The Sword of Einiko

by A. R. Wilson

  The dallest continued to cry out.

  “All you have to do is ask, and I’ll do it.” A small part of her felt guilty for insisting the dallest beg for healing, but it was too much fun.

  A gurgling noise choked out her voice. Arnya coughed a few times, twitching as she did so, then started to relax.

  “You’re not getting away from me that easy.” Tascana jabbed a hand into Arnya’s shoulder, forcing her to heal.

  Arnya gasped hard, rolling onto her side. She scuttled back as she staggered to her feet. “Did you enjoy that as much as he wanted you to?”

  Tascana dropped her arms. What was happening to her? She looked at her hands. Had she really just tried to... to kill someone? Those distant, invisible eyes itched over her shoulders.

  “I’m not your enemy, Tascana.”

  The sound of Arnya’s voice barely registered in Tascana’s mind. Fantasizing about the taking of a life had filled the last few days. Had The Master started getting to her? Was she truly becoming an apprentice to his way of life?

  “Arnya, I’m s-sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “No, I am. I’m so... so...”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. I forgave you before you brought me back to life.”

  Tears stung at the corners of Tascana’s eyes. “There’s no hope for me, is there?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  She looked at Arnya. “This is my fate.”

  “There might be a way.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “No, you were right. I wouldn’t listen before. You tried to tell me I wouldn’t be able to resist The Master. I just have to accept it.”

  “Tascana, listen.” Arnya drew close, her words more mouthed than spoken. “The Fates have always held back a missing piece from The Master. It is Their way to keep him indebted to Them. There is a chance the prophecy surrounding you is incomplete.”

  Blinking away the coming tears, she pressed her palm to her forehead. “I am so tired of hoping.”

  “I’m not asking you to hope. I’m asking you to consider the possibility.”

  Tascana shook her head.

  “What is the chance that Fate left out a single, crucial detail concerning the child you carry?”

  The instant Arnya said child, a surge pressed at the back of Tascana’s throat. She doubled over. After a few more heaves and she could stand again.

  “Come over here, I have some water.” Arnya walked back through the carnage of her meditation grove.

  Climbing over a fallen tree she found a waterbag, and handed it to Tascana. Before accepting the offer, Tascana healed the ground back to its former state.

  “What is the chance?” Arnya held out a hand to the side, her voice returning to that low whisper. “What is the chance that the Fates have left out a small but pivotal detail in The Master’s plan?”

  “Highly probable. But he’s had to of already thought of that.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “If we can think of it, then he can make the same connection, too. Besides, he’s watching. Anything we come up with is something he’ll see.”

  A hint of a spark flashed across Arnya’s eyes. The same kind Tascana observed during their teaching lessons before. Which meant The Master was intently listening now. Which also meant the spell protecting Arnya had prevented something from happening.

  But what if? What if the Fates had left out a single detail, as They had every time before, and The Master wouldn’t know what it was until it was too late? Almost as if this were a centuries long game of tag. He did believe Tascana held the final key. But what if she didn’t? The chance of there being a missing detail almost made the risk of hope worth chancing one more time.

  “So what do we do now?” Tascana took another drink of water.

  “As leader of the people of Tretchin Valley, it is my duty to stop you from becoming what The Master’s desires. From bringing into this world that which would destroy us.”

  Tascana furrowed her brow, watching that flash of a spark twinkle behind Arnya’s eyes. The dallest arched out her arm as though preparing to cast a spell.

  “Arnya, what are you doing?”

  “What I have to do.”

  The dallest created a ball of fire. Without thinking, Tascana thrust both hands out, wrists together, palms extended. Water surrounded Arnya like a giant bubble. The fire in the dallest’s hands fizzled. In the tiniest nanosecond of a moment, Arnya’s hand clamped into a thumbs-up position before she opened her mouth and extended her hands.

  No!

  Red light swelled in the dallest’s mouth. A spell to cast out fire from within.

  Why are you doing this?

