The Gift of Volkeye (2 page)

Tears plummeted down each cheek as he cut off his daughter’s legs and then her arm.

A wave of nausea stole over him as he gazed upon his children’s severed limbs, which lay in a crimson pool amidst a steel container, adjacent his table. Being a doctor of sorts, who’d bore witness to many more gruesome sights than this, the man was slightly taken aback at his angst. Most of this, however, he attributed to never (before now) having to save the lives of his children. The experience was jarring for him.

Flustered at his obligation to give blood to Khyeryn, he’d misinterpreted Lyn Sha’s needs and drained far too much blood from her limbs, thereby making them useless. He would have to give her new ones.

Damn it to hell! I know it was
you…you’ll pay for this, mark my words!

It was clear that Khyeryn was mauled by something, because of the prominent bite marks where his arm had been. This was the first tragedy the man had faced in twelve years, and he was livid that this misery befell the children, his pride and joy. Infuriated by the necessity of his actions, he commenced with the operation.

While examining their x-rays, his head pained from the many questions racing about. Though he’d have no evidence to support his theories until his son woke, he couldn’t help but blame his sworn enemy. Intuitively knowing that he was responsible for this calamity, the enraged father continued the procedure without conscience. If he needed to bestow his children such lethal
gifts for them to protect themselves against the likes of this man, then…

“So be it!”

1

“No, Master.”

“You have no ideas at all?”

“None, Sire. By what means shall I create such an army? …Magyk?”

“I thought you were brilliant, fool! I’ve waited on you all this time, and what do I have from two decades worth of your work? Nothing!”

“Sorry to disappoint, Master—if you think you can do better…”

Wanting to throttle his underling for the cheeky attitude, the man’s unibrow arched at the ends.

“Tell me, why am I keeping you around if you can’t help me take vengeance?”

The little man-creature stopped and gazed at his master.

“Even if I had the tools to create this supposedly unstoppable army, how would we lead them to battle with someone who is rumoured to live in the empyrean…if he still exists?”

“I’m certain he does.”

“You’re sure he hasn’t died in all these years since he burglarized your mines, making a fool out of you?”

Phyllamon set a menacing gaze on Murlach, a genetic scientist and breeder of beasts, as well as a brilliant drug and poison maker. Irritated, he answered, “Yes, I’m positive…I won’t go through life without facing him again.
He will die by my hand, or I by his.”

Murlach ran his hand across his oversized cranium, a head that was so large it led many to wonder why he didn’t topple over. And he was short enough that the top (which held a small patch of sweaty brown hair) merely came to Phyllamon’s waist. Also, his skin was a dull colour, a value which was somewhere between tan and smoke gray.

Murlach shook his head in uncertainty and replied.

“Then perhaps you must wait for the Divine to lead you to him, Master, because I have no means to help you.”

Once again, Phyllamon sighed at this response. It had been thus for two decades, and although he’d gotten the same answer time after time, his blood churned with rage, nonetheless.

As Murlach pondered his master’s unreasonable optimism for always expecting his answer to be different, he stepped away from him, because Phyllamon was renowned for unleashing fits of anger without forethought. He had gotten worse over the years, and those who were close to him thought that the unfulfilled vendetta to avenge his father was driving him mad.

Growing up, Phyllamon had heard stories of the boy who slew his father. No one had intentionally relayed these tales to him, but he’d caught bits and pieces of the servants’ conversations. They were extravagant tellings of a
genius young man, who lived in a flying hut he’d built,
just big enough for him. Supposedly, this person beat his father to death, and it was the crowd of bystanders who spread the tale and made it legendary.

Once, as a boy, Phyllamon overheard handmaidens reveling with passion as they described the young man delivering the final blow to his father. He’d ordered them beheaded for this blasphemy. His father had been a god in his eyes! Unbeknownst to him,
Drakys Xyecah, his father, was the one of the most hated men in existence at the time.

It was rumoured that Drakys secretly murdered Phyllamon’s mother, because she threatened a divorce, infuriated by his infidelities. Unwilling to part with her fortune, because her inheritance quadrupled his already tremendous wealth, he poisoned her. Hence, Phyllamon was raised solely by his father and had been greatly attached to him. However, being incredibly young then, he knew nothing about the atrocities linked to Drakys, so he was unaware that his father’s murder had been in the making for some time. Were the culprit not the
genius boy, it surely would have been someone else.

