Akiri: The Scepter of Xarbaal

by Brian D. Anderson

  “Finally, a face to put to the name,” said Yelsing, wearing a friendly smile. “Akiri, I believe? Am I right? Please tell me I am. I will be quite disappointed if you are not.”

  Remaining on the threshold, the assassin scanned the rest of the room. To his right, a pile of ruined furniture had been shoved carelessly into the near corner, together with a heavily blackened iron stove that had toppled over and was clearly no longer of use to anyone. But it was what lay further back that captured his attention. His jaw tightened, and he realized that this situation was far beyond anything he had anticipated.

  The bodies of all five guards were piled like firewood against the rear wall. From these, an untidy trail of blood droplets led directly to the table Yelsing sat at.

  “Well, are you him or aren’t you?” the lord pressed, though his tone remained cordial.

  He nodded. “I am Akiri.”

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Yelsing resumed his seat. “That’s good to hear. It really is. I was afraid you might not be and that I had failed on my first attempt. You see, this is all very new to me.”

  Akiri was rarely unsure of himself, but the relaxed and rather odd manner of this young noble gave him pause to think. The man appeared remarkably unconcerned about being face-to-face with a dagger-wielding assassin, though judging by the pile of bodies he had created, there was likely a very good reason for this. Until Akiri knew more, he decided that caution was his best approach.

  “You clearly knew I was coming,” he said. “But do you know why I am here?”

  “Of course,” Yelsing replied. “Or at least, I know why you think you are here. You believe you are here to kill me. But nothing could be further from the truth.” He looked around and twisted his lips, as if tasting something bad. “A dingy place, I’m afraid. Ill-fitting for a night such as this. But what can one do?”

  Akiri scrutinized him more closely. There was something unnatural about the man. Just as this thought was forming, the light from a lantern hanging from a beam overhead caught the man’s eyes. In spite of their blue color, they were reflecting blood red. Almost at the same time, he realized that Yelsing was not breathing.

  “Volkar,” he hissed.

  Yelsing chuckled with mild amusement. “How odd that you would know the proper name for what I am. With all those rippling muscles and such a grim demeanor, I wouldn’t have guessed you to be the educated sort. Far more the slash-and-grunt type. But you’re absolutely correct. I am a volkar. Though most people call me a soul shredder.”

  Rapidly, everything that Akiri knew of the volkar passed through his mind. Once human, they had bound themselves to demon spirits in order to gain power and immortality. They survived on the souls of the living, consuming them at the precise moment of death. Volkar were strong, fast, and extremely deadly. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to bring this creature here.

  “You should understand, Akiri, this is the first time I have killed for gold. I usually kill for survival.” He flicked his wrist and cocked his head. “Though occasionally for sport as well, I must admit. So forgive me if I appear to be a trifle awkward.”

  “Who sent you?”

  Yelsing held up his hand. “I will get to that, so please be patient. But don’t worry. My instructions are very clear, and they most certainly include allowing you to know who sent me.”

  “Speak then, and let us be done with it.” Akiri’s eyes shot across to the pile of bodies. He would need to make it over to them before attempting anything else. If what he had learned from his studies was true, there were few ways he would be able to kill this creature. Without a sword, he would not stand a chance.

  “Such a serious and sober fellow,” Yelsing said, smirking. “I would tell you to take more joy from life. But as yours is about to end…”

  He waved a nonchalant hand before continuing. “In any event, I am first to explain what your death will be like. I have no personal experience with this, but I see the faces and hear the screams of my victims. Many of them beg for death within the first few seconds. I can only imagine the terrible agonies they must feel. So that is what will happen to you, I’m afraid. And when it does, I am then to ask you if you would care to plead for your life. But from one look at you I already know that you won’t. Good man. Very brave.”

  Akiri was losing patience. But he needed to know more. He took a small step toward the bodies.

  In an instant, Yelsing was on his feet with his blade drawn. His once friendly countenance was now dark and foreboding. “Not yet,” he warned. “Or I will end this right now.”

