To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  “So Lord Nathak and Esek work for him?”

  “We don’t know,” Sir Gavin said, “but it’s clear Nathak was involved. When you were lost, I sought your mind and found you right away. But you were so young. Not yet three years old. You couldn’t articulate your whereabouts. You weren’t in pain. You weren’t afraid. But I couldn’t guess your location. And then your presence vanished.”

  Sir Gavin paused as the mysterious beast screeched. “Two months passed before Nathak supposedly found you wandering in the fields south of Sitna. According to him, you wore King Axel’s signet ring on a chain around your neck. He said he took you to his home and later journeyed to Mahanaim to give you to the Council of Seven. Of course, ’twasn’t you at all. When I finally saw you—or Esek—he looked like you, though I could no longer sense your bloodvoice. I feared Nathak had done dark magic to you. Years passed before it occurred to me you might not be you at all.”

  Achan twisted Prince Oren’s ring around his finger. He’d been alone, an abducted babe whose parents had been slaughtered.

  Lord Nathak had given Achan to Poril, his cook, to raise. Poril had named him Achan Cham. Achan, which meant “trouble” in the ancient tongue, and cham, a fire-breathing bear. All strays were given animal surnames to proclaim their lowly status.

  Had Achan cried for his father in those first few days with Poril? Or had he simply forgotten the man and replaced him with the cook? Had he missed his mother? Achan’s earliest memories were of Lord Nathak and Poril, who had beaten him at the slightest breeze. Achan shuddered as truth and understanding met in his heart.

  “The young prince had, according to Nathak, taken such a liking to him during their time together,” Sir Caleb said, “that the Council asked Nathak to raise the boy. They gave him a fief for his loyalty. He not only earned the title of Lord with the prince as his ward, but he expanded Sitna Manor and added guards and slaves. Over the years, he lobbied for a place on the Council, without success.”

  “Aye,” Sir Gavin said. “The man is resourceful. Sitna was originally a poor trading and farming village. Nathak developed it over the years, mostly by stealing land and resources from Carmine. He proposed to Nitsa the very day her husband died. To my knowledge he’s continued to ask for her hand again and again over the years. She’s always refused.”

  Duchess Amal’s constant rejection of Lord Nathak had been a favorite topic of gossip among the serving women in Sitna. It startled Achan how Sir Gavin referred to the duchess by her first name, Nitsa. Could they be friends?

  “The duchess is smart enough to be knowing Nathak is only wanting her seat on the council,” Inko said.

  “And her power,” Sir Caleb added. “And her land. I’d wager that’s Esek’s goal in seeking to marry Lady Averella. Carm Duchy has traditionally controlled everything north of Mahanaim. If Nitsa never remarries, whoever marries Lady Averella is her heir.”

  Achan slapped away another mosquito. “Bran Rennan.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Rigil’s squire. He and Lady Averella are to be wed. Sir Rigil told me.”

  Sir Caleb clicked his tongue. “That young squire with the red face? Who is his father?”

  “How should I know? He’s from Carmine.”

  “Then his father is no one of importance,” Sir Caleb said.

  “And why should that matter?” Sparrow’s bossy voice spiked above the others.

  Achan had thought the boy asleep. He shivered. His pants were still damp. He hoped it wouldn’t get too cold tonight. The moisture from the ground seemed to rise into the rank air.

  Sir Gavin rebuked Sparrow’s concern. “Nitsa can’t let her heir marry the first young buck she lays her eyes on.”

  Sparrow huffed. “Well, maybe the duchess wishes her daughter would marry for love.”

  A brief silence settled over the group, then deep laughter burst out from Sir Caleb. Achan didn’t find it humorous. He had lost Gren to an arranged marriage.

  “Don’t be too skeptical.” Sir Gavin’s voice cut through the chuckles. “I don’t doubt Nitsa capable of such mercy.”

  Pecking trilled above from two places. Achan pushed the surrounding fear from his mind, wanting to get back to the subject. “So you think Lord Nathak and Esek were plotting for Carmine, each trying to marry their way into controlling it?”

