Seed of Scorn

by Aaron-Michael Hall

  Wosen’s brow furrowed. “So, you have no opinion, then?”

  He laughed, clapping Wosen on his back and turning his attention on the road.

  “Conversation for another time, my young friend. Let us focus on our duty and deliver the Zaontras safely to Yarah,” he said, taking closer note of the riders ahead of them. Nakaris glanced at Wosen and then beyond, scrutinizing their surroundings more carefully.

  “What is it?” Wosen asked.

  “I’m not certain. Our pace is slowing, but no one has come to give the reason.”

  “Mayhaps the road ahead has sustained damage from the recent storms. It was reported that some were in near disrepair.”

  “No, not this road. It’s always maintained,” Nakaris said, twisting around to see the trailing carriage, widening the gap between them. He looked back at Wosen.

  “Ready your bow, but do so inconspicuously. There’s something amiss. Notice the distance of the trailing carriage?” he asked, motioning with his eyes. “The other riders are too far ahead of the lead carriage and shouldn’t be out of range. Only the scouts travel well ahead. And where are the flanking guards?”

  Wosen peered around, noticing the absence of the guards. His expression hardened, seeing the trailing carriage far off from position, while the lead carriage kept them at an ever-slowing pace.

  “Should we take up a defensive position?” he asked.

  “No, give no hint to our knowledge, but stay aware. We’ve nearly reached Yarah, and these dense trees offer coverage for raiders. Give the sign to Lady Benoist and her guard so that they’re aware of possible danger. Be ready. I’ve already ascertained our best route for a strategic retreat if it becomes necessary.”

  With that, Wosen sat taller. After scanning the area, he leaned back, knocking three times on the wooden partition behind them, and then twice more.

  This was the fifteenth escort they’d provided for the Zaontras. When he thought of that, he cursed at the consistency of their trips. Frustrated, he turned, bringing his guardian bow strategically to his lap. He reached for his quiver, wedging it between his legs, and pulling one arrow from inside.

  “The nectar of the beast,” he whispered, admiring the pinkish hue on the arrow’s tip.

  “Left,” Nakaris said.

  Wosen shifted his gaze, noting subtle movement in the trees.

  “To the right and near the ground, too,” he said.

  Nakaris slid one hand from the reins, drawing his Xtabyren from its scabbard. He laid the weapon across his lap, slowing the carriage’s pace. Just as his hand gripped the reins, a loud shout claimed their attention. Immediately, the two guards commanding the lead carriage sprang from either side, running into the surrounding trees. Before Nakaris could pull up the reins as not to hit the idle carriage, a flash of light from the left caused him to turn.

  “Archers!” Wosen warned a second too late as fiery arrows impaled the slowing carriage. Nakaris yanked the reins, forcing the horses unsteadily around the lead carriage, and lashing them feverishly into a gallop. More flaming arrows followed the first, and Brahanu shrieked when the carriage nearly capsized from the strain of the movement.

  Wosen rose up then, sending a barrage of poison-tipped arrows toward the forms on the ground, and then at the men dropping from the trees.

  “There are too many!” he said, dropping many as they advanced. But for every man who took an arrow, two seemed to appear in his place.

  “Keep them safe!” Wosen said, grabbing his quiver and diving from the carriage.

  “No! Wosen!” Nakaris yelled. He grunted, gritting his teeth under the strain of the tugging horses. Taking a glance behind, he saw nearly a score of attackers descending on Wosen’s position. He continued unleashing his arrows, offering prayers to the Guardians with every release.

  Wosen ran toward the idle carriage, tossing his bow upon the bench. He drew his twin swords, howling as he met the charge of two attackers. He noticed instantly that these men were no warriors, and poorly armed for battle. Whatever relief that knowledge brought quickly dissipated as he jerked back, dodging a slashing sword. Even with their lack of skill, their sheer numbers could easily overwhelm him.

  Wosen stepped back, simultaneously swiping up with his sword, forcing the first attacker’s sword high. Regaining his footing, he parried the second sword, thrusting forward with a riposte, nicking his second attacker.