  Akiri halted, his expression blank, but said nothing. Clearly wary of this, Yelsing remained standing, his eyes fixed on his intended victim. After a moment, he sighed.

  “Of course, you are impatient to discover who sent me. Very well.” He let the silence hang between them. Akiri studied him in those few seemingly endless seconds before Yelsing finally said, “I presume you are acquainted with General Kirlon Galliani. He was very keen for you to know that he is the instrument of your demise. Also that his brother can now rest in peace.” He shook his head. “This man must hate you with a genuine passion. The effort it took just to find me must have cost him a fortune. On top of this, my price to come all the way from Malistad was considerable. I can’t imagine there is much gold left in his coffers by now.”

  Akiri nodded. “So you expect me to bargain for my life by attempting to bribe you? Is that it?”

  “In all honesty, I was unsure what might happen. I am no assassin, but some of my past victims have offered me gold in exchange for their lives.”

  “And did you ever spare any of them?”

  Yelsing’s eyes suddenly glowed violet. His lips parted to reveal teeth that were now a row of needle-like fangs. “My victims have no hope. And no amount of gold can save them.”

  “Then I shall save myself by using other means,” Akiri told him.

  His confident words acted as a goad to the volkar. The creature leapt forward with such incredible speed Akiri was only just able to step aside in time. Not that this gained him much of a breathing space. Despite the powerful force of his momentum, Yelsing was somehow able to pull up almost on the spot. He spun around, one arm extended, his hand curled into a vicious-looking claw. Ducking beneath it, Akiri made a rapid dive over to where the pile of bodies lay. In a single fluid motion, he pulled free one of the dead men’s blades and swung back to face his adversary, slashing in a tightly controlled sweep. Steel found flesh and sliced a deep wound across Yelsing’s chest.

  Too low, Akiri thought.

  Crimson fluid, far too thick to be human blood, oozed down the front of Yelsing’s shirt. He dabbed at the wound, staring in disbelief. “I have not seen my own blood in a long time,” he remarked, almost with a laugh. “A very long time.” His eyes flashed from violet to red, and with a movement faster than any normal person could see, he freed his own blade.

  Akiri’s sight, however, was far beyond that of a normal person, and so was the speed of his reactions. After parrying the attack, he planted his foot into Yelsing’s stomach and sent him crashing back into the far wall so violently that the ancient and half-rotten timbers shattered like delicate glass. Driven completely through to the outside, Yelsing landed hard in an untidy heap several feet away from the shack. Even so, he was on his feet again in an instant.

  Akiri sought to press home any advantage he might have gained, swinging his sword in a flurry of strikes. But Yelsing had recovered from the surprise of being faced with such a worthy opponent and was skillfully blocking each of his moves. The action calmed as they circled each other warily, feigning attacks without either giving so much as an inch of ground. Then, almost as if at a given signal, both threw themselves into renewed assaults.

  Akiri’s face was stone and his movements sheer perfection – a result of both the power of his order and the many years of intense training. Yelsing, though skilled with a blade, was relying heavily on his preternatural speed and sheer stre
ngth. With each new strike, his blade came closer to its target.

  The initial wound he had opened up would normally have been enough to ensure victory. Blood loss would soon weaken a human opponent; but Yelsing was not human, and the wound had already closed. Even so, signs of frustration were now clearly showing on his face. His next attack was wild, though it came at a speed that would have overcome most swordsmen. To Akiri, however, the strikes were haphazard and clumsy. Spinning left, he saw an opening and thrust six inches of steel between Yelsing’s third and fourth ribs.

  As he tried to yank his blade free, Yelsing lunged forward, spitting and snarling. In a sudden change of tactics, the volkar dropped his weapon and seized hold of Akiri’s face, his steely fingers exerting unbelievably fierce pressure. Akiri reached for his foe’s wrist, but he had barely lifted his hand when an intense pain, the like of which he had never imagined possible, ran like a raging river through his entire body. It was as if his blood had been turned to molten lead and his skin was being peeled away a layer at a time.

