The Sword of Einiko

by A. R. Wilson

  “What?” Tascana took a step away from his shocked expression.

  “You’re a halfling, like him.”

  “Why do you two keep saying that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “What even is a halfling?”

  “Half elf, and half man.”

  He hovered both hands on either side of her head. The tips of her ears started to burn, and she slapped her hands over the pain. Under her palms, she felt movement. Screaming, she pulled away. She tripped into the mare then fell. The burning switched to a cooling sensation. Putting a hand to the side of her head she felt a pointed tip on the top of her ear.

  “What did you do to me? Why would you do that?” A wave of nausea rushed up and she bent into the grass.

  Her hair swept back from Jerricoh holding it behind her shoulders. Though she wanted to swat him away, another wave of vomiting overwhelmed her. Then another. Jerricoh put his palm flat against her back and the sickness passed. Tascana scrambled to her feet, moving to get away from both him and the mess.

  “All I did was heal you.” He held both hands up as though apologizing.

  “You call this healing? Giving me ears to look like him?” She pointed at the castle, not wanting to even acknowledge that disgusting thug’s title.

  “I knew you were of the bloodline, but I had no idea how much of it you possessed.”

  “What bloodline?” She dropped to her knees, grabbing fistfuls of hair to pull over her face. “This isn’t me. It can’t be. I wanna go home...”

  “Why did your father never told you where he came from?”

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not only was she pregnant against her will, but now she was a freak. Just like him.

  “Your father comes from an island named Orison. This island hides the bloodline of a powerful elven wizard, named Adjh. Your father is the eldest son of an eldest son tracing back all the way to Adjh himself. I did not know the family line remained so pure given the conditions on Orison. Perhaps you are stronger than either of us knows.”

  “My father isn’t an elf. He’s human, like me. Round ears just like yours.”

  The mare stepped in between them, lowered her white face to make eye contact. Tascana looked away, not wanting another memory from her dreams. The mare snorted and bobbed into Tascana’s peripheral vision.

  Leave me alone.

  Stomping a hoof on the ground, the mare seemed to grow impatient. Tascana looked over. The foal had come to stand under his mother’s neck. The mare nuzzled her young then turned an eye to Tascana. Somehow, she understood. As though some kind of connection developed between them with each time they made eye contact. The unicorn wanted to comfort Tascana with the knowledge she would love the child.

  Tascana shook her head. She could never love something forced upon her. Especially by him. Something intended for evil by a depraved mind. The pregnancy would never be anything more than a parasite for which no cure would free her.

  Tossing her head, white mane catching the breeze, the mare walked away to graze. The foal moved to follow.

  “She sure has taken to you.” Jerricoh put out a hand to help her up.

  “Do all the unicorns do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get into your head?”

  Jerricoh looked at the mare then back at Tascana. “How would a unicorn get in your head?”

  Wait, my private thoughts are exactly that? Private? Tascana realized the folly of her spoken words. If she didn’t say anything, he and The Master wouldn’t know the mare tried to communicate with her. One tiny freedom in this life of servitude.

  “Those eyes kept staring right into my soul.”

  He smiled. “Sometimes we see what we want to see in animals when we cannot find what we need in people.”

  The only thing she wanted at the moment was to die. Or for the thing inside her to die. How could that possibly lead to her seeing the mare sympathize with her? Either way, it didn’t matter. The important thing was that he didn’t know the mare had perceived the vision.

  “What do you think The Master will do when he sees what you’ve done to my ears?”

  “He’ll probably say you look better this way.”

  She gritted her teeth. How she wanted to rip the ground open and watch him tumble into the flames below the earth. But what good would it do?

  “I like the old way better.” She folded her arms, loathing the perpetually lingering lump of nausea and dread.

  “I guess a little fresh air didn’t do much good for you.”

  “It’s not the air that sickens me.”

  He nodded. “Pregnancy often causes a weak stomach.”

