Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


38


Veldaren was sleeping when Jacob returned to it. He had not seen the city in seventeen years and was amazed to see how much it had grown in his absence. Though the outskirts were still underdeveloped, the central area, miles wide and crisscrossed with cobbled streets, was a veritable jungle of gray stone and stained wood. Merchant buildings rose up all around him, and candles burned in the windows of the various homes, their dancing flames doing their best to chase away the nightmares of those who slept inside.

The journey back from the delta had taken more than two weeks, for Jacob had convinced Karak that it would be best to accompany the remaining army instead of opening a portal and taking the easier route—though in truth he questioned whether the god was strong enough to ride the shadows even if he desired it. To keep spirits high, had been his reasoning. To show them their god is by their side through thick and thin. Jacob had walked for most of the voyage, his preferred method of travel, spending time mingling with the fighting men, both healthy and injured, listening to their stories, their fears, their sorrows over the loss of their fellow soldiers. He did his best to further the idea that the attack on the delta had been justified, promising that their selfless service to their god would be rewarded in both this world and the next. Most of the soldiers had never laid eyes on him before, but most had heard stories of the fabled First Man, the only human crafted by the hands of the two gods combined, and after witnessing the esteem with which Karak treated him, they accepted his words as if they had been uttered by the deity himself.

For long stretches he walked alone, mulling over events now past. Twenty years of preparation had come screaming together over the past three months. The speed of it had nearly overwhelmed even him, and in spite of all his care, not everything had gone according to plan. Even with his excellent mind, he could barely remember the first time he had contacted Clovis Crestwell under the shadowy guise of the Whisperer, filling his mind with visions of a united Dezrel with Clovis its king. Jacob’s first failure had been letting Martin die in the initial attack, a simple oversight that had rattled his plans. Martin Harrow and Geris Felhorn were to have been his clandestine spies in the west after he rejoined his true Lord, strong boys malleable enough to bend to his subconscious urgings, who would eventually step down to allow the pathetic Benjamin Maryll to take the mantle of King of Paradise. But Jacob was hardly slave to a plan, and Geris’s mind had been easily broken once he’d discovered the right method of attack. Although it frustrated him to lose Geris as a spy, at least the weakest of the three kinglings had assumed the throne, for the weak were predictable and easily manipulated. Just as frustrating was his inability to dispose of Patrick DuTaureau, even though he had poisoned the freak day after day in Lerder. He had misjudged the hunchback’s strength, both then and when he’d altered his scheme once more to try to lessen the morale of those who wished to oppose the true god of the land. He would not do so again.

Despite those catastrophes, he forced himself to smile, to take pride in all that had gone right. The downfall of the Lord Commander had been inspired, set into motion by a promise he had made to Broward Renson that the old man would earn a place of high esteem by Karak’s side if he facilitated the ruin of Vulfram’s daughter. He was also able to rid Neldar of its greatest threat: Crian Crestwell. The boy had strayed too far from his father’s ideals and might have one day overthrown all that Jacob had set into motion. His love for the DuTaureau girl was a dangerous, flawed example that the two gods could coexist peacefully. It was Jacob’s hand that had performed the murders; he had stepped through the dragonglass mirror while Roland slept outside the cave. The worst had been hauling the drunken, unconscious Vulfram up the stairs. The man weighed a ton. But at least one of the First Families had been broken. They were irrelevant now, unnecessary remnants of the early period of man, no different from the Wardens of the east, who had been cast aside long ago. Jacob had a far better plan for how to instill order in the populace.

The First Families.…

“Damn you, Clovis,” Jacob whispered as he walked through the streets of Veldaren. The man had acted beyond his orders, sending his mad son into the Tinderlands to stir up trouble in a doomed grab for power. Jacob never should have been there, but he’d gone anyway, needing to ensure that nothing disturbed his carefully set plans. And because of that, because of their involvement.…

Jacob fingered the crystal in his pocket, the gift from his dead love. He’d been so close to giving it all up. Everything he’d done, every measured step to bring about the great future humankind deserved; he would have tossed it all away if it would have brought Brienna back to him. Ashhur had called him a hypocrite, and he’d been right. He had been overwhelmed by sorrow, and if the god had managed to bring life back from death, Jacob had been prepared to forsake everything he’d been working toward. But no. No life. Instead, Ashhur had caved to his demands and brought him back a corpse. And then, as if to mock him, Ashhur had scattered her body as ashes, denying him the chance to say good-bye, the chance to bury her with his own hands and place a stone above her final resting place. Her remains floated on the wind, and with them floated every last doubt Jacob had in betraying Ashhur.

