Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  Mevon rolled, bouncing off the boulder. Long fangs punctured his legs and arms, another in his side. His movement prevented penetration as deep as the first attack, throwing some clear, crushing others. He pressed against the ground, coming to a standing position, and swiped to dislodge the few still clinging to him. Creatures the size of hounds. Long ears, compact bodies.

  He blinked, trying to reconcile the image before him.

  “Rabbits?”

  The jackals, laughing still, decided that this was a good time to pounce.

  Mevon jumped back, avoiding their first assault. But the second came too quickly, and he found himself on his back, barely holding back a jaw as wide as his shoulders as it snapped and slavered, dripping drool onto his face.

  He raised a foot, planting it in the beast’s belly, and kicked up. The jackal flipped over his head. Mevon surged upwards. He’d lost one dagger somewhere but held the other firmly as the second jackal leapt at him. He danced to the side, swiping along the creature’s flank. Black blood poured from the gash. The beast twisted its head towards him and laughed.

  Mevon drove his blade through the thing’s eye.

  The other jackal, cackling madly, crashed into his side. Teeth clamped down, tearing a bite out of the flesh around his ribs. Pain reached nauseating levels. Mevon punched the feeding head once, twice, thrice, but it kept on chewing.

  It ate him as he watched.

  Mevon screamed. He thrust his hands into the jackal’s mouth, gripping each half of the jaw, interrupting the meal. He began pulling them apart. Yipping turned to yowling, turned to whimpering, turned to . . .

  The jaw cracked wide open.

  . . . silence.

  Draevenus stepped up behind the first man, who hadn’t even twitched at his approach. One hand wrapped around the forehead, pulling back. The other ran a blade across the exposed throat.

  He pushed the thrashing, dying man to the ground and turned to the next.

  The man wailed and fled.

  Draevenus dashed forward, ahead of him, cutting off his line of retreat. The man changed direction. Draevenus did the same thing again.

  Three more times.

  Eventually, the man collapsed, shaking with fear and fury. Draevenus drew near.

  “You made a grave error,” he said, “crossing the likes of us.”

  The man growled, staring back with wide eyes.

  Eyes whose irises were as red as blood.

  Draevenus froze in midstride.

  Mevon pushed off the massive corpse and staggered to his feet. His whole body burned like coals as his blessings worked to heal the damage he’d sustained. It had been awhile since he’d been this badly hurt. He remembered feeling much the same the day his army had run into the Imperial force next to the Shenog Ravine, and the daeloth had somehow managed to lay a trap for him.

  The day Jasside had fallen off the cliff.

  He shook his head to clear the memory, breathing deep. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the past no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he was filled with regret. With longing.

  With despair.

  Lurching with each step, he waded through the trees, searching for more enemies or for a sign of his companion.

  He found both soon enough.

  Draevenus stepped towards a man on his knees. The grim flash of his blades thrust forth.

  Mevon sucked in a breath to tell his friend to stop, to show a little mercy or at least question the man before his end. But the call never came. Weakness from blood loss and hunger finally caught up to him, and he collapsed to hands and knees, struggling for mere breath.

  He heard the knife go in. The gurgled cries. The body slump to the ground.

  Another growl. But this one from a voice he knew well.

  Mevon lifted his head enough to see Draevenus, drenched in dark blood, shaking as he stood over a pair of corpses. Fear, sorrow, and anger brewed in the assassin’s distant gaze.

  “What wrong?” Mevon asked.

  “It’s happening again,” Draevenus said, face twisting into a snarl. “Ruul must have felt he failed with us, so he simply started over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The fur gave it away. Not a garment. They’re growing it right off their skin. And the eyes . . .” Draevenus shook his head. “Malformations, Mevon. Darkness making monsters of men and beast alike. Sound familiar?”

  Mevon couldn’t hold down the word that floated up into his mind.

  Mierothi.

  “Yes,” Mevon managed before a darkness of his own took hold and he fell face-­first into the dirt.

  Jasside shuffled into the same chamber as before, led by Daye, with Vashodia following. The first thing she noticed was Prince Chase’s lips, pressed together into a thin, pale line. It seemed Daye had gone to great lengths to secure this meeting. They were sure to have their work cut out for them.

  She stopped a respectful distance away, folding her hands before her. Vashodia came abreast of her, planting hands on her hips and spearing a grin across at Chase. It was a casually amused look that Jasside knew well, which said the mierothi was perfectly in control of the situation, the world bowing to her whim and will, mostly without even realizing it. As it should be.

  As she thinks it should be anyway.

  “Brother,” Daye said. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”

  Chase shook his head. “It pained me to see my own brother reduced to begging. It is for that alone that I relented.”

  “Still. Thank you.”

  Chase waved away the sentiment, eying both women in turn. “Say what you will, so we can be done with this.”

  Jasside cleared her throat. She had been preparing for this moment since Daye visited her chamber a few nights ago. A whole speech, well rehearsed, sat waiting in her head. If it couldn’t convince Vashodia to see reason, nothing would.

