Rosinanti: Rise of the Dragon Lord (Rosinanti Series Book 3) Read online

  Vahn winced in fear, not at his own impending death but at seeing the last vestige of the Ice Queen’s rebellion brutally murdered as the flames would eat upon his flesh. Should he cry out? Tell them to stand down? No. That would never do. It would expose their identities, and their deaths would only come faster. Vahn struggled against his bonds, cursing at his helplessness. Then, from on high, salvation was delivered.

  A flaming mass slammed into the ground before the execution stage with a deafening explosion, tossing the Skirlack soldiers and Champions into the air, their blazing, pulpy limbs flying independent of their decimated bodies. The crowd recoiled, the warriors of the rebellion along with them, turning and fleeing from the square in a panic. Vahn’s eyes bulged as the flaming conflagration expanded, engulfing the demons and Faithful followers who had managed to avoid the initial detonation. The impact had thrown Landon and the Skirlack and humans upon the stage off their feet. As they struggled on the floor, Vahn watched the flames part and saw a figure moving unfazed through them, slowly stalking toward the stage. Two red orbs marked the creature’s eyes, blazing in a fury that outmatched that of the wild inferno it had unleashed.

  The being was silhouetted against the blaze, but as it drew closer, Vahn could see some of its features. A floor-length, crimson coat fluttered about its legs as it moved. The outerwear sat over a pair of pants and a shirt blacker than the deepest midnight. The dark tone of the figure’s garments made his flesh appear pale and gaunt. He was thin but not frail. As Vahn’s gaze traveled over his unknown savior’s neck, he gasped with shock. He almost did not recognize the face of his son beneath the flaming beacons of red that narrowed as he bounded onto the stage with one leap.

  “Shogai!” a Champion screamed in abject terror. A collective gasp tore across the stage, and even the Skirlack demons backpedaled at Valentean’s unstoppable advance.

  “No!” Landon shrieked, his voice choked with an unmistakable mixture of disappointment, rage, and utter horror. “Stop him!”

  Landon had ordered his men to their deaths. There was no other way to interpret that order. But Vahn was surprised when three of the Champions immediately responded to Landon’s command, rushing at Valentean with weapons drawn. His son’s face was contorted with unbridled fury. As the first Champion to arrive swung a sword for Valentean’s neck, the animus warrior’s arm shot out with such mind-numbing speed Vahn couldn’t follow its path. A crunch and a scream accompanied the destruction of the Champion’s wrist, and his blade fell from limp fingers.

  Valentean’s hand shot out once more, outstretched fingers stabbing into the young Faithful’s throat, silencing his screams into a gurgled nothing. Valentean withdrew his now gore-soaked fingers and turned to meet the next attack. This Champion was larger and swung an axe horizontally, hoping to chop the Shogai in half like a tree. Valentean’s body bent back almost ninety degrees as the weapon passed harmlessly above his chest. He straightened and lashed out with a punch to the midsection that lifted the man off his feet. Valentean then slammed his fist into the back of the Champion’s head. His face exploded against the stage as he landed, and he moved no more.

  The final foolish soldier who sought to follow his commanding officer’s order rushed Valentean with sword held high above his head. Valentean caught his final foe’s face with one hand, and the Champion let the sword drop behind his back. Vahn could hear the young man screaming, begging Valentean for mercy. But Vahn had known that look in his son’s eyes, and there was no mercy left in his hardened heart. Valentean squeezed his hand closed, fingers tearing through the Champion’s skull as if his cranium had been a loaf of freshly baked bread.

  “No!” Landon screamed once more, seeing his chance for vengeance dashed along the shores of Valentean’s unmovable advance. He threw the torch at Vahn, and to the elite warrior’s horror, the flame landed amidst the kindling at his feet. The fire began to spread. Valentean’s ruby gaze snapped toward the growing blaze, and the Skirlack soldiers upon the stage charged him together, ten strong. As the first lick of flame stabbed painfully at the side of Vahn’s calf, Valentean gestured toward him with one hand. The fire that sought to chew through Vahn’s body jerked violently back, flying from the kindling and into the air where it separated into ten individual balls of red flame. Each of them struck an advancing Skirlack between the shoulder blades and erupted through their broad chests. The creatures fell dead, leaving Valentean, Vahn, and Landon as the only living souls in the hub.

