running his hands through his hair in a way similar to the Patriarch.
Josaleene however, did not look shocked. She still looked content as if she did not just hear that she would die in a few months’ time.
Mortul watched all of this while fighting back his own bad memories. He and his Samana never knew beforehand the horror of what would happen. One moment they were happy as could be, and the next there was blood and screams and the wailing of a tiny infant. And then his Samana was gone.
He knew that the outcome of this would not be good, and maybe he made a mistake telling them now. But he could not live with himself if he did not tell his son what he already knew.
Dartein stopped pacing. "How could this be?" He was incredulous at first, but now he was in complete denial. "How could you even know of something like this, if it is not in the records?"
"My son, do you remember ever being turned?
"No, not at all... but I have lived a long time and... what does that have to do with this?"
"You were not turned. You were born. Your mother carried you and she did not survive."
Dartein stared at his father. Mortul watched his son's face as it started to make sense to him. His son did not remember being alive as a human because he never had been. He was never turned, never Slumbered, had never Awoken. He had been born.
"Why?" Dartein managed to croak past the lump in his throat. "Why did she not survive?"
"Our kind was not made for love, Dartein. Our kind was made for war. We were created to slaughter, to fight battles and to win wars. Love for us is supposed to be impossible, we were supposed to be incapable of that emotion. Even for those rarest of circumstances there had been a built in contingency. Should a union happen out of love, the couple would be torn apart in the worst way. Which would fuel the anger and feed the fighting machines we were made to be."
The Patriarch, the Master of the most powerful race of creatures, felt weak as he thought of his races origins.
Chapter 3
1100 years earlier, Dukes year 216
The war had been raging on for 82 years. The human armies were small, tiny even. The fighters that were left were too young or too old, the villages depleted of sturdy fighting men and the folk were afraid of reproducing. Afraid of having to care for children in times of famine, starvation and fear. Afraid that when their children grew up they would have to take up arms in their parent's war.
If the war didn't end soon, humans would die off on their own.
The warlocks of the time had grown desperate, and out of desperation came their plan.
After recent battles the numbers of freshly slain humans were incredible. What if they could bring them back, animate them in a way to fight without feeling pain, remorse or mercy? They had to try, there was nowhere else to find an army.
But to do this some of the warlocks found they would have to sacrifice themselves to darker arts than they had ever considered. The ones who volunteered themselves knew that they had to do this, as this was their last hope. If it failed, their world would be overtaken.
Their enemies were primal and had sheer numbers on their side. Vast hordes of goblinoid creatures had surfaced from their underground homes. They had just recently ran out of space in their cramped hovels, the creatures producing offspring at alarming rates. And since their youngest were the best fighters it seemed as though they would never run out of warriors for their armies.
The small group of warlocks consisted of 4 people. Mortul had been the first to volunteer as he was the youngest and the most ambitious of his magic wielding counterparts. He had no family and nothing else to lose, and was the most powerful warlock they had.
His three teammates, all powerful enough in their own right, had already been part of the research that led them to this possible conclusion. In order