Page 38 of War Mage

Grazrath

The night’s depravities wind down, the orgy I hosted provided a glut of sex, blood, and pain. Naked bodies lay on the floor amidst the carnage, some alive, some not. The display did little to relieve my boredom, however. It is difficult to be satisfied when I cannot join in on the mayhem, but my cock doesn’t work right ever since that fucking Lady Pellia almost sliced it off with her dagger. Her death, when I get ahold of her and her orc, will not be swift. So, no, I cannot partake in sexual pleasures for long before my cock goes unwillingly soft. To keep face in front of the mortals I must only watch from a distance. It is frustrating because there is nothing I love more than the marriage of my own sexual pleasure with the exquisite agony of my partner. Watching other’s uninspired performances while feeding on the tepid pain and misery they cause is aggravating. When I finally get a magical slave to feed on, I will be able to heal my body completely and fix this defect.

As it is now sunrise, the vampires around me come down from the high of the bloodlust that the orgy entranced them in and slowly make their way out of the throne room back to their quarters to sleep. I will soon do the same. Normally, in my true body, I do not need to sleep. Being hosted in a mortal body, however, has its challenges. One is the need to sleep, though thank all that is unholy that I do not need to eat solid food, the blood of my slaves enough to sate that physical hunger.

Servants come in with carts to dispose of the dead bodies and my boredom is back. Already, I tire of the new, weak blood slaves that Malik scrounged up for me after I killed the last batch. Ineedsomeone special, someone unique. Someone with magic. I curse the Adrikians again that they must have hindered my last shipment from Vargan. It is already unbearable that I must rely on a mortal to supply me with what I need. To have negotiated the contract only to not have it even be fulfilled is an affront.

I get off the throne and stretch, my silk robes pulling across my chest. Time to go to my rooms. At least during the oblivion of mortal sleep I cannot feel this incessant boredom. But before I can leave, Malik enters the room, stepping gingerly over the remaining bodies on the floor.

“Malik,” I greet, my lips curling in disgust. The war effort is still not going well and every day that Queen Adalind still isn’t in my clutches is a day closer to the vampire prince finding himself chained in my slave stable. But he doesn’t know that.

“Good news, my lord,” Malik begins, with his characteristic bowing and scraping.

That piques my interest. “Good news? You have broken through the front and have advanced the battlelines?”

The vampire prince wilts a little under my words. “Erm, no, Your Demonic Majesty. No change at the front. But Magistrate Zadicus has sent word. He’s on his way and he is bringing an offering with him. A mage.”

Everything in me goes still. “A mage?” I ask, not bothering to hide my eagerness. “On their way here? Now?”

“Yes, they are only scant days away from Evernight,” Malik tells me, unaware of the weight of his news. “Apparently, Vargan the Honorless’ ship was not caught by the Adrkians but went down in a storm. But they were able to save one of the cargo, an air mage said to have potent magic.”

Shivers of pleasure run down my spine at the news. A mage, coming here. To be given to me as an offering. I cannot help but laugh. “Do you not know what this means, Malik? The war is as good as over!”

“My lord?” questions the prince, not understanding.

“When I finally get to feed on a mage of power, I will replenish the stores of my demonic energy. I will be able to summon dark magic unlike this world has seen since the God War! I will crush the forces keeping us at bay and swarm over Adrik and Orik. Then, when we have a sentient blood slave for every vampire in Barakrin, we will pour over Anar’i and black out the sun!”

“What joyous news,” Malik replies, bowing. “I look forward to seeing you at the peak of your abilities.”

“This Zadicus will be rewarded heavily,” I remark. “A duchy in Barakrin and a kingdom of his own once we have enslaved all of the continent.”

“It will be done,” Malik says, bowing again.

“Now get out, Malik,” I say carelessly. “And do not disturb me again unless you have favorable news from the front.”

“Of course, Our Lord of Pain and Misery,” the prince says, backing out of the room. “I will do my best to serve you.”

His sniveling is distasteful, but even having to interact with Malik doesn’t sour my mood. An air mage. Coming here. Perhaps the primordial powers, the ones that created gods and demons, are smiling upon me.

Now, all I must do is wait.

Chapter 16

Adara

Iwait fitfully for Urim to return, for a scream of pain, for something to tell me what is happening while he is gone, but all is unsettlingly quiet. I search the bond, but it’s eerily calm as well, his emotions never spiking. He’s gone for long enough and it’s silent enough that my exhausted mind eventually wanders and I begin to doze after a time, laying on the bench in the back of the wagon. I wake, though, when the wagon rocks heavily as something large is thrown inside the wagon bed. The wood of the wagon rocks and groans under the sudden force, jarring me to consciousness.

“Useless lump,” hisses an unfamiliar voice. “Making me carry you back to the wagon. Thought an orc would be stronger than that.”

My eyes fly open at the words and I abruptly sit up, seeing the guard chaining Urim by his ankle to the wagon. The orc is lying on his side, his breathing labored and eyes closed. His normally deep green skin looks ashen and a vicious bite mark is at his throat. What did the magistrate do to him? And why didn’t I feel it in the bond?

The lock at the end of the chain clicks as the guard finishes re-chaining the orc to me, the weight of the prone orc pulling at my ankle. Then the guard says, “There. Now I can finally go feed. Stupid bloodbag.”

The canvas flaps at the back of the wagon fall closed and Urim and I are alone. Tentatively I reach out and gingerly touch the orc’s shoulder.

“Ur—” I begin, before stopping myself and changing my words. “Vargan. Vargan, are you well?”

Urim makes no sound, just doing his labored breathing. He seems almost half-conscious, not quite there. Something seems wrong, like he’s in more pain than he should be from just being fed on. What did they do to him? I slip down off the wagon bench, my ankle pulling as the chain tautens, but I’m still able to kneel next to the orc, my hands dancing delicately over his form, checking him for more injuries. I find that the bite on his neck is only the first. There’s another bite on his right wrist and another on the other side of his neck. His black orcish blood is already coagulating, but the bites look vicious; far more vicious than necessary to drink blood. There are also long scratches down his shoulder and arms, like someone raked sharpened nails over his flesh. Then I pull at his shoulder to roll him onto his back and gasp as I see a brand the size of my fist burned into his chest. It is a magical rune that I recognize from my studies, one from the dark arts. It means “endless agony,” and I seem to recall that it has its roots in the worship of Grazrath, meant to worsen torture while keeping the subject from being able to die and escape their torment. I have never seen the effects before, but it seems to have trapped him in some sort of realm of pain.

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