Vaid Empire: Conquest Ch. 17

Vaid Empire: Conquest is a massive fantasy series that aims to mix erotica with the quality of a published novel. New chapters and artwork are released every month absolutely free, with the completely optional possibility to receive early access. The Series focuses heavily on worldbuilding, story, and characters.

The world of Ayphieal is shattered and chaotic, with kingdoms and tribes of six distinctive races vying for territory amongst themselves. It is only when a young human warrior finally pushes back against the chaos that the world begins to shift towards order.

***

2nd of Onis, 1 AVE.

Kingdom of Wonakaros, Southern Coastline.

The harsh sea winds tore at Varse's robe as he emerged onto the deck of their tiny vessel, clutching the rope railing of the stairs tightly as they rolled over the waves. His scowl hardened as he felt the salty breeze caress his skin, doing his best to keep his balance. The sea was no place for a true Dril.

"Captain, are the claims true? Have you spotted land?" He asked, his short cape fluttering around him as he peered back to the wheel of the ship.

An Arkos, the old captain had transported many agents of the Shai Domain to his homeland over the decades. In response to his master's question, the outsider chuckled and nodded towards the bow. "Have a look for yourself, master Potentate."

Varse pitched his gaze forwards, following the bowsprit as it pointed into the distance. Squinting, he could just make out a black form on the edge of the horizon, hardly visible to his untrained eyes. The sight caused his internal tension to ease, grateful to finally view his escape from the wooden heap that the captain called a ship.

Ducking back down into the single hold, Varse stood before the ten fellow Dril that would accompany him. Dressed in short robes, they each were topped by capes similar in length and style to his own. They remained quiet, lying in cluttered cots and enduring the rocking of the ship that their bodies were entirely unaccustomed to.

"We are nearing our destination, gentlemen. This watery endeavor will soon cease."

The nearest man sat up using shaking arms to steady himself. "My Potentate, The Wandering Desert will be far less...forgiving..." He said, seemingly on the edge of spilling his latest meal as the vessel maneuvered through the waves.

"Indeed." Varse replied grimly, displaying no false confidence nor hope to his men. "The sands are not a place we Dril were created to tread, as some of you already know intimately. Yet our purpose is clear, a necessary service for the good of all our brothers and sisters back home."

"Our ancestors...shall not let us fail. We-" another Dril began, just before a harsh roll of the ship toppled him from his cot.

Varse's jaw harden as he quickly moved to assist the fallen man. "I ask that you all closely follow the instructions of the native guides when we arrive, even those of you who have previously been sent to this accursed place in the past. They are outsiders, of course, yet their knowledge may determine the success of our journey."

Though clearly reluctant, none of the ten men voiced their disapproval.

***

Several hours passed before they reached the shoreline, continuing to sail along the coast until they spotted their hired guides residing inside of a large tent surrounded by a tiny herd of feathered creatures. The captain dropped the anchor, remaining onboard while two of his crew members brought the Dril to land by rowboat. There would be no payment until The Potentate was returned safely to Nelzarshi.

The warm sunlight felt bizarre on Varse's pale skin, neither too hot nor too cold. He took his first step onto the beach, feeling the black sand under his foot wrappings.

An endless sea of darkness stretched out before him as far as he could see, sprinkled with patches of charom stems. The strange coral-like plants easily surpassed the height of an average humanoid, displaying countless vibrant colors that contrasted magnificently against the black sand, while emitting an otherworldly glow during the night.

Varse hardly felt a wave caress his feet as he studied the landscape, awed at a sight that had only ever been described in writing. The sounds of the rough sea that had tormented his men became little more than a nudge at his awareness, no longer his concern.

He nearly hadn't noticed when two Arkos males emerged from their tent and began to make their way towards him dressed in dirty rags. They appeared skinny and agile, an adult accompanied by a boy just on the cusp of manhood. The left iron-colored horn of the adult was missing, presumably snapped off during his travels. The fingers of his right hand brandished the gauntlet traditional to his species, capping his fingers with harsh metal claws that hinted of rust.

