The Blood of the Lion

  The Blood of the Lion

  The Vorelian Saga

  Copyright © 2022 C.D. McKenna

  Published by C.D. McKenna

  First Edition: March 2022

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022900042

  eISBN: 979-8-9855460-2-6

  979-8-9855460-1-9 (paperback)

  979-8-9855460-0-2 (hardcover)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or article.

  www.thevoreliansaga.com

  Cover Design by Cherie Foxley

  Map Illustrations by Eve’s Worldbuilding

  Interior Design and Formatting by Dragan Bilic

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For all those times I wrote with a dog on my lap.

  Those are priceless moments.

  Contents

  The Undead

  Born to Bleed

  A Walk with Fate

  Drügalism

  Secrets

  On the Run

  Queens and Myths

  A Talk of Gods

  No Son of Mine

  A Life Worth Living

  Sleeping with the Dead

  A Dark Ailment

  Trust Fall

  Tea and Prophecies

  A Violent Desire

  A Taste of Wicked Fate

  Soul Speaker

  A Court of Secrets

  Promises and Pastries

  Dweller of the Cave

  A Field of Blood

  An Unexpected Bond

  Gods and Power

  A Stranger and Friend

  A Bad Omen

  Dark Destiny

  Letters from the North

  Blood Festival

  Renounced

  A Fresh Start to an Old Tale

  A Purpose and a Sacrifice

  The Snake and Lion

  Fate Can Be Cruel

  They Know Not What They Do

  Sick Memories

  In a Heartbeat

  The Long Night

  Dragon Rider

  The Rightful King

  The Song of Sorrow

  A Wicked Sacrifice

  Death’s Sword

  Temptation

  Fate Has Chosen

  A Rocky Start

  Farewell

  Death at Midnight

  The Demon King

  Acknowledgment

  “If you keep telling someone they’re evil,

  sooner or later, they become evil.”

  Anonymous

  The Undead

  427 Summers Ago

  Drake deflected another blow, exhausted. His muscles shook, and sweat gleamed on his brow, coating the skin underneath his bashed and bloodied armor. Comrades fell before him, blood-soaked and covered in ashen mud where the falling soot had met water. A thick, metallic stench filled the air, and ash coated Drake’s lips.

  The city was on fire.

  Heart slamming against his chest, he turned to run but found himself facing the Death Seeker, his skin pale blue as if half-frozen, his eyes dipped in crimson. Drake dropped his gloved hand to the hilt of the Demon Killer protectively. He had to keep this relic safe. In the wrong hands, it could cost thousands of lives, if not millions.

  The Death Seeker tilted his head and smirked coldly. “You have something of mine.”

  Drake’s responsibilities, his promises, all of it flooded his mind in an instant. He had given his word to the king that he would transfer the Demon Killer safely into the hands of the Assane soldiers who waited for him outside their falling city. They had promised to keep it safe, to hide it from the claws of this monster.

  Red armor flashed to his left as more of their wretched undead men rushed into the city. His city. It had once been grand, an icon in the Diyrặllian country. Now it was in flames, crippled, and falling apart.

  Rage filled Drake and he lunged with his sword, bellowing a war cry with all the strength he could muster, but the Death Seeker pushed the sword aside with a flick of his own. Drake stumbled and tried to regain himself, but he was assailed with a series of blows. The Death Seeker’s handguard was crested with intricately woven steel to protect his gloved hand from the attempts to disarm him.

  Drake defended himself as best as he could, but he could feel his strength waning rapidly. The monster was toying with him. He grappled to find a gap where he could place a wounding blow, but alas, none came. The Death Seeker was far too skilled, and Drake was exhausted. He hadn’t rested since dawn, hours ago, and now it was catching up with him. His muscles shook in a last outcry as he deflected another blow.

  With a final flick, Drake’s sword flew away out of reach, leaving him weaponless. Somewhere behind him, a woman screamed. Ash coated his tongue when he inhaled sharply. His lungs begged for clean air.

  The Death Seeker looked upon Drake as if for the first time, his own sword covered in blood from the countless he had slain. His slick armor was blacker than midnight, devoid of any crest. He wore no helmet—perhaps he had decided it was useless against them, or perhaps he wanted everyone who fell before him to see his face. The Death Seeker’s short, jet-black hair was dusted with ash. It spilled down over his features, giving him a ghostly look.

  “You have fought well, soldier,” he complimented, voice smooth and calm.

  “What have you done with your soldiers?” Drake cried, gesturing at the calamity of red that swarmed around them. “They will not die!”

  “They’ve been given . . . abilities,” he answered, and jerked his blade closer, making Drake shy away. “The legends will speak of your heroic act, young man. The storytellers will sing your name for summers to come.”

  Drake shook his head, revolted. No story would be told of him or his people. They would only be known as a few of the many fallen to this massacre. “Why do you do this? Why taint your name and bloody your soul with these cruel acts?”

