by Jacob Cooper
“Threyihl!” she screamed desperately, calling for her father in ancient Arlethian.
Suddenly, the ground shook behind her and a deep cry of surprise filled her ears. She turned her head and saw her father down on one knee, his back to her. She stopped running.
I knew you would come, Reign thought triumphantly. It truly was no surprise to her that he had arrived just as she reached the moments of most desperate need. His sword, held by both his hands out in front of him, had half its length driven point first into the earth. He was kneeling with his head bowed as an aura of barely perceptible shimmering air radiated outward from him, as if a protective shield. The rain fell around her father but not on him. As the light refracted through the drops of rain, a faint halo of light shone around him in the night. Reign knew she was seeing her father in this moment the way legends spoke of him, as a near mythical warrior that could alone vanquish hordes of enemies. People of all create whispered that her father had almost singlehandedly vanquished the Orsarians on the Runic Islands, people of demonic influence who had attempted to invade and overthrow the Realm from regions unknown. The Changrual said they had escaped from the Fathomless Abyss to torment mankind for their lack of heed given to the Ancient Heavens. Reign had no doubt the Orsarians had feared her father as she now saw him, pulsing with power. She stood in awe of his presence. Relief washed over her, momentarily dampening her internal raging fire of fear.
Roughly twenty paces back lay her assailant, wrapped in a painful contortion around the base of a moss-covered tree. Reign’s fear evaporated. She knew she was safe now. Her father had come. He feared nothing.
In a silent flash of righteous fury, Thannuel Kerr dropped over one hundred feet from the height of the trees to the wet forest floor. He hit the ground crouched and drove the point of his sword downward, penetrating the soil and simultaneously releasing some of the forest’s strength outward. An invisible shockwave blasted forward from him and threw his daughter’s attacker backwards through the air at impossible speed. Lord Kerr raised himself and stood erect, sword at his side, with only fury and determination filling him. Precipitation found him finally as the hollow ringed clouds moved above and dripped from his brow to his chin, but did not obscure his focus.
Kerr stared at the man who was nearly wrapped around the tree that ceased his backward flight and recognized him as a chase-giver. Shock and bewilderment began to germinate inside him but were instantly recycled, adding to Thannuel’s heightened sensory perception. He did indeed know this kind, a Helsyan of ancient descent. They served the High Duke, whom Thannuel ruled under as a Provincial Lord. Duke Wellyn and he were old friends, although the years had seen them become somewhat estranged.
Such a forceful assault would have killed most anyone, but the chase-giver collected himself with apparent ease, as if awakening from a deep sleep. Thannuel was lost for the reasoning of the circumstances and, though he remained focused and recycled the frictions running through him, understood completely the immediate situation. He could sense Reign had ceased her run and now peered out from behind him at the chase-giver. She must not witness what now comes, he prayed silently.
Without taking his eyes from the chase-giver, Kerr said to Reign, “Flee for the hold. Wake Aiden. Do not hesitate.” There was no fear in his voice, only the timbre of command. Reign did hesitate, however, understandably not wanting to leave the safety of her father’s side. Kerr spoke again, more insistently this time, turning his head slightly toward her but not allowing the chase-giver to escape his sight. “Child, will you not obey your father? Do as I have said.”
Reign started to run again.
Kerr watched the chase-giver’s eyes follow his daughter as she ran toward the magnificent hold his family had maintained for untold generations nestled in the southeast outlying of Calyn. The stare bespoke a sadistic craving, a hunger that could only be sated with the butchery of his daughter.
“Leave my hold and woods now,” the chase-giver heard Lord Kerr say. “I command it as Provincial Lord of the West and of Arlethia. You have no place here.” Though the chase-giver could tell Lord Kerr recognized what he was, he could sense no fear from him. Odd, he thought. What man does not fear my kind? And my Charge, a lord’s child?
“I am Charged with the girl,” came his simple reply. “My Liege has given her to me. She is mine. I cannot cease.”
“She is under the age of innocence. You have no claim on her!” Thannuel thundered. “You will leave.”
