname Bloodmarsh. Some believed it was due to the toxic plants that thrived in the region, but Lozarrik knew the truth.

His father, the King of Candore, had once told him a story of the never-ending war between vampires and Lycans. The Bloodmarsh was positioned directly between the rival factions’ territories, making it an ideal battleground for the vicious monsters, and the very reason why Lozarrik had come.

A heavy mist had settled over the area, limiting his vision to a mere twenty feet. Gnarled black trees twisted up from the ground in a haphazard manner, almost as if they, themselves, were fighting to dominate the region. Crows pecked loosely at the remains of fresh kills. Lozarrik took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, a grim smile forming on his lips. Most intelligent creatures would be terrified to walk the Bloodmarsh at night, but it brought Lozarrik an even greater sense of satisfaction. He knew he was the predator here; everything else had him to fear.

A sharp howl drew his attention. Lozarrik glanced briefly at the glow of the full moon shining through the clouds.

Perfect.

He took off in a sprint toward the source of the noise, covering a hundred yard expanse in eight seconds flat. Another noise followed. This time it was the sound of a heavy impact, as though something had just smashed into a tree hard enough to crack the base.

Cresting a small hill, Lozarrik was rewarded with the sight of a pure-blooded vampire engaging a werewolf in melee combat. Both creatures were unarmed, raining down blow after blow with claws, fangs, and pure strength. Neither even vaguely resembled a human. The werewolf had thick black fur coating its massive frame and a long, razor-sharp snout. The vampire had pale gray skin, long fangs and two bat-like wings protruding from its back.

The werewolf raked its claws across the vampire’s face, then followed with a kick that sent the vampire sprawling. Lozarrik knelt into a crouch, content to watch for the moment. So intent on their blood feud, the beasts hadn’t noticed his approach. Both creatures healed swiftly, and battles between the two were said to often last the entire span of the night. Regarded as two of the deadliest creatures in the world, Lozarrik was eager to see what the beasts could do.

Using its wide, powerful wings, the vampire flew up from its supine position with astounding speed, narrowly evading the werewolf’s follow-up strike. The vampire reached out its long, pale arm and wrapped its fingers tightly around the werewolf’s neck. Feeders in its hand sank into the beast’s flesh, draining some of its blood. A furious howl escaped the werewolf’s clenched throat, and both sets of its claws dug into the vampire’s arm, immediately loosening its grip.

Impressive, Lozarrik thought. But as enjoyable as this is, there’s work to be done.

Still crouched, Lozarrik clapped his hands, applauding the feral combatants on their duel. Both the beasts stopped mid-fight to face him.

Lozarrik rose slowly from his crouch. His broad shoulders and heavily muscled physique cut an imposing figure, even in this surrounding. For a moment he considered using his power against the beasts, but quickly discarded the notion. He wanted to save that for a more worthy engagement.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he said politely, a sinister smile twisting across his face. Marching slowly down the hill, he concluded: “You two have just qualified as my newest pets.”

The werewolf growled fiercely but the vampire remained motionless, as though studying the human’s approach.

A mark of intelligence? Lozarrik wondered.

Perhaps it was wondering why he hadn’t drawn the massive sword sheathed at his side. Perhaps it had heard the legends of the sharply dressed Prince’s battle prowess. Or, perhaps, it was merely as stupid as it looked.

Lozarrik stopped six feet from the creatures, his arms folded together in front of his chest.

“Which of you would like the honor of submitting to me first?” His tone carried a hint of arrogance, purposefully challenging the beasts to question his superiority.

The werewolf reacted first, lunging for his throat with a preternatural swiftness. Lozarrik was both surprised and impressed by the creature’s speed.

Moving even quicker, Lozarrik rolled forward, drawing his sword even as he dove beneath the werewolf’s initial strike. In a blur he whirled around and slashed, careful of where his blade struck—he wanted only to wound the creature, not cleave it in half.