  Red light continued to build at the tips of her clawed fingers. If it grew any larger, the blast would incinerate Tascana. She could feel the tension building under her water spell.

  Don’t make me do this.

  What had gone wrong with that crazy dallest? One minute she’s trying to convince Tascana of hope, and in the next she wanted to kill her? Pulsing, red flame pushed out of Arnya’s hands and mouth, fighting against the wall of water. In the pits of her arms, Tascana felt the resistance against her magic. Instinctively, before her mind could register the completed thought, Tascana pressed the water in on Arnya. The dallest’s eyes bulged as she flexed into an awkward position. Releasing the water, Tascana rushed to cradle Arnya’s slumped form on the ground.

  Why would you ask me to believe in hope then make me do this?

  She put a hand on Arnya’s shoulder, but stopped short of performing the necessary spell. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to heal the dallest. Though she wanted to, something paused her hand. Arnya did everything for a reason. What if the crazy, old dallest gave the appearance of an attack in order to give The Master something to see?

  He would think Arnya feared the pregnancy. That I killed her to protect it.

  Arnya’s limp body felt so frail and vulnerable in Tascana’s arms. Death seemed more real than life itself. So many hours they had idled away in this grove working on establishing trust. Now, here they sat at the end of their friendship. Though Tascana knew what she had to do, she loathed having to do it. Anya’s death needed to be convincing in The Master’s eyes. He needed to see that Tascana desired this course of action.

  Forcing a smile, Tascana stood up, shoving away the shell that once held Arnya’s soul. She walked in the direction of the village, ignoring the slime of guilt slithering over her hands as it worked its way into her heart. The Master had sent her here to ravage the valley. If she did, no one in the castle would be the wiser about Tascana’s loyalty. If she left the land untouched, then The Master would know a part of her still clung to her former values.

  Arnya had paid the ultimate price to protect her people, only to have the hope of protection stripped from them here. What if the same held true for Tascana? Was she willing to pay so high a price in exchange for so small a hope?

  The rock tower of the village loomed in the distance. She had an hour walk ahead of her to decide what she would do with the people Arnya left behind.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jurren took the lead as they walked out of Ransom. King Meridan had rounded up two dozen arrows and four lengths of rope as a parting gift. And thanks to Azredan’s prayer of healing, the welts on Jurren’s wrists had reduced to little more than faded scars. Taking the first right after entering the labyrinth, Jurren followed his inner knowing. He took countless turns as he avoided the various animal noises prowling around the stone corridors.

  Haunting memories plagued him as they walked. Images of the expression on Theran’s face after tearing into that first piece of bread lingered behind Jurren’s eyes. How much had the people endured to reach a place where contentment repulsed someone? What manner of horrors did they live through that even a secretly full belly caused self-loathing?

  Taking a deep breath, Jurren tried once more to dispel the image only to have it replace
d by Dumarse. “Why do you torment us with your presence?” The dwarves hated outsiders for the simple fact that others had the freedom to come and go as they pleased. It was one thing to choose to live in isolation. It was an entirely different matter to have that isolation imposed upon by someone who enjoyed watching you suffer. Had Einiko also visited the dwarves? Or did the chaukah keep the warlock at bay?

  Question, questions. So many questions. He rubbed a palm against his forehead, then switched to rubbing at his still itchy ears.

  * * *

  On the fourth morning after leaving Ransom, the croix stones glowed. Azredan stopped readying his travel pack to answer Montanya’s call.

  “The elders of Chlopahn have made a decision.” Her voice barely registered at a whisper.

  “What have they—”

  Montanya cut him off before Azredan could finish his question. “They will cause the ring to poison you.”

  Arkose’s plate of bacon and eggs clattered to the ground.

  “When did they place the spell?” Azredan pulled the stones a little closer.

  “Lynnelladae is seeking the favor of the Fates now. You might have as long as three days. I cannot guarantee I will be able to tell you the moment the change happens.”

