As they lay in the dirt, Coffman accepted the fact that he was about to die. It had been a good run. He and his companions had made a good life of it. Now he and his best friend were about to meet a gruesome end. Part of him wished that Lorcan and Inga had been next to him during all of this, but he was glad they wouldn’t be subjected to the pain he knew he would soon be experiencing.
The crowd of Stühocs standing over them was so thick that they couldn’t even see the sky above them. He had been turned onto his stomach and could feel the fighters tying his hands behind him. What were they doing? Why were they not going to kill him?
After a few minutes, the noise of battle began to lessen as the slaves began to die out or be captured. The soldiers stood at attention as the leader of the Nestorians approached.
“You took something that belongs to us,” Mintuk said. “Anithistor wishes to speak with all of you.”
Chapter Thirty
Silandrin made them breakfast by frying a couple of eggs and setting out some toast; he was only able to offer them tea to help wash it down. Silas and Inga had both eaten very little since they had left Jarul, so they found the meager breakfast a welcome sight. Silas finished his breakfast in a few seconds, wishing there was more to eat, but he said nothing. None of them had slept the night before.
Silandrin had ended their conversation by telling Silas that he was going to have to kill the old man. Of course, Silas had no intention of doing this. The idea was preposterous, but Silandrin said it would have to be done. The prophecy had said Silandrin would have to die first. Silas wasn’t so sure what the prophecy said anymore though. All this time he had been told that he would deliver Marenon in one way or another, but now he learned that he only could deliver Marenon. The thought wasn’t reassuring. Silas tried to ask Silandrin if there was another way, but the old man just told him that he would have to die before Silas could take his power.
Silas had not been too impressed with the Gatekeeper. He had expected the old man to be kind and reassuring, but had found him quite the opposite. The Gatekeeper was careless and discouraging. It didn’t make him want to kill the man, however.
“So how’s this going to happen?” Silas asked him when they finished eating.
“What’s that?” Silandrin said.
“You said I’m supposed to kill you?”
Silandrin nodded. “I’ve got to die somehow,” he said. “I would rather it be by the hand of the next Watchman.”
Both of them jumped when Inga slammed her fist against the table. “Stop it!” she yelled. “Where do you get off being so calm about this? Did you ever think about how this would affect me?”
Silandrin swallowed hard. “I’ve thought about you every day since I left. I’ve missed you dearly, but you have to understand what we are facing here. I cannot control what has to happen. In order to be able to fight Anithistor, Silas will have to take my place. The only way he can do that is for me to die.”
“I don’t want you to die!” Inga said. “We were supposed to finish the training together. We were supposed to do so many things!”
This time, the tears welled up in Silandrin’s eyes. The man knew he had done wrong. He knew that his decisions, while they had made sense to him at the time, were full of unintended consequences. All he could say was, “I’m so sorry.”
They sat in silence for the next few minutes, Inga picked at her food while Silandrin kept his head down. Questions still played over and over in Silas’ head, but he knew there was no use in asking them. There were no more answers.
Silas stood from the table, rubbing his tired face. It had been a long three months and an especially long week. He was exhausted, but he felt like his journey was just beginning. He pulled his cloak over him and took hold of his staff. Without warning, the staff instantly turned into a sword in his hands.
Inga and Silandrin stared at him in silence, wondering why the staff had changed as it had. Did the staff know he was supposed to kill Silandrin? Had it turned because it was time? Surely not. The old man posed no threat to any of them. The staff only turned into a weapon when Silas’ life was in danger. What could possibly be the danger?
In an answer to his question, a deafening roar sounded outside the shack, shaking it to the foundation. Inga and Silandrin bolted from their seats and to the door.
“Dragons!” Silandrin said, peeking through a tiny hole near the top of the door. “You were followed here.”
“What do you see?” Inga asked.
“Looks like your sarians are picking a fight with them!” Silandrin moved away from the door, closing his eyes as if to muster some sort of strength within himself.
