To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  “Darkness has rotted your mind, stray. Sacrificing you to Barthos will be a mercy to you. You’re mad.”

  Achan sighed heavily and lifted the back of his wrist to rub his tired eyes. Another wave of heat racked his body. He wheezed at the overpowering sensation.

  ACHAN. The voice sent burning tremors through his heart. DO YOU KNOW CETHERIA?

  Saliva pooled in Achan’s mouth. N-No.

  HAS SHE SPOKEN TO YOU?

  Achan swallowed, sweat dripping down his forehead. No, sir. Never.

  YET YOU’VE LEFT SACRIFICE AND LOVE OFFERINGS FOR HER ALL THESE YEARS.

  I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Sir.

  AND NOW?

  Achan sucked in a cool breath. I haven’t petitioned Cetheria since you told me not to.

  YET YOU SWEAR BY HER HAND.

  Oh. Achan panted, the heat incredibly intense. Well, that was just an expression.

  OF YOUR ANGER AT ME?

  Achan winced. I guess so. Sir.

  I HAVE CHOSEN YOU, BUT YOU HAVE NOT YET CHOSEN ME. YOU MUST TRUST ME FULLY. ONLY THEN WILL YOU BE MORE AT LIBERTY TO MAKE DEMANDS AND EXPECT IMMEDIATE ANSWERS. SO, TRUST IN ME, LITTLE KING, AND I SHALL DIRECT YOUR PATH.

  A long stretch of silence followed. Achan dared not move. A chill brought goose bumps over his arms and he shivered. The heat had gone. It was over.

  His chest heaved. Moisture filled his eyes. He closed them. Arman, forgive me. I know not what I do. I’ve only ever wanted to be free, live my life as I saw fit, go where I wanted to, wear what I wanted to, love who I wanted to. I never aspired to king. I don’t think I can do this.

  A wave of heat. BUT I CAN.

  Achan gasped as the warm sensation faded. He opened his eyes. He sat atop his rock, temples itching.

  Itching? Praise Arman, a knock! Achan slid off the rock and kissed the craggy ground. He jumped to his feet and raised the shackles above his head. “Praise Arman!”

  A pebble struck his shoulder. “Be shutting it, stray!”

  Achan lowered his hands. “Thank you! Thank You.”

  Sir Gavin Lukos.

  Another small rock struck his back. “One more word about Arman and Sir Nongo says I can beat you,” Silvo said.

  Achan smiled and reached for Sir Gavin. I’ve been captured. Silvo and Sir Nongo are black knights. They’re going to sacrifice me to their false god.

  You’re not injured?

  No more than usual. My feet are sore and they took my clothes and boots. Arman spoke to me, Sir Gavin. He scolded me, then healed me. Bested the âleh.

  Then we’re truly on the right path. Achan could hear the smile in Sir Gavin’s tone. Look and listen for us. We’re coming.

  * * *

  Dozens of bonfires cast an orange glow over Barth. The city consisted of thousands of domed clay huts, coating the land like endless anthills. But the pyramid was the main feature of the city. Just as Inko had told him, the pyramid rose out of the center of the city. Its height stretched beyond the range of bonfire light, into the black sky. An arched portcullis bored through the center base of the pyramid like a mouthful of teeth, bright yellow light glowing from beyond.

  The cart towed Achan past the first bonfire. The flames heated the left side of Achan’s body, stung the cut on his cheek. The fire burned in a pool of shimmery liquid contained in a round stone brazier sitting inches off the ground, twice as wide as the cart pulling him.

  People lined the road, staring with wide, white eyes, their grey skin covered in dark mud. Their half-naked dress and dirty skin made them almost invisible against the dark backdrop. Olive-skinned men also peppered the crowd. Refugees from the plague of female mages in Jaelport, no doubt.

  People chanted and jeered as Achan passed. The ground trembled with distant drumming. Ritual drums. The thrumming crescendoed as they neared the pyramid. A lonely wailing song rose above the rhythm.

  A shiver snaked through Achan’s stomach and coiled around his heart. This was like the daydream he’d had. One of the ways he might die. Surely Arman wouldn’t let him die?