Everything else had come together so perfectly: the death of Bessus Gorgoros, and the elves’ isolation of Ker; the coercing of Deacon Coldmine, through Clovis, to place the innocents in the temple, leading to the temple’s destruction and Ashhur’s fit of rage; the brother gods coming to blows, which had proven that they could not defeat each other in single combat. Despite his losses, Jacob had still won.

And no matter what the cost, there were still secrets to learn, a hidden power over death that he was certain Ashhur had knowingly denied him. Time and space could still bend to his will, for he walked at the side of a god. Perhaps, just perhaps, Brienna might return to his arms.…

They came on the hub at the southern end of the city, and Jacob, Karak, and Clovis separated from the rest of their convoy, curling northeast around the fountain upon which stood a giant statue of the deity. Jacob could tell by the look on Clovis’s face that the man did not understand why they were heading away from the Castle of the Lion, but he kept his protests silent. Instead he stared at Jacob as if he were a strange creature from a different dimension. The revelation that the First Man had been his secret Whisperer had changed him, and his usual arrogance was slowly ebbing away, leaving behind a desperate sycophant. The constant adoring looks and unrelenting questions were beginning to wear on Jacob, and he longed for a return to the quiet and tranquility he had been awarded during their walk. He realized right then why he had secretly given the man the dragonglass pendant in the first place, why he had spoken to him in dreams and whispers rather than approaching him outright.


The Tower Keep came into view, its abominable, fist-like apex catching the light of the stars above in its many windows. Jacob felt a surge of pride; this edifice, despite its ugliness, had been his design. He had chosen its structure and location with exactitude. It was a shame that Karak had decided the ruling class of Neldar required a more lavish assembly, ceasing construction on the Tower Keep after only the residential tower and throne room had been completed. That had been enough, however, for the throne room was the only room of importance in any building in all of Veldaren. It was also where the next step of Jacob’s plan would take place.

Captain Malcolm Gregorian met them outside the front entrance of the Keep. Jacob had never laid eyes on the man before, though his survival of the Final Judges had made him a legendary figure. He certainly looked the part, what with the ugly scar that marred his face and his stalwart posture. He looked like a man who would do anything, could do anything, in the name of his god—the type of man who would prove quite useful in the times ahead.

Gregorian held open the massive door and then kneeled to Karak, his head bowed low.

“My Lord,” he said. “I humbly welcome you home.”

Karak said not a word but ducked through the entryway and disappeared inside. The Captain looked up, nodding at Clovis as the Highest limped on by. His gaze settled on Jacob, and the man’s eyes widened as he slowly rose to his feet.

“Jacob Eveningstar,” he said, extending his hand. “It is an honor. I have heard much of you.”

“And I, you,” Jacob replied. “Is everything in order?”

Gregorian nodded. “I received your letter two days past. There was much clutter, and I had to clear it away to make the room as you requested.”

“Excellent. You’re a good man, Malcolm. I’m sure Karak will reward you greatly for the duty you provide.”

“He has rewarded me enough already,” he replied, his eyes hard, his head dipped low. “I require nothing else but the glory of his blessing.”

“That, you will receive, my brother in faith. That, you will receive.”

Jacob walked through the doors and entered the wide antechamber. Gregorian moved past him, heading for the stairs that led to the tower’s upper levels. Jacob gave his arm a gentle squeeze and then strolled across the empty space, heading for the room at the far end of the structure.

There Karak and Clovis awaited him. The space was rectangular and enormous, stretching two hundred feet in either direction beneath a ceiling that stood four stories high. Various statues of Karak had been shoved along the walls, some finished, some not. Jacob marveled at the sight of them all: life-sized, exact likenesses of the eastern deity, carved out of sandstone, onyx, topaz, ivory, and marble, pounded out of great metal sheets, pressed out of clay. The attention to detail was astounding, and if he were not so angry that this sacred room had been reduced to an artist’s studio, he would have called Ibis Mori down right then and there to congratulate him on his accomplishments.

