Thorns in Shadow

by Sanan Kolva

  “We’re almost…” Cailean trailed off. “Oh, blackened blood.”

  Nails clattered on stone, and a wave of large, black shapes rushed from around the corner. Seeing intruders, they stopped and bared gleaming white fangs. Their eyes were yellow, their teeth smooth, but Lyan’s blood froze all the same. He caught himself listening for the whispers of the reapers. Behind the first group, another pack gathered. For a long moment, neither men, elves, nor dogs moved. One sleek black dog barked and lunged at them, the rest of the pack on its heels.

  Lyan froze. These mortal dogs were not the same as Murdo’s spawn, but his thoughts still mired in fear. Yion hurled a throwing star into one dog. It tumbled with a yelp.

  The lead dog leapt. Lyan raised an arm to protect against the fangs.

  The dog slammed hard into something invisible, as if the air itself became solid. It staggered, dazed. Those behind scrambled to stop without success. They slid into the barrier in a pile of legs amid yips, snarls, and growls. The second pack met the same fate. Lyan stared, knowing he hadn’t had wits enough to call on Equinox for help.

  A solid, strong hand smacked Lyan on the head. “Oww!” he protested. He spun around, intent on returning the hit. His mouth opened, but not words came.

  “Damn fool, stubborn, bull-headed mortal!” Nachyne said, exasperated. Muscled arms folded across bare chest. “When did you plan to invite me to this little party?”

  “Uh… I… didn’t,” Lyan managed. “So how…?”

  The god of monsters snorted. “Just because I must come when you call doesn’t prohibit me from being where I wish any other time.”

  On either side of them, slavering dogs clawed and bayed at the force that blocked them. Nachyne cast them a look of mild annoyance and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Silence.”

  The dogs stopped. Heads drooped and tails tucked between legs. Several dogs whined softly. They milled uncertainly, then lay down, heads resting on paws. Nachyne nodded approval.

  No one else moved, just stared at the tall, bronze-skinned, winged god. Nachyne still wore the green silk loincloth, to Lyan’s great relief. Torchlight seemed drawn to Nachyne. He gleamed as if cast from metal. Leathery wings folded back, and his feline tail twitched idly as he gazed back.

  Lyan cleared his throat and licked dry lips. “Um, Nachyne, my companions: Cailean Dev’gilla, Spearbearer of Solstice, and his men, Aikan Unne, Shiolto Rona, whose brother Dalrian is elsewhere in the keep, and Yion. You already met Kithr.”

  “And your pet has been behaving himself?” Nachyne asked, eyes shifting to Praett, who did his best to act invisible.

  “I have no complaints,” Lyan said.

  “Good. So, this is the Spearbearer of Solstice.” Nachyne considered Cailean.

  Cailean found his voice. “I am Cailean Dev’gilla, Earl of Ihvako. And what interest does the god of monsters have, to bring him into my home?”

  Nachyne raised an eyebrow. “Ah—so Lyan hasn’t gone telling the tale. Well, in that case, let’s simply say I have a personal interest in Equinox.”

  “Time’s been a bit short,” Lyan said. “And still is.”

  Nachyne ignored the implied request. He looked over Aikan and Shiolto without comment, and then studied Yion. The god blinked and stood straighter. “Well. This is a curious sight. In one place, the elven Spearbearer, the Tathren Spearbearer, and Saiboti’s most recent champion. How curious that the Tathren god of warriors should choose a champion so obviously not Tathren.”

  Yion sighed. “My lord did not wish his identity to be revealed, Lord Nachyne.”

  Nachyne snorted. “Then he should have told me so.”

  “I doubt he expected that I should encounter you, Lord Nachyne,” Yion answered.

  Nachyne folded arms across his chest and scowled. “He sent you to guard the Spearbearers, didn’t he? He damned well should have expected you to encounter me!”

  Yion’s god is Saiboti, Lyan thought back to the tales Kithr had told him about the Tathren gods. The god of warriors, and brother of Ahebban. Ahebban hates elves because of some dispute he had with Soldarr, but Saiboti doesn’t sound like he holds the same grudge. Why would a Tathren god of warriors and honor take a foreign assassin as a champion?

  Lyan pushed aside his inner doubts. “Nachyne, not to be rude, but… we don’t really have time to talk about this right now.”

  Nachyne’s expression grew serious. “Murdo’s meddling here. I can feel it. So, you weren’t planning on calling on me, Lyan.”

