A sharp cramp pinched his gut as he fell against the stone door. He ran his fingers along the Heritage inscription. They shook and were slippery with sweat, streaking the door with moisture. He looked down at them, willing them to focus on their task. Just as he finished tracing the “a”, bony fingers clamped down on his shoulder. His chest tightened as he looked down. The flesh from the fingers had split open, the bony digit protruding like the tip of a banana still in its skin. He fought to keep his breathing steady as he traced the final letter of the word. The door began to rumble open.
Aidan shot his outstretched arm backward, driving his elbow into the face of the creature that held him. He dived into the room and rolled into the small set of stairs leading up to Heritage. The slabs began grinding shut behind him, but not before his pursuers lunged through. They spread out to either side as he struggled to his feet. He turned and eyed Heritage. In the hands of a Gairden without Ordine’kel, swinging any sword felt as natural as swinging a door.
At least it’s something.
Backing up the stairs, Aidan fumbled behind him until his fingers brushed the hilt of Heritage. He wrapped his hand around the leather, keeping his eyes on his attackers as they stalked up the stairs, flanking him. At his touch, Heritage hummed, sending shivers up his arm.
—Do you accept us?
“What?”
—You have run all your life, Aidan Gairden. Now you can run no further. Accept us, or die.
He shook his head, trying to let the meaning of the words sink in as his tormentors drew closer. He tightened cold, shaking fists around the hilt and took a wild swing, cleaving through the air and almost spilling down the stairs. One of the creatures let out a raspy laugh and continued stalking forward.
—Do not be afraid.
Abruptly Aidan stopped shaking. The voice had a point. Where had running brought him? Right here, trapped in a room with creatures born of nightmare and blood on his hands.
He lowered Heritage and looked directly into the Eye. “I accept.”
Something burst free within him, a slight pressure that swelled until it crushed the breath from his lungs. The world went white.
Chapter 12
Questions and Answers
INCESSANT RINGING IN HIS ears coaxed Aidan back to consciousness. He sat up slowly, groaning. Pounding like a Darinian hammer shaping steel rang through his skull.
—... finally awakened, Aidan Gairden.
Gingerly he massaged his head and pulled himself to his feet, shielding his eyes. Even the low pulse of the magical light that illuminated the portrait windows that wound up the room jabbed at his vision like splinters.
—You must leave quickly. You are no longer safe here.
“Mmm.” He opened his eyes slowly, first blinking than going bug-eyed as he took in the room. The two creatures that had pursued him into the sword chamber lay at his feet. Green gore oozed from their chests; more was splattered across the walls and floor. Near their fallen forms were two decapitated heads. The fleshy human mask of the one that had exposed its true form lay nearby like a discarded rag.
As his hands tightened, he became aware of Heritage clutched in one fist. The sword had never left his grip. Green blood clung to the blade—and Aidan gasped as the liquid faded, leaving the sword as clean as if it had just been cleaned and polished.
“What happened? Why did I lose consciousness?”
—There is no time for questions. We must escape this place.
“The last thing I remember is you asking me to accept you. Was that what saved me?”
—Everything will be explained in due time. But we must make our way from this place.
Nodding, he took a step forward, then stopped. He was doing it again. Leaping to obey even though he didn’t want to, even though doubts buzzed through his mind like gnats.
“No.”
—This is not the time for—
“This is the perfect time. Everyone is always telling me what to do, and I do it, even when I don’t want to. Well, I’m done.”
—Aidan, we can talk later. You need to—
“Let me tell you about my day, as if you don’t already know. I killed hundreds of men. My father hit me and tried to have me arrested for treason. Now here, in my own home, these... these things try to kill me. I did what you told me. I accepted you, and I did that because I decided to. And you know what? It felt good. Fantastic, actually. So the way I see it, why stop now? If I’d had the courage to make a decision and stand by it days ago, I might not be in this mess.”
The sword was quiet for a long moment. —Fair enough. What do you propose?
Aidan thought about that. “Only those of Gairden blood can open the sword chamber. The only reason those creatures managed to follow was because the door didn’t close in time. So, we’re safe, and I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”
The Eye of Heritage glowed softly. —May I suggest a compromise? You may ask three questions. I promise to answer them, though due to the danger that apparently only I am concerned with, my answers will be succinct. However, I promise to expound as soon as we are a suitable distance away from the palace.
Nodding, Aidan stared into the Eye. “Fair enough. I wish to know...”
What did he want to know first? He had so many questions, and most of those questions carried still other questions. His eyes returned to the corpses littering the floor.
“What are those... those things?”
—Corpses risen from the grave and manipulated like puppets using a powerful artifact wrought from dark magic. Men called them vagrants in millennia past. These bodies belonged to Sallnerians, likely those corrupted during the Serpent War eight centuries ago.
The sword’s tone was detached and matter-of-fact, but the words left Aidan’s head spinning. Dark magic, the essence of the Lord of Midnight and a forbidden art to all who walked in the Lady’s light. That magic had, apparently, breathed life into the eight-hundred-year-old history lessons lying dead at his feet. More disturbing was that their actions were not their own. Someone, or something, had sent them after him. To kill him.