Phyllamon had only been twelve when one of the servants burst into the chamber with news of Drakys’ murder. He’d longed for revenge ever since.

“Very well,” Phyllamon said, temporarily accepting the fact that Murlach’s intelligence was useless under the circumstances. He gazed down the empty corridor for some time, then his eyes widened with realization. Phyllamon turned to Murlach.

“We’ve been going about this improperly for years! Instead of trying to get to him directly, we can draw him out. The last we met, he swore that he would be watching my every move, and he obviously has. The ransacking of my mines, years ago, is proof!” Phyllamon began pacing. “If we terrorize the outside world, he will show his face…I know it.”

Murlach nodded in agreement.

“We’ll give this task to
Zu, I think,” Phyllamon said.

“I disagree, Sire. Zu is too smart for such light work. He’ll be more useful when…”

Murlach trailed off, having no words to describe his greatest desire. Though he was always blasé with Phyllamon when giving his opinion on the matter, he was actually obsessed with gaining the knowledge to create this army. To achieve it would make him a god amongst intellectuals! Sighing, he shook his head, thinking it impossible. Though it was not in his nature to believe rumours, Murlach thought if there was one soul in existence with the type of knowledge he wished to acquire, it was Phyllamon’s long-sought enemy.

Him and him alone.

From eavesdropping on the other servants and combining the details he’d gathered over the years from the outside world, Murlach had complied quite a bit of information of this man and his uncanny intellectual prowess. This many people of the same mind couldn’t be wrong, so the story about Phyllamon meeting him face-to-face, twenty years ago, had to be true. Though most intellectuals only placed their faith in things they could see, this was not the issue for Murlach.
He was mostly concerned with the impossibility of finding someone that lived in the heavens, whose whereabouts were probably as random as wave patterns in the ocean, if not more so! And if (by some miracle) they ever did find him, then would come the task of Murlach stealing the information he needed to create Phyllamon’s army and using it against this mysterious foe.

…And that’s counting that we don’t catch our deaths during the assault on this man! It’s absurd, all of it…this plan has far too many unknowns. We’ll die, never having gotten any closer to our goal!
Murlach thought, chastising himself. He met Phyllamon’s eyes once more.

“…As I was saying, we only have a handful of competent infantry as it is, Master. This job could be accomplished by the simplest of my creatures. Let’s do things as usual and just use them until we really need Zu.”

“You’re right,” Phyllamon said. “Perhaps Vlajdimir will be a great help in these matters as well. He could use his authority and bully some clues out of people in the Trio.”

“That is if he takes it seriously this time, Master. Last I checked, however, Vlajdimir still didn’t believe
he existed. You can’t expect him to make any headway if he doesn’t have an open mind.”

“True,” he nodded, frowning, his bloodshot eyes half closed.

Murlach noticed how exhausted Phyllamon looked.

“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Are you still having the nightmares, Master?”

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Though it was twenty years past, Phyllamon was still having nightmares about the day his enemy spared his life. However, this merciful act did not pardon the man from murdering his father, but only caused Phyllamon to loathe him further. (There’d been a
creature involved on that day, and it was the reason Phyllamon kept waking himself, his cries echoing throughout the castle in the middle of the night. He mostly endured the dreams under spells of incredible stress when he let his need for revenge get the better of him.)

He and Murlach began walking again, unaware that they were being watched.

The eavesdroppers crouched at a nearby stairwell, gazing at their overlords—one, a muscular dwarf-type, who looked somewhere between human and creature. The other was a self-proclaimed ruler of mankind—an anorexic, nearly seven-foot tree stalk with a bushy unibrow that had an assortment of fine, black and silver hairs. His neck was long like that of a strange animal, as was his body—tall and thin enough for him to be mistaken as a tree branch. However, he was very powerful despite his frailty.

Phyllamon and Murlach often took these walks around the castle to discuss all manners of wanton violence, and, despite the danger involved, the servants followed them. They aimed to get a hint of whether or not their masters were close to finding
him
...he that was their only hope of escaping enslavement.

