The Lore of the Evermen (Evermen Saga, #4)
James Maxwell
PROLOGUE
Gorain, pirate king of Nexos, steeled himself to kill his wife and only son.
Looking down from the battlements of his once proud island fortress, Gorain gauged how far he would need to throw them to ensure they struck water. The pounding of the surf on the rocks below combined with the thudding booms of the enemy’s battering ram as it crashed against the last of his keep’s inner gates. His heart sounded louder still, blood throbbing in his temples, swamping his senses.
Gorain ran a hand over his face and scanned the walled space at his keep’s summit. A single soldier was on his knees, with eyes closed and palms pressed together in supplication. Gorain’s wife, Sedah, stood nearby, with their son clutching her skirts and her eyes wide with terror. Below the fortress, clouds of smoke rolled up from the village. The island was tiny, and dominated entirely by the harbor, fort, and small town at the fort’s base. Nexos had fallen. Gorain had tried, but nothing could defeat this foe.
Gorain crouched and held out his arms. His son ran forward, and Gorain clutched the terror-stricken boy to his breast. “Don’t be afraid, Arsan,” he whispered. His son shuddered in his arms. “This will all be over soon.”
As he listened to the growls and snarls heard between the strikes of the battering ram, the cries of warriors brought back from the afterlife only served to strengthen Gorain’s determination. They had come from Veldria, and they had crushed Gorain’s island fortress of Nexos in a matter of hours. He’d had no warning; his scout ships never returned to raise the alarm. A sudden armada came over the horizon, undead men and women poured from their ships, and in moments the enemy seized his harbor and his fifty docked vessels. Gorain had learned their nature in the frenzied fighting and had even managed to destroy a few of the undead warriors himself. But the outcome of the battle for Nexos was never in dispute. Gorain and the last of his men had retreated to the summit of his fortress, guarded by one final set of sturdy gates.
Gorain felt his beloved son’s tears as he held him close, and he wondered if he had the courage to do what must be done. There was no other option. If he couldn’t save their lives, he had to save their souls.
He would cast his wife and son into the sea, before throwing himself off the battlements.
Gorain was an educated man, a minor noble who’d carved out his own kingdom, and though the Veldrins called him a pirate, Gorain was a wise leader. He could see that many of the undead were once ordinary people from Veldria, Gokan, and lands further north. Gorain would do anything to avoid those he loved experiencing this same fate, to become animated corpses, a fate far worse than death. He would throw them into the sea, their bodies would drift away with the tide, and Gorain would join them in the afterlife.
Looking over his son’s shoulder, Gorain met his wife’s eyes. “Sedah, come closer.”
As Sedah stepped forward, Gorain thought about his wife. She looked as beautiful as the day they were married, and they’d shared over a decade of happy years. Her blonde hair still glowed with health, and her brown eyes never failed to melt Gorain’s soul. Gorain felt such a squeezing on his heart that he thought it would burst in his chest.
Gorain wished he had poison, and time for a poison to do its work, but only moments remained until the last of the inner gates broke. Falling until they struck the sea would fill his wife and son’s final moments with terror. No, the blade was better. Gorain was an experienced warrior, and he knew how to make a death as quick and painless as possible.
When Sedah was behind his small son and starting to crouch with arms wide to share the embrace, Gorain lunged forward, swift as a snake, even as he continued to clutch his son close to his chest. He slipped the dagger in between Sedah’s ribs and pulled it out in one precise movement. The knife found its mark, and as the blade exited Sedah’s heart, the life left her eyes. Gorain’s wife fell down to the ground, finally sprawling out on her back.
Gorain continued to hold his son even as the dagger in his right hand trembled. Arsan tried to turn, but Gorain held him fast. With his left hand he stroked his son’s soft pale hair before bringing his hand down to the base of his son’s neck and further. Gorain made soothing sounds as he followed the contours of his son’s back, finding the right place to plunge the knife in between the shoulders and ensure the boy had as quick a death as his mother.