  She pinched her eyes shut. Why did the sting of tears keep coming back? How she wished for a way to kill the emotions inside her. Maybe if she could shut off her heart, burn away every ounce of her soul that felt emotions, then nothing would matter. She would be like the mindless servants who scuttled around the halls with their blank stares. Oblivious to right and wrong, joy or pain. If only such a reality existed for her. She would gladly trade the joy of hope for never feeling pain again. With hope already gone, when would Fate come through and take away the rest of her emotions too?

  “Shall we go back inside?” He extended an arm towards the castle.

  “Whatever you command.”

  Though he grinned at her words, when his eyes lowered to her stomach, his mouth fell flat. Did he somehow feel concern for her? Or disapprove of the pregnancy?

  Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered. This new world had trapped her in its grasp. A place where hope had become a curse. Anyone who held onto it would get burned beyond recognition. As long as she refused to hope, she might be okay. She might be able to endure this new life, so long as she stopped believing for anything to ever get better.

  The vine of dread writhed inside her, and she doubled over. With nothing left in her stomach to expel, she gave in to the spasms as she prayed to vomit out her very self.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jurren sat through the last watch of the night. Listening for a distant roar, howl, or scream as he waited for the coming dawn. In the last six days, they had fought nearly a dozen minotaurs. He had started to lose count. But fighting physical demons held none of the difficultly compared to the battles that wormed though his mind during these quiet times. The past few weeks had brought so many revelations to light that quiet had became harder and harder to enjoy. At times he’d rather be fighting one of Einiko’s creations than dealing with the new realities brewing in his soul.

  He was an elf.

  Tascana was a halfling. Like Einiko.

  The human child Montanya was actually an elven woman who once possessed the ability to change into spirit form.

  A goblin army prepared to declare war on Bondurant. Everyone Jurren left behind when he started this quest would the face that threat someday. Maybe even soon.

  So many things he never considered he would have to face in his lifetime. All he ever wanted was to live a simple life, and care for his family. But those Fates he refused to believe in had conspired against him. Was the Ever One really powerful enough to reverse the course Einiko plotted to obtain?

  If the halfling’s goal was to produce a child...

  Jurren gritted his teeth, cutting his nails into his palms. How he loathed when his mind wandered to that topic. And yet, he had to prepare himself. When he found Tascana, he had to be ready to find her in any condition. And when he did, he would do whatever it took to avenge the one who did it to her.

  Looking up, he saw the stars had faded. The black of night had softened into dark blue. He woke his companions. The sooner they headed out, the sooner his brain would shut off from tormenting thoughts.

  “We should reach Ransom today.” Azredan hefted his pack onto his shoulders. “Can you sense it?”

  Jurren had stopped giving Azredan dirty looks when he threw out those lessons on being an elf. “Yes. The
last two battles drove us sharply off course, but we gained much ground yesterday.”

  Azredan grinned, his dark hair draping forward of his shoulders. “How far until we reach them?”

  Digging his feet into the path, Jurren turned to face the way they needed to go. Supposedly, all elves could discern a variety of things, though not all interpreted them the same way. Azredan claimed to be teaching Jurren the Roan way of seeking truth. Pursuing the heart’s desire would lead in any number of directions; pursing truth would only ever lead forward. At least Azredan kept using that adage. If Jurren sensed the direction quickly enough, it prevented a lecture on the matter.

  “We should reach them by the time the sun shines directly into the labyrinth.”

  “Excellent. Are you ready to lead the way today?”

  Again, Jurren nodded. He motioned for Arkose to walk alongside him then set out, taking his first left. Sensing the correct places on the ground had become easier. Back on Orison, he had never been able to master the quick paths in the Highlands. If only Neywan could see him now. His old mentor might actually be impressed. Not that these corridors were quick paths by any stretch of the imagination, but at least Jurren didn’t feel lost.

