Even with all of these flaws, Raimie was enchanted, and he spent many evenings with Oswin perfecting his aim.
In other words, he spent the vast majority of his time ignoring Kheled’s advice concerning his concussion. Even the soldiers who’d had such an injury in the past cautioned him that he should rest more.
The problem was that Raimie wasn’t sure he had a concussion. He’d questioned a very nervous sailor about the symptoms associated with the condition soon after the battle, and he displayed no such signs apart from a brief spell of memory loss. He hated to doubt his friend, but in this case, he thought Kheled was wrong.
Then he woke one morning with a blinding headache, and all his doubts were assuaged. He resigned himself to spending the next few weeks cooped up in bed when he took notice of the increased amount of activity outside. Boots clomped rapidly in the hallway and on the deck above his head, and he could hear muffled voices shouting orders. Ignoring the headache, he got up, dressed and armed, and wandered above deck to see what was going on.
The main deck was alive with activity. Sailors scrambled every which way, doing Alouin knew what, and Raimie shrank against the railing so as to avoid being trampled. He managed to stop one man carefully carrying a lengthy coil of rope aft.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“See for yourself,” the man replied, jerking his head fore.
He scurried away before Raimie could ask more inane questions. The young man skipped and dodged his way past sailors until he’d made it to the bow, joining Marcuset in his inspection of what lay before them.
In the distance, a long green and gray blob rose from the water. For the first time that morning, Raimie noticed the gulls crowding the lines above. He squinted at the blob and thought he could make out tiny trees lining the top.
“Is that…?”
“Auden,” Marcuset confirmed confidently.
“How long before we’re there?” Raimie asked, leaning his body weight through his palms onto the railing.
“Within the day, Your Majesty,” Marcuset answered. “Most likely before evening falls.”
Raimie bowed his head and closed his eyes. He’d thought he’d have a few more weeks to prepare. It had only been – he did a quick mental calculation – nearly twelve months since he’d left the farm! Gods, had it been that long? It felt so much shorter.
And in that time, what had he learned? How to passably use a sword? How to scratch the surface of this primeancy he’d been gifted? He wasn’t ready to take on a Dark Lord.
“We’ll need a plan for the time after our initial landing, Your Majesty. Eledis has drawn some up for you to look over. I believe that’s why he’s been looking for you the last few days. You’ll need to peruse them this morning before we make landfall.
“The next few weeks will be the most dangerous for us as we’ll be in enemy territory with scant support. We’ll need to find allies if we can, and if we can’t, we’ll have to acquire a stronghold of our own with which to establish a base. But I’m sure Eledis will go over it all with you, Your Majesty.”
That’s right. From now on, it would be war. Gone were the days of training, of reading by candlelight in his cabin, of the security he felt among friends and soldiers he trusted. It would be worry and fear and struggle and strife.
“Your Majesty?”
The terror in his belly clawed up his throat, and the pain in his head tightened like a vice. He was frozen in place from the overwhelming emotion. How could he hope to prevail if he couldn’t even conquer himself? He couldn’t do this!
“I’m not ready!”
The headache was pure agony. He slammed his fists against his temples and shoved against the resistance of his skull. If he could get his fingers inside, maybe he could pluck the fire out of his brain.
“Alouin, you’re just a scared kid, aren’t you?” Marcuset’s voice drifted past Raimie’s awareness.
Why did this situation feel so familiar? He could swear he’d been here before, paralyzed with terror and crippled with pain.
Icy numbness spread throughout his body from head to toe. The fists drifted down, and his head lifted. His streaming eyes scanned the horizon, taking in every discrepancy both on the sea and on the ship.
Bright. Dim. I need you both RIGHT NOW.
They popped into existence nearby and instantly shivered, withdrawing slightly.
“What’s going on?” Marcuset asked with concern. “Is something the matter?”
Raimie ignored him, inspecting every shadow, every dark space.
