How Gods Bleed

How Gods Bleed

By Shane Porteous

Copyright 2011 Shane Porteous

Cover Image Copyright 2011 Christopher Richards

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Dear reader,

Before you begin reading this book I have a confession to make. I have never really been a big fan of werewolves. Now before you send me hate mail (just kidding, feel free to send me hate mail) please keep in mind that I have never hated them. I just have always found demons and the like to be far more interesting. I suppose it has to do with the general concept of the lone wolf (no pun intended) identity that most werewolf tales consist of that has failed to really garner my personal interest. So you may be wondering if this is the case than why have I written a werewolf story? A good question that hopefully I will be able to give an equally good answer to.

While I was spreading awareness about my first published book Rasciss (more on that book a bit later) I came across another debut author by the name of Jeff Shanley. His book was called Mathion: book one of the Mavonduri Trilogy. Now without filling the next ten pages with descriptions, in a nutshell Mathion was a Lord of the Rings styled story where werewolves played a major part in the tale. Now as I have already said I have never been a huge fan of werewolves but the overall concept of Mathion was very intriguing to me. For although werewolves in fantasy is hardly a new concept I had never come across a fantasy story where werewolves were one of the biggest factors. Mostly, werewolves play minimal parts as servants, slaves or worse yet, pets of other supernatural creatures, most notably vampires. After informing one another about what our books were about we agreed to cross promote.

Being a man of my word when Mathion was released I bought a copy with the intention of reviewing it. In all honesty I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, after all there is so many werewolf stories that even with this new concept my expectations weren’t exactly high. However as I began reading Mathion I discovered one of the most enjoyable and brilliant stories that I have ever read. Jeff Shanley had taken the time and the effort to quite literally write an entirely new history for the werewolf or Kanin as they are called in the Mavonduri world. Beyond this brilliant re-imagining of the werewolf legend I discovered a sweeping epic that was far more character driven than most that I have read. These two factors combined with the immense passion that could be felt through his words, Jeff Shanley had written one of the greatest stories that I had ever read. For the first time in a really long time I had read a novel that I thoroughly both enjoyed and appreciated.

I was so impressed that after writing a well deserved 5 star review of Mathion (its very first review ever I might add) I wanted to do something that I had not done since I was 12 and Dragon Ball Z had come to Australian shores. I had a great desire to write Mathion fan fiction. I sent a message asking Jeff permission to do so and graciously he gave me his blessing. Needless to say I was ecstatic and began planning out a concept. However, the initial concept changed seemingly over night, to a story that at best would be 40 pages long to a story that would be a novel all of its own. I was so excited about my idea however I merely accepted this fact and looked forward to the concept of writing a fan fiction novel.

But as I really began to think about my story, plotting out its chapters and inventing a whole cast of brand new characters I realized something. Ultimately fan fiction should stay within the boundaries and rules of the original work. Mathion in many ways is a traditional story with clear-cut protagonists and antagonists (trust me tradition is one of Mathion’s greatest strengths). My story would have blurred those clear cut lines and shown the characters of Mathion in a far different light to what they were ever intended to be shown in. Knowing my ideas ultimately could never work in the Mavonduri world I wrote Jeff back explaining my reasons why I could not write my fan fiction idea. He didn’t write back to me at first, personally I can not blame him, after all I would feel pretty bad if someone had told me they were going to write fan fiction of my story one day and then not do it even with an explanation.

Honestly I did indeed feel very lousy but I simply would not feel right changing his characters so drastically. So I re-read Mathion enjoying it as much the second time as the first and tried to come up with new concepts for Mavonduri fan fiction. But alas all of my ideas carried similar flaws to the first and I had to concede defeat.

Like many authors I had many of my own stories to tell just waiting to be written. So I turned back to my now overflowing folder of story ideas and began writing one of them. However try as I might I couldn’t get Mathion or rather the concepts that I had come up with for my fan fiction out of my head. No matter which one of my stories I tried to write the muse kept pulling me back to these ideas. In vain I tried to ignore the ideas, after all I had three novels that I had been trying to write for years. But as any writer shall tell you if you don’t have the muse then you can’t write good stories.

I accepted the fact that in order to move on creatively I would have to put these ideas on paper. But the original fears and concerns that I had never went away and I knew that I could not put my ideas as fan fiction. To ensure that I did not hurt the integrity of the Mavonduri world or its 40,000-year-old history I would have to write a completely separate story placed in its own unique world. The end result is the story you are about to read.