  With a quick side-step, he dodged another thrust, but fell back when a third attacker emerged. Wosen roared in protest, feeling the bite of the blade down his arm as his parry came too late. Assuming a defensive crouch, he rolled sideways, springing to his feet as he slashed out, surprising his first attacker.

  Twirling away from the trio, he flipped backward, widening the gap between them. Wosen’s blades worked feverishly, keeping the two remaining attackers off balance.

  ♦

  Brahanu screamed, cradling Eytan to her chest as the flaming projectiles continuously battered the carriage. Sickening gurgles bubbled from her personal guard’s throat from the arrow piercing his neck. She closed her eyes, wedging herself between the seats, shielding her son with her body.

  ♦

  Wosen’s breath stopped when a barrage of fiery arrows exploded inside the carriage. “My lady,” he breathed, momentarily catatonic. All motion seemed to stop as the flaring fireball charged down the winding road. His face felt aflame, hearing Brahanu’s screams resonating around him. Everything was a red-tinged blur with surging rage igniting every receptor in his body.

  Releasing a feral roar, Wosen launched a vicious assault. He thrust forward, impaling the man nearest him. Before the others could riposte, he lunged with a feint, and then spun around, both swords spinning with preternatural precision. Another would-be attacker grasped his freshly slashed throat, writhing in his death throes on the ground.

  Wosen’s chest heaved, crossing both swords down in front of him. Lowering his head, he traced the approaching attackers’ movements with his eyes. When they were nearly upon him, he took in a deep breath, clutching the hilts of his swords. Loss is death, he thought, assuming a defensive posture.

  He grunted, batting away the oncoming attack with his left blade. Wosen fell away, half spinning, positioning himself behind another man. He screamed when Wosen’s blades found their mark, both embedding in the man’s back, and protruding through his chest.

  Planting his foot against the dying man, Wosen kicked out, sending him careening into his comrade.

  Shouts from an approaching horde lifted the obfuscating rage from Wosen’s mind. He ran to the abandoned carriage, cutting a horse free and charging toward Yarah.

  ♦

  Nakaris’ face paled, seeing the caravan scouts approaching with soldiers outfitted for battle. He pulled back hard on the reins, attempting to slow the flaming carriage. When they continued their run, he slashed his Xtabyren repeatedly, detaching the frightened horses.

  The wheels split on the rough road, causing the carriage to sway and veer uncontrollably. His heartbeat quickened, looking back at the red and yellow blazing spikes licking wickedly around the frame. He debated his best course, but the roar of the ensuing explosion decided for him. As the flaming carriage plunged toward a copse of trees, Nakaris leapt from the bench, diving to the ground in a roll, and absorbing the impact of his landing.

  He sprang to his feet, sprinting toward the rolling fireball. The intensity of the flames had abated, as did the screams of the Zaontras inside.

  He inhaled a stinging breath, reaching a shaky hand toward the scorched door with the tip of his dagger. Clasping it with two hands, he wedged it in a gap, yanking the smoldering door free from its frame.

  The heated door screeched in protest, as it swung free of its hinges, landing near Nakaris’ feet.

  “By the gods,” he breathed. He wiped at his eyes, focusing on the carriage again, and the muscular figure defensively draped over Brahanu and Eytan. An amethyst hue emanated from the man, intensifying as it pul
sed, extinguishing the remaining flames. Nakaris stared in wide-eyed disbelief as the man’s head rose, his grey-blue eyes meeting his.

  “Protect my wife and son,” he said in an otherworldly tenor, lowering his head to kiss Eytan. His voice reverberated around Nakaris, but not like that of an echo, but more a harmonious merging of voices, undulating through the wind.

  Before Nakaris could respond, the figure slowly evanesced, never lessening his hold on Brahanu and the babe. When the light faded, Eytan released an ear-piercing cry as his lungs filled with oxygen.

  “By the gods,” Nakaris repeated, dashing forward. He nearly leapt from his skin when Wosen appeared at his side. After carrying Brahanu and Eytan to safety, Nakaris shook his head, pointing at the destroyed carriage.

  “Did—did you see it?” he asked.

  “I know not what I saw. It—it couldn’t be. It isn’t possible.”

  Nakaris stared at the scorched shell. No one should’ve survived the fiery coffin. No one.

