The Rise of Nazil- Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Aaron-Michael Hall

  “I ain’t askin’ who ya is, and Molag ain’t carin’.” He stroked his hilt again. “Ain’t no one that can’t be replaced by one means or ‘nother.”

  “You dare threaten me?” Freydon attempted to be stern, but his shaky voice betrayed him, as he peered around the room, expecting a group of thugs to rush in and attack.

  “Ain’t made no threats, Cha, just sayin’ what’s so. Didn’t ya add yer vote in favor of Urdan’s plan?”

  “I…I had no choice in the matter. The council opposed my position, and their points were valid. Had I persisted, questions might’ve been posed. I only acquiesced after Talbert Maneryn offered his advice. They weren’t seeking Molag for arrest, only questioning. The council doesn’t believe him complicit in the Zaontras’ attack.”

  “As ya say. When our allies on the council wane, it’s yer duty to turn ‘em back to our side. Yer the Cha Asham of Yarah, Freydon. There ain’t none higher than ya.”

  “You think to remind me of my title and responsibilities?”

  “I’m remindin’ ya of yer importance,” Dorran offered with a cold smile. “Savages and abominations head the temples in Nazil and Spero. Them Kumasians and Rhoyden folk ain’t ever had no faith no how. Only here, in Yarah, do we honor and serve the Four proper. Folks ain’t wantin’ to see that change.”

  “I neither need nor do I want some smith from the lowers presuming to remind me of the Cha’s importance. If you have a true desire to aid us, coerce some of your neighbors to assist with our purge. Tell them of their importance to us and our communing. It’s been far too long, and the will of the Four is as a distant echo without our purge.”

  Dorran scoffed. “I ain’t knowin’ no whores for ya to abuse, Cha. Send yer guard to get some slaves and have ‘em do yer biddin’.” Dorran stood, adjusting his baldric. “Molag will come to ya when he’s ready. Ya would do well to receive him, and do so with respect. Lord Bomgaard has been to Sanctium, and much is different.”

  Freydon’s eyes narrowed, staring at Dorran’s grinning face. He knew what was rumored to be on Sanctium; all the Cha knew.

  Freydon slumped back into his seat as the door closed. Reaching for his ewer of liquor again, he ignored his glass, turning up the bottle. “Gods help us,” he said, lowering his face to his hands.

  Unnecessary Danger

  “Yes, Sir Yego,” Wosen said, as the Zaxson and his retinue moved off toward the tree line. He stood motionless, listening to the howls of the jaenitu while the small group disappeared within the surrounding trees.

  Wosen had been trepidatious when first learning about this trek. Although he’d asked to accompany the men, Pentanimir was adamant that Wosen remain in the city. Only the First Chosen and his cousins were to accompany the Zaxson.

  With Molag and his accomplices still threatening the Zaxson’s family, Wosen didn’t think this trek was necessary. No matter how formidable the Jasiri were, if Molag had garnered enough support, even the Jasiri could be defeated.

  Wosen couldn’t shake his unease, recalling the attack perpetrated against the Zaontras. Nakaris and he had been charged to escort the Zaontras to Cazaal. No one could’ve predicted the Nazil guard’s treachery.

  Wosen’s eyes closed with the memory, envisioning the flaming carriage housing the Zaontras and her son. If not for Brahanu’s late husband’s protection, both mother and child would’ve died.

  “Itai,” he murmured, glancing back to where the Zaxson had disappeared. With a shake of his head, Wosen started to turn, but stopped, feeling a chill trickle down his spine. Lowering a hand to one of his swords, he pivoted back around, seeing a hooded figure in the distance.

  “State your business,” Wosen said, gripping his second sword.

  The man slid back his cowl, saying nothing.

  “I said to state your business. Who are you and why are you near the city gates?”

  “I’m ove Spero. Drah’kuu Kuhani asked me to come.”

  “Kuhani?” Wosen stepped closer. “Do I know you?” He tried desperately to place the man. He seemed familiar, but Wosen didn’t understand why.

  “Perhaps you think ove one ove my brahtahs. We are many.”

  “Many?” The musical accent was foreign. Wosen’s head cocked, scrutinizing the peculiar man.

  “I know ove you, Wosen Neufmarche, and your father, Hosdaq. You ‘ave known me, and yet, you ‘ave not. I ‘ave been ove aid to you…my brahtahs and me.”