“Skarret!” Silas yelled as he moved to the shack entrance.
“No Silas!” Inga shouted as he flung open the door. The two dragons flew in the air, snapping at the sarians. For a moment, Silas thought they were retreating, but he saw them quickly maneuver into an attack and dive back down toward the large birds.
Silas halted when he saw the three figures standing about twenty feet from the shack. Marcus, Theron, and the man that had shown him to the Dwelling Tree, stood with their swords drawn.
“Silas Ainsley,” Marcus said with a vicious grin on his face. “Last time I saw you, you were down on your knees with my sword at your neck.”
“Last I saw you, you had an arrow sticking out of yours,” he snapped. “How is it you’re still alive?”
“Same as you,” Marcus said. “We died. We woke up in Marenon…again.” He pointed to the man on the end. “I believe you’ve already met Saul.” The man stepped forward, a freshly wrapped bandage displayed on his left arm. The Assassin.
Silas couldn’t believe that the man he met at the pub had been the one their trail. Anger seethed within him at the thought.
“You’re here to kill me?” Silas asked.
“Yes,” Marcus answered. At the sound of the word, Theron and Saul sprang into action. Inga instantly shot a power blast in Saul’s direction, sending him sailing across the ground. Silas ran toward Marcus and Theron, realizing this was the first time he would face them in a fair fight.
Inga sent another blast toward Theron, knocking him off his feet as well. Marcus blocked Silas’ advance with his sword, and slashed back toward him with ferocity. With Inga there to assist Silas, the trio soon realized they were outmatched. Saul called out to one of the dragons and it landed quickly to the ground next to him. Inga was about to send an electric shock through his body when the dragon turned to its side and slammed its strong, black-scaled tail into her chest. The blunt force threw her into the side of the shack.
“Inga!” Silas yelled. He had to see if she was still alive. Where’s Silandrin?
Marcus was unrelenting as he continued to attack Silas with his sword. Blow after blow, the man could not be tripped up. Silas was glad to see Skarret distract the dragon away from Inga. Both sarians kept the dragons at bay, but it wouldn’t be long before Saul and Theron made their way to him.
Was this the end? The Gatekeeper had told Silas that he was the Meshulan. But Silas now knew that there were no guarantees in the prophecy. He knew there was a chance he might not succeed. He now faced the possibility that he could very well die in this valley and that would be the end of it.
Theron and Saul were coming closer. Silas would not be able to take all three of them. He was a skilled fighter, but not that skilled. Before the group could reach him, a voice from behind shouted for all of them to stop. Marcus stopped his attack, but Silas never took his eyes off him.
Silandrin stood next to the shack with his arms spread out. He reached down to Inga’s neck, feeling for a pulse. She stirred awake, but she lacked the strength to move. Silandrin kissed his fingertip and placed it on Inga’s cheek, showing her the affection he missed for so long.
“I’m the one you want here,” Silandrin said, standing. “The boy can do nothing for you if he’s dead. I am the one you want dead.”
Marcus let out a nervous laugh and ba
cked away from Silas and Silandrin. “We want both of you dead,” he said. Marcus let out a sharp whistle and the dragons quickly swooped down next to them. Both he and Theron mounted the two dragons and took off. The sarians landed on the ground to rest their tired wings, while the dragons soared above them. Then with a shriek of madness, Marcus and Theron swooped downward, charging their reptilian beasts toward Silandrin. The two dragons opened their wide mouths to shoot streams of fire toward the Gatekeeper, but the old man was able to deflect the flames, sending them straight into the shack. It was instantly ablaze. Silas knew he had to get Inga away from the shack, or it might crumble on top of her.
Silandrin moved downward into the valley about a hundred yards from the house, as the dragons, with their riders, followed him, trying to devour the Gatekeeper. But the old man apparently had some power left in him.