“You should already be running,” Bright warned, teeth chattering.
I know. I can’t. Any other helpful suggestions? Perhaps something to nullify the battle magic?
A shadow peeled away from its fellows gathered below the mizzenmast on the quarterdeck. Raimie took in the massive sword and the fluttering black cloak and glanced over the dozens of sailors on the main deck.
Dim, I need somewhere less populated.
The splinter took off and immediately returned.
“The hold,” he said, surprisingly stoic.
Normally, he’d be cheerily making mischief by now.
Marcuset grabbed Raimie’s arm and spun him around so they faced one another. Fear struggled to rise unburdened in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he gruffly asked.
“Nothing,” Raimie answered as calmly as he could. “Brief dizziness and a headache from the concussion is all. I should go below and find Eledis as you were saying.”
“You’re only now showing symptoms for a concussion you told me yesterday wasn’t real? That’s hardly convincing,” Marcuset said skeptically.
Raimie drew himself up as much as possible, desperately holding back the pain and fear.
“Let go of me, commander. I don’t have to explain myself to you, and I’d like to be gone now. I want to personally ensure my grandfather’s plans won’t involve unnecessary loss of life. We both know how callous he is with the common soldier.”
Marcuset slowly nodded and released Raimie’s arms.
A full-throated, manic giggle split the air on deck, and immediately all activity ceased. Men and women froze in the middle of what they were doing as a blanket of terror stripped their courage bare. Beside Raimie, Marcuset managed to get a hand to his sword before the fear won.
“Teron,” he squeaked.
The terror Raimie was buried beneath increased a hundred fold. His tiny human brain screamed at him to flee as far and as fast as he could, but his body wasn’t responding. His eyes flicked from the robed figure perched on the quarterdeck’s stair and the sailors helpless on the deck below.
He hesitantly took a step, and the pride in such a simple accomplishment helped him find the courage to take another and another until he was sprinting for the closest hatch.
He slid down the ladder, palms protesting the heat of friction, and barreled down the hall leading to the hold. He nearly collided with the door to his father’s cabin when it opened.
“What’s happening, son?” Aramar asked.
Raimie shoved the older man back into his room. Slamming the door shut, he jimmied one of his daggers into the frame, angling it to block the path out.
“Sorry dad,” he yelled through the new obstacle. “I need you to stay in there. I love you.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. In a flash, he was down another ladder and in the darkness of the ship’s hold.
“Now what?” Bright asked.
“Honestly, I was hoping you two might have a plan by now,” Raimie whispered frantically. “I’m having enough trouble as it is staying focused enough to keep moving.”
“We could try to surprise him when he comes down here,” Dim suggested.
“That’s your plan?” Raimie squeaked. “Surprise the demon who specializes in terror?”
“Do you have a better one?” Bright asked.
“No,” Raimie mumbled, “but I am absolutely, totally dead.”
Bright and
Dim emphatically nodded.
“Most likely.”
Raimie rolled his eyes at their lack of support and found a good hiding space. He drew Silverblade and settled in to wait.
* * *
Aboard Second Chance, Kheled’s blood pressure soared as he attempted to reason with the man in charge of the ship.
“You and the crew don’t even have to go aboard!” he assured Gistrick. “Just get me close enough to cross, and that’ll be good enough.”
Gistrick seemed to consider the suggestion, but the fear must have won out because he vehemently shook his head.
“I’m staying as far away from that ship as possible,” he stammered. “I don’t know what’s going on over there, but I do know that everyone on board is dead. Nothing we can do.”
Kheled pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Gistrick, you’re being affected by magic. The terror isn’t real. Fight it.”
“No, no,” Gistrick shook his head fiercely as if trying to clear it. “We’re going back to Allanovian now. Back home where it’s safe.”
He turned to the wheel. Kheled sighed and slammed the Zrelnach commander’s face into it. Gistrick sagged to the ground, and Kheled dragged him away, returning to the wheel to examine it speculatively.