While How Gods Bleed is not and should not be considered a true reflection of Mathion, for Mathion should be judged on its own merit. It would be dishonest and simply unfair not to openly admit that Mathion was the biggest inspiration behind How Gods Bleed. So I will end with this:

Mathion: book one of the Mavonduri trilogy is available from:

www.smashwords.com

www.barnesandnoble.com

www.amazon.com

Enjoy!

How Gods Bleed by Shane Porteous

Prologue

The Rodovic war was the bloodiest and longest conflict of its age. Fought between the kingdoms of Gatavoi and Belrondia, it was a war that lasted for three decades. But it was on the fields of Marga where the most important battle of history was fought. Over one million warriors from both kingdoms waged a battle more ferocious than any other. By the 11th day the battle had come to a bloody end and only a single man still stood. Cada Varl, a soldier of Gatavoi. But after seeing so much blood and death Cada Varl had lost his humanity.

As he began to wander the land aimlessly, wolves, drawn by the smell of blood and death came to the field and feasted on the flesh of the fallen. Such a feast of human flesh made the wolves hunger for more of the same taste. The wolves followed the wandering Cada Varl attacking him upon nightfall. As the now mindless man lay there with the wolves savoring his flesh he witnessed the full moon and its light reminded him of whom he once was.

With his memories restored the desire for survival returned and using a simple spike of silver worn around his neck he injured one of the wolves. Seeing their meal was now ready to fight back the wolves stirred and fled from him. Though he now remembered his humanity the light of the moon was not enough to make it return and so he remained immortal, a shell of what he once was. Though he had been able to save himself from the wolves, their tastes remained and having fed on the flesh of an immortal they now carried a piece of him inside them.

The wolves attacked villages, cities and anywhere else where humans dwelled. Those who were attacked but survived were infected by Cada Varl’s immortality, twisted and combined with the spirit of the wolves. From this hybrid of an infection the survivors became monsters, neither wolves nor immortals, but something in between. As the wolves continued attacking villages so the monsters continued to spread until only after a few short decades they had become so numerous that the west belonged to them. The very few humans that one way or another survived the rise of the monsters fled into the east and thus the continent of Noonsva became divided between the lands of the werewolves in the west and the lands of man in the east.

Chapter 1

Sight was more dominant than sound for the hallway was dark and offered no clue as to what lurked within. The sounds of footsteps revealed a group of men as they moved flawlessly through the near black. A total of five sets of steps could be heard with four matching one another identically. The other was a vast contrast to its brethren for while the others were proud and clear, the 5th was shuffled and without cohesion. The sound of creaking, almost echoing in the black indicated that a set of heavy doors was opening.

The men entered a large room where the dominance of darkness was only tested by candlelight, revealing that the room was as long as it was dark. A figure sat at the other end of the room sitting tall and proud upon a throne. By any standard the figure was very tall almost inhumanly so and if standing he would easily be measured at 7 foot. But it was not his height that made even the darkness weary of him, it was his features. In human terms it was difficult, even impossible to tell his age, he was old there was no doubting that but his elderliness felt more appropriately counted in ages, not years like he was a remnant of a time long before the age of man.

The group of men passed through the light of a nearby candle revealing that four of the men, dressed in the uniforms of soldiers had surrounded the 5th man forcing him to move where they wanted him to. The 5th man, who the shuffled steps belonged to, tried to halt his steps only to fall to the ground in front of the figure that sat at the throne. The four other men did nothing whether in word or motion to offer assistance to the 5th man who scurried onto his knees and gasped loudly as he looked into the face of lone figure.

The 5th man grasped onto his robes tightly as he quickly lowered his head once more clearly frightened by the dark ancient eyes of the man who sat at the throne. The silence that followed was horrid, worse even than many other awful sounds. Time became irrelevant for the horrid silence was terrifyingly powerful. The sound that finally broke the noiselessness was just as haunting.

The figure upon the throne began to sing, but there was no joy in his voice, much like the rest of him there was something very morbid about his song. There was a talent to his tune but it was so eerie it could never be enjoyed, only heard like the cry of a hungry thing that has come to do someone harm. Every word of his strange song seemed almost to blend into the surrounding darkness as if that is where the song truly belonged.