The adult Arkos kneeled before Varse, shooting a disapproving glare at the boy when he remained standing. The young man took the silent command instantly, hurriedly lowering himself to his knees.

"I take it that you are our guides?" Varse asked, turning to face the pair.

Regaining his feet, the Arkos pulled the boy upwards with a hard yank of his arm. "Of course, master Potentate. Holy Kromak is quite eager to make your acquaintance in person." The heavily accented man said in the language of the Dril.

"And your name?"

"Horos" The guide answered, watching as Varse looked expectantly down at his younger companion. "The boy has not yet earned a name, master Potentate. Pay him no mind."

"Very well, we shall delay no further." Varse replied, accepting a white shroud from the outstretched hand of one of his men. He wrapped the fabric around his hairless head, protecting his skin from the unfamiliar intensity of the sun. "Tell me, is it true that only a full blooded Arkos may enter Arkos-Tul?"

Horos bowed his head in exaggerated apology. "Indeed, my lord. Even a being such as yourself shall not even be permitted to merely gaze upon the great holy city. It is forbidden..."

"Even for a Dril?" One of the nearest guards asked, seemingly taken aback.

The young man's tail quivered in annoyance at the question, and he muttered under his breath in his native language.

The older Arkos quickly backhanded the boy, sending him to the ground. "Apologies, my lords. This runt has yet to learn to hold his tongue. Let us depart, as Holy Kromak fully intends to honor your request to speak in person. He shall meet us halfway between Arkos-Tul and the shore, deep into the true desert."

"Agreed." Varse replied, wasting no time in following the guide over to the herd of feathered creatures waiting just outside their tent. Quadrupedal beasts, Varse recognized from his pre-expedition studies that they were referred to by locals as Onaks. Their bulbous bodies stood on four thin legs the color of bone, with an oval shaped head supported by a long neck. Their mouths appeared to consist of four beaks, each sporting an eye and converging together into a single sharp point.

With only seven Onaks milling about, the group broke into pairs, two men per beast.

***

Mile after mile, hour after hour, the group of thirteen trudged deeper into the desert atop their Onaks. Only the quiet sound of shifting sand enveloped their world, interrupted occasionally by the cries and squeaks of unseen creatures.

By the time the sun began to set for the first day of their journey Varse was more than grateful for the white shroud. Though the temperature remained FAR more moderate than that of the Tazik Desert, the sunlight beating down upon his body would have certainly blistered his Dril skin. He kept his hands folded beneath the protection of his cape, his red eyes full of determination as they peered out from a slit in his headwrap.

The sunlight faded, dipping below the horizon and plunging them into a vast sea of darkness. In awe, the Dril men observed as the patches of charom stems slowly began to illuminate, spotting the landscape with splashes of vibrant blues, greens, and purples. They reminded Varse of an obscure painter from his childhood in Ishtai, wildly sprinkling his paint in maddening patterns that seemed to hold no meaning.

Their Arkos guide brought the group to a halt when he had found a suitable place to settle down for the night. The tent was pitched, the Onaks were lashed to the ground, and Horos set about planting a ring of torches into the sand to encircle their camp.

"Would the light not give away our position?" One of the Dril had asked, only to receive an adamant shake of Horos's head.

"There are far worse fates in this desert than being spotted, my friend."

The solemn statement coaxed no further question.

***

Varse would have expected a night spent on the ground to be quite uncomfortable, yet he found the sand to be rather pleasant. Within minutes he was asleep with his robe pulled close to his body, having given up his place inside of the small tent to one of his men.

Under the open night sky of a foreign land he dreamt of home, of ice, of the snow that had always enveloped his world. A twinge of longing poked at his chest, a yearning to return to his people. There was a sense of guilt waving throughout his dreams, as he was met with an understanding that every Dril spy The Council had deployed from their lands must surely have felt a similar longing to return.

A subtle crunching of sand weaved through his unconscious thoughts, hardly noticeable. The sound steadily intensified, becoming harder to ignore until Varse was jarred awake by the sensation of something sharp scraping against his skin.

