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The girls’ squabble dies out as they move further and further away from our secret, lolanean blossom hideaway. I look at Natalie, a grin spread over my face that’s partially due to the absurdity of the girls’ constant bickering, and partially due to the fact that we were nearly caught making love in the bushes like a pair of youth.
Natalie’s eyes sparkle as she starts to giggle, unable to hold in her laughter now that the girls are far enough away to be out of earshot. Her laugh is infectious, and before I know it, we’re both doubled over in hysterics, gasping for breath between laughs, tears rolling down our faces.
I blink through the bleariness of the tears in my eyes to look at Natalie. Watching her laugh, her cheeks flushed, her whole face alive with joy, makes something set in place for me. I love her. I’ve known for a long time now that I love her, and that I want to be with her, but this moment is… different.
I would kill for her. I would die for her. I would do anything for her, anything she could ever want or need I will provide for her and the child growing in her belly. I want her to be happy like this forever – I want them both to be happy.
And I will do everything in my power to make sure their future burns bright.
92
VOLIKAN
The summons comes as a pleasant surprise.
Again? I think, wondering if the King has already exhausted the stores of his coveted humans and needs to gather more from the continent below. I consider bringing my twin swords with me, but think better of it. Last time, we had hours to prepare before the raid.
I still dream about the attack on occasion, crushing dark elves and humans underfoot indiscriminately. The reek of blood and shit.
I could not imagine a victory more complete.
Dressed as I am, in studded binmou leather, I follow the scowling trolvor to its master’s residence on foot. The royal estate looms above us, easily the tallest building in Ti’lith. There are others from the raid that I recognize, through the haze of slaughter. All volvath or soz’garoth, the ones who touched upon Protheka to inflict carnage upon its residents. We follow the same path, filing through the great doors in a loose crowd.
I nod to one battle hardened volvath with cracked horns and yellow eyes. He returns the nod and issues a blistering smile. Remember how we laid waste to the dark elves? His grin seems to ask.
I do.
Fondly.
A zonak that serves the royal family, emblazoned with the sigil of the god of war on his vestments greets us, standing as tall as his squat form allows. He doesn’t even reach my waist. “Brave warriors,” his scratchy voice calls as we stop just short of the throne room. “His Majesty humbly invites you to partake in the spoils of our victory on Protheka.”
Something inside of me writhes with pleasure. It’s not quite the gratification of slaughtering unsuspecting dark elves, which is a reward in and of itself, but there was only one thing we went down there to procure.
Women.
Human women that the elves were keeping all to themselves. What other spoils could we have obtained that the soz’garoth cannot already summon?
The doors are thrown open with a clatter.
King Asmodeus sits upon his throne just as I remember, faceless, ageless. An image that could be carved in the obsidian, and even in a hundred, hundred years, he would remain a perfect image of apathy, with one gauntleted hand resting on his knee, the other reaching into the void beneath his hood. Only those glowing eyes remain fixed on us as he shifts in his seat. “Finally,” he says, his deep voice resonating through the hall as we approach. “Bring them out.”
He's not speaking to us, but a host of trolvor who bow deeply before dragging out a train of human women in fine silk gowns that don’t suit their disheveled appearances. They are thin and malnourished, their eyes flitting between the King and our entourage.
Each one I could destroy with pleasure and pain.
The kennel master chose them well, and despite the trolvor’s handling of them, there is still fear in their scents as they are forced to stand in a line before us. My companions tense at the sight of them, a rumble in the yellow eyed demon’s throat as he drinks in their images.
Spoils, I think, panning over the crowd of women.
They are not matrons.
Matrons would spit and curse at the audacity of keeping them in such dismal conditions. But the humans don’t. Several weep into their hands, but when they dare make a sound, one of the trolvor reaches for his whip, and they go silent again.
Well heeled, too.
King Asmodeus’ voice tugs at my focus. “Thanks to the efforts of Giroth and Kha’zeth, we now know that humans are viable vessels for our seed. My intent is to create an army of demons to front the war coming to Protheka from the sky-” He pauses as we chuckle at the promise of bloodshed. “-and it is up to you, my strongest warriors, to be the wellspring of that army. I’m sure I do not need to instruct you on how to bed a female…”
Another chuckle goes around.
