A form coalesced in the swirling cone. The black wind funnel began to take the shape of a man, five times taller than normal—with a doglike head, long pointed ears, and a shaggy mane. His body consisted of black dirt particles spinning together under invisible skin.
Barthos, god of soil.
The people in the temple fell prostrate. On the platform below, Silvo, Nongo, the guards…even Esek fell to his face.
“Arman, Arman, Arman,” Achan whispered between short breaths, staring at the thing. His arms shook, ached, burned. Please. He gasped. “Please.”
Sir Gavin Lukos.
Achan’s head throbbed from Sparrow’s persistent knocks so much he barely heard Sir Gavin’s knock over the boy’s. Achan opened immediately. Where are you? What do I do?
Remember, lad, he’s made of black spirits like the black knights use.
Wonderful. But what do I do?
Barthos is a creature of Gâzar, not a god. He has no authority over Arman’s children. We cannot kill him with steel, but we can rebuke him.
Scold Barthos? That huge creature? How?
Tell him to leave.
Sir Gavin’s voice yelled from the crowd on Achan’s left. “Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.”
Achan scanned the crowd in that direction but couldn’t see him.
The creature too turned toward Sir Gavin’s voice, revealing its lupine face. A kuon, the rabid black wolves that were said to be so prevalent in the Cela Mountains. That explained why Barth’s crest displayed a kuon.
Achan whimpered, doubting this beast would listen to him. He sucked a short breath between his teeth. “Go away!”
Barthos’s neck twisted. Eyes locked onto Achan’s, he roared a guttural sound that curled Achan’s toes.
The beast swung a clawed paw. Achan moved his legs aside in time. But the ring on the right spike slid loose, jerking Achan’s right arm down.
Now he knew why he’d been strung here. He was to be plucked off his chains and devoured by this god of the underworld like a choice morsel.
Achan writhed back and forth, legs swinging, right arm jerking the chain back up the pole. His arms were killing him. His hands were numb. Pain stabbed his temple.
Vrell Sparrow.
Achan screamed. He was going to maim Sparrow if he survived this.
From the crowd behind him, Sir Caleb’s voice shouted, “Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd, Arman hu shlosha be-echâd. Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.”
The kuon tipped his head back and howled like a hundred vultures circling their carrion. It fell to all fours and lumbered under Achan, shaking the platform and spikes with each step.
Inko’s voice rose from somewhere on Achan’s right. “Hatzileni, beshem Câan, ben Arman.”
Barthos spun toward Inko and roared.
Clearly, Achan didn’t know how to scold the beast properly. Anyway, what was this doing but whipping the creature into more anger? This wasn’t the rescue he had in mind. He realized that if he wanted down, he’d have to do it himself.
The right ring had wedged between two knots close to the spike’s point. That drew his legs closer to the right beam. Achan kicked out, trying to hook a leg around the right spike. He missed and fell back, his arms jerking taut.
He grunted and kicked up again. This time he was able to curl his right calf around the spike.
The pressure in his right arm eased immediately. He hung for a moment, took a deep breath, then pulled his other leg over until he managed to wrap it around too. He clutched the spike with both legs and his right arm. He tipped his head back, left arm still stretched to the left spike.
Barthos stalked through the crowd, knocking the spectators aside. Black dirt billowed under his transparent skin.
People screamed. Some sang a warbling song in their foreign tongues. The knights’ voices chanted low and steady, their rhythm contradicting Lord Falkson’s slurred tones.
Sparrow continued to knock, the little boil.
Achan struggled with his left hand, jerking the chain up the spike inch by inch until at last the ring slipped over the top of the spike and fell.
The weight jerked his left arm, and his body slid down the wood spike. Rough splinters pierced his torso, arm, and thighs. He squeezed, stopping himself from sliding further, and pulled his left arm up to the spike.
He alternated hugging the spike with his arms and twisting his hips then squeezing his legs around the spike and moving his arms. The chains and metal rings still hung from his wrists, but at least his arms were no longer being yanked out. In this way he slowly inched his body around the beam until he was on the outside of it, hunched upon the slope as if riding Scout up a steep hill.
