The Lord of Death (The Age of Dawn Book 2) by Everet Martins

him.
    “You’re going to make this fun, I see,” he said, smirking.
    A Cerumal roared, hurling its vicious spear. It went around Malek, unnaturally veering at the last second.
    “Pathetic automatons,” he said, jaw clenched. The others emulated the first, spears hissing past Malek’s form and clattering to the stone or sticking into walls. “Looks like you boys don’t train the spear anymore.” Malek slashed with fury, cutting the air with green streaks of light. The Cerumal fell, screaming and rolling into one another in a pool of blood and bursting skin. A wedge of tissue hung from a stalactite, drops of blood pattering onto the floor.
    Malek turned to the right at a fork. The screams behind him faded, swallowed by the impossibly high walls. The crystal around his neck sparked and a bolt of lightning arced over his shoulder into something behind him. He turned, a Black Wynch lay twitching on the ground with smoking, charred armor.
    “Electricity and metal, not a very good combination, wouldn’t you say?” he said, frowning at the corpse. He brought the crystal to his lips and kissed it. He started down the path again, stepping around stalagmites jutting in the dank air. “Where are you coward?”
    Three Black Wynches exploded from a nearby door, their bodies bobbing and slithering, bladed fingers reflecting the greens and reds of Malek’s weapons. Malek’s eyes pulsed and cut across them, effortlessly slicing and hewing their lithe bodies into chunks of bleeding flesh. Dismembered arms and legs twitched on the stony floor. The steel fingers of a severed hand clacked against a wall.
    Malek put his hands on his hips, pausing to examine the gore at his feet. “I never liked those things, move too much like sea creatures.”
    He looked through the open door and sauntered in, pushing his hood back. “What do we have here… you’ve been busy Darkthorne.” He gently closed the door and sheathed the glowing Plague Blade and stowed the Basilisk’s eye in a hip pouch.
    The room was small with a round table at the center and a few chairs surrounding it. Up and down the walls, candles burned in various stages, frozen dribbles running to the floor. Maps covered the table of the Zoria realm. There was a highly detailed map of the Midgaard palace and of the treetops of the Great Retreat. Red circles were scrawled around Breden, a village in the Nether, as well as Midgaard and a few places Malek was less familiar with. He folded up the maps and stuffed them into his pouch.
    He left the room and stopped to listen in the hall. Wind rushed into the cavern, blowing his hood across his mouth. He raised his hood and stalked further into the bowels, weapons at the ready. He came upon a large opening with torches burning on either side. A pair of malevolent eyes penetrated the darkness beyond, meeting his. He stepped forward and more eyes appeared, snapping open like stars in a black sky.
    “Peace my brothers,” Darkthorne said. The sea of yellow eyes parted, shifting to the sides of what seemed to be a massive room. Dozens of torches burst alight, searing Malek’s night vision. He put a hand up to shield his eyes and winced.
    “You always knew how to welcome an old friend,” said Malek.
    “Friends are we? That’s not quite how I remember it,” Darkthorne said, voice like rocks grinding together. He strolled from a massive table, flickering flames reflecting off of his gleaming armor. In one hand, he clutched an open tome resting on his hip. His billowing red cape floated to the ground as he came to a stop in the center of the room.
    Dozens of Cerumal, Black Wynches, Skin Flayers and their soulbound Blood Dogs circled Malek. Jaws snapped and spears beat against armor.
    “Now this isn’t exactly fair, is it?” Malek said.
    Darkthorne stomped with his foot, rattling the room. “Enough, why are you here?”
    “You know why.”
    “So the King is dead?” Darkthorne asked, dragging one of his pointed fingers across his