Jacob walked through the center of the room, past the haunted, leering eyes of Karak’s many lifeless copies, and came to a stop before the slightly raised platform upon which the king’s throne should have sat. He stared at the massive portrait on the wall, which depicted Ashhur, Karak, and Celestia together, and then walked up and removed it. He placed it far away, where it would not be damaged by the coming events, and then turned to face his god.

“We are ready,” he said.

“Are you certain you are adequately prepared?” asked Karak.

“I am. This is a delicate procedure, however, one that requires certain elements that I am currently lacking. My steward Roland was to act as my apprentice in this regard, but I misjudged his strength. Now I require a new one, unfortunately.”

He glared at Clovis. The silver-haired man, Highest of Karak, fell back, a hand on his chest.

“What is it?” he asked, his usually patronizing tone starting to crack.

Jacob stepped up to him, grabbing him by the collar of his black tunic. He pulled Clovis close to him, under the gaze of their god, loving the way the Highest’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

“You stupid, arrogant whelp,” Jacob growled. “Your ego got the better of you. Does Karak even know that you sent your insane son to try to raise the demons himself? I thought not. Do you know what your actions wrought?”

Clovis shook his head, his body quavering. Jacob turned, addressing his god.

“Uther kidnapped commoners from Drake to use in the ritual of resurrection. He caused a panic in the town, and do you know what they have now? A whole legion of spellcasters who are learning the craft to defend themselves, and from a powerful caster at that.” He turned back to Clovis. “Do you know the problems that has caused our Lord? Do you know the potential hazards your forces will face, now that your enemies are learning to hurtle fire, earth, and ice with their bare hands? You’ve killed thousands with your eagerness, Clovis, for these people will not to be easily conquered. Your son, you miserable wretch—your son killed my love and trapped me in the mountains. That you live at all is only out of Karak’s mercy.”

“But…but…I did not know you were the Whisperer!” shouted Clovis in reply.

“So much you didn’t know,” Jacob said, releasing the man and letting him stumble backward. “Yet that never once stopped you. Because of your actions, you have sealed your fate. You are to assist me in the ritual. You are to take Roland’s place.”

“You will,” Karak echoed.

Clovis dropped to a knee. “Anything, Jacob. Anything, my Lord. My body and mind are yours.”

“Of course,” Jacob said. He shouted, “Captain, bring in the blasphemers!” and turned his attention to the wall where the painting had sat.

A deep murmur echoed through the vast room as Gregorian entered, dragging Ibis, Adeline, and Ulric Mori behind him. The three were bound and wore tattered rags, their bodies worked over and displaying many bruises and cuts. Thessaly Crestwell was also present, the last member of the court who was not dead or dishonored.

Ibis and Ulric glared at Jacob, while Adeline cackled through the rag stuffed in her mouth. Captain Gregorian had informed Karak in a letter that father and son had stormed into the castle after learning of Soleh’s and Vulfram’s deaths, shouting curses against king, god, and realm. Ulric had even put his sword through a palace guard in his anger, before being restrained and thrown in the dungeon. Adeline was dragged there with them, having followed her family into the castle, cackling and throwing rotten eggs as she went. Jacob took this as welcome news; he had planned to use a few of the many men who had been wasting away in the dungeon for tributes. Having the three Moris instead was an unexpected bonus.

Ulric struggled against his restraints, then spit a wad of phlegm in the direction of his god. Karak glared back at him, his glowing eyes growing in brightness.

Jacob began pacing along the raised platform as the Captain dragged the captives toward him. Ignoring Adeline’s ranting, he removed his journal from his rucksack, set it atop a temporary podium that had been erected on the dais, and addressed Clovis once more.

“Despite everything, Highest, I must say that Uther’s missteps were not without benefit. I don’t know how he found out what he did, but he learned ancient words and phrases I had never heard of before, and I believe they may be the key to unlocking the demon kings from their prison.”


“The demons,” Karak said, a bit of life returning to his eyes. The whole journey back to Veldaren he’d appeared distracted, but it finally felt as if he was standing in the same room as them. “Are you certain I need their aid?”