He shimmied up awkwardly. When he reached the sharpened tip, he worked the right ring up, for it had wedged between the spike and his body. Once he pulled the ring off the spike, he looped it over his arm like a metal sleeve. He pulled the left chain up and threaded his left arm through it.
Now what?
He was free of the spikes, but he was so high up that a smoky haze from the torches on the platform blurred the floor beneath him. Achan caught sight of a red blur running down the stairs followed by two dark blurs. Not so cocky now that the beast had been distracted, huh, Esek?
He looked out into the grandstands. The knights had successfully diverted Barthos. He could see them now. They wore the clothing Lord Eli had given them—white tunics, leather vests, and brown trousers—and were standing halfway up the grandstands on his left. The beast raged through the crowd, circling Sir Caleb, but never getting too close. People in the crowd screamed and trampled each other to get out of Barthos’s path.
The platform was empty but for Lord Falkson and the gowzals that perched on him as if he were a scarecrow. Achan scanned the crowd for Silvo and Sir Nongo. He spied the black knights with Khai pushing through the crowd toward Sir Caleb.
Sir Caleb, three of Esek’s men are coming your way.
I see them, Your Highness. How did you manage to unhook yourself? Well done!
Achan didn’t answer. His arms shook so hard they’d likely give way and he’d fall to his death. He slid down a bit. A fat sliver stabbed into his thigh like a rose thorn. He clenched his jaw and kept going. Halfway down, he paused to check the knights.
The crowd had scattered, leaving a wide circle where Sir Caleb and Sir Nongo now clashed swords. Silvo gestured toward the platform and yelled the phlegmy language at Barthos, whose head bobbed back and forth as if unsure what he wanted to do next. Achan could still hear Sir Gavin and Inko chanting. What they were saying?
Ignoring the splinters, Achan slid further down. Part of him wanted to just let go and drop to the platform, but he’d probably break a few bones, so he maintained his controlled slide.
Finally, the chains clattered to the platform. Achan twisted around the beam as if coming down off a low tree branch and dropped to his feet.
On guard, Your Highness! Sir Caleb yelled in Achan’s mind.
A coarse paw struck Achan’s back and sent him sprawling across the platform. He rolled to his side against the supports of the ladder and tried to stand, but he was tangled in the chains.
Barthos stood in the center of the platform, Silvo right behind it. The creature roared, baring a mouthful of sharp teeth.
Achan sat up and untangled the chains. He threaded them behind his back and slid the opposite ring up over each shoulder, hoping to keep them out of his way.
Join us in rebuking him, Achan! Sir Gavin said.
Achan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. But I don’t know what you’re saying. Speak the common tongue so I can understand.
It matters not what you say but that you believe Arman can deliver you.
Oh. You’re calling on Arman?
’Tis the only way to destroy it.
Achan closed his eyes and licked his cracked lips. “O, powerful Arman, father of all Er’Rets. Have me
rcy on your servants. Send this ugly beast back to where it came from.”
Warmth spread through Achan.
Barthos screeched and swiped his paw. Achan backpedaled into the ladder supports to try to avoid Barthos’ strike, but he could not. The massive paw descended to cut him in half.
But the only thing that passed through him was swirling wind. Merely a chilled breeze on his sweaty skin.
Barthos looked surprised. The creature’s hind legs morphed into a whirling tunnel. The kuon’s body spun out of form. No longer a dog-man but only a funnel of wind and dirt again.
Once the head vanished, the funnel scattered into hundreds of gowzals. The black birds soared over the audience squawking and biting. The crowd screamed and ran.
Achan headed for the stairs leading down off the platform, but Silvo cut him off.
Achan lowered his left arm and let the ring slide over his hand, gripping the chain when the ring hung inches from the ground. He swung it up over his head like a mace and ran toward Silvo, screaming.
Silvo’s eyes widened. He fled down the steps. Achan stopped and flung the ring. It struck Silvo in the back of the head. The black knight’s legs crumpled. He fell down the stairs and lay still at the bottom.