  “So it would seem,” Sir Gavin said. “But Nitsa is smarter than Nathak. Unfortunately, the rest of Er’Rets bought into his treason. After King Axel’s death, we gave testimony before the Council. Kenton and his men had set up two of my men, my generals, claiming they were the assassins or had at least been involved with the stray who did kill them. I fought all I could for them, but no one would hear me. The evidence pointed to them and they were convicted.”

  “Your friends on Ice Island.” Sparrow’s raspy voice always sounded like he had a cold.

  Achan considered the purpose of their journey into Darkness. “And we’re going to free them?”

  “That and more. There are over two hundred and forty Old Kingsguard soldiers on Ice Island. All my men, all falsely imprisoned over the years, most for being a stray at the time of King Axel’s murder. They will be the start of your army, Achan. And we need an army if we’re to turn this kingdom back into Arman’s hands before it’s too late.”

  “Before Esek becomes king,” Sparrow said.

  Two hundred and forty men didn’t sound like much of an army to Achan, but it was better than just these three knights, he supposed.

  Sir Gavin snorted. “Esek is the least of our concerns. The more Er’Rets turns from Arman and worships the false gods of fables, the more people kill and murder and hate and serve themselves, the more Darkness will consume this land. It grew at King Axel’s death and it grows still. When I stood in the western watchtower in the Mahanaim stronghold five months ago, the Evenwall reached the sixth buttress. Yesterday, the mist had drifted within feet of the tower itself, five buttresses closer. ’Tis moving two hands’ breadths a month.”

  Darkness was growing? Achan felt the blood draining from his face. “Can it be stopped?”

  “Only one man can push back Darkness, Achan. Arman called him to this divine purpose. Darkness has spread these past years because the truth was hidden from Arman’s chosen. But I knew he lived. For if he had truly died, Prince Oren—being next in line for king—would have begun to hear Arman’s voice. But Arman did not speak to Prince Oren. He spoke to you.”

  Sir Gavin’s words knotted Achan’s stomach. “So it’s be king and everything is great, or don’t be king and the world is consumed by Darkness forever? Nice choice.”

  “Darkness will continue to grow no matter what you decide. Only when the Light grows stronger than the Dark will Darkness retreat. You must rally the people. Remind them who created them and why. Take them back to truth. Others are ready and willing to step in as king, should you refuse. Esek. Lord Nathak. Though they will not push back Darkness. The choice falls to you. Will you lead us?”

  A silence descended upon the camp the darkness seemed to magnify. Achan didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The idea was so farfetched. First, that there might be only one god, and second, that this God had chosen Achan to push back Darkness, the magnificent curse of Er’Rets. Him. Achan. Barely a man himself.

  He spoke in a whisper. “Why didn’t Lord Nathak kill me when he had the chance?”

  “I know not, lad,” Sir Gavin said. “I can only guess he was afraid to, knowing who you truly are.”

  Achan recalled odd encounters with Lord Nathak: times when he’d sensed fear, how Lord Nathak had ordered the guards and Esek to go easy, to not kill him. “He’s afraid of me.”

  “Perhaps he feared the gods would smite him if he destroyed you,” Sir Caleb said, a lilt to his voice.

  “That is what I’d be fearing if I was being him,” Inko said.

  Achan didn’t doubt that.

  “He had to,” Sir Caleb said soberly. “If the true heir died, the gift would pass to Prince Oren,
revealing Esek as a fake. His plan would work only while Achan still lived.”

  “Perhaps,” Sir Gavin said. “Or perhaps he served a darker master who wanted you alive for some evil purpose.” His comment brought a moment of silence over the camp.

  Achan’s mind reeled. Who might this mysterious bloodvoicer be? Someone strong. Stronger and viler than Nathak. Could it be Macoun Hadar, the old wizard who had tried to use Sparrow? Or someone worse than him? Achan wriggled around, pulling off his doublet. He settled back onto the bedroll and draped the heavy leather over his head, hoping it would keep the mosquitoes off his face.

  He lay still, breathing deeply, telling himself the stench wasn’t so bad. A vision grew in his mind. He was flying, riding a giant moth over the treetops. The moth arched into a sudden dive. Achan squeezed with his knees and grabbed for the saddle horn. No saddle! Only tufts of coarse hair. He grappled, lost his balance, and fell.

  He sat up, pulse drumming in his head. His doublet slid into his lap. Had that been Darkness pulling at his mind? It had seemed so real.