  Wosen stopped. “What’s that to mean? How do you know my father?”

  “I am Shintao.” He bowed. “You’ll learn more ove us in time, and you know more than you’re aware.” Shintao replaced his cowl, turning.

  “Zol, k’aun ein zan’ner .” [104]

  Before Wosen could question, a huge jaenitu came to Shintao’s side. Resting a hand over the gem on his chest, Shintao ran forward, vanishing into the brush.

  Wosen’s command of the Mehlonii language wasn’t vast, but he knew what Shintao had said.

  “Time for what?” Wosen said. Hosdaq had mentioned Shintao and his brothers before. Although they weren’t enemies, Wosen’s anxiety increased with their appearance.

  “Time for what?” he repeated, staring into the wood.

  Symeon signaled to his cousin, moving closer to the Zaxson’s side. He peered around the thicket, searching for anything that was out of place.

  Symeon was apprehensive about this trek as well. Pentanimir hadn’t discussed this excursion or its urgency with him, and that alone was atypical.

  Usually, the Zaxson sought Symeon’s counsel before making such a decision. That wasn’t so with this. Pentanimir had called a meeting informing the men of this plan shortly before its implementation.

  Most were in opposition, since the recent missives indicated that Molag’s men were planning another attack. The Zaxson would certainly make a tempting target away from the city with merely a handful of guards.

  Despite the Jasiri’s prowess, even they couldn’t effectually defend against hundreds of resistance fighters. They could be overwhelmed if Molag’s forces were vast enough. Symeon was relieved that Shintao and the brothers were near Nazil. After alerting them of this trek, Symeon’s mind was somewhat at ease.

  After scanning the surrounding trees, Symeon met Hanif’s eyes. With that look, Hanif nodded, lessening the gap on the Zaxson’s left as Symeon did the same on the right. Jishnu trailed the trio, while a Jasiri scout led them through the thickening wood.

  Hearing howls from the jaenitu, Symeon upraised a hand, signaling with his fingers. The howls continued to shift, growing louder as they approached the entrance to the tunnel. The jaenitu didn’t usually come in close proximity to humans unless something significant caused them to do so.

  “Are you certain that this is the best course?” Symeon asked, noting subtle movement within the trees. When he concentrated on the area, he espied the prominent tail of a jaenitu speeding over the rough terrain.

  “I am. These dissidents won’t have me cowering behind the citadel walls. I’m the Zaxson of Nazil, and these caitiffs don’t rule me.”

  “As you say,” Symeon conceded. “We’ve nearly reached the entrance.”

  The Zaxson looked to where Symeon pointed, and then past, to the tower nearly twenty meters distant. He inclined his head, acknowledging the Jasiri posted there.

  “Wait. Did you hear that?” Symeon asked, halting his mount. As he drew his sword, leaping down, Hanif mirrored his movement, pulling the Zaxson down beside him.

  The Jasiri manning the towers sent streams of bolts into the surrounding trees. Pentanimir’s eyes widened, hearing screams from dying men, impaled by the deadly projectiles.

  “Where are they?” He asked, gripping his hilt tighter.

  Before anyone could respond, a frenzied swarm emerged from the woods, storming toward them.

  “Archers!” Jishnu warned, lunging in front of the Zaxson. He brought his sword around, knocking one arrow aside as a second impaled his shoulder, and protruded through his b
ack.

  “Jishnu,” Symeon yelled, meeting the fevered onslaught. He decapitated one man with a backward swipe, forcing another back with his shield.

  Bolts from the tower rained down as a horde of men charged into battle, surrounding the Zaxson and the Jasiri.

  Unlike the previous attack on the caravan, these men were prepared and well-skilled. Their ambush was organized and relentless.

  Staggering sideward, Jishnu positioned himself in front of the Zaxson, taking up a protective stance. His knees wobbled, momentarily weakened by the pain radiating down his side. Jishnu gritted his teeth, rotating his wounded shoulder as a dozen men rushed toward them. Their grins were wicked, accompanied by the hatred burning in their eyes.

  “Pull it through,” Jishnu called out to the Zaxson, holding his wounded arm against his side. The other arm worked furiously, keeping the amassing assailants at bay.

  The Zaxson reached toward him, and then whirled, parrying a sword aimed at his back. When a second man leapt forward, Pentanimir dipped low, coming around with a side-slash. As he readied himself for the coming attack, arrows streaked through the air, leveling Molag’s men.