The awful silence returned as the figure finished his song and the black of the room seemed emboldened upon hearing it. The kneeling man looked up into the dark eyes of the figure as soon as the song had begun. As if entranced by it the man did not look away from the figure though his trembling blue eyes and shaky hands revealed he did not desire such action but could not look away.

That is how the song goes does it not? The man upon the throne asked in a voice that was just as morbid as his singing. The kneeling man continued to hold his robes tightly as his lip quivered and his mouth moved several times in silence before he said, That it does my lord.

The figure on the throne nodded his head very slowly and even this slight act seemed morose for his expression showed no sign of approval or anything else for that matter.

Tell me, the figure asked, his voice darkening. Why do you shiver so in front of me?

The kneeling man took an involuntarily sharp breath but dared not to take his eyes away from the figure. For what seemed a simple question the man took a long time to answer and when he did so there was no strength in his voice.

Because of the cold my lord, the winters seem frostier with each year that passes.

To this the figure titled his head slightly before he asked, When have you ever known a Helluvan to shiver because of the cold? The lips of the kneeling man moved, as they quivered yet no words came from them. Helluvans do not shiver because of the cold, you know that as well as I. The man nodded his head ever so slightly but said nothing in response. Only those who are scared shiver in Helluv, but what possible reason could you have to be scared kneeling in front of me? To an outsider such a question was obviously answered, this man if that is what he truly was seemed the very embodiment of intimidation.

The kneeling man lifted his head and opened his mouth wider but still could not bring himself to speak. Answer me! The figure bellowed leaning forward as his words echoed throughout the darkness.

The kneeling man could do nothing else but answer the lone figure, transfixed by his overpoweringly dark eyes. I do not know my lord, the robed man choked out stuttering every fear filled word. The lone figure leaned back on his throne but the power of his presence did not diminish. I do, the figure said with a morbid calm in his tone. It is strange that you remember the song of somber so well and yet you have forgotten the price for stealing…

Again the lips of the robed man quivered as his mouth moved several times before he said, I have not my lord,

Oh but you have, the lone figure replied. For your sake I hope you traded my silver for a good price!

I-I-I, was all the kneeling man could muster before the figure upon the throne spoke once more.

A man in your order values the power of knowledge and so my gift to you serves as both a reminder of why you do not steal in Helluv as well as the knowledge of what Onvaucalis feels like.

With those words spoken the figure upon the throne slowly looked over to one of the guards that had brought the robed man into the hall. Though it was only a simple look the guards knew what their ruler wanted from them. Two of the guards stepped forward grasping the kneeling man around his shoulders and collar. At first all the robed man could do is gasp but as the realization of his predicament fell upon him he began screaming the same group of words over and over again, No, my lord, have mercy please. His cries were so great that they turned from clear words into something far more animalistic like he was a dog knowing it was about to be put down for biting the children of its once loyal master.

The figure kept his eyes upon the eyes of the lone man, his expression unchanging but ensuring the robed man knew he was watching him with a disturbed satisfaction in his eyes as the robed man was dragged away into the darkness beyond the light of the candles.

It was not long after the screams of the robed man could no longer be heard in the hall that another guard, not of the first group entered the large hall. He walked until he was standing at a proper distance to the figure on the throne before he said, My lord, a lone man has come to Helluv requesting an audience with you. The guard hesitated for just a moment but it was enough to let everyone in the hall know of the gravity of what he was about to say. He claims that he is Cada Varl, my lord.

To this revelation the figure upon the throne merely stared at the guard for a slight moment before he said Really? Bring him to me… Though the tone of the figure’s voice had not changed there was still something about the way he said his words that indicated he was concerned. The guard bowed before turning and walking out of the hall.

The guard did not return, in his place was another man completely different to anyone who had ever walked through the hall. He was 6 foot 4 a large man by any standard, dressed from head to toe in a well-stitched and proud black material, woven to create a uniform of some kind that seemed in many ways outdated by the uniform the guards wore. A cape made from a thinner yet just as black material hung down from his shoulders falling to his thighs as a large sword with a over decorated handle rested in a black sheave at his side. His skin was the colour of cream and showed no imperfection whether from scar, sunspot or any other mark. His short hair that stood dead vertically across his head was rich white, a tone not forged from age but something else entirely.