“My Dahlrak does not recognize your imposed laws of innocence. You know my kind, Arlethian. You know what you have done by your interruption,” the Helsyan sneered as his predatory smile re-formed on his face.
As Kerr now stood between the chase-giver and his quarry, he instantly became part of the Dahlrak, part of the Charge. Helsyan and Arlethian had never been allies and so having this opportunity was nothing but increased pleasure to the chase-giver. The dull pain that had erupted through his body as he was flung unexpectedly backward by Kerr’s sudden appearance was quickly receding as the power of his expanded Dahlrak began to take hold. His lips parted tightly around his clenched teeth and he began to seethe and salivate heavily.
There was only one person the chase-giver could be referring to as having Charged this monster with his daughter. But it made no sense.
Why? What had Reign done?
No further words were spoken. Kerr knew they would simply be wasted. He had a fleeting thought of recognition that he should be afraid, but fear would find no purchase within him as that friction would be quickly recycled. He decided in this moment, without compunction, that his calling of fatherhood was not only more important than his lordship, but also more powerful in its ability to cause meaningful action. Kerr was not under any spell of false hope. He knew what he faced this night, even if he did not know why. He would not, for he could not, back down.
He readied himself.
The chase-giver attacked with speed and determination. He smiled with arrogant defiance as Kerr parried his blows, as if he were engaged in a simple game, a mere exercise. Kerr fought fiercely, without any sign of trepidation. Suddenly, from a far corner in the back of his mind, a warning sounded forth. Vibrations born of iron horseshoes thumping on the earth came to the forefront of his mind just as the second attacker, who had been absent until now, rushed onto the scene and attempted to flank Kerr. Thannuel bounded up and away from the chase-giver, narrowly avoiding the slower though lethal blows of the Khansian Guard’s sword. He berated himself severely for becoming distracted to a degree that made him lose track of all threats around him. Ricocheting off several trees, the wood-dweller appeared to almost fly as he gained altitude above his attackers. He landed vertically against a large Triarch and drew in more strength, all that the tree would lend him. His sword hummed more intensely as the power that was gathering within him reached a climax and was then channeled through the specialized ore from which his sword was forged.
When he could contain no more, Thannuel sprang from his position and thrust himself downward directly at the Khansian Guard. The man raised his shield and knelt down to shelter as much of his body as possible against the attack, but it mattered little.
“Vrathia!” Kerr yelled a split second before the point of his dark blade made contact. The Khan’s shield exploded into a swarm of wooden splinters and metal shards. The sword found home in the man’s chest. His cry was cut short and replaced by an ear-splitting crunch as Kerr shot weaponized wrath through his body, pulverizing bone to powder and reducing organs to mere fluid. The Khan jerked on the ground, sprawling in the mud in silent freakish movements, bending and pulling his body in ways nature never intended before finally falling still and dead.
“Impressive.” Thannuel raised his head in response to the Helsyan’s word and found him standing by casually looking on without concern. “And most entertaining,” he added with false admiration. “Tell me, do all your people have such curious sounding swords? I would very much like—”
The chase-giver did not get to finish his chiding. Kerr attacked with a velocity that no human could track with his or her eyes. The smell of fury emanated from this man. Such potency. Fury not born of hatred, but of something the he could not easily identify. There was no fear in him as they danced their dance of death. The chase-giver was faster and stronger, true, but Lord Kerr’s vigor was unexpected. For a time Kerr drove him back. This made the chase-giver smile with pleasure. It felt good to have a challenge, even on a small level. He allowed the contest to linger for several minutes longer than he needed to. Pity this man would die; he had begun to admire Kerr’s ferocity and tenacity. He had to know he was beaten. For the moment, though, the chase-giver decided to partake of some sport. He knew the girl was still near. He could smell her unwarranted confidence growing.
Reign sat secluded in the cavity of an old Triarch roughly twenty feet high. The sound of steel had caught her attention as she ran to the hold and she could not pass up watching her father live up to his legend. She had only heard stories of his abilities and prowess in the Realm but had never witnessed it herself. Although nervous seeing her father duel with a man that seemed more beast than human, she knew he was not afraid. He was her father.