  Jishnu dropped to one knee, batting away the sword of an attacker. Lowering a hand to the ground, Jishnu pivoted away, and then spun back around with a sweep kick, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Before the man recovered, Jishnu drove his sword through his chest and immediately rolled to the side, avoiding a swipe. The warrior was a twirling, stabbing cyclone, defending against one man and then the other.

  A call of warning came too late as Jishnu felt the sting of a slash down his arm. His teeth gnashed, parrying a down-swipe, and then coming up with a side-kick followed by a barrage of well-placed jabs and cuts.

  When one attacker fell, another came on in a fury, driving Jishnu back, until he collapsed to his knees.

  The tower guards leveled three would-be attackers as Jishnu attempted to rise, only to be slammed backward with a shield, thudding hard against his wounded shoulder, nearly causing him to swoon. His vision blurred, doubling the images around him. When he saw the hazy shadows approach, Jishnu brought his sword up, barely in time to block the swipe.

  The power behind the man’s strike shunted Jishnu back to the ground. His face scrunched in pain, straining against the attacker, but more importantly, to remain conscious. The man flashed a wicked grin, lifting his leg to stomp on Jishnu’s wounded shoulder. A surging, pallid fog assailed Jishnu’s mind as his face burned with rage. When the man brought his leg down, Jishnu released his sword, grabbing the man’s boot and twisting his leg until hearing a sickening crack. He yelled out in agony, plummeting and writhing in the dirt.

  Jishnu came up fast, yelling, “Jasiriaah,” while drawing his dagger and slitting his foe’s throat.

  “I’ll kill you, savage, and that traitor you protect!” Venom dripped with the man’s words.

  “By the gods, pull it out!” Jishnu shouted to the Zaxson, never taking his eyes off the minacious nemeses. The battle surrounding him reverberated in his mind, intermixing with the jaenitu’s crescendoing howls: every sound and inflection rising and lowering in pitch. Jishnu’s adrenaline surged, and only instinct remained.

  In that instant, the Zaxson leapt forward, snapping off the arrow’s end and wrenching it from Jishnu’s shoulder. Immediately, he took up a defensive posture beside the warrior.

  “Loss is death!” Jishnu roared, drawing a second sword and standing to his full height.

  The insurgent pressed the attack, lunging and thrusting forward, attempting to take advantage of Jishnu’s wounded arm. But the warrior retreated while parrying the strike, and with a skillful glissade, plunged his sword into his opponent’s chest. The man’s mouth gaped, feeling the finality of the blow, and seeing the arm that held the sword—the wounded arm.

  “Hanif,” Symeon said, rushing toward a throng of attackers. When their swords met, an eruption of flaming projectiles exploded around them. With preternatural precision, the flaring shafts sailed through the air: some impaling the Nazilians combatants, others engulfing them in flames. The cries of the burning men drowned out the jaenitu’s howls, as they attempted to flee, only to be skewered by a bolt or a torrid spear.

  Jishnu dropped to his knees, panting as the attackers thrashed at his feet, burning to cinders.

  Symeon stood at the ready, scanning the surrounding trees. After signaling to the men in the tower, he sheathed his sword, rushing over to where Pentanimir knelt, bleeding.

  “Zaxson!”

  He shook his head, meeting Symeon’s eyes. “No—no, it isn’t mine. It—it’s Jishnu. We must get him back to the citadel.”

  Symeon and Hanif inspected the tree-lined area again before kneeling to the ground beside them.

  “Your time isn’t nigh, Cousin,” Symeon said.

  Jishnu nodded languidly, gripping Symeon’s hand. He reached into the pouch at his waist, removing a small phial. After forcing off the cap, Symeon drizzled the contents into Jishnu’s wound.

  “Will he recover?”

  “He will, Zaxson, but we need to move him, now. He needs the aid of his father to fully clean and seal the wound. We must make haste.”

  “No. Not the Zaxson,” Temian said, helping the men to their feet. “Not anymore. I’m your Third Chosen, and the Zaxson’s High Advisor. I don’t want to assume the role of Zaxson any longer.” Anguish covered his face, glancing over at Symeon supporting his cousin. Temian understood why Pentanimir had devised the plan and the deception. However, he couldn’t have known any of the men would be injured. The role he’d played as Zaxson was over. He had felt impotent as the Jasiri defended him. Now, Jishnu appeared lifeless and covered in blood, blood that was shed protecting not the Zaxson, but his bastard brother. At that, Temian ripped the sash from his shoulder and placed it over the gushing wound.