The steps the man took seemed almost to echo in the darkness as if the black itself was weary of him. He knelt before the lone figure placing his hand on the handle of his weapon to ensure that it not hinder his movements. Unlike the robed man before him as he knelt there was nothing pathetic about his movements. He was not begging obedience; he was willingly showing respect to the man he had come to see.

My lord, thank you for granting me an audience, the man in black said in a voice that was not quite human, carrying a level of awe to it that arguably surpassed the power of the lone figure’s words.

For all the awe that the man in black carried with him the figure on the throne showed no sign that he felt the awe and instead replied calmly. It isn’t often that an immortal responsible for the destruction of the west wishes to kneel before me. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice but it was hard to tell because of how overpowering his tone always was. It was now clear that the figure was skeptical.

Gorgoza is dead my lord, overthrown by Metamok.

When these words were spoken, for the first time in perhaps his entire life the figure showed great concern upon every inch of him from his eyes to the motions of his body as he shifted restlessly for a moment before sitting still once more.

How do you know this? the figure asked. Every trace of skepticism was gone from his voice; it seemed he no longer cared who this man was only what he had come to say.

13 days ago I captured a werewolf near Uldaween, under three days of torture the beast told me of Metamok’s usurpation and that Gorgoza loyalists are on the brink of collapse. Metamok is closer than anyone has ever been to having complete control over the entire west. The werewolf claimed that is why it was so far east, to escape the tyranny and bloodshed of Metamok.

For a time that seemed much longer in the thick silence that now fell across the room the lone figure said nothing. It was only when the silence had become too powerful to bear the figure spoke once more. You journeyed all the way from Uldaween to my kingdom in just ten days?

Yes, my lord, the man in black replied simply.

The lone figure thought for a moment bringing his long hand to his chin and stroking it across his thin beard before he asked, What do you offer to prove that you are who you say you are?

To this the man in black looked up from the ground directly into the eyes of the lone figure, revealing that his own eyes were a rich bright red that did not truly glow but seemed to, compared to the brooding black around him. His eyes were of a rare kind, a kind that would frighten most men and yet the figure showed no fear as he looked upon them.

How would you like me to prove my claim, my lord?

As quickly as possible, the lone figure replied.

The man in black without a word brought his left hand up to his right shoulder, respectfully keeping his red eyes upon the dark eyes of the lone figure as he untied a simple knot causing the length of material to fall across him. Such action revealed the skin of his chest and torso that was anything but bare. Upon his extremely muscular frame were jagged thick lines, black and definite that with the exception of their colour could only be identified as hideous scars hindering his otherwise god like physique. He straightened his back and lifted his head ever so slightly to ensure that the figure on the throne could see the black scars easily. With a simple nod of his head the lone figure indicated he had seen enough and using only his left hand the man in black retied the knot covering his torso and chest in black material once more.

I thank you Cada Varl for bringing this information to me…. Though his voice was clear it was obvious that the lone figure was as troubled as a rabbit when it hears the call of an owl warning that a wolf is hungry and on the prowl.

I bring more than just information my lord, Cada Varl replied as he lowered his head once more. I bring possible salvation from not just eastern invasion but from the entire werewolf threat.

The lone figure said nothing but waited calmly for Cada Varl to explain himself further.

Forgive my ignorance my lord but are you aware of the Goddess Kerceeria?

That I am, The lone figure replied. The Goddess who fell from the sky and from whose blood life on the earth began.

Cada Varl nodded, Some of her blood still remains upon the earth in an ancient chamber underneath the lands where the kingdom of Gatavoi once stood.

So how can the blood of a goddess deal with the werewolf scourge? The lone figure asked flatly and yet curiously.

Because of what I am, a memory of a human if I drink her blood not only will that destroy me but everything else that has been created because of me….

You mean…. The figure almost gasped out.

If I can get to the blood of the goddess then I can destroy every single werewolf, the monsters of the west will cease to exist.

There was now a collective gasp, not from the figure upon the throne but from the two guards, who still stood in the room, the revelation was too great for them to control themselves as they temporarily forget the conduct of their duty. But for the figure on the throne it seemed a different matter as he said, You discovered this information at Uldaween?

Yes, my lord.

Is that where you have been for all these centuries? Within the earth’s memory?

Yes, my lord, Cada Varl repeated.

Is this what you have been searching for all this time, a way to destroy the werewolves?

There was a silence that felt far longer due to its heaviness that fell across the dark hall before Cada Varl spoke once again.