—We’re running out of time.
Aidan shuddered and focused on plucking a new question from his tangled thoughts. “How was I able to defend myself with you?” he asked. “What I mean is, I have Ordine’cin. I don’t remember how I killed the... the vagrants, but I really didn’t expect to, at least not with a normal weapon.”
—I understand the question, Aidan Gairden.
“Please stop calling me that,” he mumbled. “Just ‘Aidan’ will do.”
—Very well... Aidan. You have Ordine’kel.
The answer hit him like a splash of icy water. “That’s impossible,” he breathed. “I was born with Ordine’cin. No Gairden can have both halves of Ordine.”
—Of course it’s possible. It simply had never occurred until now. When you accepted Heritage, you laid claim to the other half of the Lady’s blessing. It has always been inside your bloodline, locked away until needed. For lack of a better term, you unlocked the dormant half of the full Ordine gift.
“That’s how it felt,” he said, his voice awed. “Like I’d been given the key to a door I was never allowed to open.”
—You have one question remaining.
He grimaced. There was so much he still wanted to know. Why was I born with the full gift? Why did everything turn white before I lost consciousness? And why have you been...?
He looked straight into the Eye. “Why have you been communicating with me?”
—Because you are the sword-bearer.
He expected to feel shock, surprise. He didn’t. He was angry. He had been humiliated during his Rite of Heritage, his parents had treated him like their greatest failure since returning from their retreat, and he had committed an atrocity at Sharem—all as a result of a rejection to a birthright he was due to receive a bit later on.
“Why?” he growled. “Why have you done this to me?”
—I have
not done anything to you. Now, I have upheld my end of our agreement. You must do the same.
“No.”
—You gave your word, Aidan.
“I want you to understand something. My life hasn’t been the same since you rejected me. I need to know why I was turned away if I was to become the sword-bearer in the first place.”
—I will happily answer that question after we have left this place.
“This is important to me. I want to understand, and I am not leaving until I do.”
The grandmotherly voice sighed. —I will grant you this final answer, but you must promise to make good on your part of our bargain once I do.
“I will.”
—Truly?
“Yes.”
—I did not accept you because you were not ready to accept me. You did not want to become sword-bearer, nor were you prepared for the responsibility.
Aidan considered the response. Perhaps the sacred blade had noticed his reluctance to take his mother’s position. A thought struck him.
“What about my mother? She was the sword-bearer before me. Why is the position no longer hers?” The sword had gone silent.
With a vexed sound he bent down and removed a sword sheath from one of the vagrants, fastened it to his belt and tucked Heritage away. He trailed his thumb along the pommel. Before, even the thought of Heritage, of holding it and of what it meant, had terrified him. Now the weight of it at his side, the smoothness of the leather grip over the hilt—it felt good. Moreover, it felt right.
“Where am I supposed to go?” he said quietly.
—South.
“South? What’s in the south?” But he knew. The bodies leaking all over the floor told the story. Sallner. A realm razed and left to rot after the Serpent War, those who were not corrupted by Dimitri and Luria Thalamahn relocated to camps along the Territory Bridge. No one had set foot in the main body of Sallner for over eight centuries. He nudged one of the corpses at his feet. No one except these delightful fellows and whoever had raised them.
You said this place is dangerous, and you want me to enter Sallner? Are you mad?
—I have answered your allotted questions, Aidan. Stay true to your word. We must leave.
“Fine. But more answers later.”
—Yes. Now, I suggest leaving by one of the side entrances. Speak to no one. Once outside, you should—
The doors slid open, and Annalyn entered. She blinked when she saw her son, then smoothed her features. “Aidan. I am surprised to see you here.”
Relief flooded through him. “Mother. Thank the Lady!” He took a step toward her.
—Don’t trust her.
Aidan paused, confused. It’s Mother.
“Have your Wardsmen returned with you?” Annalyn asked. “Can I assume a victory for Torel?”
Aidan felt a rush of exultation. She hasn’t spoken to Father, yet. I can still explain! “No. Well, yes, we were victorious, but...” He shook his head. “Mother, something has happened.”
“Obviously,” she said, looking around at the carnage that decorated the room. Not even two corpses and walls painted in green blood could ruffle Annalyn Gairden.
Aidan laughed humorlessly. “You’ll never believe it.” He took a breath. “Apparently I am the sword-bearer.”
Annalyn took a step back. “How do you know this?”
“The sword has been speaking with me ever since my ceremony. Then, during the proclamation of war... well, just now when the vagrants—the bodies over there—they...” He shook his head, overwhelmed.
Annalyn smiled and held out her arms. “You’re upset. Come. We’ll get it sorted out.”
Relief and gratitude washed through him. He took a step toward her.
—Do not go with her. The sword’s voice cracked like a whip.
Aidan frowned. “What are you about?”
“Pardon?” Annalyn said.
“Oh, not you, Mother. It’s Heritage. It—”
—Grip me tightly. Blink.
What?
“Aidan?” Annalyn’s voice was tense. “Come here, please.”
—Do it.