“I watched your battle,” Jacob said. “There is a reason you left before either of you found victory: because you knew there would never be a victor. You are too evenly matched. We will need armies, magic, and power beyond measure if we are to tip the balance in your favor. And most important of all…Celestia has not made her presence known.” Jacob met his god’s eyes, saw the smoldering anger in them. “You know she loves Ashhur far more than you. We must have power, power so great that even the goddess will be forced to tremble.”

“And they will obey you?”

Jacob smiled, his confidence overflowing.

“They will have no choice in the matter.”

Karak nodded, and Jacob cleared his throat. He stared at the pages before him, line after line written in his own hand, chronicling the history of the world and the magic of the unknown. He looked up at Clovis.

“Your son attempted to raise these demons,” said Jacob. “But his errors were twofold. His first mistake was the location. The inscriptions on Neyvar Kardious’s tomb were written in the first Elven tongue. The loose translation was ‘the very spot where Celestia cast the demons out.’ However, I have come to learn that the old language contains many words that have developed double meanings over the centuries. Mu’tarch does indeed mean demon, though in a different context it can also mean ‘god.’ The most common translation for tragnar is ‘to cast out,’ though I have found that in the early texts it often means ‘to bring forth.’ That changes the entire phrase to ‘the very spot where Celestia brought the gods forth.’ That coincides with the words written on the Neyvar’s tomb: ‘In the place of eternal cold, where the rocks on the earth have been sewn shut and not a blade of grass will grow, where the eternal have wandered, where the air is thick with the musk of creation and dreams of darkness prevail.’”

Clovis gasped. Karak narrowed his eyes.

“That’s right. The place where Karak and Ashhur stepped into Dezrel is the area where the wall between the realities is thinnest. And where did that occur?”

He looked at Karak. The god dipped his head.

“Right beneath your feet,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Jacob. “Uther’s second mistake was one of ignorance. For him to think he held even a scrap of the power required to enslave one of the demons is laughable. No matter how many corpses he sacrificed, no matter how much blood he splattered, he was doomed to fail from the start.”

Pulling out a scrap of chalk, Jacob drew a triangle on the floor just behind the throne, inscribing runes he’d found in the darkest corners of the elven caves. When finished, he returned to the podium, grabbed his journal, and then offered his hand to Karak.

“I will need your power,” he said. “Are you willing to give it?”

Karak met his eye, pausing, deciding. “How can you be sure the demon will follow your bidding?” he asked.

“I am the greatest of your creations, my Lord. I have lived ten years longer than any human in Dezrel, and have learned much. You aided by instilling in me the knowledge of ages when I was created. I know what I must do; I know how to control the beast. You must believe that.”

“I do, as much as I believe my brother will never surrender to me, and his resistance will devastate this land. You may have what you ask for.”

The god’s hand engulfed his own.

Jacob took in a deep breath, feeling his nervousness and excitement start to overwhelm him. Fingers caressing his journal, he began to speak, uttering words foreign to him, whose pronunciations he had no way of knowing. Nonetheless they rolled off his tongue so fluently, it was as if someone else were controlling his functions. He felt the deity’s power roar through him, the fabric of creation contained within a malleable physical shell. It filled his mind with a swirl of brilliant light and the deepest darkness. He threw his head back, now virtually screaming out the words, and then it happened.

From the runes shone columns of light that swirled with every color imaginable, both named and not. The shafts of light rose to the ceiling, then slowly shifted, coming together in the center. There they mixed and eddied, creating a pulsing sphere so very much like the one Uther had brought forth in the ravine. The spinning colors expanded, the sphere growing larger, until a black circle formed at its center. The blackness grew, and within it Jacob could see luminous balls of gas, the stars from distant worlds. He stepped away from his podium, released Karak’s hand, and approached the churning sphere, continuing his chanting despite not having his journal to guide him. He felt the heat coming off the thing, felt the pull of divine gravity the closer he drew to it, until it seemed his every particle would be ripped apart, every piece of him disassembled.

The scream grew deep in his breast, a command infused with the power of a god that would not be denied.

“COME FORTH, VELIXAR, BEAST OF A THOUSAND FACES!”

From within the portal stepped a formless mass. It swelled and retracted, belching out a green-yellow mist. The mass was translucent, there but not quite, and it began to take shape. What emerged was the form of a man made of clay, with burning red eyes. Tentacles writhed all around its body, as transparent as the rest of it, and Jacob saw that though the beast had a face, the rest of it was skeletal, as if it had been ravaged in a fire. Atop its head, a giant brain pulsed.

