Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  “It’s not laughter. I’ve almost died three times in the last two days. I’ve been chased through the fields by the Esharii and stung by giant wasps. The whole outpost is under attack, and I think we were just hit by lightning that was thrown at us by an okulu’tan.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth. “Before you ask, I don’t even know who or what that is.”

  He pointed at the remains of the building. His hand was shaking as he held it out. “Even the buildings are trying to kill us—all because we have some kind of special blood.” His voice became more frantic. “I’m tired and exhausted, and we haven’t even made it to the island yet.” Everything he’d felt previously, about being meant for something more, could go jump in a river. He made a strangled sound.

  Loral stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

  “I never asked for this,” he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  His eyes watered. This was not the time or place to cry, but he couldn’t help it. A tear slid down his cheek, hotter than any of the fires that burned around them. That is all I need—to cry in front of her. I’m acting like a baby. It made him angry with himself. He turned his face toward the ground.

  He felt her hand on his arm and flinched.

  “Nobody gave us a choice,” she said softly.

  He started to pull away and say something mean, as he’d done with Nola. Then he remembered how terrible he’d felt after losing her and how ashamed he’d felt for being mean during their last conversation. He didn’t want to bear that again. He took a deep breath and lifted his head to face her. That simple motion was far harder than fighting the wasps or facing the Esharii.

  Loral’s red hair was matted to her head, half her face was covered in soot, and her clothes were dirty and stained, but she looked so strong. Then, he met her eyes and saw the same fear and frustration. Like him, she was scared, and behind that, her concern was real.

  He took another deep breath, getting control of himself. “Thank you,” he said. He forced himself to say the next words. “Everything will be fine.”

  “I know,” she said and smiled weakly at him.

  “We need to go.”

  She nodded, but neither of them moved. Her hand was still on his arm, and their gazes remained locked on each other. Something in Riam’s chest began to tighten. This time, it wasn’t anger, nor was it anything he’d ever felt. He reached out awkwardly, unsure of what he was doing.

  Suddenly, they were holding each other. He’d never been embraced like this by anyone else in his life that he remembered, not even Lemual. It was the most wonderful, yet most foreign, thing he’d ever felt. She was warm and soft and firm and safe at the same time. Her hair smelled like smoke, and her cheek rubbed soot on his face as they held each other, but he didn’t mind these things at all.

  “Thank you,” Riam said.

  “There’s nothing—”

  Riam didn’t hear the rest. A sudden pulse from the sword shot through his body. It was like a cry in the night, or a scream, and it tore out everything he had left. His eyes glazed over, and he dropped the weapon. He took a single step backward before his legs gave out. He knew exactly what the pulse meant. It was a message of sorts, and it left him aching through his core.

  “Riam, what is it?”

  He looked up at her helplessly with tears running down his face. He didn’t care if she saw them this time. “It’s Gairen. He is dead.”

  Chapter 14

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” Loral asked. “Maybe he’s injured or unconscious.”

  The ground felt cold beneath Riam. He still shook, but the tears had stopped. Loral stood before him with her body half in shadow, the only light around them coming from the burning rubble they’d escaped. The flickering images created by the flames matched his heart—half lost, half hidden, half dark. The explosion would bring others, Harol’s spearmen or the Esharii, but to be honest, Riam didn’t care who arrived. Gairen was dead, and he knew it.

  Riam’s only connection to his family was lost. He might never know the truth about his father. He pulled his knees in close.

  “No,” he said after a time. “He’s dead. I felt it through the sword. It used to be his, before I took control of it. Maybe it was still connected to him somehow, or maybe they’re all connected, like a giant web. I don’t know.” When the wasps were close to killing him, he’d dived down into the power of the sword. There’d been a second channel of energy leading away into the distance beyond his awareness. Maybe that had something to do with it.

  He explained it all to Loral—about how he’d broken Gairen’s link and forged his own to keep from dying. “I only took control of one. The other is still his. Maybe the two swords are connected, or maybe they all are somehow. I don’t know how any of this works, but I know what I felt. I felt him die.”

  The sword lay on the ground next him. The fire’s reflection danced on the flat of the blade. The once-white crystal was solid and clear, like a diamond. Where the weapon had excited him before, it now looked cold and treacherous. He didn’t want to touch it.

  “I could feel his life . . .” he struggled with the words, “. . . scatter and disappear, like mine before I used the sword to save myself.” Riam’s hand hovered over the hilt. He recognized the truth of what he’d sensed through his connection to the sword, but he wanted to see Gairen’s body to confirm it; sitting here would do them no good.

  He inhaled deeply through his nostrils. Wincing slightly, unsure of what would happen, he closed his hand over the hilt of the weapon. The leather-wrapped handle was cool and damp with sweat, but other than that, he didn’t feel anything different. The crystal remained solid and empty. His feelings hovered between disappointment and relief. He climbed to his feet. “We need to find him.”

  Loral nodded once before the sound of rough footsteps pulled her attention away. Her eyes widened in horror, and she took a step backward.

  Riam spun. It wasn’t the Thaen Regulars who’d found them.