Aidan blinked. Opening his eyes, he gasped. Whiteness lay atop his vision, as if the entire room had been buried in snow. Details such as the outlines of his hands and clothing, the sword, the cracks in the wall and floor, the green blood—they were black, like charcoal on white canvas.
Panicked, Aidan turned to Annalyn. He screamed. Standing in his mother’s place was an aberration. Her clothing was white and outlined in black, like his, but the rest of her was in full, horrible color. Her skin was putrid and saggy. Her eyes were empty pits, and her mouth gaped in a silent scream. Bands of flesh stretched from one lip to the other. The strips quivered as she spoke.
“What’s the matter, boy? Living a bad dream?” She raised her arms and hooked her fingers into claws.
“Come willingly. You are to be kept alive, but I’ve no qualms with—”
Before he knew what was happening he lunged at her as if compelled by some force that had assumed control of his body. The creature’s cavernous sockets widened for an instant before Heritage severed head from shoulders in one clean blow.
He turned, blinked again, and looked down at the floor. He no longer saw a creature from his nightmares spun into flesh. He saw his mother’s head.
Chapter 13
What Friends Do
AIDAN DROPPED TO ALL FOURS and retched.
—Get up.
He barely heard the old woman’s stern voice. He ran his arm over his mouth and looked into his mother’s face—mouth open in surprise and terror. That was how she had spent her last moments. Terrified of her son. Green blood gushed from her head and torn neck. Aidan recoiled with a scream.
—You must leave. Now.
Teetering on unsteady legs, Aidan watched blood seep along the floor like honey oozing from an upturned jar. His stomach gave another nasty lurch.
—Aidan, please listen. That was not your mother. It is not natural.
He turned from the body and concentrated on breathing. In and out. Slowly, naturally. Then what in Kahltan’s name is it?
—A vagrant, and more will come. They will not be caught unawares like this one.
Cautiously, Aidan turned and fixed his gaze on a high point on the wall across the chamber, keeping his latest kill below his line of sight. He stepped over the body, cringing as one boot squelched in the spreading pile of emerald blood.
—Don’t think. Keep moving.
It’s not her?
—No. I promise. Now go.
Where?
—Out the side entrance on the east side. Go, and be on the lookout. More will come.
Wiping his boot along the floor, Aidan touched the door and peeked out. The corridor was empty. He started off in a crouch, moving as quietly as he could, avoiding the revealing light of torches when he was able, inching his way closer to the east wing.
Memories of the past month crept into his thoughts as he picked his way from shadow to shadow. He saw the faces of the clansmen at Sharem, wide eyes and open mouths pleading with him to extinguish the pure-fire that burned the flesh from their bodies, the lightning that shattered bodies like an axe shattered a log. His lips throbbed as he recalled his father striking him. Unbidden, his mother’s severed head floated into his vision. Aidan gritted his teeth against the image. That wasn’t her.
Footsteps reached his ears. At least three pairs, all in step and growing closer. He ducked into an alcove and waited until a trio of Wardsmen marched by and around a bend. Slinking out, he set off again.
“Since I’m doing what you asked,” he whispered as he crept along, “would you tell me what it is we seek in the south?”
—Not what; whom.
“All right,” Aidan whispered with forced patience. “Whom?”
—The Prophet.
“Who is the Prophet?”
But the sword had gone silent yet again. Even more stubborn than I am, he thought.
He finally made his way to a side door and eased it open, slipping into the night. Clouds scudded across the sky but added no snow to the ankle-deep carpet. The torches adorning the courtyard were unlit. Aidan paused, frowning. The Lord of Midnight made all men and women nervous, but the Touched especially so. Wardsmen patrolled Sunfall’s grounds all night long as much to keep torches lit as to fend off intruders. So why were these lamps unattended?
A ball of light came into view. A Wardsman emerged from the shadows, one hand holding the lantern in front of him while the other gripped the sword at his waist. Aidan squirmed, undecided. The Wardsman was probably on his way to light the lamps along the stone path that meandered through the courtyard. That would make his escape more difficult. But what has been easy as of late?
Quietly, he started forward, sidling along the wall so the shadows covered him like a cloak. The crunch of his boots as they settled into packed snow topped with brittle ice sounded deafening in the quiet night, but he didn’t slow. Glancing at the Wardsman— he strode past him without slowing—a terrible thought struck him. Can only Sallnerians be vagrants?
—Dark magic can raise any dead, but I suspect most do come from Dimitri Thalamahn’s reign eight hundred years past.
Could he be back, too? The Serpent King?
The sword hesitated. —No. It went silent.
Finally he rounded the corner and settled into the bend in the wall. He expelled his breath in a steamy puff, drinking in gulps of sweet, crisp air. He looked around to determine where to move next—and stared into the eyes of a Wardsman. The other man grinned, a humorless expression that did not fit with his soulless, dead eyes.
Eyes like his mother’s.
The vagrant issued a loud guttural sound into the night sky and raised its short double-headed axe. Aidan glanced to his right and saw the fiery light of the first Wardsman’s torch bobbing closer. No. No human would answer that call. He thought about stealing the torch’s light, but even as he did he felt his body cry out in protest. He was exhausted. Kindling so much as a spark seemed as daunting as lifting a mountain.
Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles Page 11