“How the hell do I steer this thing?”
* * *
Raimie heard heavy footsteps approaching and tensed. He’d split the splinters up, Bright to the ladder and Dim with him. Bright was in charge of scouting and illumination, and Dim was to act purely as his source. The brute force of Daevetch’s energy seemed a better fit for this opponent than the speed granted from Ele.
The ship jerked sideways from the impact of something large, hull creaking, and Raimie braced to keep from toppling. He feared he’d soon hear the crack and splinter of wood, allowing the ocean water to rush in and do Teron’s job for him, but the hull held, and an eerie silence descended.
Teron landed in the hold, not bothering with the ladder. His hood turned from side to side, taking in his surroundings, and fixed on Bright. He hefted his blade and swung it at the splinter.
The sword connected with the splinter’s side and slowed as if meeting resistance. Bright’s eyes flared wide, the blade blazed with darkness, and the splinter exploded in a spray of light fragments.
“No!” Dim screamed, lurching forward.
The hold plunged into darkness. Raimie frantically reached for his connection to Ele and found nothing there.
“You are quite the interesting human, young king,” a smooth, refined voice whispered, the words drifting cloyingly to Raimie’s ear. “So ignorant, and yet able to navigate treacherous waters diplomatically despite the appalling lack of knowledge. Attracted splinters of either side, and have not only survived their conflict but somehow made them friends.
“Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed observing you these last few months. In fact, I believe my master could spend many an entertaining hour with you if your presence wouldn’t endanger him more than any entertainment value you might have would be worth. I fear it’s time for your life to end.”
“He’s right in front of you,” Dim told his human coldly, anger buried dangerously low beneath the surface.
Raimie lunged with Silverblade, but the attack was rebuffed.
“To the left,” Dim whispered.
Raimie swung in the direction indicated, and his blade was parried with such strength that he lost his grip. Silverblade clattered in the distance. A hand seized his throat and propelled his head backward into the hold, making Raimie’s ears ring.
“Tell your aberrant splinter to hush,” Teron commanded irritably. “I dislike it when my prey fights back.”
“Daggers, Raimie.”
He reached for the dagger in the cuff of his boot and stabbed it in the direction of Teron’s voice. Another hand caught his wrist and slammed it into the hull once, twice, three times. His fingers lost traction on the dagger’s grip, and it slipped away.
“Stop resisting!” Teron hissed.
Hanging from the monster’s grip on his neck, Raimie smiled. Teron was damn right. He was terrified, in enormous pain, and he was fighting for his life, not frozen or running away.
A laugh burgeoned in his lungs, struggled past the obstacle on his throat, and burst forth brokenly from his mouth. Immediately, Teron’s grip tightened, cutting it off, and Raimie clawed at the hand pinning him.
“What’s so funny?” Teron asked angrily.
He released the pressure enough for Raimie to speak.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he coughed.
For a moment, Raimie thought Teron might have turned to stone, but the grip tightened again.
“Well, that’s your mistake.”
Something cold and sharp slid across his neck above Teron’s hand. Warmth flowed between the monster’s fingers and Raimie’s skin and down his chest. His extremities turned cold, and he struggled to stay awake. The pressure released, he thumped to the floor, and the world rolled.
There was a flash of light and a familiar voice, and then, Raimie’s brain shut down.
* * *
The dagger blocking access to the cabin looked vaguely familiar, and after a moment, Kheled chuckled. It was the one he’d given Raimie in Allanovian so long ago. Fitting that it should end up here, abandoned by its owner in a desperate attempt to protect his father.
Kheled wiggled the blade out of the wood and released the hollering man inside.
“Kheled,” Aramar gasped, “you have to-”
“Which way did he go?” the healer asked.
Aramar pointed, and Kheled left him behind. The hatch that led into the hold was open, nothing but darkness inside.