  “The scouts are approaching,” Wosen said. “Ready your weapon, Sir Middleton.”

  Nakaris cradled Eytan closer, still shaking his head.

  “More men are coming,” Wosen said, spinning him around to face him. “We must protect the Zaxson’s wife and son.”

  “Yes, that’s what he said to me.”

  “He? What are you talking about? We don’t have time, Nakaris. Leave Eytan with his mother and follow me to the road. We must protect the Zaxson’s family.”

  “The…the thing in the carriage,” Nakaris said. “He told me to protect his wife and son. HIS wife and son, Wosen. He was there, yet he was not. A shield of pellucidity surrounded him as he protected them. You had to see the…the light…the purple light. Please, tell me you saw it.”

  “Stay here!” Wosen commanded, drawing his twin blades. Gripping his swords tighter, he dashed through the trees, meeting the oncoming horde.

  “Stand down, Sir Neufmarche,” a man said, trotting to the front of the line.

  Wosen assumed a defensive posture, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Lord Swayne? Why? Why have you attacked us?”

  Jarin leapt down from his horse, flipping open his cloak, exposing his sword. “We didn’t attack you. We came to assist and ensure your safe passage. Your scouts met our patrol and warned us of possible danger. We’d received information regarding an ambush, and left Yarah in search of you. Are Lady and Lord Benoist unharmed?”

  “Only by the protection of the Guardians.”

  “The gods are with us this day,” Jarin said. “My men secured your carriages and found this on the bench. I believe this is yours, is it not?”

  Wosen sheathed his swords, taking his guardian bow. “There’s no other like it in all of Faélondul.” He motioned behind him. “The Zaontras is with Sir Middleton in that copse.”

  Jarin issued orders to his men, and they disappeared into the trees. After signaling to his guards, Jarin led Wosen to a small cart.

  “Do you know these men?”

  “These two are citadel guards,” Wosen said. “They commanded the trailing carriage. And this one was supposed to be guarding our left flank.”

  Jarin nodded. “These men are in league with Molag Bomgaard. We recently learnt of their true allegiance as well as a dozen of our own men. We’ll return to Yarah and interrogate them there. My father has prepared for Lady and Lord Benoist’s arrival, and sent a message to Nazil as well. The Zaxson should be arriving soon, and I don’t think it’s wise to return to Nazil until after that time. Your usual accommodations await you and Sir Middleton, but first we must tend to the Zaxson’s family.” Jarin looked at Nakaris, curiously. “And your Second Chosen. He doesn’t seem quite himself.”

  Premonition

  The pale appendages reached up like serpents coiling around their prey. Their horrid, misshapen faces bore strange, wicked smirks. Slaver oozed from their ragged maws as their feral shrieks and shrill clicks echoed around the vastness of the null.

  “The darkness you serve shall be defeated,” he heard himself yell into the emptiness that surrounded him.

  “I don’t serve the darkness,” the wraith retorted. “I AM the darkness!” She released an eldritch shriek, her mouth contorting and elongating as the ear-piercing timbre caused him to shield his ears. With a mordant outbreath, a white gaseous veil spewed from the wraith’s mouth, engulfing him and surrounding the platform. The warrior fell back, blinking within the blinding pall and wielding his weapon. All about him was nothing but white, and the sting from the noxious cloud distorted his already obstructed vision.

  He was suspended in darkness, and then light—a cloud of nothing. Only the platform and those that encircled it remained. The blade extended again, just missing its mark.

  “You cannot defeat what you cannot see,” the wraith taunted, jabbing her sword into the warrior’s shoulder.

  He gnashed his teeth, drawing the dagger from his waist, slashing down at the withered hand on his calf. The touch of the damned burned his flesh, pulsating like the heat of a thousand fires. He yelled out, fighting against the bite of the imp’s touch, and the infernal wraith’s blade.

  “Loss is death.” The disembodied voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. He could feel the strength of those words as surely as he could hear them. As he stood on the platform, jutting precariously out of the abyss, the continuing waves of reverberance seemed to strengthen him.

  Another hand seized his ankle. He kicked at it instinctively, stomping on the appendages that were relentlessly grasping and pulling. With a roar from the pit of his stomach, he spun a circle on the platform, feeling the presence of the Ke’ohnzi. He wasn’t alone. This fight wasn’t his. He was there, but he wasn’t.