  Two Esharii approached, their expressions grim behind their green-and-black face paint. The tribesmen had known they were here somehow, and by the way they held their swords, they brought only death with them.

  Riam put his arm out in front of Loral protectively and pushed her behind him. “Run when I tell you,” he said through the side of his mouth. He brought the sword up in front of him.

  The tribesmen stopped, unsure of what to make of a young boy armed with a Draegoran sword. One looked to his left, at the destroyed building, then back at Riam. His expression was muted, but his eyes scanned the area rapidly, trying to put it all together and make a decision. The other warrior didn’t mirror the same uncertainty. He stepped forward, his heavy sword gleaming in the light.

  Riam held the Draegoran sword higher.

  The Esharii swung, smashing Riam’s weapon from his hands so hard he thought his arms were being torn from his shoulders. The blow numbed his fingers and yanked him off-balance.

  The Esharii chuckled. “Good joke,” he said in a thick accent. The tribesman grinned, revealing large, stained, square teeth, and raised the blade to swing again.

  Riam should have been telling Loral to run, but he couldn’t speak. Everything he’d endured for the past few days had been for nothing. It was all about to end.

  A blur flew through the air and smashed into the Esharii’s face, caving in the tribesman’s cheek and shattering his jaw. Teeth scattered through the air like seeds from a batted melon. The tribesman flopped to the ground. A heavy cast-iron skillet, now smeared with green paint, landed with a dull thump.

  Two men came racing into the light. One, with thin white hair standing out in all directions, wore a dirty apron and carried a long, wide cleaver. The other was missing a hand, but that didn’t stop him from trying to outrace his disheveled coworker to get at the remaining tribesman with a second heavy iron skillet.

>   The cooks. Riam never would have imagined the cooks coming to their rescue.

  The Esharii glanced at his companion on the ground, back up at Riam, and then at the charging cooks. Whatever he debated, he made up his mind and lunged forward, intent on killing Riam before the cooks could interfere.

  The move surprised Riam. He stood frozen as the point of the blade drove toward him.

  Loral saved him. She yanked him backward by the shirt far enough to avoid being impaled by less than a hand’s length. The two of them tumbled backward, and there was no time for the Esharii to strike again before Brin was on him, wielding the iron skillet like an ax designed for battle.

  If Brin were alone, it would have been a short fight, with Riam and Loral faring no better than before he arrived, but with Jon beside him, it was an even match. Obviously, the two men hadn’t always been simple cooks. They fought well, and the sound of the Esharii blade ringing off the skillet and the cleaver showed the true measure of Brin and Jon’s abilities. After several attacks and counters, neither side had the advantage.

  Riam scrambled for his sword.

  “Don’t!” Loral yelled at him.

  Loral’s yell tipped the balance. Her shout distracted the tribesman. Jon and Brin took advantage and attacked from both sides. Brin’s swing was deflected, but Jon’s caught the Esharii across the wrist with a full swing of the cleaver. There was a loud snap, and the Arillian blade slipped from the tribesman’s half-severed hand.

  Brin’s next swing connected with the side of the tribesman’s skull, felling the warrior and ending the fight.

  “We need to find Gairen,” Riam told the cooks.

  “What we need is to get you two out of harm’s way until this is over,” Brin said.

  Jon spoke rapidly after the other cook, “Lucky for you we were awake, getting ready to start roasting the morning meat, when the attack started. We locked ourselves in the mess hall until we heard the explosion. Felt like lightning hit right outside the hall. That was Sollus’s own racket, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure was. I told Brin, ‘Nothing good can come from that. The regulars might need us.’ That’s when we opened the door and saw these two,” Jon waved his cleaver at the two fallen tribesmen, “ready to skewer you both.”

  “Speaking of skewering, no need to be standing out here gobbing. Let’s go,” Brin said.

  “I told you. We’re not going with you. We need to find Gairen.”

  “The warden can look after himself, boy.”

  “You don’t understand . . .” Riam trailed off helplessly. He didn’t want to say the words again. Every time he said them, it made them more real.

  Brin tilted his head, waiting for more, but Riam didn’t say anything. “Well? Spit it out. Why do we need to risk gettin’ killed to find him?”

  Loral rescued him. “Because he’s dead.”

  “What? How do you know? What happened?”

  “It was the sword.” Riam held it up. “It told me.”

  The cooks looked closely at the weapon in his hand for the first time. Jon looked from the sword to the destroyed building and back. “I think there’s a whole heap of story we’re missing,” he said.

  “A whole heap,” Brin echoed.

  “We don’t have time—” Riam started.

  “We’re not doing anything until you explain, so let’s have it.”

  One of the Esharii groaned.

  “Best we move back to the mess hall first,” Jon said.

  Riam started to protest, but Jon shushed him with a hand.

  “After you tell us what you know, we’ll go looking if it’s the right thing to do.”

  “He’s right,” Brin said. He knelt next to the tribesman who’d stirred. He raised the skillet high into the air and brought it down, edge first, with all his strength. It was a smooth, well-practiced motion from years of butchering. There was a muted thunk, like a hatchet sinking into the end of a wet log.