  The cart stopped, and Achan stumbled into the end of it. Shouts in a language he didn’t understand drifted back from the front of the procession. Clinking metal told him the portcullis was rising.

  The cart dragged him over a moat of fire burning over shimmery liquid. The heat of the flames lapped at his heels and stung his cuts and blisters. Achan wished for some outer garments to shield his skin from the heat. He passed under the portcullis and into Barthos’ sweltering temple.

  It seemed the entire pyramid was hollow on the inside, as if it were a giant stone tent, its four sides converging at the top and covering an underground amphitheater. The stone grandstands were big enough to house a small army. Indeed, it seemed an army of barely clad spectators had already gathered for the show. More streamed down four aisles approaching the middle from the four corners of the compass. Narrow trenches of fire lined each path as if marking the way.

  The main feature of the temple stood in the middle of the dirt floor below: a huge, elevated platform. Men walked around on top, several levels above the heads of the spectators on the bottom few rows of seats.

  This must be where they planned to kill him.

  Two massive beams rose from the floor on either side of the platform and leaned diagonally toward one another, their sharpened tips almost touching. A wooden scaffold reached almost to the tips, as if they regularly hung decorations from the spot—or perhaps took turns sliding down the giant spikes to the floor far below. Barthian fun.

  What might such a contraption be used for?

  Sir Nongo approached from the front of the cart and removed the chain holding Achan’s shackles to the cart. He towed him toward the stairs and paused at the top. “We will be going down many steps.”

  “Where are we?” Achan asked.

  “Barthos’ temple.”

  Achan knew this already, but the answer brought a chill to his sweaty skin. Sir Nongo started down the stairs toward the bizarre platform. The chains on Achan’s wrists tugged, pulling him along.

  * * *

  Vrell stood on a rocky cliff overlooking a distant, fiery glow that Sir Gavin claimed was the city of Barth. Achan was there somewhere, alone. But not for long. Soon Vrell would be the one left alone, as the knights were planning to go rescue Achan and leave her with the horses.

  Sir Caleb held the only torch. It cast a golden glow over the trees. The knights stood with the horses, making plans to free Achan. Locto, the boy who had tricked them all with the illusion of Achan’s body, sat bound on a boulder, whining incessantly. Vrell stood near a fat, slimy tree beside the path Sir Gavin had claimed led down to Barth. She studied the tree in the weak light. Its trunk had split, as if once struck by lightning. Had it been that way before Darkness had come?

  After Locto had been discovered, they had all eaten Inko’s dried karpos fruit and traveled back toward Mirrorstone. Their bloodvoices had returned, and Sir Gavin had discovered from Prince Oren that black knights had taken Achan. So they had changed their course to head for Barth. Then Achan had messaged. Now Sir Gavin believed Achan was to be sacrificed in Barthos’s temple.

  Fear for Achan overwhelmed Vrell. The knights were preparing to go into the pyramid-shaped temple and rescue him. Sir Gavin had insisted Vrell stay behind. He had even bloodvoiced her mother to ask permission to leave Vrell, and Mother had agreed! Mother was to talk with Vrell during their absence to make certain Darkness would not twist her mind.

  To make matters worse, Vrell could not deny the familiar cramps in her abdomen. Her month-blood was coming.

  Why was this happening now? She should be home, resting. The last time her month-blood had come she had been in Mahanaim, training with Macoun Hadar. It had been difficult to deal with, but not impossible. But now…it was unheard of for a woman to travel—to ride a horse!—at such a time.

  Vrell wrung her hands as Locto’s pleas echoed her own.

  “Please don’t leave m
e in Barth! Just let me go.”

  Sir Gavin picked up his shield. “We cannot allow a boy schooled in witchcraft to roam free.”

  “Then leave me in Melas. If Sir Nongo finds me…he’ll kill me.”

  “I can do nothing about that, lad.” Sir Gavin walked toward Vrell, his form a backlit shadow.

  Locto took up his plea with Sir Caleb. “I beg you, change your mind!”

  Sir Gavin took Vrell’s elbow and turned so that half his face was lit and the other half shadowed. “Take these. It’s a torchlight and firesteel.”