  Achan lay down and tried to focus his thoughts, not wanting that to happen again. Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb whispered to his left. If only Achan could use his supposed great power he could see into Lord Nathak’s and Sir Kenton’s minds and learn the truth of the past. He could find out who this mysterious chief bloodvoicer was who sought to divide Er’Rets.

  Currently, all he could do with his bloodvoice was shield his mind. He wanted to practice, but not what Sir Caleb had suggested, letting one person into his mind at a time. He wanted to practice reaching into the minds of others. He had done it by accident several times. But only when someone else had initiated conversation. So how did one initiate? And if Achan went wandering into someone else’s mind, who would guard his?

  He tuned in to the sounds of the forest. The pecking, the occasional hiss, a rattling, the buzzing of hundreds of mosquitoes. Achan closed his eyes and pictured himself standing guard over his mind. If he couldn’t leave his guard post, perhaps he could at least open the door and peek out. He imagined himself doing just that. He opened a steel door in his mind but stood on the threshold, should anyone try to enter.

  The results were instant. Hundreds of voices spoke, many in foreign tongues. He could hear Sir Gavin and Sir Caleb, and when he tuned in on their conversation, their voices magnified. He shifted his concentration to Inko, who dwelled over how they’d manage to go north. Achan smiled. The knights did not seem to sense him.

  A small thought distracted him from the knights. Hunger. A bird. It glided through the dark sky, over the shadowed outlines of trees, scanning the ground for its master, for it had news and wanted its reward. What news? Who was its master?

  These thoughts faded when Achan realized something else: even in the Darkness this bird could see! Incredible.

  A sniffle perked Achan’s senses. He focused on the sorrowful sound. Crying. Alone. Muffled. Not wanting to be heard. Was someone hurt? In danger? Lost?

  I cannot do this anymore. The voice belonged to Sparrow. I do not know why you have allowed this to go on. The task is too difficult. I want to go home. I miss my family. Please, Arman, help me get home.

  Achan withdrew and rolled over, peering through the dark in Sparrow’s direction, ashamed for intruding on the boy’s mind. But Sparrow’s words confused him. Sparrow was a stray. Strays were orphans. What family could he possibly miss? And why had he come along if he hadn’t wanted to? Had someone forced him? Achan’s stomach began to boil, slowly at first, then violently. He pulled his fingers into fists and squeezed.

  If that little fox was still working for Macoun Hadar…

  5

  Achan awoke choking. Someone was dragging him by the neck of his tunic, off his bedroll and onto the moist ground. The wet soil seeped into his britches. He gasped for air. Sparrow. Macoun Hadar had sent the lad to kill him. The traitor! Achan grasped the spongy moss, searching for his sword.

  Pig snout! He’d left it drying in the tree.

  His fingers found the hand on his tunic. He pried—

  “Your Highness!” Sir Caleb released Achan’s shirt and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Get your sword. Quick.”

  Achan paused to catch his breath, surveying where he’d last seen Sparrow. The boy pressed against a shadowy tree trunk, his already pale face ghostly in the dim light.

  Heart pounding, Achan watched the knights scrambled about, packing up gear. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do as I ask,” Sir Caleb said. “Quickly please.”

  Achan clambered to his feet and the tree that held Eagan’s Elk and its scabbard. He pulled the belt around his waist then froze.

  He could see, albeit dimly, yet no torch burned in their camp. He whipped around. Three balls of flame danced on the dark horizon, obscured by gnarled trees, drawing nearer as if someone were carrying them up the game trail.

  Achan latched his belt around his waist. “Who is it?”

  “Ebens.” Inko strapped on his sword, leaving his bow in the tree.

  Achan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What are—”

  “Giants,” Sparrow said.

  Giants. The word winded him. In the past few months, so much myth had been confirmed reality: the existence of Ôwr, the Kingsword, bloodvoices. And now giants.

  Maybe Arman was the one God after all.

  The knights stowed the packs in the branches and stood, swords drawn, facing the game trail. Surely they weren’t going to fight? Achan considered himself brave enough but saw no reason to take on one giant, let alone three. “Uh…shouldn’t we leave? Escape or something?”