  Valentean dashed forward, grabbing Landon roughly by the throat. The old man struggled briefly and fell to his knees before the mighty Shogai. Valentean glared into the face of the man who had, only moments ago, attempted to burn his father to death. Landon was down; he was beaten. They could take him alive, and he would answer for his crimes.

  “Valentean,” Vahn called out to his son. The red-eyed warrior’s head turned like a hawk sensing movement. Looking into the eyes of his father for the first time in months seemed to soften the blazing rage he had thus far displayed. The red glow subsided, and Vahn once more smiled in relief at the emerald eyes of his son. “We can take Landon alive.”

  “Landon?” Valentean asked, his gaze snapping back to the man whose life he held in the palm of his hand. “This is Landon?” Valentean had known the story of Vahn and Landon. It was one Vahn had often told his sons if only to ensure they never learned to revel in death the way this tarnished former elite had. Vahn nodded, and Valentean looked back to him. Vahn saw his son’s gaze drop to his chest and abdomen, visible beneath the remnants of his filthy and torn shirt. Valentean’s stare lingered on the scars and the burns. The permanent damage Landon had inflicted upon the flesh of his father. Vahn saw his son’s nostrils flare as breath washed through them with the force and severity of a charging bull. The red light of chaos returned to his stare, and Valentean’s head snapped back to the old man at his feet. “You…” he growled, low and dangerous.

  “Please…” Landon choked out, begging for his life.

  “Valentean,” Vahn said, pleading.

  But Vahn was not in control here. Valentean screamed in anger, the hand around Landon’s throat pulsating with red energy. Landon screamed for two seconds until his voice was silenced by an explosion that ripped its way out from his skull. The gooey, pulpy remnants of Landon’s flesh, brain, and hair erupted out, spraying Valentean and sloshing onto the floor. A few stray droplets of blood had been flung with such extreme velocity that they splashed against Vahn’s face as well.

  The body of Vahn’s greatest foe fell from the grip of his son and smacked roughly into the stage. Vahn watched in horror as Valentean regarded the corpse with a cold and indifferent fury. Seraphina had been right. He was lost.

  Valentean trotted up to his father, tearing away the ropes that bound his hands. His eyes had returned to a state of normalcy, and Vahn was relieved to see a familiar expression of innocent love and concern shining on his face.

  “Father, are you all right?”

  Vahn extended a shaking arm, taking the side of his boy’s face in one of his strong, weathered hands. “I am,” he replied. Momentarily pushing away the thought of his son brutally executing an unarmed prisoner, Vahn allowed himself a moment to simply enjoy Valentean’s presence. “My boy,” he said, emotion choking his voice. Valentean pulled him close into a tight, almost desperate embrace. Vahn felt his son’s lips kiss him on the side of the head and could feel the gentle streak of tears upon the side of his face. They stood like that for a moment longer, just holding one another and surrendering to the emotions of this reunion.

  “I thought I had lost you,” Valentean said, sounding once more like the four-year-old little boy who would clutch at Vahn desperately when he returned from military deployment. The elite warrior broke his embrace and pulled away, taking a step back to look his son over.

  “I’m safe now, son,” Vahn replied. “But we have to get to Seraphina. She’s still in the fortress with Aleksandra.”

  Valentean nodded
in grim agreement. “We will do this together like we were always meant to,” his son said, and Vahn felt renewed hope for the first time in months.

  Then, something struck the stage behind him, and an impossibly strong arm gripped Vahn around the throat with a strength so severe he could never hope to match it. Valentean gasped and reached a hesitant hand out. Vahn turned his head to see Kayden standing behind him, his eyes glowing with dark purple energy as he glared unblinking at Valentean.

  “Kayden, no!” Valentean screamed.

  “Follow,” Kayden hissed back, tightening his grip on Vahn’s throat and leaping with his father into the sky.

  Amidst the sound of their chaotic rise, Vahn could hear Valentean scream in rage as a red explosion of light flared to life below them.