  She parted her lips to speak.

  Vashodia beat her to it. “My dear prince, please know that I am deeply sorry for my actions during our first meeting.”

  Jasside turned to her mistress, jaw hanging wide open.

  It was the first time she’d ever heard Vashodia apologize. For anything.

  Chase, too, seemed taken aback. His face softened, the tension and anger vanishing like smoke in the wind.

  Jasside leaned in close to Vashodia. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “Strategic calculation,” her mistress whispered back. “Watch and learn.”

  Jasside nodded and straightened.

  “That is very kind of you to say,” Chase said. He furrowed his brow. “That still doesn’t answer why you’re here.”

  Vashodia broadened her grin. “We’re here to offer an alliance.”

  “An alliance?” Jasside and both princes said at once.

  Jasside glanced at the brothers, who, understandably, seemed equally as surprised as her.

  Vashodia giggled. “Of course. Why else do you think I dragged myself out here?”

  “I thought you wanted an apology,” Daye said, “for that incident between my scouts and your hunters?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. We’re new to the area and still figuring out the lay of the land. Petty squabbles with neighbors is hardly worth getting worked up about.”

  Daye looked betrayed. “Then all that guilt you laid on me was just . . . what? Pretense?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He hung his head. “Then maybe I was wrong to bring you.” He turned to Chase. “I’m sorry, brother. I am a fool. It seems I’ve brought nothing but liars into our midst.”

  Jasside quivered at the accusation. “No,” she said. “Enough of this.”

  “You deny your own falsehood?” Daye said.

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve been denying far too much for far too long. The li
es have to end.” She turned her glare on Vashodia. “Now.”

  It was Vashodia’s turn to be surprised. The slight widening of her eyes was more victory than Jasside had ever hoped to accomplish.

  “No more manipulation,” Jasside said. “What is the real reason for this alliance?”

  “You want the truth, do you?” Vashodia smirked once more, falling back into her self-­assurance as if her momentary falter had never taken place. “Very well.”

  Jasside held her breath. She was sure both princes did the same.

  “This war,” Vashodia began, “is unfounded. I know that not a single soul from Sceptre had anything to do with the murder of the Panisian royal family. This invasion of theirs—­this ‘coalition’—­is being manipulated by forces most foul. It is an injustice I intend to correct.” She narrowed her gaze on Jasside. “And I’m very good at that, in case you have forgotten.”

  Jasside shivered. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. Then the only thing that remains, is the king’s answer.” Vashodia turned her eyes to Chase, and Jasside followed.

  Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks.

  Daye stepped up to him, grasping his brother by the forearm and bringing the other around his shoulders, hugging him close. They touched foreheads, breathing heavily. Chase nodded. Daye stepped back, allowing his brother the room he needed.

  “You mean to help us in this war? Truly?” Chase said.

  “We do,” Vashodia replied.

  “What do you want in exchange?”

  “Peace along our shared border. Open trade and travel.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And one other thing. A trifle, really.”

  Chase grunted. “That nonsense about calling me ‘king’?”

  She nodded. “Nothing nonsensical about it. A nation needs a strong leader, especially in a time such as this. Refusing the title only denies your ­people the assurance they need. It is childish of you.”

  “So, we’re back to petty insults again, are we?”

  Vashodia shrugged. “I thought you wanted the truth.”

  Chase sighed, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. “Very well. I’ll make the announcement today.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Jasside said. “Thank you again for agreeing to see us. We look forward to continuing cooperation.” She smiled at Daye, receiving like in return, then spun on her heels to leave.

  “Wait,” Chase said. “Before you go, can you at least let us know when we can expect reinforcements?”

  “Didn’t you know?” Vashodia said. “Our expeditionary army is already here.”

  Daye raised an eyebrow. “I’d hardly call twenty-­five men an army.”

  “What, the daeloth?” Vashodia giggled. “No, no. Not them. They are merely the escort.” She held up both hands, one towards Jasside, the other towards herself.

  “We are the army.”

  “Is it bad,” Tassariel asked, “that no one has come to see us yet?”

  “See you, you mean. I’m certain my presence is still safely masked, despite your antics in the receiving chamber.”

  “My antics? That was all your doing, you miserable ass.”

  “Hey, now, what happened to all your piety? I could use a good dose of it about now.”

  “Good luck with that. Next time you plan on murdering someone using my body, give a girl a little warning first. I almost couldn’t stop you.”

  “The fact that you did, however, is most worrisome. Believe it or not, I’ve never done this before. I was expecting to be more . . .”

  “Arrogant? Selfish? Insufferable?”

  “Effective.”

  Tassariel shrugged, not knowing—­or caring—­if Elos could discern the gesture. “Well, I guess that’s just what a god gets when he messes with lesser life-­forms. Did you forget that we have this little thing called ‘free will’?”

  “No. I didn’t forget. I just . . .” Ice stirred within her.

  “What is that?”

  It took him a moment to respond. “Pardon?”