Every instinct cried out to remain still as he returned to consciousness, momentarily unaware of where he was. The events of the day returned within moments, and he allowed his eyes to creep open a sliver.

The culprit for the slight pain in his leg was immediately revealed, as through the darkness Varse made out the figure of a creature leering over his once sleeping form. With skin as black as the sand, its bipedal body was topped with a nearly egg-shaped head, its smooth-skinned cranium split halfway down its featureless face to reveal a vicious smile of jagged teeth. Its lanky frame granted it an almost skeletal appearance, hunched over to inspect its prey. Its fingers and toes were ripped open from the growth of short claws, the same sharp objects that were now lightly slicing Varse's thigh as the monstrosity assessed him with its foot.

With incredibly slow and calculated movements, Varse slid the concealed blade from the wrist of his robe under the guise of sleep. He positioned the blade's tiny handle into his palm, clutching it as he readied himself to strike.

He immediately halted his intentions as another of the creatures walked by within view of his barely open eyes, filling him with the uneasy realization that he had no knowledge of just how many were potentially lurking within the camp.

An agonized scream rang out from the Dril to his left, causing him to push aside his calculations and burst into action. Thrusting his torso into an upright position, Varse rammed his blade entirely through the ankle of the creature inspecting him. A horrifying wail ripped through the wide mouth of the beast, sickening Varse to his core. It pulled away, yanking the small blade from its wielder's grasp.

Jumping to his feet, Varese was met with the awful reality of the creatures' numbers, as five had found their way into the tiny camp through a break in the torch ring. One Dril already lay dead, his throat quietly devoured by a crouching monstrosity. The Dril that had loosed the initial scream lay on the ground, his legs kicking as his attacker's claws remained buried in his chest.

Varse positioned himself into a crude self-defense stance, an instant before Horos burst from the flaps of the tent. The raggedy Arkos ripped the nearest torch from the sand, crying out as he hurled himself in the direction of the creatures.

Their wide mouths hissed as he swung the torch in wide arcs, slowly pushing them back as they retreated from the flame. Taking several steps back towards the edge of camp they finally turned and sprinted away, disappearing into the surrounding darkness.

"By Holy Kromak, the bastards shall not return this night!" Horos yelled before gazing down at the dying Dril. "Ah, your man is injured!"

Kneeling down beside him, Horos studied his wounds. Little could be done, as the Dril continued to kick in pain before slowly fading into death.

"What were those...things..." Varse asked, peering into the blackness of the desert.

Horos closed the eyes of the dead Dril before slowly rising back to his feet. "They are but a few of the dangers that the night holds, master Potentate. The wind must have extinguished a few of the torches."

Varse rubbed his hairless head, closing his red eyes in disgust.

"We truly find ourselves in a damned realm..."

***

The dead were buried on Varse's orders, given graves of sand that were a continent away from their rightful place among the Ice Tombs of their ancestors. Yet so long as a portion of their blood remained in their homeland, their resting place would have to do.

Eleven of their group remained, riding through the desert by day and sleeping wearily by night. Precautions were taken with the utmost care after their incident, waking up in rotations to ensure that their torches were still lit.

Up and down the dunes they surfed, their Onaks tirelessly traversing the endless sands on their thin legs. The monotony of their journey was occasionally interrupted when they passed through small forests of charom stems, dense clusters of tall colorful growths. Varse ran his hand over the surface of one of the plants as they passed, feeling its stone-hard skin.

As they left the latest charom cluster all Dril quickly gasped, as far into the distance they were finally met with the sight of a legendary Wonak. Though quite far away, the details of the massive six-legged creature were visible enough to make out the structures built atop its armored back. Its leathery tail dragged behind it, acting as the entrance to the village it carried.

Lumbering over the hot sands, the Wonak appeared to be traveling in the direction of the cluster that the group was departing, undoubtedly intending to feast upon the hard vegetation with its powerful hooked jaw. Varse was almost disappointed that they'd be long gone by the time it arrived.