  XXVI: The Mind of Madness

  The unique atmosphere of the Dreamscape had become familiar to Seraphina. But even so, the setting of Aleksandra’s mind felt alien and wrong as the white expanse of Kackritta’s throne room formed around her. She could feel the palpable humidity of chaos within the air.

  Seraphina stood at the rear of the chamber, gazing down with longing remembrance at the phantom of her mother’s center of government. She could hear a gentle wailing coming from the far end, beside the large, red thrones that marked her parents’ empty seats of power. As the Ice Queen continued down the familiar pathway, she found the source of those cries. It was a small, white bassinet over which a five-year-old, raven-haired little girl stood on tip toe, looking in at a screeching infant. Seraphina instantly recognized the child.

  “Aleksandra,” she said, folding her hands in front of her blue dress.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Seraphina,” the cherubic little girl responded, not taking her eyes away from the baby.

  “You know I have to be.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re trying to destroy the world.”

  The child giggled, placing a finger in front of her lips in such an innocent and jovial fashion. “That’s just silly, Seraphina. I’m trying to save the world, not destroy it.”

  “You’re killing people.”

  “Only weak people.” Aleksandra scoffed as though this were the most obvious answer in the world. “The weak only pull us all down with them. The Goddess’s flames make sure that they don’t dilute the bloodlines of future generations.”

  “Aleksandra.”

  “You sure were a noisy baby, Seraphina,” the child princess said, wrinkling her nose and looking down into the bassinet. “I used to think you were going to be my best friend. And despite all the noise you made, I loved you so much.”

  Seraphina looked down into the cradle. Her infant face contorted as she screamed and cried. Wet streaking tears cascaded down the infant’s chubby cheeks, which were red with the exertion of her tantrum.

  “Of course, had I known then what I know now…” The child trailed off, looking down at the baby princess utterly void of expression. “Well…” Aleksandra’s tiny eyes began to glow red, and the infant’s cries were cut off as fire exploded out from the bassinet, silencing the baby as it roasted alive. Seraphina gasped at the horrid illusion. Aleksandra watched the baby melt away and then turned her tiny burning gaze toward Seraphina. The flames that ate the infant into nothingness spread out from the bassinet to cover the entire throne room. Bits of ceiling and wall came apart, crashing to the floor as flaming chunks of hazard.

  Seraphina covered her face, trying to breathe through the smoke. The child who would grow to become an empress who sought to scorch the planet itself smiled at her.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Seraphina. You shouldn’t be alive.”

  “Damnation!” Mitchell cried out, throwing a series of levers that banked The Heart of Casid hard to port, barely missing a barrage of damned deadly, magical energy that scorched the vessel’s belly.

  “That was close,” Michael exclaimed, his hands deftly soaring over his side of the controls.

  “Let’s not get that close again,” Deana breathed, one hand clutched to her chest.

  “Well, it’s not like we’re doing it on purpose,” Michael answered, brow furrowed in concentration. As their ship opened fire on the broadside of an Aleksandryan vessel, rendering the once proud sky-faring boat into scraps, Michael spotted a smaller, faster ship approaching them from above.

  “Up,” he exclaimed, pointing at the incoming enemy. But try as the brothers might, they were unable to turn and meet the minuscule foe’s much faster speed.

  “No good. We can’t match it!” Mitchell retorted, and a loud clanging sounded against the upper deck.

  “It didn’t attack?” Deana asked, curiosity tilting her head.

  “Not with a weapon,” Mitchell replied, and Michael could see a nervous sweat filming along the inventor’s brow. Mitchell’s hands remained clutched upon the ship’s controls, but Michael had no doubt that had their present task not demanded such skill and concentration, Mitchell would be tugging nervously along the waistline of his shirt.

  Michael swallowed hard recalling how they had utilized a similar tactic to deposit Nevick amidst the enemy armada during the battle for Grassan.

  “Wait. You’re saying someone is on the ship then?” Deana asked, the edge of panic along her voice.

  “It’s a possibility,” Mitchell said, suddenly jerking the ship from side to side. Michael followed suit, giving complete control to his brother and his plan to try and shake loose whatever had been deposited amongst them.

  “Did that work?” Deana cried out as she gripped the armrests of the command chair for support.

  Mitchell gritted his teeth. “Damned if I know.”