Jacob faced the thing that was there, but not. Its burning red eyes, the only aspect of it that had any substance, glared at him in hatred. Its face shifted with each passing second, becoming various nightmarish images of elves and humans and a hundred things Jacob had never once laid his eyes upon.

“We are the one and the many,” the beast said, sounding like a dozen voices speaking at once. “Who disturbs us?”

Jacob did not cower before its anger, did not wilt before its furious eyes.

“So long,” he whispered as mad winds swirled about the room and Clovis sobbed in terror. “I have waited so very long for this moment.”

Jacob stepped into the void of the beast’s incorporeal from. Its essence swirled about him, engulfed him.

“What is this?” the beast cried, pulsing, constricting, trying to squeeze every bit of life from Jacob’s body.

Words of magic came forth from his mouth, and Jacob breathed in deep. He felt the core of the beast fill him, and though it struggled, the power he had received from his god was enough to overcome the ancient demon’s strength. The creature’s energy infused him, and long-forgotten spells flooded into his memory. In an instant he lived forever, witnessing the birthplace of the stars, the spawning of gods, the formation of the very fabric of existence itself.

And then he saw something else, something wonderful that made him laugh and laugh…and the beast shrieked, its sentience dangling by a thin umbilical thread. Jacob clenched it tightly in his otherworldly fist, severing the thread, and the Beast of a Thousand Faces drifted off into the blackness of space, its screams fading as it descended to join its long-deceased brother Sluggoth in the timeless void.

Jacob snapped back into his body and collapsed. The energy he had swallowed, the same energy that had opened up avenues to forgotten magics, impelled him to stand. The portal still throbbed before him, its blackened center opening all the wider as it awaited the coming of another traveler. In the background, the captive Moris screamed in protest.


Jacob turned, pointed at Clovis, and beckoned him over with one finger. Karak shoved the man, who was as pale as the snow atop a mountain, and the Highest landed hard at Jacob’s feet. He glanced up, and the look he gave Jacob was one of pure horror. Had he not just drank his fill, had the wonders of eternity not been filling him in that moment, Jacob might have wondered why.

Instead he reached down, grasped Clovis by the shoulders, and lifted him to his feet. He felt so strong, as though he could crush mountains in the palm of his hand. He thrust the screaming Highest toward the portal, just as another, much larger mass of billowing matter leaked out of the gateway. This being was just as transparent as the previous one, but it took shape much more quickly. It grew up, up, until it stood nearly thirty feet high. Huge, rounded shoulders formed, giving birth to scaly arms the size of the oldest trees in the Ghostwood, with paws that ended in curved, razor-sharp claws. Its body was massive, thick and wide on top with narrow hips, and short, stocky legs that were balanced out by a taloned tail. Its head was the last to appear, looking almost like that of a horse, only with a pair of giant tusks that ejected from the back corners of its jowls, curling forward around the front of its maw. The eyes were red and burning, just like those of the Beast of a Thousand Faces, and when it roared, making the air pulse with the pain of rebirth, a mad cackle filled Jacob’s throat.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The image of the beast began to waver as its mass was pulled back toward the swirling vortex. Jacob chanted louder, clutching Clovis’s arm so that he could not escape. Then he thrust the man front and center before the flickering beast, forcibly tilting his head back with one hand and prying his mouth open with the other.

“Accept this vessel!” he shouted. “Your physical form may be no more, but I offer another to you!”

He recited primeval verses he hadn’t known until moments before.

The monstrous, ghostly beast suddenly lost all structure, becoming a swirling tube of shadow that first crashed against the ceiling of the room, then careened downward. Lightning and gale-force winds rocked the interior of the room, making all inside hold on for dear life lest they be flung against the walls; only Jacob and Karak withstood its rage. The murky, twisting shaft plummeted into Clovis’s mouth, and his face throbbed as the force invaded his body in a revolting frenzy. Finally the last bit of shadow disappeared; the air grew still; the lightning ceased to flash; and the thunder rolled no more.

At long last, Jacob’s chants ceased. He collapsed to his hands and knees as the portal vanished, dissipating in a flash of white light that momentarily washed out all color. He remained as he had fallen, panting, still feeling the lingering effects of the power and acumen he had ripped from the demon before he crushed its conscience beneath his superior will.