His claymore carved a crisp, diagonal line across the werewolf’s upper torso, fatally wounding the beast. Lozarrik spun in time to see the vampire hurtling toward him like a rocket. Carefully timing his movements, Lozarrik delivered a powerful roundhouse kick the instant the creature reached him. The vampire crashed into a nearby tree before settling into the soupy water pooled at their feet.

Lozarrik nonchalantly reached to the ground and seized hold of the vampire’s neck, hefting the beast into the air with one hand. A panicked gurgle escaped its throat. Lozarrik smiled darkly and tightened his grip until he broke the vampire’s trachea. Still holding it by the neck, Lozarrik made his way to the dying Lycan.

“There, there, little pets,” he assured them mockingly, “I’m about to make life so much better for you . . .”

Both creatures were nearly dead—precisely the way Lozarrik wanted them. He pulled the vampire face-to-face with him and breathed a thick, cloying breath into its mouth. The vampire’s dying eyes suddenly lit with a fiery spark. Lozarrik loosened his grip and smiled. The vampire’s crushed neck realigned itself, and the cuts and gashes inflicted by the werewolf closed over.

Lozarrik tossed the vampire out of his way, then knelt over the bleeding werewolf and repeated the process, imparting to it the Breath of the Masters. With a cruel smile he rose to his full six foot-seven height and looked upon his new puppets.

“Now,” he said menacingly, “bow down to me, slaves.”

The werewolf and the vampire looked at one another. Lozarrik could still see the burning kernel of hatred each held for the other, but they did as he instructed. Even mortal enemies submitted side-by-side to the Breath of the Masters. Not only were they incapable of resisting his command, he was now their only salvation. Without him, the Breath would fade over the next few months, and they would inexorably revert back to the state they were in when he had first imparted it—a state of impending death.

Lozarrik sensed the presence of one of his many underlings approaching. He turned to face the creature. It was an Ulequen, a type of wraith with the ability to alter its appearance and hypnotize its prey. One of its many talents allowed it to travel the air currents and arrive at almost any area instantaneously.

“Well, well, my pet. How did my baby sister die?”

The Ulequen didn’t meet his gaze—a sure sign that it had failed its task. Terra was more resourceful than Lozarrik had anticipated, but that didn’t excuse the creature’s failure. Lozarrik smiled and drew his massive sword. The Ulequen was well aware that he knew how to kill it.

Desperately the creature dropped to one knee and pleaded, “Wait, master! I bring information you will be pleased with.”

Lozarrik paused, his cunning smile growing wider still. “Speak.”

“Your sister travels with an elf and a young fisherman named Cyrus. He has the power of the Akieres—a power long thought lost to the world.”

Lozarrik’s smile frosted over. When he spoke, his tone didn’t carry the mock-charm of a politician it usually did; instead, it was deathly serious. “I already know this.”

“But,” the Ulequen added quickly, “did you know they tracked General Dameon to the Avenoxi village?”

Lozarrik waited a long moment before answering, relishing the terror building in his slave’s eyes. At last he said, “No. I did not.” His smile returned. “Dameon is too important to my plans. The experiments must be continued. For bringing this information I will let you live. But if you ever displease me again, you will face a long, dark punishment before I snuff out your miserable little existence.”

“Thank you, master,” the Ulequen said, bowing once more.

“This new development requires immediate attention,” Lozarrik said, more to himself than to his slaves. “Ulequen. Take these two to their new home and brand them with my insignia.” He took a deep breath and whistled sharply toward the sky.

“Yes, my master. But what of Dameon and—”

“I will see to this personally.” His tone left no room for doubt that the discussion was over.

The three slaves made their way for his castle when a fierce roar pierced the night sky. Seconds later his black dragon, Nightmare, landed on the ground beside him, cutting jagged swaths through the marsh where his razor-sharp wings had touched.

“Come, Nightmare,” Lozarrik said, climbing onto his shoulders, “it’s time we pay Terra a visit.” He smiled wickedly. “After all, I’m sure she’s been missing her dear eldest brother.”