"Ah, any of you masters ever traveled aboard a Holy Wonak village?" Horos asked, chuckling at the evident amazement of the Dril.

They all answered in the negative.

"Truly, no?" The boy asked in surprise. "You snow dwellers are utterly bizarre."

***

One could only roam the desert for so long before their mind began to wander. The endless hours of riding seemed to always push Varse to delve into his thoughts, assessing every detail of their perilous mission.

Should they survive their journey and reach Kromak's camp, their goal would still be unguaranteed. They were deep into the lands of a potential enemy to their people, only considered as potentially harmful due to the fact that The Shai Domain had worked its way into his ranks. Kromak knew of the existence of their spies, knew of the power they held over him, yet there was no certainty that he wouldn't simply dispose of a small group of pesky Dril who carried demands.

Yet, he did owe them after all. For countless generations The Council's spies had spread the prophecy among the population of The Wandering Desert, a belief that a leader born of the gods would unite and protect all Arkos. The moment a child born with two sets of arms emerged, as had happened in the past, The Dril Council wrapped their influence around the so-called "child marked by the gods" and made him theirs. This prophesied Holy Kromak, worshiped as both a God and a savior, ruled over the Arkos population just as the Dril saw fit. An experiment, of sorts.

This...human God King, now God Emperor...could not be tolerated. The Council would make rulers, manipulate the rise and downfall of outside realms, and even pull the strings of a Kromak. Emperor Dominax was not one of their creations, was not a man whose actions could be driven in whichever way The Council saw fit.

Kromak's loyalties had been steady thus far, yet as Varse neared the day he'd actually stand before the false God, he felt himself growing weary of just how deep said loyalties lay.

A squawking cry from up ahead broke Varse from his thoughts. Looking towards the younger Arkos's Onak, he watched in horror as the jaws of a massive serpent sprang from the sand and sunk its fangs into the leg of the panicking mount. Its black scales rattled as it slithered out of its buried hiding place, easily four times the length of a man and just as thick. Its long body was split into numerous tails extending from just below the head, as if a living whip with several ends. It rose up onto its tails as the Onak collapsed to the ground, using its appendages to propel itself forwards as if an aquatic tentacled beast.

The group scrambled to get out of its way, yet its savage jaws tore into the nearest Dril. Its tails swung, crashing through the thin legs of several Onaks with sickening cracks of bone.

Varse was tossed to the ground, forcing him to scramble to his feet as the serpent struck at his companions in quick but precise bites. Its fangs met flesh, swiftly withdrawing each time to allow its venom to do its work.

Within moments five Dril were left writhing on the floor, foam leaking from their spasming mouths. The rest dodged and struck at the creature with their small blades, carving gashes that spewed dark blood.

Its slithering body arced towards the younger Arkos, pinned beneath his deceased Onak. Horos roared with panicked furry, rushing to intercept the serpent before it could reach the boy. Its fangs sank into the young man's frantic arm, just as Horos rammed his rusty gauntlet downwards, sinking his armored claws as deep as possible into the top of the creature's head.

The serpent hissed in pain, rearing its head in violent death throes that sent Horos stumbling onto his back. Its many tails twitched and shuddered, and within moments it allowed its head to collapse to the sand. A low groan escaped its lip-less mouth, too similar to the sound of a dying humanoid than Varse would have expected.

Varse sprinted to his injured men, assessing the damage as out of the corner of his eye he watched Horos hurry to the boy's spasming body. The dying members of their group slowly weakened, becoming silently still.

"Ohhh....you foolish boy..." Horos groaned in visible sorrow, placing his hand on his young chest.

"My Potentate..." one of the surviving Dril quietly said as he struggled to his feet. "My arm...it's broken..."

A tear fell from Horos's eye as he gazed down at the young man. "My boy...I grant you the name...of Roak, my father. It is earned..."

The Dril stood among their dead, unwilling to make a sound.

"Now...we are six." Varse thought to himself.

***

The remainder of the day was spent almost entirely in silence as they traveled, shuffling along joylessly.