  “You don’t cry out,” mused Yelsing. “You are indeed a prize. Had I known, I would have come for less gold.”

  Akiri dropped to his knees. No matter how much he tore at Yelsing’s wrist and hand, the creature’s hold was unbreakable. He could feel his strength – his very life – draining away. The pain was all-consuming.

  “Yes,” hissed Yelsing. “You are powerful. I can taste your soul’s sweet nectar already. I am going to enjoy you.”

  Only the extreme discipline of Akiri’s training kept him from losing consciousness. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Yelsing’s discarded sword on the ground just a few feet away. This was his last hope. Letting out a feral scream to help muster every bit of his remaining strength, he heaved his body hard backward.

  His movements had been slowed by the attack, but they were still sharp enough to catch Yelsing by surprise. Confident his victory was already complete, he could only gawk in utter astonishment as the opponent he imagined to be on the point of death suddenly pulled himself free and rolled over to snatch up the fallen sword.

  Akiri saw the confusion fast fading from Yelsing’s eyes. He had only a heartbeat of time in which to finish things.

  “Die, abomination!” he shouted, swinging the blade at Yelsing’s exposed neck and slicing all the way through in one vicious but satisfyingly clean cut. The volkar’s head rolled from his shoulders and landed on the earth with a dull thud. As though in a bizarre refusal to accept what had happened to it, his body remained stubbornly upright for several seconds before eventually crumbling to the ground.

  Akiri watched grimly as the earth all around became soaked with thick crimson blood. He tossed the sword beside the body and backed away. Everything he had learned about the volkar told him that the beast was dead. Removal of the head or heart were two sure methods of killing such creatures, but there was only one way he would be totally satisfied that it would not somehow return to life.

  Quickly, he gathered together some wood from the broken furnishings and splintered cabin wall to build a pyre, on top of which he placed the head and torso. After sprinkling the oil from the lanterns liberally, he lit the fire. In less than a minute, the flames turned bright green and began to hiss. Akiri watched without expression as the volkar was completely consumed.

  Satisfied, he took a minute to search the cabin before making his way back through the trees to where he had stowed his equipment. After putting on a pair of leather pants and a shirt, he attached his sword to his belt and headed east. With his rapid pace eating up the miles between himself and the main army camp, one name echoed repeatedly in his head.

  General Kirlon Galliani.

  Chapter Two

  Not wishing to announce his return, Akiri made a point of avoiding the camp’s sentries – something he found disturbingly simple to achieve. It was an issue he resolved to deal with in short order.

  He had deliberately timed his arrival for late in the evening, when the men would be fully occupied and far less likely to notice him. Flickering lights from a multitude of fires cast a soft glow over the countless rows of tents immediately ahead. The sound of music, the laughter of prostitutes, and the loud boasting of drunken men brought a heavy frown to his face. Battle was imminent, and in his mind, distractions like these were far from wise.

  A sultry young woman approached from behind a nearby wagon. Bare breasted and face painted in the style of Hultria, she sauntered toward him wearing a seductive smile.

  “Don’t you look fierce,” she said, her voice dripping with the promise of pleasure. “I bet I could put a smile on that sour face of yours.”

  Akiri shoved her aside without even bothering to look her in the eye. He heard her spit and curse, but paid it no attention. Even if he had been in the mood to bed a woman, she was not the type he would have chosen. He grudgingly accepted that they had their uses, but the idea of their presence in camp just before battle disturbed him. He knew that he could not expect most men to live without pleasurable company for long periods, but he was different – he was Akiri, leader of the Dul’Buhar. His seed was not spent without careful consideration. The women who shared his bed were of a certain quality, chosen specifically for him by the king.

  The Dul’Buhar encampment – a mere dozen tents – was set to the west, well aside from the others. This was where the true virtue of the army resided. Here, the only sounds were of swords being sharpened, armor being repaired, and men in training. No one could slip into this area unnoticed. Not even Akiri.