  “Well, given how angry you were the last time… no, I wasn’t,” Lyan answered.

  Nachyne waved a hand. “Even gods have bad days. That happened to be one. As you said, talk will wait until Murdo’s minions are dealt with.”

  Cailean hesitated. “You … intend to accompany us, Lord Nachyne?”

  “Why? Is it a problem?” Nachyne returned.

  “No…,” Cailean allowed quickly. “Only unexpected.”

  “The gods have no love of Murdo and no wish to see his plans reach fruition, Cailean Dev’gilla. At times, a direct approach is more efficient. And why should I leave all the fun to mortals?” As Nachyne walked, the dogs whined and fell in around him, tails low. The animals kept glancing at him as if hoping for some word of approval. The god of monsters snorted. “Don’t look at me for praise. Try Saiboti’s champion. Dogs are his creatures, not mine.”

  The dogs didn’t heed Yion as they trailed on Nachyne’s heels. Lyan looked at his companions with an expression half apologetic as he followed Nachyne. Cailean leaned over and said in a low voice, “I do hope there will be some explanation when this is over?”

  “I can explain Nachyne’s presence,” Lyan answered. “Yion, on the other hand… that’s his tale to tell, because I don’t know.”

  Cailean smiled faintly. “And here I thought you knew everything.”

  Lyan only smiled in return.

  Nachyne strode around a corner, unconcerned with subtlety. Two men guarded a metal latticework gate into another courtyard. The evening breeze teased through the hall. They stared at Nachyne. One found his voice, raising his sword in a shaking hand.

  “Who in Murdo’s name…?!”

  Lyan couldn’t see the god’s face, but he read anger in the tensed muscles and twitching tail. Nachyne didn’t break stride. Fingers curled. Shimmering, impossibly long claws extended. The guards shouted in alarm and attacked.

  Lyan winced. Claws tore through armor and flesh as easily as through parchment, cutting short the shouts. The two men fell to the floor, lifeless and bloody. Nachyne stepped over them and paused at the gate. Around him, the dogs whined and cowered. They slunk back around the corner and away from the courtyard. Lyan looked through the gate, gripping Equinox.

  Torches lit the area, illuminating a stone building in the center. Paths of paving stones curled across bare ground. The building itself appeared unremarkable—unworthy of the dread Lyan felt as he gazed at it. Minimal adornments, nothing to indicate a place of worship. The presence of guards at the entrance and patrolling the ground, however, implied an importance greater than the exterior appearance.

  The guards watched the gate warily. Either they didn’t see the intruders on the other side, or their orders to hold their posts were stronger than the need to investigate shouts outside the courtyard.

  Or they knew something Lyan didn’t.

  Nachyne reached to open the gate, then drew up short. Pure fury flash over the god’s face. Nachyne’s eyes narrowed and his tail lashed back and forth. “You are not so clever or original as you fancy yourself, Murdo.”

  Cailean glared into the courtyard, and his hands twitched. Lyan knew he wished he held Solstice. “What have they done in my home?” The Tathren’s voice quivered with anger.

  “His minions have defiled this ground,” Nachyne said. “And recently, as well. Any mortal not a follower of Murdo who sets foot on that ground will suffer debilitating agony.” The god’s mouth curled in a sneer. “The gate itself is
enspelled to inflict it on anyone who attempts to open the gate without the proper token, blessed by Murdo. A trick he has used before, in different forms.”

  “Perhaps, Lord Nachyne, you can enlighten us on the best way to proceed?” Yion asked.

  “I can counter the effects of the desecration,” Nachyne said as if it were a minor concern. His next words, though, told Lyan that what Nachyne said was not accomplished as easily as he wanted them to think. “Doing so will occupy my attention, so dealing with the minions is up to you.”

  “What about the gate?” Shiolto ventured, the first words he’d spoken since Nachyne appeared. His voice trembled, wide eyes staring at Nachyne.

  The god of monsters laughed. “I said the gate is enspelled. I said nothing about the wall around it.” With the precision of an artist, Nachyne raised one claw and carved through the stone around the frame of the gate.

  Aikan opened his mouth, on the verge of reflexive protests before he remembered who he was about to chide for damaging Cailean’s keep. The elbow Cailean jabbed into his side helped remind him. The older man straightened drew his sword. The metal gate fell forward, crashing to the ground inside the courtyard. Guards gaped as the winged, bronze-skinned, nearly naked god walked over it. The metal groaned and twisted under his feet.