  The Death Seeker laughed, letting a wicked smile touch his lips. Fear clawed its way into Drake’s heart as he spoke. “My dear soldier, you know nothing of me and who I am. And you never will. Now—” He stretched his hand out with a gleam in his cold eyes. “The blade.”

  Desperate to delay him, Drake took another step back but felt his boot sink into mud and twist. He inhaled sharply, feeling the strain of his weight crack the ankle with a snap. Pain flooded his foot and he dropped to his knee, unable to bear his own weight. Realizing running was no longer possible, Drake kicked out with his good leg. The Death Seeker sidestepped him with ease, never shifting his bloody gaze.

  “The brave soldier,” the Death Seeker teased. “If only your king could see you now.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Drake gasped, shaking his head. Tears burned in his eyes, and he blinked them away. He had failed his king and everyone in his city.

  The Death Seeker knelt next to him, his breath hot against Drake’s skin. This close, Drake could practically taste the venom in his response. “I already have.”

  Drake lashed out, hoping to catch him by surprise, but the Death Seeker
lifted his hand and caught Drake’s fist without flinching. In an instant, bones cracked as the monster crushed his hand. Fiery pain rushed up Drake’s arm, and he screamed in agony.

  Crimson eyes paralyzed him in his spot. He took a sharp inhale, watching as the Death Seeker reached over for the Demon Killer. With a tug against Drake’s belt, the blade’s sheath was unclipped. Drake struggled against the weight of the gaze, feeling an icy sensation start in his limbs, wiggling through his chest and into his bones. He was paralyzed, unable to move from whatever magic the Death Seeker had called upon.

  Lip curling up, the Death Seeker spat, “Let me tell you this, brave soldier, I have walked this world between the dead and living far longer than you could imagine. I’ve watched empires rise and fall, watched fate twist and contort into something unrecognizable, and now I too shall watch this city fall.”

  Then he stood and raised his sword. The metal shimmered from the light of the flames in an otherworldly fashion, captivating Drake as he watched his life dance behind his eyes for the last time.

  The Death Seeker struck.

  Born to Bleed

  Present Day

  Morei had never forgotten what it was like to die.

  Death was cold. She had embraced him like a winter’s night touched with the chill of a slight breeze. Ever so gently, Death had caressed a finger down Morei’s cheek, trailing with her the last remnants of warmth—but with it, a sense of calm had come over him. The burning pain was cast aside as a numbness washed over him, prefacing the dark abyss that had followed.

  The night was still crystal clear in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to forget it. Morei had been foolish and gullible enough to befriend some men. He was a bit of an introvert and an only child, never getting along great with other children his age, especially the boys. They were all brutes and dimwitted, wrestling in the mud, while Morei spent the better half of his childhood with his nose in a book.

  There had been a festival that night, celebrating something Morei hadn’t cared enough to pay attention to. That lack of care was a bad habit for the heir to the Geral throne, but knowing every detail that went on in the kingdom wasn’t interesting to him. Not then, at least.

  They were all drinking in Wilk’s Pub, Morei and the three men he had befriended. Coltyn said they ought to try another pub in the area and that he knew a way to cut through the side streets without running into all the people crowding about. Drunk out of his mind, Morei didn’t think anything of it—not until they were all alone in an abandoned home way out of sight from the street.

  Morei should have left then. The deep feeling that something was wrong itched his skin and alerted his senses, clearing his head in a heartbeat. But he was slow to react, and Coltyn’s friends tackled him. When Morei tried to fight back, they tied his hands and feet with thick rope, and the next thing he knew, he was facing Coltyn, who held a curved blade in his hand.

  The dark ritual had required a blood sacrifice to summon up the demon from the underworld, but to ensure soul bondage, death was required of the host. Coltyn had slit his own forearms and smeared the blood over Morei. The thought repulsed him to this day. He could still remember how warm it was against his skin and the rich scent of metal as Coltyn and his friends began their chant in the Old Tongue of the Vorelians. At the height of their chant, Coltyn had sunk the curved blade into Morei’s chest with a maddened grin.

  Morei winced at the memory and lifted the glass of Kendell’s Milk to his lips. The agony of that night endured relentlessly in his thoughts. He took a large drink, hoping to rid himself of the ache that filled his chest. It was an ache he had dared hope would one day be gone, but it still crawled out of its cave buried deep within his heart.

  Deep down, he blamed himself for the death of his parents.

  When Morei had awakened the next day, alone in the abandoned home, he had found himself covered in dried blood. Next to him, Coltyn lay dead. Disoriented and afraid, Morei stumbled out of the home and ran to the palace, unaware that he looked like a wild animal to the people. But it hadn’t mattered.

  The images flashed violently behind his eyes and the king flinched.

  The blood was everywhere. It had been a violent death, without question. His mother had died reaching for his father, who must have been stabbed over a dozen times. Bloody footprints and handprints were everywhere, inked in red on the floors and walls. The devastation that ripped through his soul in that moment had been enough to bring him to his knees and rip the air from his lungs.