  “Ransom is such an odd name for a village.” Kidelar broke the silence at midmorning. “Who gave it such a distinction?”

  Azredan chose to tell the story himself rather than turn the question into a lesson on insight for Jurren. “It is the cursed name given to them by Einiko himself.”

  “I assume it reflects some form of ransom owed or committed?” Kidelar’s voice perked with interest.

  “More of a statement of promise. Nearly two hundred years ago, this land still fought to rid itself of the halfling warlock. A young woman, a daughter of a king, took it upon herself to attempt to seduce Einiko in hopes of discovering his weakness.” The silence that followed lasted only a few moments, but it added to the empathy in Azredan’s voice as he continued. “The halfling had only been toying with the girl. For over a year. When he tired of the game, he took his goblin army to invade her city. After defeating the people, Einiko brought the king’s throne to the center of the town square. There, he bound the king and forced him to watch his daughter hang by her feet from a gallows erected before him until she died four days later.”

  A heavy breath escaped Kidelar, followed soon by a gasp. “That’s... that’s... I am at a complete loss for description.”

  “Einiko’s nature.” Azredan’s voice lowered as he finished the thought.

  Jurren watched the stones pass beneath his feet. His mind tried to imagine the difficulty of listening to those horrific screams, and he bit his tongue to pull himself out of it.

  A few moments later, Azredan continued. “The king’s spirit broke that day. As well as the heart and will of the people. They have lived in fear for over two centuries, doing anything Einiko requires of them to prevent further wrath and punishment. And the halfling, in response to their surrender, reduced their once mighty city to a crumbling village. He named it Ransom to remind the people that their lives belong to him, and no price paid will ever redeem them from their fate to live under his rule.”

  The clenching and re-clenching of Arkose’s fists at his sides flickered in Jurren’s peripheral vision. Swallowing hard, Jurren pushed all awareness into taking the next right turn and the next right turn. He had to find that enchanted sword!

  As the shadows on the stone walls crawled to the floor, Jurren sensed how close they were. He paused at the next turn. Azredan had warned them to expect the people of Ransom to be far less cordial than the dwarves under Genevra.

  “How do you recommend we proceed?”

  “I will take the lead from here.” Azredan moved in front of Jurren and Arkose. “Go along with whatever I do, even if things take a turn for the worse.”

  “What manner of worse?” Kidelar had not moved from his place in the rear of the pack.

  “Just trust me. No matter what happens, follow my lead.” Azredan gave that same impish grin. “Everything will come together for the good.”

  They followed the elf. A few minutes later, they came to a wide gap in the wall. Clusters of stones encased in mortar piled on top of each other as if masons had built this section of wall. Beyond it were trees and shrubs lined on either side of a dirt path. The first path they had seen since leaving the foothills near Chlopahn.

  “Remember. Go along with whatever I do.” Azredan tethered his bow to a strap on his pack. “Do exactly as I tell you.”

  “What do you anticipate when we enter?” Kidelar pushed his hands against the small of his back, arching.

  Azredan started down the path without answering. It wound through a forest for what felt like an hour. Then the trees broke into a wide, open expanse of hard packed dirt. Buildings littered the far edge in various stages of disrepair. In the middle of the town square stood a wooden platform with a post. A length of rope dangled from its crossbar.

  Azredan led them past the gallows then paused with arms out wide. “Hail King Meridan! May your seed extend for a thousand generations!”

  His voice echoed in the empty village. Jurren thought he saw a face peek through one of the broken windows. A hinge squealed in the distance. Then a rush of men came out from the gaps between the buildings. Dozens, hundreds, all armed with spears. They swarmed to the right and left, intending to surround them. Jurren pulled out his sword.

  “Put it back! Now, quickly!” Azredan snapped his gaze to gain eye contact for only a moment.

  “But they’re—”

  “Trust me!” Azredan put his hands on his head and lowered to a kneeling position. “This is how it must be.”

  The mob closed in.