  Arkose looked from his dropped plate to the other men. Jurren shrugged. Might as well make every bite of this meal count. Arkose picked up one of the pieces of bacon.

  “The warning you have given is sufficient enough. Thank you.”

  “I only wish I could do more. I don’t know how you’re going to survive the labyrinth without the ring’s help.”

  “The Ever One will provide.”

  “How much longer until you reach Ransom?”

  Azredan flicked his eyes at Jurren. “Perhaps that is something best left unsaid.”

  “You’re right. The less I know, the better. How is Jurren?”

  As before, Azredan motioned him to come over.

  Taking the stones in his hands, Jurren finally recognized that old feeling of déjà vu he always had when he looked at her. This time, he saw the similarities to the silver spirit back on Orison. He remembered all those moments she appeared at precisely the right instant to give him wisdom or save his life. How had she done it? And yet that question paled in comparison to his curiosity as to why.

  “Greetings, Jurren.”

  “Good morning, m’lady. Thank you for your timely warning.”

  “It is my honor to help those of the Roan Order.”

  “You’ve been helping me for far longer than since you joined the Roan Order.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “How can you know that?”

  “Because it is the truth.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “Angry that you saved my life no fewer than five times?”

  Her mouth pulled into an odd smile. “Be safe, Jurren.”

  The stones dimmed into clear glass. He passed them over to Azredan. As his eyes followed the movement, he caught sight of Arkose giving him a peculiar look. Did he have a bug in his hair or something? Jurren reached up to check and ended up itching his ear again. When Arkose’s mouth drew to a grim slash, Jurren spread out his hands to ask what was the matter, but another sound echoed over the labyrinth.

  Something screeched in the distance.

  “What was that?” Kidelar craned his neck.

  “Sounded like an eagle.” Arkose tossed a dirtied piece of egg aside.

  Azredan locked eyes with Jurren, making a waving motion with his hand to tell everyone to lower their voices. “It’s something like that.”

  Pausing to focus, Jurren allowed himself to catch Azredan’s hint. “The hawk men.”

  “Yes.” The elf nodded, tugging on his pack.

  “What are hawk men?” Arkose shrugged into his straps, again narrowing his eyes at something on the side of Jurren’s head.

  Jurren rubbed his scruffy chin, ignoring the attitude. “When Einiko pushed the griffins out of their native lands, he didn’t use goblins like he did with the races of men and elves. Instead, he twisted many of their own kind into a humanlike shape and sent them out to kill. Like the minotaurs, they have no freewill. The hawk men know only the drive to destroy.”

  Kidelar gave Jurren a questioning look. “How do you continue to come by this knowledge? My visions show me none of these details.”

  “You must learn to seek truth, my friend.”

  Another screech, farther away.

  “They don’t know we’re here.” Azredan swiveled towards the first call. “We might be able to find a way around them.”

  Talons, feathers, murky water, and blood.

  Kidelar stooped to the ground as though his pack tripled in weight.

  Jurren knelt by him. “Seek the truth behind what you sense. There is more than what boils on the surface.”

  The scholar shook his head, starting to gag.

  “Look past the talons and feathers. Press beyond the taste of stagnant water.”

  Flinging his back against the wall, Kidelar’s eyes snapped open. His choppy words barked out between coughs, straining to keep his voice down. “There is a split in the path.”

  “Yes, keep looking. The fullness of truth waits deeper still. What more can you see?”

  “One path ends in stone and the other—” He hesitated. “The other ends in blood.”

  Jurren nodded. “Then you saw what I saw.”

  Kidelar’s lip twitched as he leaned his head back. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “That’s the whole point of knowing truth. When you see the consequences of failure, it is far easier to do the right thing.”

  His eyes rolled towards Jurren. “I’m not that brave.”

  “But are you that smart?”

  Kidelar sighed a laugh. “Jab me in the intellect, why don’t you?”

  “You can do this. We can do this.”

  Gripping the sides of his head, he managed a nod.

  “Then let’s get moving.” Arkose held out a hand to Kidelar.