The frightening man stumbled back, clutching his lower left leg for a moment before regaining his composure. Blood added its crimson taint to his flesh, mixing with the water of the ground where he stood. The man’s face betrayed him, even for just a moment, as Reign saw surprise and wonder in his eyes. Then came an awful recognition, a revelation that caused her fear to rekindle. This man does not fear my father. What manner of creature feared not Lord Thannuel Kerr, a wood-dweller worthy of his fame?
The swordplay became fiercer, more intense. No one could match speed with a wood-dweller in single-steel combat, not in the entire Realm. Reign told herself this over and over, trying to comfort herself as the intensity of the contest waxed. Her father appeared to be driven backward, which must be part of his plan. Surely her father’s wit was as much a weapon as was his steel and speed. Then, in a surreal instant, her world was dashed to pieces. Reign felt absolutely nothing.
Their steel sparked despite the rain as the force of their blows collided. Raindrops split as Kerr pulled his sword with masterful agility through the night air, the glint of lunar rays dimly reflecting outward, giving the illusion of luminescence to their swords. Lord Kerr concentrated fiercely, forcing out all other thought as they danced out of the meadow and crossed back into the tree line. Think of nothing but this moment.
The chase-giver lunged with more speed, but Kerr deflected the attack, forcing the chase-giver’s sword into the ground and connected a lightning fast fist to the Helsyan’s face. He heard the grunt of pain that escaped his foe. In one fluid motion, Kerr found a low hanging limb and hurled himself upward and over, bringing his sword down against the right side of the chase-giver’s neck in a forceful downward slash; or, where the neck should have been. His opponent had shifted from the scope of his swing so deftly that his sword only caught the man’s left leg in a glancing blow and continued downward, burying itself deep in a thick tree root. Kerr hastily tried to bring himself upright and free his sword, but overcompensated and stumbled backward. His next deflection was awkward and too slow, still off balance. Facing any ordinary man, even a very skilled one, Kerr could have overcome his mistake easy enough, but a Helsyan was not an ordinary man.
The chase-giver struck in a wide arc with great speed, taking advantage of his foe’s backward stumble. The steel met soft, hot flesh, ripping across Kerr’s chest. The rain seemed to lighten just a bit, which the chase-giver thought to be symbolic.
“Even the Cursed Heavens hold their breath for my finale,” he taunted. He stood over Lord Kerr who, inconceivably, was trying to get up. Kerr found his sword’s hilt and weakly raised it in defiance. The chase-giver would have laughed had he not been completely frustrated and insulted by this man’s lack of fear even in his last moments. He has even drawn my life’s blood! his mind screamed inwardly. Impossible!
The pulsing pain from his wounded leg stubbornly reminded the chase-giver that it was not impossible; and, for the first time, he glimpsed a sense of his own mortality. This enraged him. He sneered, advancing in a blur of rage. In one stroke he easily broke through Kerr’s defensive posture, knocking his blade aside, and with a second stroke, ran him through. The Lord of the Western Province felt the ground rush up to meet his knees as he turned his gaze upward toward the canopy of trees that concealed most of the night sky. The veins within the Triarch leaves far above shone their luminescence in the night as if stars caught in the living canopy.
“Reign,” Kerr whispered in his dying breath, his last breath, and seemed to smile slightly as the light in his eyes faded. His hand slackened and his sword fell free from his grip, revealing the small Triarch leafling firmly pressed against his palm.
Perplexed by his notice and attention of the rain as Kerr’s life slipped away, the chase-giver continued to wait impatiently for the intoxicating final scent of fear and acceptance from his fallen foe. He was not rewarded. Instead, he was further infuriated by the scent that did permeate the Lord’s final moments. It was of a disdainful taste to any Helsyan. Thannuel Kerr died feeling proud.