  “Dreadnought approaching!” Michael exclaimed, pointing through the forward viewport.

  “I see it,” Mitchell responded. The brothers nimbly maneuvered The Heart of Casid into a firing position and breathed a sigh of relief as multicolored bursts of energy and explosions of cannon fire began to pelt the enemy flagship. The mighty vessel groaned and buckled from its course momentarily, and then the attacks assaulting it suddenly died.

  All fire from The Heart of Casid’s gunners and mages went silent, and Michael’s heart began to pound within his ears.

  “We’re sitting ducks,” he exclaimed in panic.

  “Get us out of here!” Deana screeched.

  “Aye!” Mitchell called out as the brothers became of one mind once more. Michael had never experienced a problem matching his brother in terms of thought. Their minds had always worked in perfect harmony. They simply functioned on vastly differing levels. Mitchell had always been the freethinker, the dreamer who could envision grandiose designs and technology none had ever believed could exist. Michael saw how things worked. He took his brother’s brilliant ideas and made them functional, built them to perfection, and beamed with pride at their completion.

  They were two halves of one genius whole. Neither was complete without the other, and Michael felt a tug of dread for his brother as The Heart of Casid attempted a hasty retreat. The dreadnought recovered, and Michael gasped as its gunnery doors slid open, and gleaming silver and black cannon nozzles burst out, pointed menacingly at their ship.

  He cursed loudly over Deana’s fearful scream as the giant ship let loose a volley that carved a swath through their hull and pushed the alabaster vessel off course.

  “That was a bad hit!” Mitchell cried out.

  “Obviously!” Michael retorted, rolling his eyes with dramatic flair. “But what happened to our gunners?” The ship lurched down, attempting to outrun and outmaneuver its massive foe before it had the opportunity to fire once more. The door on the starboard side of the bridge burst open. Mitchell, Michael, and Deana turned as one to stare in wide-eyed terror at the black-armored General Zouka, who eyed them hungrily.

  “Well, the last residents of Casid,” he spoke softly, “I do so hate to leave a job unfinished!”

  Deana was dumbfounded in terror as the mighty Gorram laid his orange sunburst eyes upon her. He
looked horrid. His face was burned and scarred almost beyond recognition. What little hair remained upon his cranium was thin and wispy. A dark scar in the shape of a hand print boiled the flesh on one side of his face. He looked as though he had been through a war. And Michael realized that must be what a battle with Valentean Burai felt like.

  “You,” he said, pointing a thick, armored finger at Deana, “I have use for.” The girl pushed herself as far back in the chair as she could muster, positively terrified. “The others are expendable.”

  “We will see about that!” Mitchell cried out defiantly, jerking the yolk to port, tossing the ship into a sideways dive. Zouka lurched forward as the floor went vertical, wrapping his impossibly strong hands around the banister that surrounded the command deck. From his belt, he drew a long, curved dagger while planting both feet against the side of the platform upon which Deana sat.

  The Gorram leapt, rocketing toward Mitchell’s chair. With a cry of fury, he plunged the blade through the back of the pilot’s seat, its sharpened point exploding out through the center of Mitchell’s chest, splintering spine and sternum as it carved its deadly path through the inventor. Michael and Deana screamed together as blood spurted from Mitchell’s splintered chest cavity, spraying the airship’s controls with the sticky red of his ebbing life. Zouka reached past Mitchell’s slumped body and shoved one of the many levers upon his console, and the ship righted itself. The general smiled with wicked glee and turned to stare at Deana once more.

  “Now, where were we?”

  “Mitchell!” Deana screamed, momentarily ignorant to the danger her own life was in as she reached a hand toward her fallen friend.

  Michael’s world stopped spinning as he watched his brother struggle around the intrusive instrument of death that had pierced him. Mitchell’s eyes were massive, staring at the ceiling, fighting to remain focused and conscious as he clung to life. His face was frozen in a moment of shock, and Michael reached for him, placing a hand upon his brother’s arm, helpless to do anything more than uselessly squeeze his bicep in the hope that a miracle would soon occur. But there would be no miracles. There would be no Nevick or Valentean to save them. Michael knew that it was up to him and him alone.