  “Intruder. Intruder!” The shout rose in the courtyard, and guards charged.

  The first caught Kithr’s arrow through his helmet’s eye slit. The second received two of Yion’s throwing stars in the neck.

  Praett’s voice whispered to Lyan. “Master, permit me to take care of the rest of these sheep.”

  “Go,” Lyan said.

  He glimpsed Praett’s wicked smile as it sprang past him to meet the guards. Lyan felt no sympathy for the men. You chose this path.

  “Spearbearers, do your job,” Nachyne said sharply. Beads of sweat formed on the god’s skin, though he otherwise showed no sign of strain.

  Lyan looked to his companions and nodded. Equinox held tightly, Lyan ran across the courtyard into the shrine dedicated to Murdo. Like a smothering blanket, he felt the weight of a presence surround him, angry, resentful, longing to wrench Equinox from him. Swallowing hard, fear sitting like a rock in his gut, Lyan sent silent prayers.

  Soldarr, Tesseia, Feyra, protect us. Ahebban, pardon an elf invoking your name, but watch over Cailean and his men, please. Saiboti… thank you for sending Yion to us. Equinox… please, please help me to fight!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Between the heavens and the earth they stand,

  Betwixt gods and men, they walk the line.

  Bearer of the Spear of Peace, one holds Solstice in hand.

  Bearer of the Spear of War, one by Equinox seeks the sign.

  Lyan saw his reflection in the polished stone floor. Rough, unfinished blocks formed the walls, giving the short entry hall an incomplete appearance, as if the craftsman had been interrupted. A heavy curtain hung at the end of the hall, blocking out most light from beyond, though slivers crept around the edges.

  Kithr straightened, pretending he hadn’t been limping slightly. Shiolto gripped his mace in white-knuckled hands. Yion’s eyes didn’t hold their usual relaxed confidence as he bore a slim blade in either hand. Aikan’s gaze smoldered. The flickering light of the torches emphasized the bruises that colored his face.

  Cailean rested a trembling hand on Lyan’s shoulder—not fear, but weakness. Sweat beaded Cailean’s face as he whispered.

  “I know you’re using some of Equinox’s power to help me, Lyan. But if you need that power in the battle ahead, take it. I’ll be all right. Don’t hesitate. Stopping Ewart and the priest is more important.”

  “I know,” Lyan whispered.

  Cailean nodded, drew a deep breath, and stepped forward. With the flat of Torqual’s sword, he pushed aside the curtain and stepped within. Lyan followed on his heels.

  Elven glow-lamps lit the chamber, and mirrors reflected the light to create an illusion of a wider, larger space. Despite the light, Lyan couldn’t shake the sense that gloom filled the chamber and shrouded it in darkness. At the far end of the room, an ornate altar of polished black stone rose from the floor. Images had been carved in it, inlaid with gold and silver. Though Lyan wasn’t close enough to see the finer details, he did recognize that in the altar’s center, a figure sat enthroned, holding a spear in either hand.

  Rage flared from Equinox. The desire to tear the altar to pieces flooded Lyan. But between Lyan and Murdo’s altar stood obstacles he couldn’t ignore.

  In the center of the room, a man dressed in maroon robes knelt on the cold stone at the edge of a circle of mystic symbols. Light shone off his bald head. His voice rose and fell in a low chant. In one hand, he held a jagged knife, the blade stained with dried blood. Caught up in his ritual, he didn’t notice the intruders.

  Near the doorway stood another man, facing the altar and flanked by four guards, focused on the rites rather than the doorway. The man’s hair was beginning to gray, but he was still fit. He stood slightly hunched, as if in pain. A sword hung from his belt, but he wore no visible armor. A thin metal circlet rested on his head. One hand constantly rose to finger the pendant hanging on a chain around his neck, and he murmured along with the chant.

  The man spoke without turning. “You’re late, Torqual.”

  Cailean’s face twisted with anger. “Torqual’s going to be a good deal more than ‘late’, Ewart. But do give him my regards when you see him in the Pits.”

  At that, the man turned. Lyan stiffened. Ewart’s face was like a mirror to Vynzent’s, aged, but bearing too great a resemblance to ignore, even to the same cut of hair and beard. Ewart’s eyes narrowed. “Well, if it isn’t Cailean, fancying himself a lord because he inherited a toy he can’t use. Another spoiled Dev’gilla brat, given everything he wanted.”