“I am the child of two gods,” he gasped. “I am the oldest. I…am…victorious.”

Slowly, he once more became aware of the sights and sounds around him. The captives were screaming, struggling against the might of their lone jailor. Karak stood off to the side, leaning on a bronze statue of himself, looking mildly curious. Clovis lay motionless, half on and half off the raised platform, his head resting in the center of the triangle, the chalk lines burned into the floor as if drawn with molten rock.

Jacob swiveled his head and caught his reflection in a mirror the size of a divan that had been stowed against the far wall. He looked just as he ever did—all but for his eyes. The blue of his irises had been charred away, replaced by a deep crimson that shone as if a fire burned in the recesses of his skull.

Clovis moaned, rolling over onto his back. He sat up slowly, clutching at his stomach. The skin on his face rippled—as did his body beneath the tight black leathers he wore. The silver hair atop his head began to fall out in clumps. He started to screech, his jaw protruding outward as if something inside him were trying to escape.

Jacob faced Captain Gregorian, who was gawking at the scene with his jaw hanging open.

“Captain!” he shouted. “Now! The feast!”

It took a moment, but finally Gregorian got the message. He reached down and grabbed Ulrich and Ibis, dragging them behind him as they kicked and protested. Jacob rushed over, gathering up a laughing Adeline and searching for Thessaly to assist him. He didn’t have to look far. Unexpectedly, Clovis’s third-born had rushed to her father’s side; she was kneeling before him, putting her hands on each spot of his body that swelled with bone and muscle. There were tears in her eyes and in her father’s.

“You have been chosen,” Jacob said to her. “It is an honor.”

She glanced over at him as he yanked Adeline by her hair, and Thessaly sadly shook her head. She was about to say something, but she never got the chance, for suddenly her father was upon her, his mouth opening wider than humanly possible. His teeth had become daggers, and they tore into Thessaly’s face, ripping the flesh from her skull. Her only form of protest was a bloody gurgle. Her father opened his maw wider, taking her head, her shoulders, her entire upper body into him. His neck bulged as his daughter was pulled down his throat, and the rhythmic cadence of a thousand snapping bones filled the air. Ibis and Ulric shrieked and struggled, while Adeline guffawed, until Jacob gave the order. Captain Gregorian silenced all three with his sword, and their slit throats bled out onto the polished floor of the Tower Keep’s great hall.

Thessaly’s feet disappeared down her father’s gullet, and after a few more seconds of snapping bones and jaws, the thing that had been Clovis Crestwell pivoted around. His flesh still rippled, but it seemed more under control now, as if the beast within had been satiated.

“Who dares awaken the Darakken?” it hissed. A pair of eyes that burned the same shade of red as Jacob’s looked at each of the hall’s occupants, not stopping until they fell upon Karak. Those eyes opened wide then, and he fell to his knees, bowing before the deity.

“Master Kaurthulos,” said the beast in reverence. “I recognize you and will serve your will, so great is my gratitude for my freedom.”

“Not Kaurthulos,” the god responded. “Though I do remember you, as if from a dream. We are splintered now, Order and Justice, War and Love. I am Karak, and though you are right to serve, I am not the one you should thank. It is he, over there, who set you free.”

The beast lifted its head, gazing at Jacob from across the expanse.

“Fellow child of the mighty Kaurthulos, I thank you for releasing me,” Darakken said, bowing low. “Please, tell me your name, so I may call it out in reverence when I shear the flesh of our enemies.”

“His name is Jacob Eveningstar, First Man of Dezrel,” said Karak.

Jacob shook his head as the power of the beast he had devoured surged through him. He was no longer who he was. No, he was something greater. His mind exploded with knowledge that made his journal a pale mockery of wisdom. Everything he used to be was gone. He cast aside the last vestiges of his weakness, swearing to never again whisper the name Brienna. Standing to his full height, shadows and light playing off his fingers as if he could command the universe itself, he stared into the beast Darakken and let it know he was its master. A child of two gods, commander of demons, the first man of a fledgling world. The pathetic human name no longer fit him…it would no longer suffice. So he took another.


“Jacob Eveningstar no longer exists,” he said through clenched teeth. “Let me bear a name far more worthy.”

And as Darakken fed on the corpses before him, Velixar laughed and laughed.