“I don’t like this,” Creation said beside him. “We should take the Second Chance and leave. Hope that another ally is quickly chosen for you.”
“I’m not abandoning Raimie,” Kheled muttered.
He focused on shifting his eyes to something resembling a cat’s. Some night vision would be useful in the unlit hold.
“Why? Because he’s your ‘friend’?” Creation asked sarcastically. “Don’t make me laugh. Are you even capable of friendship? You don’t exactly have a great track record.”
Kheled glared at the splinter and dropped into the hold.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He scanned the hold carefully, alert for the slightest movement.
“Looking for this?” a smooth voice asked.
Raimie’s body rolled to a stop in front of Kheled’s feet, his eyes staring sightlessly up. The healer crouched and pushed his fingers against his friend’s slippery neck.
“I told you that you couldn’t stop me for long, primeancer. I’ll always hunt my prey down.”
The heat rising from Raimie and the trickle of blood pulsing from his wound were good signs. It meant there was still a thread of life. He fed his friend a stream of Ele’s energy, enough to last a good quarter hour. Now he needed to eliminate the threat.
He dragged an enormous amount of energy through his source, and the hold lit up with blinding white light.
Teron waited patiently against the hull, his sword planted into the wood beneath his feet. He’d brought something different for this confrontation. Although still massive, the great two-handed sword differed from Teron’s previous weapon in one significant way.
Veins and waves of darkness crawled up and down it, creating a shifting spider web of black on the dull metal. Motes of black coalesced from the hull, from the cargo, from Teron himself, and the sword hungrily drew them in, forcing back Ele’s light with the miasma around it.
“Where did you find Lighteater?” Kheled asked, horrified at the sight of the weapon.
“My Lord has had a long time to prepare for the inevitable resistance from across the waters. You think he never heard the prophecy or prepared for its eventual fruition?”
“Doldimar’s crazy, but he’s never been stupid,” Kheled acknowledged. “Speaking of him, w
ould you mind terribly bringing a message to the bastard? Tell him the Ele primeancer said, ‘Your time unchecked draws to a close. We’re coming for you.’”
Teron lifted Lighteater gracefully, holding it out to the side.
“The message will be pointless once I destroy your source and kill you,” he stated indulgently.
No more words. In an instant, Kheled was across the hold, his hands on Teron’s chest. He drove the majority of Ele that he held through his palms. Teron battered against and through the hull, and the ocean eagerly took his place.
Kheled had been prepared for the smash of water against him and the pummeling of the cargo swept up in the onslaught. He hadn’t been ready for the icy chill of the sea. It stole his breath away, and he instinctively inhaled a mixture of air and water. Frantically paddling to keep his head above the rapidly rising ocean, Kheled coughed and gasped until he had control of his lungs once more.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged below the surface into the murky depths. He found Raimie’s body with difficulty, thankful it hadn’t swept away with the initial inrush of water, and swam against the current through the Teron sized hole and into the ocean beyond.
Interlude III: Despair
“Some of Arivor’s neighbors have been commenting on Rafe’s recovery,” I told Lirilith, leaning over and resting my cheek on the top of her head. “It makes me nervous. You know how quickly this city turns to violence when religion and superstition are involved.”
Lirilith murmured reassuringly and reached up to stroke my hair. I sat up, thereby removing the distraction.
“What if Reive finds out how his great nephew’s recovery came about? He already intimated that I’d done too much damage with my experimentation. I can’t imagine what he and the rest of the Council would do if they discovered that same experiment bestowed a portion of their god’s power on me.”
Lirilith huffed and threw her head back with exasperation, her long hair draping down the headboard and over her shoulders.
For the first time that evening, I fully looked at my wife, taking in the nearly nonexistent negligee she was wearing. She’d rouged her lips and cheeks and darkened her eyelids. I couldn’t believe how long it had taken me to notice, but notice I did if things beneath the sheets were any indication.
The Undying Champions (The Eternal War Book 1) Page 53