  Symeon raised a hand to the image of himself—the effigy suspended in the abyss.

  “Ayrmeis,” he breathed, realizing that truth. He could only watch the battle unfolding before him. “Ayrmeis,” he said again, witnessing the demonic form of the wraith swoop down toward him, extending her claws.

  “Guardians, help me,” he yelled in desperation, overcome by the malevolence enveloping him. He raised his sword high, meeting the oncoming demon’s charge, only to have it knocked away as she shrieked, swiping out at him.

  [11]“Plamahje r’aymed tr’eon,” whispered melodiously in his ears before his image plunged a sword into the ground. A flash of pure energy erupted from the eddying aperture, surging over the warrior. The luminous pulse of the ensuing gush sent not only the mage, but also the impish fiends encircling him adrift in the nocuous cloud. The demon’s screech echoed while the luminescent energy exploded and sparked, drawing the gaseous cloud and those about it within the aperture.

  “No!” Symeon shouted, bolting up in the bed.

  “Husband?”

  “Sarai? Sarai?” he blinked, causing the fog veiling his eyes to dissipate. “Sarai,” he said again, hugging her close to his chest.

  “Yes, Symeon, I’m here. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “I—I don’t know. It was Ayrmeis. He—he was a man grown, and, I don’t know how or why, but I know he was there. It was him, and it wasn’t. I saw only myself, but it wasn’t truly me. It was Ayrmeis and—and a wraith.”

  “Ayrmeis? I don’t understand. Ayrmeis is but an infant, how could you have seen him as a man?”

  “I can’t explain it to you any more than I can to myself,” he said, wiping the sweat from his face. “There’s a connection, some symbiosis I feel from him. I don’t know how to make you understand, Sarai.

  “I thought my love for you caused me to mourn losing our son. It reaches beyond that, and I should’ve tried harder to help you understand. My connection, my place in Ayrmeis’ life is greater than I could’ve ever imagined. Ayrmeis will need me, Sarai, just as I’ll need him.” He rose up, grabbing his clothes.

  “Symeon, I don’t understand, Ayrmeis is the Zaxson’s son. What connection could you have? Please, you’re scaring me, Husband. I didn’t want to hurt you by accepti
ng Ayrmeis as my son. I grieve at his absence, but I promise to give you as many sons as you desire. Your connection will be with them. Please, forgive what I’ve done, please.”

  He sighed, taking a seat next to his wife. The pain in her eyes was reminiscent of what he’d seen after she refused her son. She loved Ayrmeis, just as he did, and regretted their decision now more than before. He didn’t know what was to come, but he knew that Ayrmeis’ place was with them.

  “Sarai, this doesn’t change my love for you or any child we may have. You denied your love for Ayrmeis, and I understand why you did.” He reached out, cupping her face in his hand.

  “I would’ve loved him as my own. They were not just words, my wife, I meant them as truly then as I do now. I failed you and him, and have caused both our suffering at his absence. Now, I know that I’ll have a place in his life beyond that of First Chosen. Mayhaps this was always meant to be.”

  “How?”

  “This I cannot know until I do. I’ll need to send a message to Kuhani. That was no mere dream, and I’m trepidatious regarding its implications. Some way, I must ascertain the truth.”

  Wrath of Lilinth

  Allister hesitated as he approached the weathered cabin. He never wanted to return to Sanctium, and after his perilous trek to the Dessalonian Mountains, that almost came to pass. He knew, even if his daughter didn’t, that the Cha not only communicated with this creature, but also sustained it. That truth alone was disheartening, and made him question numerous aspects of his life. The Cha were goodly priests, or so he’d believed. But now, after his own experiences, he had to admit that no one purporting to serve the gods would suffer such evil to thrive.

  “No. Not gods. Demons,” he muttered, feeling the hackles on his neck stand on end.

  He licked the dryness from his lips, slipping a hand into the inner pocket of his cloak, gliding his fingers over the shard’s smooth surface. He recalled the magnificence of the shard after he’d pried the stone shielding it away. Never had he seen such a gem, and gazing into its glittering facets had stirred something within him.