No, my lord it was not. I was searching for a way to become human again….

His answer was blunt and yet there was something obscure as well as definite, a slight shudder of his shoulders showed that it was significant.

Am I correct in the belief that you did not find what you were looking for?

It was upon this question that Cada Varl looked up from the floor into the eyes of the figure, hesitating for a brief yet important moment before he said, You are correct my lord.

His face became somber as he lowered his eyes once more. The lone figure intentionally waited for a moment allowing his powerful dark eyes to look over the frame of the Immortal before him. In times as dark as these honesty is more valuable than even silver…and I feel it shall only become more important as the days turn darker. Tell me Cada Varl what do you need from my kingdom?

My lord, I must speak to prince Yakarzin to see if the werewolves have any knowledge of the chamber and the blood of the goddess.

That raises an interesting question, if the werewolves got a hold of the Goddess’ blood what could they do with it?

Put simply, my lord if a werewolf were to drink it than they themselves would become the next best thing to being a god.

The eyes of the lone figure widened for only a split second but it was enough to reveal how shaken he was by this revelation.

It is because they were once human or at the least descended from humans, their humanity although greatly twisted and corrupted remains….

There were many more questions that the lone figure upon the throne could have asked but time now seemed to be a greater enemy than anything the lone figure had ever faced. He rose from his throne and stood as tall as his 7-foot frame would allow as the light of the candles made his presence even more overpowering.

Rise Cada Varl, the lone figure commanded and as instructed The Immortal did just that. As the two men stood facing one another the presence that both carried was different but just as dark as the other like they were two great gods coming face to face for the first time. The lone figure stepped towards the Immortal

Follow me, he said not breaking his stride.

Cada Varl did as he was asked as in silence the two guards moved to either side of the lone figure walking silently behind him and in front of Cada Varl.

The group moved out of the hall into the connected black where the darkness seemed more suited to the castle than even the night sky. There was very little light to be had with few torches held sporadically on both sides of the cold stone walls that made up the castle. Cada Varl could not help but notice how the fires flickered like they were shivering as the lone figure passed them. The only other source of light came from the moon seeping through glass-less windows that were as sparse as the torches.

It was through one of these simple windows that the Immortal could see the moon; it was full acting as an extremely bad omen. But the full moon also brought light to a courtyard where the eyes of the Immortal were drawn to descend by the terrified words of someone begging. He saw the robed man who had been taken from the hall, now completely dragged by the two guards who had taken him. They were moving towards a specific set of thick wooden pillars that stood as a collection with a dozen or so identical sets. Though the guards were ignoring him no one could blame the robed man for his fear filled yells. He was about to experience Onvaucalis, a form of torture that along with a handful of other equally brutal tortures were as unique as they were awful. The condemned would be tied by the wrist to either pole, impaled through both hands to increase the suffering. Inch by inch the poles would then be turned until eventually the condemned was quite literally ripped in two. The agonizing ordeal was always performed over the course of two days to ensure that the condemned would not die of dehydration first. Everyone in the kingdom knew of Onvaucalis and how horridly painful such a death must have been, it was clear by the way the robed man was screaming he knew this all too well. If that wasn’t enough to tell him of what he was in for, the bloody remains of a condemned woman still laid in a vile heap where the smell of blood was fresh in the air. Cada Varl looked away, not from disgust or queasiness he just simply saw no point in witnessing such a thing. The screams of the robed man were so loud that surely the figure and the guards that followed him would have heard it and yet none of them seemed to pay any attention.

Such punishment was commonplace in the kingdom of Helluv, it was as well known in the land as what a crow sounded like when it squawked. In terms of size and manpower to call Helluv a modest kingdom was the most generous of statements. In fact it was the smallest kingdom in the east of Noonsva and yet it was the closest to the west, sharing a border with the empire of the werewolf. To most it seemed inconceivable that this tiny kingdom could survive being so close to the lands of monsters but there were four good reasons why the kingdom had never been conquered.

The first was that Helluv possessed more silver than other land in Noonsva. The silver deposits found in Helluvan Mountains were thought endless by many. The second reason was the mountains themselves; surrounding the entire border of the kingdom they made invasion by any army a difficult task. But more importantly the mountains forced any invading army to move through and across narrow ridges where a much smaller troop of soldiers could force them into a ‘kill box’ and easily slaughter them. The third reason was the capture of prince Yakarzin, son of the werewolf king Gorgoza. It was a little over 40 years ago during a border dispute that the werewolf prince was captured and held prisoner. Capturing Yakarzin had proven a great deterrent against a full-scaled werewolf invasion of Helluv. But now with Gorgoza dead Yakarzin would be all but useless in serving such a purpose.