  “‘Tis one ove the temple, not a guard,” Shintao said, emerging from the wood with a trussed man. “The High Priest told ove him when I visited the temple.”

  “Yes,” Temian said, recognizing the man. “Ingemar. Yes, Ingemar. He’s one of Nzuri’s new heldings.”

  “I serve no pythonesses and winged demons!” Ingemar said, spitting a mass of blood tinged mucus at Temian. “You’re all savages and abominations! They’re coming! And when they do, they’ll—,” His words ended in a grunt as an arrow embedded into his chest.

  Shintao rolled sideward, bringing up his hand crossbow. Before the enemy archer could nock his next arrow, Shintao’s bolt struck him between his eyes.

  Zol moved with cat-like reflexes, leaping protectively in front of Shintao. After clasping the gem dangling from Zol’s collar, Shintao’s matching gem pulsed, as he scanned the surrounding trees.

  “We’ve cleared the path back to the gates,” Déshì said, walking up behind him.

  Weisheng wiped his mouth, and then gathered his long hair behind his head, binding it. “We’ll escort you back to the city, Symeon. We have much to discuss.”

  Symeon inclined his head, accepting the brother’s help to get Jishnu on his horse.

  “‘Tis time. I’ll join my brahtahs and continue to search,” Shintao said, disappearing into the wood with the jaenitu.

  Mysteries of the Citadel

  “Shhh!” Raithym cautioned, peering down the corridor. “Do you want the guards to find us?”

  Ayrmeis shook his head, crouching behind him. They weren’t allowed to wander alone in the citadel, especially at night, but nearly every seven suns the two sneaked out of their chambers, and met up to explore the secrets of the vast citadel.

  “Where are we going this time?”

  “Shhh!” Raithym said again. “We’re going to the buttery, like before. Don’t you want to see where the passage leads?”

  Ayrmeis’ eyes widened as a smile lit up his face. The last time they’d explored, they found a small passage in a cabinet, hidden behind the barrels. Surma’s unexpected arrival hadn’t allowed them time to discover where the passage let o
ut, but they planned on remedying that.

  They continued their silent advance through the less traveled corridors. Even with the increased guard, the boys had located enough hidden passageways to remain mostly unseen. In the event they were detected, they knew of bolt holes on nearly each level that would assist in a hasty retreat.

  Raithym turned, placing a finger to his pursed lips, and then pointed ahead.

  Ayrmeis nodded, seeing the two guards he’d indicated move down the corridor and away from the buttery. The cousins knew they had only moments to enter and disappear before the guards moved back in their direction. When the guards neared the end of the corridor, Raithym craned around.

  “Now,” he whispered. “Hurry up.”

  Their movements were swift and silent until they reached the heavy wooden door. Raithym turned the old knob, praying that it wouldn’t creak and alert the guards. Once inside, both released a relieved sigh, smiling.

  “Come on, Ayrmeis,” he said, removing the pack from his back and heading to the hidden passage in the northeast corner of the large room.

  “Did you bring the torches?” Ayrmeis asked, watching him remove the false back to the cabinet, revealing the blackness that was beyond.

  “Of course, I did. Don’t act like such a baby, Ayrmeis.”

  “I’m not a baby,” he said, as loud as he dared. “There could be rats.”

  Raithym smiled. “Treasure, too.”

  With that, the two entered the narrow passage, replacing the false door. When they lit the torches, the passage appeared to lead in two directions. Raithym turned, scrutinizing each.

  “Which way should we go?” Ayrmeis asked.

  “Here, follow me.” Raithym swiveled around, holding his torch out in front of him. “First, we’ll go this way, and if there’s time, we’ll see where the other leads.”

  Ayrmeis shrugged, crawling behind him. It seemed to always be the way with the two. Raithym would lead, and Ayrmeis willingly followed. He knew they weren’t allowed to venture out alone, but how could he not? Raithym was like a brother to him. They were always together, even more so than Ayrmeis was with Tardison. He trusted his cousin and looked up to him at the same time. He would follow his lead. Always.