  Cailean seethed. “And refusing to grant your child anything unconditionally worked so well with your son. Where is Vynzent now?”

  “He’s become a reaper’s plaything, as any treacherous bastard deserves,” Ewart spat, eyeing them. “It seems Porephyn’s vaunted wards are worth less than the breath it took him to boast about them, if you and your pathetic allies simply walked in.”

  “Enough talk, Ewart,” Cailean snarled.

  Aikan stepped in front of his lord. “Your pardon, Lord Cailean, but I believe I have unfinished business with this man.”

  For one heartbeat, Lyan questioned if Aikan was, inexplicably, about to betray Cailean. But the steward’s voice turned hard as steel. “The last time he and I spoke, I was unable to make my point clear to him.” Metal glittered as Aikan drew his sword.

  Ewart’s eyes narrowed. “You made the wrong decision, Aikan.”

  “I made the wrong decision when I first responded to your invitation to treason, Ewart,” Aikan answered. “An error of judgment I will now rectify.”

  Ewart’s four guards stepped forward. Shiolto moved to Aikan’s side, and Yion joined him. “We’ll take care of this, Lord Cailean,” Shiolto promised.

  Cailean hesitated only a moment. “I know you will.”

  Through the confrontation with Ewart, the second man’s chanting had not wavered. Now it stopped, and he rose from the floor, turning to face them. His head was entirely hairless, lacking even eyebrows. His skin looked gray in the light. The color of his eyes seemed to constantly shift. Around his neck hung a medallion in the shape of a pair of crossed spears.

  Weapons clashed as Shiolto, Yion, and Aikan engaged Ewart’s guards, but the bald man’s attention didn’t waver from Cailean, Lyan, and Kithr. His smile could have frozen boiling water. “You think to challenge me in my own lair, Lord Dev’gilla?”

  Cailean trembled with fury. “I will not allow you to continue this mockery. This is my home!”

  “Will you attempt to reclaim it? Do come and try. Show me your might, Lord Dev’gilla. When you lie broken before our god, perhaps you will begin to understand the futility of your actions.”

&nb
sp; “I will never bow before you or Murdo!” Cailean shouted. He pointed the sword at the man. “I will not.”

  “You don’t even know how to free yourself of the curse laid on you,” the other sneered. “Why don’t you say my name, Lord Dev’gilla? I do enjoy watching you choke on it. You don’t have the slightest understanding of the power that holds you.”

  “Your death will break the curse,” Lyan said, cutting through the web of mockery around them. “And I can say your name, Porephyn.”

  The priest’s gaze rested on Lyan. “Well… Who told you that, I wonder?” Porephyn mused. “Not Lord Dev’gilla, certainly.”

  “Someone else who hates you,” Lyan said. “Though I’m sure that doesn’t narrow the possibilities much.”

  “There will always be those who reject our god. What of you, elf? Murdo will welcome you into the ranks of his devotees.”

  Fury surged from Equinox again, and Lyan bared his teeth. “Your false god will never lay a hand on the Spears again!”

  Porephyn’s gaze narrowed as his mouth twisted in a dark smile. “A foolish decision, elf.”

  An arrow flew from behind Lyan toward Porephyn’s chest. The shaft hit a barrier before it reached the priest, deflecting aside harmlessly. Kithr cursed.

  “Do you think it would be so easy to kill a mage and priest of Murdo?” Porephyn sneered. “I’m well-versed in elves and their ways.”

  Lyan heard the same confident gloat as he’d heard from Torqual. No, you’re not. You don’t know elves of Eilidh Wood. Equinox, I need your help, not your anger. The wave of rage from the Spear made Lyan struggle to remain focused. If he had ever questioned the depth of Equinox’s hate of Murdo, he never would again. Equinox ignored his thoughts, urging Lyan to rush in and drive the Spear into Porephyn’s heart.

  Which is exactly how he expects an elf to act. No! Lyan responded.

  Kithr released another arrow, though he knew it would have no more effect than the first. Porephyn raised his ritual knife and pointed the tip at Kithr. A flash of light sparked from the blade. Lyan swung Equinox awkwardly into the spark’s path. A jolt ran up his arm as the Spear connected, then cleaved through the attack. Wisps of magic drifted to the ground like mist.