  A lone sentry – all that was needed to keep them secure – pressed a fist to his chest in salute. Akiri returned the gesture without pausing and strode straight toward the largest tent pitched in the very center. Inside stood a round table with a variety of maps and books laid out where they could be easily read. To the right lay a simple cot and three large trunks in which he kept his personal belongings, to the left a plain but well-constructed desk. Lamps hung from a hook in each corner, with another placed in the middle of the table.

  Sitting down at the desk, he drew a sheet of blank parchment from a drawer and began writing. A man entered just as he finished. Although short in stature, the newcomer’s broad shoulders and narrow waist gave him the illusion of height. His head was shaved clean, as was his face. The long blade at his side bore the black onyx of the Dul’Buhar on its hilt.

  “Ah, Gradis,” Akiri said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  The man saluted and approached the desk. “Did all go as planned?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, it did not,” Akiri replied, though without allowing any hint of the anger burning inside to show through. “I need you to gather three men and post them outside my tent. Instruct them that all those seeking to enter must first be disarmed. No exceptions. Should anyone attempt to force their way inside while still carrying weapons, do not kill them. Merely restrain them, then turn them away.”

  Gradis looked at him with confusion, but did not question the order. After saluting again, he hurried away to carry out his commander’s wishes.

  Akiri read carefully over what he had just written. Satisfied, he reached into the desk and removed a stamp bearing the king’s crest. After thoroughly inking this, he pressed it to the bottom of the document, just below his signature. It was done. Justice would be served.

  Pausing only to retrieve a small dagger from one of his chests and fastening it to his belt, he left the tent. As he stepped through the flap, he saw that the three men he had ordered Gradis to gather were already taking up position.

  The scale of King Zemel’s army was immense and the camp vast. At more than two hundred thousand men, it was a force designed to crush the enemy in one fell swoop. Nearly all of the tents accommodating the soldiers were identical in both shape and color, the only exceptions being those belonging to high-ranking officers. This similarity had caused many a man to become lost if he wandered too far away from his unit. But Akiri knew every inch of the ground. He knew pre
cisely where to go, even though the walk to General Kirlon’s tent took him quite some time.

  Two guards were standing at the entrance, and on seeing Akiri’s determined approach, they both noticeably stiffened.

  “You cannot go in,” said the soldier on the right. He sounded nervous – unsurprisingly so, given whom he was addressing. “The general is not receiving anyone right now.”

  “You will stand aside and allow me to pass,” Akiri told him, retaining a calm and even tone. “I am the commander of the Dul’Buhar. General Kirlon cannot refuse me an audience. Should you choose to hinder me, you will pay for it with your lives. Am I understood?”

  He had no desire to carry out his threat. He knew they were merely doing as they had been ordered, but he would not be stopped.

  The guards glanced at one another and then back to Akiri. After a brief but tense moment of inner conflict that was reflected clearly in their expressions, they each took a single step away from the entrance. Akiri nodded approvingly and pushed open the flap.

  Inside was far more lavish and comfortable than the sparse furnishings of his own tent. Several plush chairs surrounded an elegant mahogany dining table, while the bed at the far end was draped with netting and dressed in the finest silk sheets and wool blankets. A desk roughly the same size as his own, though infinitely more decorative, stood in the far right corner. Behind this sat General Kirlon, while two of his lieutenants were sitting in chairs facing him.

  In his early fifties, the general was overweight by at least thirty pounds and far too out of shape to be of any use in a real fight. His round face and flat nose was accentuated by a scalp almost totally devoid of hair, giving his head a ball-like appearance. An unblemished complexion denoted a man well able to afford the luxuries needed to combat the ravages of wind, sun, and cold.

  His narrow set brown eyes popped wide on seeing who had entered. “Commander Akiri,” he said, quickly regaining his composure. “I was not expecting you.”