  Loral let out a yelp and turned away. Brin rose, moved to the other tribesman, and repeated the swing. There was another sickening thunk. Loral jumped at the sound of the second blow. Riam would never look at the cooks quite the same way again.

  “Let’s go,” Brin said, wiping a blood spatter from his face.

  Riam didn’t argue.

  They hurried to the mess hall. Brin unshuttered a lamp that hung in the center of the room while Jon barred the door.

  Riam sat at one of the tables, tapping the knuckles of his fist against the surface. Loral pushed down on his hand to stop him. He tapped his heel instead. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to find Gairen, and the calm way that the cooks were taking everything frustrated him to no end. They should be out looking for Gairen, not sitting here. He kept picturing Gairen lying pale and dead, like one of the bodies lined up in the timber yard.

  “Water for you young ones.” Jon set a jug with cups stacked upside down on top of it in front of them. Then he pulled a bottle out from under his arm and put it next to the water. “Something a little more potent for Brin and me.”

  Once they were all seated, Brin told Riam that he wanted the whole story, “right from the beginning,” so Riam began with the day Gairen arrived at the farmstead. He hurried through the death of his grandfather. The two cooks kept getting confused as to whether or not he lived with his father or his grandfather. He had to jump forward and explain about how he’d thought it was his father, but it was really his grandfather. Once that was sorted out, he told them about Nola and how the Esharii had taken her. Ashamed of how he’d acted, he left out the part about being mean to her.

  When he told them about the wasps and how he’d come to be linked to the sword, they made him repeat the part where he broke Gairen’s link, and they asked numerous questions about how he’d used the power in the sword before the explosion.

  As if to prove it was real, Jon rubbed at the scar on Riam’s nose where Gairen had cut him. “I think the boy is telling the truth, Brin. It feels like it’s years old, but I know it wasn’t there yesterday morning.”

  The other man rubbed at the stump of his missing hand and nodded in agreement.

  Riam went on, telling them about waking up when Gairen touched the sword and the events up through the attack and the explosion. Loral gave them her view, adding in details that he missed.

  He choked back tears when he told them about feeling Gairen’s death.

  Brin was thoughtful, continuing to rub at his stump a time before speaking. “First, are you sure it’s Warden Gairen who’s dead?”

  “It had to be him. I felt it through the sword.”

  “I don’t doubt what you felt, but how do you know that it was him? How do you know it wasn’t Master Iwynd—not that it would make things any better? You’re not exactly trained to use that thing, and I want to make sure.”

  “I . . .” Riam hadn’t thought of that. Is it possible? Because the weapon had belonged to Gairen, he’d immediately assumed that it was Gairen who’d died. Could it have been Master Iwynd? He began to doubt the surety of what he’d felt. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that, but it felt like Gairen. I can’t explain why.” He was almost whispering, but there was a spark of hope in his voice. Maybe it had been the older Draegoran. He felt a little guilt. He didn’t want the old Draegoran to be dead either.

  Sitting and doing nothing wouldn’t help them figure out the answer. Riam stood. “We need to find out the truth.”

  “Sit back down. Running into the thick of it and dyin’ isn’t going to do any good. We’ll sit right here and wait,” Jon said. “I know it’s hard, but we’ll know the truth of things ’fore long.”

  “It’s a poor thing losing either of them,” Brin said. “As for your story, best you never repeat it again—ever—to anyone. At least not until you complete your training on the island and you’re strong enough to defend yourself, and.
even then, not to anyone you don’t trust. There are those who’d see you dead because of what you’ve done. I can’t put it more plain than that.” He turned his attention on Loral. “That goes for you, too. They might kill you for knowing about it.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “The Draegorans, they may fight on the same side against the Esharii, but that doesn’t mean they get along among themselves. I’ve served them for years, and it’s come close to open war between the regiments more often than anyone would like. Now is one of those times when things aren’t sittin’ so well. The Wolves are getting a little too strong for the others’ liking. A lot of people will want young Riam here in their regiment, or they’ll see him as a threat and try to get rid of him.”

  “But I’m only a boy. I don’t even know how to use the sword. I just didn’t want to die.” Riam laid the sword on the table. “I don’t even want it. I’ll give it away.”

  “It’s too late for that. The only way to break the link is to die. Long ago the swords could be passed on to a descendant with the owner still living, but that ability was lost generations ago.”

  Jon snapped his fingers. “I’m betting that’s how he could do it. Him being young and related to Gairen, they’d have nearly the same bloodlines. Maybe the crystal recognized him.”

  “What?” Riam asked.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Brin said. He tapped his stump on the table.

  Riam’s knuckles were white where he gripped the table. “Are you saying that Gairen and I are related?”

  “You mean you don’t know? Gairen’s your uncle. He’s been out looking for you for two years, though none of us are supposed to know that. I thought that’s why you’re so upset,” Jon said.

  It all made sense. That’s how Gairen knew I had the blood before the test. That’s why he knew my father so well. Why didn’t he tell me?

  Riam hoped with all his heart that it was Master Iwynd who was dead. He knew it wasn’t right to wish harm on another, but he couldn’t help the way he felt. He put his forehead down on his arm and closed his eyes.