  “No point with Ebens on our tail, and we can’t have them telling others they’ve seen us.” A vein pulsed in Sir Gavin’s forehead. “Besides, there are only three.”

  Achan focused on the line of torches, which now seemed but a breath away. “But…three giants.”

  “Correct.” Sir Caleb threaded his arm through his shield. “Mercenaries. Sent to kill you.”

  Fitting. People had been trying to kill Achan for the past few weeks. Now that his true identity had been revealed, he’d best get used to it. But how had they found their camp?

  And just how giant were giants, anyway?

  “They’ll likely try to burn us out.” Sir Caleb lifted his sword to the edge of his shield. “Watch for fire and be ready.”

  Achan drew Eagan’s Elk. Sparrow gripped his little sword, fingers interlaced as if to pray, and held it straight out in front, as if he were stretching to see how far he could reach.

  Achan sidestepped to the boy. “Ever held a sword?”

  Sparrow’s wide eyes darted to Achan’s. He took a breath as if to argue, then deflated and shook his head.

  Great. “Best stay back, then.”

  “Look sharp!”

  Achan crouched at Sir Gavin’s warning. A single flame fell through the air, partially obscured by the twisted branches. It landed in the canopy above and smoldered.

  “What now?” They’d lost their chance to flee undetected.

  “Hold your position,” Sir Gavin said.

  Sir Caleb glanced at the smoking branches. “I doubt the trees will burn. They’re too damp.”

  A reason to thank Arman for the slime. Then two more burning arrows struck the canopy, producing thick, putrid smoke that coiled around them. Achan tugged his tunic over his nose, but the smoke clouded his vision, diminishing the glow from the giant’s torches. His eyes watered.

  “Be staying low.” Inko gripped his longsword with both hands. “It’s not being so smoky near the ground.”

  Smoke furled around Achan until he couldn’t see. He coughed, the rank fumes invading his senses. He sank to his haunches and found clear air near the ground. Three sets of boots stood before him, lit by a pale yellow glow from ahead.

  Sir Gavin’s voice burst in Achan’s mind. Stay back, lad.

  Madness! How could they fight giants blindly?

  Wood splintered. A tree, trunk and all, slap
ped into the soppy soil to Achan’s left. He gripped Eagan’s Elk tighter and peered under the golden, swarming haze. Sparrow cowered behind a stump to his right, the knights stood straight ahead, and—Achan squinted and leaned forward—something moved beyond the knights. Side to side. Swinging.

  The knights held their position. Squishing footsteps set Achan’s arm hair dancing. He hopped backward, lost his balance, and put a hand on the moist ground to steady himself. More steps squished from the direction of the swinging…

  Club.

  Two sets of thick, pale legs stepped into view, bare and tattooed but not much bigger than a man’s. Where was the third giant? Surely the giants couldn’t see through the smoke. The knights crouched. Achan inched back a step. A sharp branch poked into his thigh. He stifled a cry just as a high-pitched battle song rose above it.

  “Lee-lee-lee-lee-lee-lee-lee-lee-lee-lee!”

  Mother! Sparrow’s voice surged in Achan’s mind. Where have you been? Are you well? We are being attacked by giants!

  Achan spun around, looking for the boy. He no longer hid behind the stump.

  A woman’s voice, kind and oddly familiar answered. Where are you, dearest? Are giants in the Council chambers?

  What in blazes? Sparrow had told Achan his parents were dead. So who was he calling Mother?

  A guttural scream tore Achan away from Sparrow’s curious exchange. The pale legs charged. The knights answered with a war cry. All three struck low, from back guard, slicing their swords through the giants’ legs like scythes harvesting wheat. Achan cringed as horrifying screams ripped though the air.

  The giants fell like the trees, their pale, hulking bodies slamming into the soggy moss.

  That was it? If these three could defeat giants so easily, perhaps two hundred and forty more like them really would be a formidable army.

  The giants’ torches lay spluttering but for one distant flame. Achan strained to see under the smoke. Past the fallen giants, across the clearing, a white-haired, cornstalk of a man squatted, all limbs. Pelts covered little of his body. His milky white skin glowed as if his blood was made of moonbeams. He held a spear in one hand, a torch in the other. He stabbed the torch into the moss and withdrew an axe from a sheath on his leg.