Achan looped both rings over his left shoulder. Master of the iron rings, he was. He scrambled down the steps, tugged Prince Oren’s ring off Silvo’s hand, and joined the throng.
“Stop him, Sir Kenton! He’s getting away!”
Esek’s order came from the crowd behind Achan. He ducked his head and squeezed between people, mud from their bodies rubbing onto his. A portly man plowed into Achan’s side and knocked him to the floor. The mob stepped over him, on him. He crammed Prince Oren’s ring on his finger even as his face was pressed into the dirt floor. The smell of soil filled his nostrils. Pain and fatigue engulfed him, vision swirling, blackening, his breath finally used up.
A voice whispered in his ear, sending an icy chill over his body. “Say the word! Call on me and I shall end this.” Hadad.
Someone tripped over Achan, kicking him to his side. He curled into a ball, waiting for the people to pass. But he had to get up. Sir Kenton was coming.
“Say it, boy! Hadad. Call on my name.”
“No.” Achan mumbled a weak prayer to Arman. This was how the supposed future king was going to die, crushed in a stampede in a temple to a false god.
Strong hands seized his arms. Sir Kenton! He tried to pull away.
“I’ve got you, Your Highness.” Sir Caleb’s familiar voice calmed him. The knight draped a cloak around Achan’s body and pulled him to standing. The crowd still pushed past, their muddy backs fleeing toward the exits. “Put on the hood,” Caleb said.
“Sir Kenton.” Achan swayed. The dull throbbing of scratches and bruises fatigued his nerves like a strong drought of Sparrow’s tea.
“Inko and Gavin are dealing with him.” Sir Caleb pulled up Achan’s hood and put an arm around his waist. He helped Achan ascend the stairs.
“Sir Gavin?” Achan’s mind was groggy. Had he been told where Sir Gavin was?
Sir Caleb didn’t answer.
Inko joined them halfway up and supported Achan’s left side. The three exited the pyramid, the knights all but carrying Achan away from the temple.
They darted around mud huts, weaving their way up the hill.
16
Sir Gavin Lukos.
Finally! Vrell opened her mind. It had been hours since Achan had shut her out.
Do you see our light? Sir Gavin asked.
Vrell stood. A cramp stabbed her lower back. At least Mother had advised her how to accommodate her month-blood. She had bided her time crafting compresses out of the linen Lord Eli’s servants had given her for her healing kit. Hopefully no one would be seriously hurt until she could get more supplies.
She located the fiery glow of Barth below and scanned the blackness between the stronghold and her position. A prick of red light shone in the distance to her left, lower than where she stood but higher than the city. A ridge must lead to the valley.
I see it, sir.
Then fire the blue torchlight and ready the horses. We must ride.
It will be done. Vrell patted the ground beside her until her fingers found the firesteel and torchlight. It had been a while since Vrell had used a firesteel. She had one by the fireplace in her bedchamber back home but her servants usually lit the fire.
It took Vrell three tries to ignite the torch. The blue flame hissed to life and warmed her face. She stood to get her bearings, legs and back aching.
Must her whole body hurt during this time of the month?
The flame lit the tree and the path in an eerie blue glow. Vrell inched over the dark ground and wedged the end of the torchlight into the knot hole in the tree where it could be seen. She hoped no one else would come investigating the blue light until she and the knights were long departed.
Vrell crept to where the horses were tethered. Normally she would have taken off their saddles and bits and wiped them down, but she had not known how long the knights might be. She went from horse to horse, petting them to keep them calm. They had been waiting a long time and were eager to ride.
When she got to Achan’s horse, she fingered the ivory pommel of his sword hanging off the saddlebag. How could she have missed it the morning he had been taken? Achan always wore his sword, had slept with it on until Sir Caleb had scolded him. If she had noticed it on his saddlebag sooner, she might have suspected something was amiss.
No reason to dwell. They were coming back and would soon be on their way. Vrell could no longer see the red light. Her stomach clenched. Sir Gavin had not said whether they had found Achan. What if they had failed?
Of course Achan would be with them. Sir Gavin would not have returned otherwise. The man had dedicated his life to Armonguard’s rightful king.