  Vrell’s hand’s trembled as she took the items from Sir Gavin. The idea of staying behind, alone in Darkness, perched on this cliff… “Please take me with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Vrell.” Sir Gavin’s visible eyebrow wrinkled. “Someone must stay with the horses, direct us back. We’ll light a red torchlight when the time comes, so be looking for it. When you see it, light yours.”

  “But I want to help.”

  “Please don’t fight me on this. We’re walking into a perilous situation. We must leave Locto and bring Achan back. And we can’t escape without a light to show us the way.”

  “But I am…” Vrell leaned closer and whispered… “frightened.”

  Sir Gavin set a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Then pray.”

  A distant squawk made Vrell jump. She inched closer to Sir Gavin. “What if gowzals come? I do not understand how they can do such…evil.”

  “’Tis not the birds themselves. Alone, they are merely animals. Mages call on black spirits to do their bidding. The spirits possess gowzals because the creatures are weak-minded.”

  “That is how the black knights work their illusions?”

  “Aye. Black knights use the spirits as their tools. Little do they know it’s truly the other way around.” Sir Gavin slapped her back. “Look, no one knows you’re here, Vrell. You’ve nothing to fear. Arman will protect you.” He walked toward Sir Caleb, boots scraping over the rocky ground.

  Vrell wanted to resist but she knew someone must stay with the horses. As much as it vexed her, she was the logical choice. She turned back to the split tree and made plans to wedge the torchlight in the crack later, when the red flame came into view.

  She watched the three men drag Locto off into Darkness, toward a temple dedicated to evil, and she prayed Arman’s protection over them all.

  15

  Sir Nongo led Achan under the platform at the center of the temple. Here, in the shadow of the platform and those log spikes, a pit had been dug. Sir Nongo seemed to be heading right for the gaping hole in the earth. Achan dug his heels into the dirt and clutched the knight’s tunic, heart hammering, not wanting to fall.

  Sir Nongo elbowed Achan’s stomach. The sharp pain stole his breath. He folded against his knees, gasping, and Sir Nongo shoved him over the edge.

  Achan’s insides stretched as if they were trying to escape up his throat. He plummeted downward, falling a distance more than twice his height.

  His back slapped onto soft dirt, batting the breath from his lungs again. He lay panting tiny hitches of cool air. All was dark but the square of fire glow outlining the bottom of the platform far above. Did Lord Falkson intend to sacrifice him like an animal? Would he simply slit his throat on the altar and let him bleed out? Would he set fire to him? A burnt offering for Barthos?

  Achan stood, his legs shaky. There must be a way to climb out. He kicked his left toes into the dirt wall, reached his still-cuffed hands up, and drove his fingertips into the dirt as high as he could. He jumped with his right leg and pulled himself up, clinging to the side of the pit, arms trembling. He drew his right leg up and kicked in, but the force threw off his balance and he fell on his rear in the dirt, soil sprinkling on his head.

  He jumped back up and screamed, pounded the dirt wall, bashed his shoulder into it, elbowed it, then sank to his knees and pressed the top of his head into the side of the pit, panting.

  Arman had helped before. Achan could call on him. He didn’t know the fancy words priests spoke but gave it his best. “Oh, great father god, Arman, creator of Er’Rets, maker of the sun, moon, and stars. Cast your gaze upon your servant. Help me, oh great god. Have mercy on my circumstance.”

  Arman did not answer.

  Achan was tempted to yell, but perhaps Arman had everything under control. He tried another tactic. Sir Gavin! They put me in a pit. What can I do?

  Long seconds passed before Sir Gavin answered. We’re coming, lad. Stay calm.

  Achan flipped to his rear and pressed his back against the cool dirt. He shivered, rocking back and forth to warm and calm himself. If only he could convince his mind to think casually about his situation, that all would work out…

  “Great and powerful Arman, I am your servant. My life is yours. Extend it beyond this pit. You’ve called me to be king, so I trust you’ll not let me die here.”

  The more Arman didn’t answer, the hotter Achan’s anger burned. “Arman!” He stood and yelled at the light above. “Tell me your plan!”

  “Why waste breath on a codger like Arman?” a hissing voice said from across the pit.

  Achan jumped against the dirt wall, heart trampling. He blinked hard, straining to make out the person who belonged to that snake-like voice. He could see nothing. “Who’s there?”