The Helsyan stared down at the body, disgusted. He was not at all fulfilled, not at all gratified. After a brief time, he turned his senses again to the girl’s scent to recapture it. There was none. This cannot be. He directed his powers more fully, taking in all the scents around him. She was not there. It was as if she had disappeared suddenly—almost as if she had died. Perhaps she had, he thought, but settled upon the belief that some trickery was at play. He searched his feelings and caught the urge of the Dahlrak still present. She was alive.
Hearing voices and dogs approaching, he decided to retreat for a time. His quarry had not been his, at least not his ultimate objective. A chase-giver cannot be released from a Charge once given, not even by he who gave the Charge. He would succeed or perish in the effort.
He would return, for he must.
TWO
Aiden
Day 18 of 4th Dimming 406 A.U.
IT WAS UNMISTAKABLE. The sound of steel against steel accompanied by swift-footed steps, the rhythm of men locked in battle. Aiden, master of the hold guard, looked up. He locked eyes with Lady Kerr’s through his long, shaggy black bangs and saw her ashen face, a stark contrast against her ebony hair. She had felt it too and the absolute fear on her face was plain to see, not at all the kind, gentle face he had first gazed upon when first coming to Hold Kerr thirteen years ago.
They stood in the hold’s courtyard, ignoring the night’s rain, and pacing: Moira worried for her daughter who had not returned; Aiden frustrated at being commanded by Lord Kerr to hold his position while Kerr went out beyond the hold’s walls alone, unprotected. Aiden knew Lord Kerr was more capable of defending himself than any of his hold guard, but that did not comfort him. The young man was dedicated to his position and to his lord, a dedication that germinated far from here, on the shores of the Runic Islands when he had seen Lord Kerr perform feats he could not explain, that no one could. He had almost convinced himself it was his imagination after so many years, a memory embellished over time.
Though difficult to tell from this distance, Aiden even thought he discerned a horse’s heavy canter as part of the confrontation. That was odd in the Western Province, as wood-dwellers could outrun the fastest breeds and they were therefore used as little more than beasts of burden in the West. But other soldiers in the Realm, those of other provinces, all used them. This was not mere sparring he felt: not only would the hour of the night be reason enough to harbor suspicion, second moon having just risen, but the intensity of the sound flowing to the wood-dweller through the forest’s intricately woven root system excused any doubt.
Aiden went rigid. Orders or not, his first duty was to protect Hold Kerr and above all else, its lord.
“Order Mast
er Elethol to release the hounds,” Aiden said, referring to the hold’s kennel master. Before waiting for a response from Lady Kerr, the brash young master of the hold guard was gone from her sight. He leaped over the hold walls, heading south toward the sound of the conflict. Aiden resisted drawing his sword, a natural tendency when approaching a hostile situation. Running with a drawn sword made one awkward and slower. He needed all the speed he could muster.
Before he was one hundred paces past the hold’s walls, it stopped. The swordplay was no longer being reported through the ground. Risking a momentary cease in his sprint, he came to the nearest tree and hastily forced his palm flush against the tree’s bark. Nothing. He tried the next tree, quieting his mind further and listening more intently. Silence, save for the animals, birds, and insects. He did feel a current, however, in the trees; almost an emotion being radiated. He did not have time to ponder this now as precious moments were fleeing from him. He resumed his stride in the general direction of the last-felt oscillations.
After only a few minutes of running at reckless speeds, Master Aiden arrived on the scene. Thannuel lay perched upon a fallen tree looking up toward the rain. It beaded off his brow, face, and open eyes. Lifeless eyes.
The torrents of emotion that ran through the young wood-dweller were varied, ranging from rage to regret to guilt. Oddly, sorrow was not present. No, it was too early for that. He knew from experience that sorrow would come later. Memories of his own father’s end briefly manifested in his mind; the surprise on his father’s face as Aiden slipped the short blade between the wretched man’s ribs. The man didn’t think his son had it in him, drunk on wine again, just as always. It was the first time Aiden had killed anybody, but most twelve-year-old boys were completely devoid of such an experience. Yet, the youth from Helving, a remote part of the Western Province, discovered that killing could be as easy as breathing. Now, however, looking upon Lord Kerr’s lifeless body, guilt was foremost among his emotions. Raw and quintessential guilt.