  Shaking his head of the memory, Morei drank the rest of Kendell’s Milk, choking down the intense wave of rage that swept through his body. Denial had been first to come, knocking on his door and helping him avoid the reality he had been thrust into, but it had been short-lived. His scream had alerted the guards, who dragged him out in a haste despite Morei pleading to go back.

  At the time, separated from the commotion buzzing around his parents’ murder, he hadn’t heard the rumor that began.

  The rumor that he had done it. That he had killed his own parents for the throne. He had no siblings and was the sole heir to the Geral throne. Morei Geral, traitor, murderer, monster—he had heard it all.

  People had asked questions that he couldn’t answer. Where had the blood on him come from? Why was he there? Questions that would have exposed the monster that now lived inside him. Morei had to lie and make himself look like a fool to persuade the council and staff members that he hadn’t been the one to drive a blade into the hearts of his parents. With all this commotion, Morei never had proper time to grieve, because once they had cleared him, he was placed as the new king of Geral.

  Three months . . . Three months of rumors since he had ascended the throne. And no matter how hard he tried to destroy their origins, another arose—stronger, darker, and more sinister than the last. The rumor that he was the prophesized Demon King—a legend older than time itself. A prophecy about destruction, chaos, and new beginnings. An old tale that gave life to the God of Darkness, Sekar, and bred fear into the hearts of the Vorelians.

  Stories. That was all they were, but Morei was chilled by them all. He was still himself, but the more time that passed, the more Morei wondered if he was destined to become the villain everyone gossiped him to be. Not because he didn’t want to, but because sometimes destiny was cruel. A man destined to fulfill a prophecy, a fate—but he always scolded himself for thinking this. There was nothing to do but keep his chin up and his head high, for his father had not raised him to be a coward.

  And now, it would seem that was more important than ever before.

  Morei lowered his gaze from the sandstone walls that surrounded him in his study to the weathered letter before him. Slowly, he took a deep breath to steady himself, but his thoughts raged like a desert storm.

  Strange things were occurring in the country. Rumors of possessions, dark ailments, and dead crops, and glimpses of weird creatures along The Dark Forest to the east, behind Ferguson, were spreading like wildfire. Frightened whispers of the demons running rampant in the land had also met the king’s ears, but he had cast them aside quickly for the citizens of Geral. People were easily afraid, and frankly, Morei was too. He had a duty to uphold, and that was to protect the people of Geral—but how could he do that when he didn’t know what he was fighting? The thought left him sleepless on many nights, and it was starting to drag him down.

  Over three months ago, word had reached his ear of a Dragon Rider. At first, Morei had laughed it off. A Dragon Rider hadn’t been spotted in nye eight centuries, with the last one falling during the Great War. The idea seemed so preposterous that Morei didn’t believe it until one of his soldiers came running toward him, throwing his hands up wildly and squealing like a little child. The soldier exclaimed that he had seen the man they were calling Silver Eyes along the banks of the Sorréleian River east of here. The certainty in the soldier’s eyes had crushed eve
ry doubt that this upcoming Rider was real. Stories of old spoke of Dragon Riders possessing the sharpest and brightest silver eyes, a trademark for their namesake. It was an unquestionable fact that had been passed down from generation to generation.

  As the gossip of the Dragon Rider grew louder, so too did the volatility of Morei’s once-stable rule in his city, Geral. Citizens prophesized that with the first Dragon Rider in eight centuries, a new era was beginning—and with it, the end of current rule. That was bad. Crime had increased since then, and it was becoming increasingly impossible to snub out naysayers who preached that the end of times was upon the country, Sorréle—that a grander future would rise from the ashes of the past.

  With this, Morei did the only thing he could justify—he put a bounty on the Rider’s head, to have him brought to the city.

  It had worked, though not without some irony. The Rider—named Cyrus, as Morei had learned—simply walked right into his city.

  Morei had him drugged to break communication with his dragon, then brought him to the dungeons, away from the public eye. The king could still remember meeting him, and thinking of it left a chill along his skin. The young man was, in so many words, strange. Never had Morei met a man’s eyes and been uncomfortable, but he had with Cyrus. It was as if the Rider had the eyes of a thousand souls locked in the silver abyss of his gaze.

  But Morei’s true mistake was leaving on a mandatory trip for Diemon. It was all politics. Diemon had pledged fealty a month prior, and he was simply doing his duty, visiting to ensure that Queen Reaza of Diemon was upholding her responsibilities.

  While Morei was gone, Cyrus had shown just how dangerous he was, strangling a guard, killing three more, and fleeing the city. When he returned, Morei practically ripped the heads off of every soldier on duty that day, and demanded three search parties embark to look for any sight of him. If they thought they had something, they needed to follow the track until they either dropped dead or ran into a dead end.

  Six days ago, one group had successfully identified Cyrus and his dragon, and were cornering them against the Releuthian Mountains.