  “It matters not what I’m called. It is what I come to offer that is of importance.”

  Achan could barely see the shadow of a man draped in a black cloak. “A ladder?”

  The man hissed, a wedge of butter tossed in a hot pan. “I know what it’s like to be cast aside. Do not settle for what they offer you, boy. I can teach you to use your power. We can make things right in Er’Rets—for strays, for peasants, for all.”

  Achan’s mind whirled, trying to understand. “How did you get down here? And what do you know of my power, anyway?”

  “You crave freedom. You should not be made to wait for men to fulfill their own agendas.”

  “And you can give me freedom? How? We are together in the same pit.”

  “I cannot only set you free, but I will show you how to obtain the deepest desires of your heart. To make Er’Rets a better place. To have what you want when you want it. You are the Crown Prince. These things should be yours already.”

  Achan huffed. “Darkness has spoiled your mind. Do you even know your name?”

  “I am called Hadad.”

  The name, so similar to Prince Gidon Hadar, sent a shiver up Achan’s spine. “So, what must I do to have this freedom, Hadad?”

  “Renounce Arman. Leave the knights and come with me. Take my hand, and we will vanish from this place.”

  Achan’s stomach coiled. He sensed deceit from this shadow. He shot back a witty comment to ease his discomfort. “You do have a ladder?”

  “Reach out for me!” the man hissed.

  Achan considered it. But this faceless shadow emitted a chill, just by his presence. Achan preferred Arman’s warmth. Sure, Arman bossed him around and paid no attention to Achan’s schedule, but if Arman spoke truth, if he was the only god, Achan couldn’t afford to betray him. And he didn’t like the audacity of this Hadad trying to get him into more trouble.

  “Thanks, but I’ll take my chances with the black knights.”

  Wings rustled as if Achan had upset a flock of chickens. A bird cawed, high and shrill. Shadows swirled in the square of light above, a swarm of gowzals circling.

  One dove and nipped Achan’s chin. He batted it away, chains clanking. Another flew against his chest, knocking him into the wall. Teeth sank into Achan’s nose.

  He screamed, grabbed the creature’s neck, and squeezed until it let go. He threw it to the ground, stomped on it.

  Another bat-bird fluttered by his ear and bit his head, tugging bits of his hair and scalp. Achan grabbed the creature’s leg and flung it across the pit. They swarmed him.

  He cowered, covering his head with his arms. The beasts nipped at his back.

  “Stop
it! Arman, help me!”

  The birds howled and fluttered away in a gust.

  Hadad also seemed to have vanished. Was the man a black knight who had used gowzals to create an illusion of himself?

  Achan slid into the corner to catch his breath. He dabbed his wounds with the back of his hand, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. The bites stung.

  Suddenly, all his pain magnified. His chapped lips, cut feet, cuffed wrists, bruised torso, bleeding scalp and nose. He wanted relief. His memory drifted to his bath at Mirrorstone. He longed to soak his filthy, sore body. Even the cold shallows of the Sideros River delta would do.

  He closed his eyes, recalling the last time he’d bathed there. The sky had been fierce blue dotted with white clouds, tufts of cotton floating in a field of forget-me-nots. Real birds—not beasts—had chirped their spring song.

  He let his mind drift to Gren. Was she still imprisoned? He focused on her face.

  Intense sorrow poured down his throat. Tears pooled in his eyes. Forsaken by the gods. Riga. A new home. Alone. People staring. Rumors. Throwing rocks.

  “You’re certain he’s down there? I can’t see a thing.”

  Achan snapped away from Gren’s depression. That haughty voice belonged to the man who’d stolen his life. The former Prince Gidon Hadar: Esek Nathak.

  Achan wiped his eyes and stood, looking up, veins throbbing. “Yet I can hear you, Esek. What brings you to Barth? Another throne to steal?”

  Esek’s callous laughter floated down. “You have got him, Sir Nongo, you devil. Well done. No one could imitate such insubordination.”

  “One cannot be insubordinate to a fake,” Achan yelled, “or did Lord Nathak forget that little snag? I always thought people called you Puppet Prince because Lord Nathak pulled your strings. Now I see both father and son are playing a role. Guess what, Esek: the time is coming for the curtain to fall.”