Silas threw the staff to the ground in front of him and ran to Inga. He reached underneath her legs and arms, pulling her from the ground. He ran from the shack as fast as he could before the charred wood gave way and the house crumbled in on itself. He dropped to his knees where he had tossed the staff; glad to have her out of harm’s way. He looked into her eyes.
“It’s ok! You’re ok,” he assured her. Without thinking, he bent down and kissed her. He knew it wasn’t the time or place, but he also knew he might not survive the day.
“I love you, Inga.”
Inga smiled, about to form her own words, when something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. She gasped at what stood in front of them.
When Silas looked up, he saw Saul standing only twenty feet away, with an arrow drawn and pointed directly at Silas’ head.
“We’re back to where we started this little adventure,” Saul said. “Would’ve saved a whole lot of trouble if I hadn’t missed that day in the forest.”
Silas wasn’t listening. Never before had felt the need for magic as he did this moment. For the briefest second, Silas closed his eyes, feeling the power within him grow. When he opened his eyes, the arrow was already cruising for his head. This shot would not miss its mark. As quickly as he could think about his defense, a green burst of light formed around both Silas and Inga, deflecting the arrow upward. Silas knew that instant that it was his own. He could feel the magic pulsing through him. He felt, transfixed. With another thought, he sent the green energy field sailing toward Saul, throwing the assassin off his feet into the grass. Silas reached out in front of him and grabbed the staff of Uriah, and it instantly turned into a bow and arrow. He pulled back the arrow, setting his sight on Saul. He watched as the assassin brushed the hair out of his face and got up to his knees. As their eyes met, Silas released the arrow, sending it through the air and into the assassin’s forehead.
The bow instantly turned back into the wooden staff as Saul fell back into the grass, dead.
“How are you doing?” Silas asked, kneeling back down to Inga.
“We’ve got to help Silandrin,” she said, as Silas helped her rise to her feet.
Silas looked out into the valley. Silandrin was holding his own. The sarians were doing everything they could to distract the dragons, and keep them from killing the old man, but they were unsuccessful. Silas and Inga began moving toward the Gatekeeper, when a burst of white light formed, causing them to shield their eyes.
The sarians flew away with the speed of lightening to escape the terrible, trembling force beneath them. One of the dragons landed in front of the white light, trying to extinguish the power with its own flames, but Silandrin was too much for it. Silas couldn’t see what happened to the other dragon. The Gatekeeper was using the last reserves of his strength. He had saved this power for his most desperate time.
The white light around Silandrin grew until it engulfed the dragon and its rider Theron. Then, from out of the top of the white dome of energy, a burst of fire erupted, engulfing the entire area around Silandrin in flames.
Then it exploded.
The deafening force knocked Inga and Silas off their feet, as the white fire incinerated everything around it.
The bright light faded quickly to show there was nothing left, and the still silence around them felt foreign. Silas and Inga both looked up from the ground, wondering where the dragons and Silandrin had gone but there was nothing. Only the charred ground remained.
The roar of their final enemy instantly destroyed the silence. Marcus circled down toward Silas. His staff turned into a bow and arrow, but it was too late. The dragon crashed into Silas, sending him to the ground.
Darkness.
It enveloped him in a matter of seconds. He could feel the grass on his skin, for a brief moment before he lost all feeling. This was it. This was the death he had been waiting for. Marcus had come here to kill him, and he had succeeded. Death was not as he had expected. He was floating above the ground, but he was not rising as he did after his death on Earth. He was floating sideways. There were wings. Not angel wings as he had heard about in stories, but scaly, black wings. Then the pain hit his body. Silas didn’t remember there being pain after the last time he died.
His hands were tied behind his back, a cloth around his mouth. He wasn’t dead at all. He was on the dragon. Silas wanted to yell out when the rider pulled back his hair, but no sound could be produced. Marcus stared him in the face.
“You’re lucky the Possessor has changed his mind,” Marcus said. “He’s decided that he wants you to become one of us. The eighth Sleeper…” Marcus spat out into the air at this. “I still think you should be killed.”