  Azredan took the lead, backtracking a few turns. He pulled out two arrows and held them near his bowstring. Jurren tightened the strap of his quiver before pulling out his sword. Two turns into the new path, a hawk man screeched much closer than before. Azredan froze.

  Taking up the rear, Jurren glanced behind them. A man stepped into the tunnel, a dozen yards away. He had a large, hooked beak like an eagle. Reddish brown feathers covered every inch of him except the talons making up his hands and feet. A leather belt hung from his waist, with a sheath that probably belonged to the dagger glinting in his hand.

  The moment they made eye contact, the hawk man dashed forward. Jurren bent his knees, watching the claws of the hawk man’s feet scratch at the stone floor. The hawk man jabbed for Jurren’s stomach. Jurren parried the move, bringing his sword around to offer a strike of his own. Bloodied feathers scattered along the ground. The man slumped headlong into the wall, unmoving. Kicking the dagger away from its owner, Jurren waited to see if it would take a breath.

  “We have to keep moving.” Azredan shifted his head in the previous direction.

  Nodding, Jurren looked at the lifeless form a moment longer. Such a senseless waste of life. He never enjoyed death. Even when it was the right thing to do. Death reminded him of why he never returned to Orison.

  Stooping to grab the knife, Jurren tucked it into a fold on his pant leg. “Can’t have too many.”

  Shifting his jaw was the only response Arkose gave. Taboos of robbing the dead didn’t apply when it came to the halfling’s creations.

  At the next turn, Azredan released an arrow. A hawk man cried out for a moment, then silenced.

  “This way.” Jurren whispered as loud as he dared at Azredan.

  “This direction is better.” Azredan pointed ahead.

  Shaking in disagreement, Jurren pointed at the opposite direction.

  Another screech echoed above them, and Kidelar started to bounce on his toes. “We need to pick so
mething, now.”

  “We should follow Jurren.” Arkose’s breath came faster.

  Azredan’s mouth tipped into the hint of a grin. “Then, lead on.”

  In three calculated turns, they came to an open expanse of grass spotted with a few trees. More than a dozen hawk men stood to rise out of the grass. Jurren sheathed his sword and reached for three arrows. Tucking them between the middle knuckles of each finger he set the first shaft in place. Fwoot! Fwoot! Fwoot! All three shots dropped their targets. Azredan took down another two. Both men reset their bows as the remaining hawk men clawed towards them.

  Five down, five left to go.

  By the time Jurren prepared his volley, the men were too close to shoot. He thrust forward, driving an arrow into a feathered throat. Arkose’s blade lopped off the head of one, and the arm of another. Jurren spun to drive an arrow into the back of the man who tackled Kidelar to the ground. Grabbing a fistful of feathers, Jurren pulled the man away. Blood covered the scholar’s throat.

  Glancing around to ensure Azredan had taken out the last attacker, Jurren stooped beside his friend. “It’s over. You’re going to be alright.”

  Kidelar’s vacant eyes stared skyward.

  “Come on Kid, stay with me.” Jurren put his hands on either side of the man’s face. “Azredan, come on. Do one of your prayer things.”

  The elf knelt on the other side of Kidelar. Placing a hand on the scholar’s head and chest, he recited his usual phrase. “By the power of the Ever One I declare a fullness of healing. Restore this man to what he once was.”

  Nothing.

  “He’s not breathing.” Jurren leaned his ear to Kidelar’s mouth. “Why isn’t he healed?”

  Azredan lowered his head. “Kidelar knew the consequences of this fight.”

  “No. He knew he needed to act.” Jurren shoved his hands under Azredan’s placement at the scalp and ribs. “By the power of the Ever One I declare a fullness of healing. Restore this man to what he once was.”

  Nothing.

  “By the power of the Ever One I declare a fullness of healing. Death cannot have this man, for the terms of the vision have not been fulfilled!” Jurren pressed into Kidelar’s chest. “Restore this man to what he once was!”