The forth and most important reason was the 7 foot tall figure Cada Varl was now following. King Granzool, the man that even monsters feared. 72 years ago Granzool had defeated both his sisters and his brother in order to become sole ruler of the kingdom. When he claimed his throne he chose to completely change Helluv from the very ground up. Before his ascension Helluv had been a small yet spoiled kingdom using the fear that other human kingdoms of the east had to trade countless tons of silver. The mass wealth made Helluvans fat and greedy especially in their upper classes, caring only about self-indulgence. Granzool’s first act as king was to outlaw the trade of silver and when the noble families protested he ordered the execution of every single one of them. He then made it mandatory that even single man, woman and child over the age of 9 had to carry a bow and a quiver of silver tipped arrows. This combined with the fact every Helluvan had to train daily in both archery and combat allowed him to call upon almost every single Helluvan to defend the kingdom if the werewolves ever invaded. He kept his rule by killing anyone who dared to disagree with him as he constantly came up with more and more ways to publicly execute his detractors in the most gruesome of ways. There was a purpose to such barbarity; Granzool wanted to ensure that his people feared him more than they could ever fear the western monsters.

Such a tactic had proven not only successful inside Helluv but elsewhere. Granzool was so feared by both werewolf and human alike that he no longer had to worry about invasion from any of the fellow kingdoms, no human would dare to oppose him. He was a legendary figure in the darkest kind of ways with as many legends spoken about him as there were stars in the night sky. Many legends told of how he was the embodiment of evil, as old as time itself. The histories told that he was 28 when he took control of Helluv making him in fact 100 years old. But simply by looking at him it was easy to see why such legends were told for age had done nothing to bend his spine or cripple his step. Granzool had changed Helluv from a spoiled kingdom of greed to a place where the greatest warriors of the east were bred, shaped and molded to be the most effective werewolf killers as humanly possible. As drastic as all these changes were, they were performed with a single purpose, to ensure the survival of Helluv, that is all that mattered to Granzool.

Cada Varl followed Granzool and his guards through the castle. In spite of what surely was a hectic circumstance the Helluvan king did not walk with hurried steps as they moved through the darkness. The king knew his castle well for even as they began descending stairways he showed no hesitation in his steps as if he could somehow see through the black or more likely he was moving more from memory than sight.

The group continued to descend; there was no doubting that, as the cold air slowly became stale. They were heading underground and the first change of scenery came in the form of flames that danced blood red in place of amber. This was not due to a magician’s trick; the torches of the underground were made from a special fuel specifically blended to burn in such poor air. The crimson lights revealed that the group had entered a place that was even larger than the throne room. On one side a total of 9 large crossbows had been somehow built into the stone wall each ratcheted to hold a bolt that was half the size and width of a powerful spear. The bolts were at the ready to be fired by a simple latch that was wrapped in a series of long leather straps that were tied around the trigger of each massive crossbow. By the way their tips shone in the crimson light it was clear that their heads had been forged from thick silver. They all pointed to the opposite wall that was covered in chains so heavy it was doubtful that even the strongest of men on his own could carry them. Underneath the heavy chains the wall shone silver, as a total of four guards could be seen, two at either end of the chain-covered wall.

The four guards bowed their heads ever so slightly in respect to their king but said nothing. Granzool and the guards that had accompanied him moved through the room far enough to ensure that Cada Varl was standing near the middle of the room before Granzool turned around to face him.

Behind this door Helluv keeps Yakarzin, let me know if you have any problem getting the information you need from him. My men will be more than happy to extract it for you….

There was no glee in his voice but it was clear that Helluvans, Granzool especially, took great delight in torturing the western monsters.

Thank you my lord, Cada Varl said calmly.

No need to thank me Cada Varl, Granzool replied. The fate of Helluv rests in your hands; by helping you I am in turn helping my kingdom.

Cada Varl nodded in silence but Granzool was not yet done, If you have been in Uldaween all these years than you have no idea of what lies beyond our borders into the west do you? The scribes of Uldaween have not been able to gather such information in over 4000 years?