Before Marcus pulled back his fist to send Silas back to the darkness, Silas had a few thoughts race through his mind.
He knew he was being taken to the enemy. They would try to turn him, and if he didn’t turn, they would kill him. Then he thought about Inga. Had she been killed? Did she get away? There was no way for him to know. He did know one thing, however.
Silandrin was gone. The Gatekeeper was dead.
Chapter Thirty-One
Julian Hobbes stood in the king’s bedchamber, wrapping his dark cloak around him. It was late at night, so no one would notice he was gone until morning. By then he would be far away. He fixed a dagger to his belt and fastened his sword to his back. The weight of kingship had been too much for him. He had let the power go to his head and the Dunarians had suffered for it. Because of him, three innocent council members were dead. Because of him, an innocent man in Homestead had been killed. Because of him, the Stühocs were winning the war, and the only force fighting against them lay in shattered pieces.
He wondered what his father would think of his actions from the past week. Ruben Hobbes would have been ashamed of him. No wonder he had left the kingdom to Morgan. Morgan would have been too incompetent to cause the destruction that Julian had created. Now Julian would be the laughing stock of the kingdom. He had been used. From the beginning it was planned that he would be the Stühoc’s pawn. They had laid it out so perfectly. Julian had truly believed what he was doing all along had been the right thing, but now he could see that he had been played. He had done everything that Holden and Anithistor had wanted him to do.
No more.
After sneaking into the king’s bedchamber, he made his way out to the balcony. He shuddered as he remembered the last time he had seen his brother on this balcony. The memories haunted his dreams almost every night. Almost more haunting was the lack of remorse he felt for letting Morgan die. It had been a terrible act, but he was convinced that more lives were saved because of it.
He tied a piece of rope to the edge of the balcony and shimmied his way down the side of the wall. The stables weren’t far away and his sarian, Eden, already had her saddle readied.
When he reached the ground, he touched his wrist, the skin feeling bare without the green wristband. He had no need for it any longer. The only person he could see himself contacting would be Kaden, but it was unlikely that he would want to hear from Julian.
After Julian had returned from h
is ‘meeting’ with Spencer, he had confirmed to the others that he had been wrong the entire time. He remembered Kaden just slumped on the ground with his head low, and Darius wanted blood. Julian was sure that if the guards had not subdued Darius, he would have made good on his threats to kill Julian on the spot. Kaden had told Julian that he had not trained him to be a monster. It was the last thing he said before he left. Julian had spent the next thirty minutes puking, revolted at what he had done.
Robin and the other guards were truly worried about him, but Julian paid them no attention. He had gone to his bedchamber and locked the door. His angry screams and breaking glass could no doubt be heard from the other side of the castle.
Eventually, Julian calmed and was able to collect his thoughts. He came to the conclusion that he couldn’t fulfill his duty to Marenon – to help defeat the Stühocs – by being in the public eye. He had written out a note, instructing Robin to take care of the duties of the throne at Farlaweer in Julian’s absence. But he wasn’t giving up his kingship completely.
As far as Julian knew, there had been seven Sleepers. He had killed Holden and Spencer, but that left five others. The Sleepers had been created to bring down the Dunarians, paving the way for the Stühocs to easily take over the rest of Marenon. Julian wasn’t sure where these other Sleepers were, but he wasn’t going to let them destroy what he had helped build.
Four individually silk-wrapped medallions rested safely in his cloak pocket.
The Dunarians still needed the last two medallions in order to be able to use their ultimate weapon. The orange one, he hoped Nalani had been able to obtain. The green one rested safely in Elysium. He was going to find a way to get the green medallion, and he knew he could get the orange one from Nalani. The Dunarians would see that he was no traitor. He would use Marenon’s Map. He would show them that the weapon could ultimately destroy the Stühocs for good. They needed no Meshulan. They needed no other hope. All they need was Julian Hobbes.
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