They sat on the steps with their ears desperately reaching for every word uttered. They didn’t catch them all, but they had enough and now meant to sneak away. Unfortunately, one of them was clumsy and tripped over his feet, tumbling on the cracked and wobbly steps. He now lay there, aching.

As his comrade crept away undetected, Phyllamon grabbed this one up by the hair and cuffed his face.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what, Master? I only meant to…I was just…finishing up the steps, Sire!”

“You lie!” Phyllamon said, knowing that if he was doing chores, there would have been a broom and dustpan nearby. “You like spying, do you? What did you hear? Perhaps you can give us some useful information…tales of
him have circulated throughout this castle for over thirty years, ever since my father died. You know who I speak of, I’m not stupid!”

Phyllamon threw his servant to the floor. The man’s elbow cracked when it hit the stone, and he squealed in pain, trying to crawl away. Phyllamon put a boot in his chest, and the servant now lay coughing as he got his wind back.

“So?”

“Master…I swear…I was only inspecting the steps for dust balls and such!”

“Oh, really!”

Phyllamon placed his foot on the man’s neck, reveling with passion as the man’s eyes bulged and became red at the edges. Next, his trachea and other surrounding bones caved in, and soon the servant’s body went limp.

Again, Murlach stepped away from Phyllamon, not wanting to be the next one grabbed during his temper tantrum. Phyllamon’s voice projected throughout the halls of the castle in a furious rage, chest heaving and spittle flying from his mouth.

“I tire of your ridiculous allegiance to a man who can help NONE of you! You think
him your saviour, eh? NEVER! You will die in servitude to me, the whole rotten lot of you! And if you wish for the bastard to walk into my castle and free you from my grasp, you’re sadly unrealistic! FOOLS!”

Phyllamon glared at the open air before him, trying to come up with something to add to his rant, then…

“From this point forward, if I hear his name or even think that you’re talking about him, I’ll sick the Karnovs on you! The very thought of him is barred from this castle!”

(Although he didn’t interject at this last bit, Murlach couldn’t help rolling his eyes at Phyllamon’s overwhelming hypocrisy.)

Nostrils flaring, Phyllamon paced, hands tearing at the air with his knuckles cracking all the while. It was quite some time before he noticed Murlach shaking his head with impatience.

“I understand your anger, Master, but may I inquire about the point of that little episode? What did you accomplish? Nothing. It’s only natural for them to be protective—
he gives them hope. Enough hope can make men endure unimaginable evils, so you must know that your underlings would die before giving this man up.”

Murlach paused, hoping that his advice was sinking in.

“The point is, Sire, they will remain loyal to him regardless, so it’s absurd to continue killing those who cook and clean for you! Each time you have one of those foolish episodes, you burden yourself with that servant’s tasks when there are other things you need to focus on!”

Highly irritated, Murlach began treading the steps to the deep of the castle, leaving the master to his rage. Meanwhile, Phyllamon tromped on the corpse once more, furious at Murlach’s wisdom.

He was
always right!

Someone who’s so often right about
everything shouldn’t be such a bloody disappointment when it comes to assisting my pursuit! After all, he’s the brain between us, and if he can’t do it—

Phyllamon stormed down the hallway, leaving the corpse behind to be defiled by the vermin slithering about the dark corners of the castle. His anger abated slightly, as he dismissed thoughts of his traitorous servants and further contemplated ideas to draw out his enemy. These plans that would greatly accelerate the next day upon his son crawling into the castle, bleeding.

2

Murlach made it to the dungeon, dragging a very heavy bag that left a trail of slick, viscous blood behind. He’d stopped off at the kitchen, which housed a storage room filled with thick cuts of meaty flesh, mostly human parts from castle slaves who were no longer useful (the remains of the peon in the hallway would soon be added). This was a treat to coax his creatures into doing a slightly better job than usual with the assignment he was to give them.

Though he was an excellent breeder, Murlach hadn’t had much luck with creating great thinkers. In fact, some of the beasts were downright stupid! If this were not the case, they were either too big and bulky to ever be let out of their cells in the dungeon, or so vicious that they knew naught but how to kill. The really troublesome ones were a combination of both.