  Dark, cold, pain, and fear.

  The wave of vision crashed into Jurren. Kidelar hit his knees, falling onto all fours. Pushing through the onslaught of sensation, Jurren saw the truth he needed. These people would capture them, and quite possibly harm them, but only out of fear. A display of calm acceptance would demonstrate to the people of Ransom that these strangers in their midst posed no threat.

  Jurren sheathed his sword. The instant his knees hit the ground, half a dozen hands wrestled him in different directions, while loud voices cheered in anger. His cheek crushed into the dirt. A boot ripped loose. The straps of his pack tugged sharply then snapped free. A knee jabbed into his back. Something sharp dug into the side of his neck. Kidelar screamed. Azredan’s strained voice told him not to fight it. Amid the chaos, Jurren heard someone yell, “Put them out!”

  Stars shattered across Jurren’s eyes and the world went black.

  * * *

  A piercing throb on the side of his head pulled Jurren awake. He tried to put a hand to the wound and couldn’t move. Neither hand could move. Trying to open his eyes made the pain in his head worse.

  What happened?

  “Kidelar? Arkose?”

  Someone moaned nearby.

  “Kid? Is that you?”

  “My head.” Arkose’s voice sounded thick.

  “Mine too. I can’t move.”

  “I don’t want to move.”

  “I can’t open my eyes.”

  “Don’t want that neither.” Arkose coughed then groaned.

  “Come on. You’re stronger than this. Remember that creature back in the swamp?”

  “If you make me think, I swear I will punch you.”

  “You have to open your eyes and move first to do that.”

  “You are so not funny, Jurren.” He coughed what sounded like a chuckle.

  “Keep telling me that. See where it gets you.”

  The conversation made the throb in his head worse, but it did help him to think a little clearly. Cold metal around his wrists impeded his movements. Forcing one eye to prop open, he saw a trickle of light coming through the ceiling. Azredan stood ten feet away, head drooping, arms stretched out to either side. He appeared unconscious.

  “Azredan. Wake up.”

  Nothing.<
br />
  To Jurren’s right Arkose stood with arms bound against a stone wall. Kidelar hung stretched between his shackles, unmoving.

  “Come on Kid, wake up.”

  Arkose groaned, squinting his eyes. “Where are we?”

  “Some kind of dungeon.” Jurren’s tongue felt dry and fat.

  “So much for ‘trust me’, huh?”

  “No, he was right.”

  “What?”

  “It has to happen this way. These people, they’re trapped in this place. No one leaves and no one enters unless Einiko chooses. We cannot earn their trust unless we show them we’re not a threat.”

  “A little warning would have been nice.”

  “Hey Arkose. Someone is going to mule kick you in the head and then you’ll wake up bolted to a wall, but don’t worry. It will all turn out good in the end.”

  “You’re still not funny.”

  “One day I’ll make you laugh.”

  “Too bad Azredan is still out. He could say one of those elf prayers and heal the ringing in my ears.”

  Jurren looked over at the elf. A line of blood ran from his mouth and ear. The sound of metal scraping against metal screeched to Jurren’s left. He looked to see a door opening.

  “So, Azredan thought he could bring spies into our village.” A man dressed in little more than stitched scraps of spare cloth lumbered in. Bones stood prominent on his shoulders as if he hadn’t eaten a full meal in several months. Possibly years.

  “We mean you no harm.” Jurren tried to wave his hands for emphasis but had lost most of the feeling in his limbs.

  “And I’m supposed to take the word of Einiko’s trash?”

  “You look hungry.”

  The man spat on Jurren’s leg. “As if you cared.”

  “In my pocket is a ring that will feed you anything you desire.”

  He barked a laugh then spit in Jurren’s face.

  The pain in his body overrode any offense. “Right side, near waist. A silver band with a bluish stone.”

  “And as soon as I touch it I get turned to stone. Is that it?”

  “How would that help me?”