Vrell checked the tether from one saddle to the last, then returned to her horse and patted his nose. Should she get on? How quickly did Sir Gavin plan to ride?
She inched back to the tree and stood in the blue glow, staring at the distant lights of Barth and the dark void between. Were the men close?
You’re ready?
Vrell jumped, not expecting to hear Sir Gavin’s voice without a knock. She must have been so excited she had forgotten to put up her shields. How careless.
Yes, Sir Gavin, she said. Everything is set.
She fortified her mind and carefully mounted her horse. There. Now she would be ready when they arrived and would not have to hurry. The blue torchlight had almost faded. She hoped they were—
A twig snapped. Fabric rustled. Vrell gripped her reins, and her horse shuffled his feet, ready to ride. Shadowed forms crested the hill and entered the clearing. She counted four and sighed. Good. Achan was with them. Where had they left poor Locto?
Sir Caleb and Inko peeled away from the light and went straight to their horses. Sir Gavin helped Achan mount his horse. He wore a black cloak—and, she couldn’t help noticing—almost nothing but a black cloak. His feet and legs were bare and chain clanked as if he were bound and dangerous. He settled into the saddle and his hood slipped off, revealing a disheveled profile. Vrell’s eyes prickled and she blinked away grateful tears. Where were his clothes? Why the chains? If he was injured, she should see to him right away.
Sir Gavin fetched the dim torchlight from the tree and mounted his horse.
Vrell could bear the silence no longer. “Does Achan—?”
Sir Gavin Lukos.
Vrell opened her mind.
Converse only in our minds until I say otherwise. I sense we’re being followed already. He extinguished the light. The blackness encompassed them again.
How Vrell hated it.
They went slow and steady without a word. Every rock of her horse sent jolts of pain through her tender body. The horses’ hooves scraped over the rocky terrain, kicking pebbles aside. Every sound seemed louder now that they were trying to be quiet. Leather pac
ks creaked. Mosquitoes buzzed, garnering the occasional hand slap against skin. And the horses’ breathed heavily, interrupted by an occasional snort.
Vrell ached to speak, to know what had happened, but no one knocked. The idea of being followed again left her feeling vulnerable and alone. She called out to her mother, told her the knights had returned with Achan and they were traveling again.
Finally, Vrell’s ears tickled. She straightened, eager for news, but no name was given. The knocks continued until a terrible headache squeezed her skull. She wanted to yell at whoever it was to stop, but Sir Gavin had asked for silence. Besides, the knock might be Master Hadar or Khai seeking her. She kept her mind closed, gritting her teeth against the pain.
Achan’s voice blurted into her mind, Annoying, isn’t it?
She gasped, tears pooling in her eyes, remembering the way she had persistently sent knocks to Achan hours ago. I—forgive me. I had not meant to annoy. I only wanted to know what was happening.
Then why not look through my eyes?
She released a shuddering breath. I-I forgot to try. And she could not have risked blacking out.
Brilliant, Sparrow. Next time you forget, just forget trying to contact me at all.
Are you all right? When they brought you in I thought you were nearly unconscious. But you sound—
I’m fine.
So you say. Do you know what they did with Locto?
Sent him to Melas. Now leave me alone.
Why are you being so mean?
Look, I realize you had no idea what was going on, but when I said to wait, you should’ve listened. Not only did your endless knocking stab, I was already in a tight spot. The last thing I needed was more pain or distraction.
She wiped tears from her cheeks. I am desperately sorry, Achan. I was scared. It was so dark and I did not know if you were safe. Please forgive me.
Silence stretched on for a long agonizing moment. Just don’t do it again.
* * *
Once Sir Gavin declared they had reached the old road north, they spurred the horses as fast as the beasts would go in the dark, which was not above a canter. Vrell cried most of the journey, both from pain and with grief for how she had angered Achan. She considered throwing herself from her horse, when it occurred to her that Darkness might be playing on her sorrow, not to mention how her month-blood always darkened her moods. She hummed praises to Arman and soon felt lighter.
To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2) Page 18