  “That coldness, like a whirlwind of liquid frost. It only happens when you stop speaking. Sometimes I hate it.”

  “It’s . . . I’m . . .” The god paused again, and the ice swirled once more.

  Tassariel nearly screamed.

  “Calculation,” Elos replied at last. “It requires a certain cold detachment. It is an unfortunate side effect that it causes you such discomfort.”

  She scoffed. “That’s putting it mildly. I want to roll around on burning coals every time you do it, just to balance the temperature out.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Whatever.” He clearly wasn’t going to stop. “So, what is it you’re calculating anyway? The odds of my jumping off the nearest cliff if I have to listen to one more abyss-­taken word from you?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “I’ll try to steer us clear of any high ledges in the future.”

  Tassariel sighed. “Of course, falling wouldn’t even be an issue it you hadn’t taken my wings away.”

  “How many times must I say it—­there was no other choice.”

  “There’s always a choice. Anyone who says otherwise is either a fool or a tyrant.”

  To that, Elos had no reply. The ice didn’t even stir this time.

  Tassariel sighed, leaning back in her chair. It wasn’t very comfortable. Opulent, yes, but far too stiff for curling up and relaxing. It seemed much the same with the rest of the room she’d been given. The bed was too soft, and the embroidered sheets itched. The carved table legs, made to look like the branches of some exotic tree, kept knocking into her knees. The horn-­shaped goblets spilled water down her chin. It was an interior chamber and thus had no balcony—­no natural source of light—­but the lightglobes placed in every corner left no room for even a sliver of shadow, bathing the whole space in an eerie, perfect glow.

  Tassariel hadn’t left the room once. Not since she’d been brought here after meeting the queen and told, in very polite terms, that she wasn’t to step foot outside without explicit permission. A day and a half later, and she was still too scared to crack open the door.

  “Just what the abyss are we even doing here?”

  In answer, a knock sounded at the entrance to her chamber. Tassariel jumped to her feet with a squeak.

  “Come in?” she said.

  The door swung inwards. One, two, four guards piled in. A pair posted by the door. The other two approached.

  “Sit,” one ordered.

  Tassariel obliged.

  They took their places at either side of her, facing in. She noted, with equal parts amusement and disgust, that their waists were both eye level with her and less than half a pace away, and that their ridiculously festooned armor formed comical bulges around their groins. She felt manic laughter rise into the back of her throat.

  The next figure to enter stifled it.

  The minister shuffled in, still wearing those same ornate robes. Tassariel cringed internally at the sight of him. He put her on edge, for some reason, though she could not explain why. She’d only just met the man.

  She found herself breathing a sigh of relief, however, when the queen came in behind him. Tassariel had a feeling the ensuing conversation would be much different if the minister had come alone.

  The relief was short-­lived. On the heels of the queen came one more figure.

  The woman.

  If her reaction to the minister had been hidden, she could do little to keep from broadcasting her feelings at the sight of her. And Elos did far more. He awakened within her, not as a cold, calculating blizzard, but as a red-­hot flow of lava.

  Tassariel recovered quickly, making sure to keep every limb, every finger, every sin
gle strand of hair, firmly in check. Elos writhed against the bonds she placed over him, but they seemed to be holding.

  For the moment anyway.

  The three figures lined up before her, just inside the doorway, fifteen paces away. The minister was fully energized. It seems like they’re taking no chances with me. Best not give them a reason to act.

  “Your majesty,” Tassariel said, bowing her head. She couldn’t do much else from her seat. “Minister. I’m honored that you’ve come to see me.”

  “Our apologies for making you wait so long,” the minister said. “But I sense that you do not blame us for that. The situation is quite . . . unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Unusual. Yes. That word sums it up well.”

  “And if it weren’t for the queen’s good graces, you’d have been locked up in the dungeons rather than housed in her own guest chambers.”

  Tassariel locked eyes with Arivana. “You have my deepest gratitude, your majesty.”

  “Think nothing of it,” the queen said. “I’m afraid my dear friend Tior here is a little overprotective, especially since the recent attempt on my life.”

  “Someone tried to assassinate you?”

  Arivana nodded. She lowered her eyes and, almost imperceptibly, shook. “Yes, well, I’m sure the incident when we first met was simply a misunderstanding. I thought you would appreciate the opportunity to explain yourself.”

  Tassariel took a deep breath. Elos had helped her prepare the story. And, like all the most convincing lies, it held a measure of truth. Far too much of one, in fact.

  “My mother died in childbirth,” Tassariel began, “and the only memory I have of my father is when he left me. I was barely twenty years old, a child, still, by valynkar standards.

  “When he left, he was with a woman. And that woman”—­Tassariel glanced briefly at the queen’s handmaiden—­“looked just like her.”

  The minister let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt. “Not a happy parting then.”

  “No.”

  “I suppose I can forgive such a reaction as you had the other night, in light of this information. Do I have your assurance that the incident will not repeat itself?”

  Tassariel gazed once more at the handmaiden. She smiled. The hot rage of her god rested just behind the warmth she was attempting to convey.