Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  The King gestured, and the magery faded from Oron’s head. What was left stared eyelessly at the ceiling. The King looked at his lord mage and did not turn away.

  Callo pushed down his horror and decided he would show Sharpeyes no mercy.

  “Oh, yes,” the King said. “There is one missing. What has happened to her, guard?”

  “As you directed, Your Majesty,” Lord Dionar said beside him. The man’s voice was weak. “She is here.”

  “Bring her in.”

  Callo spun around and watched as Kirian was delivered into the hands of the guardsmen at the door. Her hands were bound, and her face was bruised all along the cheekbone. She saw what had been Mage Oron lying on the floor and wavered.

  “Why is she here?” Callo took a step forward, his hand at his empty swordbelt.

  The King’s mouth curved up in an unfriendly smile. “I remember well what she is to you,” he said. “All that night at Seagard Tower is engraved in my mind. Do you think I do not learn from my mistakes?”

  “In fact, I think exactly that,” Callo said. “If you learned, you would have abandoned this vainglorious plan to take over two nations by making me your heir.”

  The guards took Kirian to the front of the room, to the side of the dais. There, a guard stood with a hand on her arm. Callo’s gut wrenched as he saw the force of the man’s white-knuckled grip, but Kirian did not show any pain. Instead, she looked towards Mage Yhallin, who stood a few feet away. Yhallin avoided her assistant’s gaze.

  “This woman has great power over you,” the King said. “Perhaps with her aid we can make you accept what is bound to be. I have been in touch with the ku’an’an, Si’lan, your—” he smirked—“your father. I believe the corruption of a boy king Ar’ok has met his end, and Si’lan holds the castle against forces loyal to Ar’ok’s mother and another ku’an.”

  Callo’s eyes jerked up to the King’s face. “Loyal? I doubt that. More likely they are enslaved by the psychic magery into false loyalty. I am glad that vile creature is dead; Ha’las is better off without him. But why you think this should sway me to your cause I do not know.”

  “It would be easy now.” Sharpeyes rose and took a step away from his chair. Beside him, Dionar stiffened into alertness as his hand went to his sword hilt. “Easy to accept what is rightfully yours, easy to accede to Si’lan’s plans, and in a year you could be lord of Ha’las—righting all the wrongs that exist there.”

  “The place needs a good cleansing. I will be more than happy to assist Si’lan in such work. But not as your heir. You have an heir. He lies upstairs, ill near to death.”

  “How near, do you think?” Sharpeyes closed his eyes. There was a pause, so slight Callo did not draw a full breath. Then the King opened his eyes and grinned into Callo’s face. “Very near; oh, very near.”

  Across the room, Kirian made a noise of protest. Callo panicked. Would Sharpeyes pull Ander’s life force away before Callo could complete his task? There had been enough talking. He looked at Kirian, apologized silently, and let his psychic magery free from where he held it behind strict control.

  He had prepared it and held it ready. The lesson was learned; he would make no attempt to spare anyone in the room the effects of his ku’an magery. It would take every skill he had to bring down this powerful man. He magnified it, strengthened it, and let down his wall, allowing the lethargy to sweep out into the King’s chamber.

  He saw it hit the guardsmen. A blank look in the eye, a slump to the shoulders, alertness gone and replaced by a struggle to stay on their feet. Beside the guardsmen, Lord Dionar’s sword hand dropped into a limp weight at his side. The guard who held Kirian went to his knees and the lassitude swelled, filling the room like Smoke.

  Yhallin staggered under the influence of the psychic magery, but was able to sweep her hands up and spin a disc of magery toward Callo. He summoned his own mage ability and touched it, leaching off its force, letting it bleed away into the air as Yhallin sank to the floor in a pool of dark robes.

  Metal clattered behind him. Callo turned to see the guardsman in a slump of mail and arms on the floor, eyes staring upward almost as if he had died. Callo’s eyes went around the room to find all the guardsmen in a similar state of bespelled languor, even Dionar slumped against the tapestried wall with his hands dragging limp beside him on the floor. Yhallin was no longer a threat, lying on the floor with her face turned away from him.

  Freed of his guard, he began to walk toward the King’s chair.

  “Not so fast, ku’an!”

  It was the King’s voice, still strong and alert, stopping Callo like a fist to the face.

  At the head of the room, Sharpeyes stood beside the carved chair. The King still smiled malevolently. He held Kirian tight to his side, a muscled arm about her neck. Around them both was a shield of color magery, swirling like oil on water illuminated by sunlight, a mass of colors that Callo could nevertheless see through to discern the panicked look on Kirian’s face.

  Neither the King or Kirian was at all affected by the psychic magery that had dropped the others into a state of somnolence.

  “You have been too busy rejecting your heritage to understand it,” Sharpeyes said. “Meanwhile I have been creating a shield that protects against Ha’lasi magery. You should be flattered that I have gone to so much trouble for you. My better sense bid me slay you long ago instead of struggling again and again to bring you to my cause—at considerable risk to myself.”

  “You should have believed my word, that I would not fall into line with your commands,” Callo said.

  “All men fall into line with my wishes eventually,” the king said.

  His arm tightened about Kirian’s throat, and her hands went up to pull at his arm, trying to free herself. Her fingers dug into the skin of Sharpeyes’ forearm.

  “Let her go!” Callo said. “You’re hurting her.”

  “I will let her go to be—whatever she is to you,” the King said. “When you swear on Jashan’s name you will do as I wish in this matter.”

  Callo struggled to breach the wall of color magery. He pushed the ku’an magery at the shield, enveloping it in sleep, but the King’s magery held firm.

  “I know how you hold Jashan in reverence,” King Martan said. “I would trust your oath upon him.”

  “There will be no oath,” Callo forced out, struggling to hold the ku’an influence in place over the men in the room. Someone stirred over against the wall, and Callo closed his eyes briefly, concentrating.

  “Look, I will offer you a compromise, which I have never before done to any righ,” Sharpeyes said. “If you will not be King after me, so be it! Only do this—bed with the righ woman I choose for you, and make offspring with your bloodlines—progeny that I will shape to take your place on the throne.”

  “No,” Callo said. “That would be even worse.”

  “How worse, to plow a pretty maiden a couple of times and hand over your mage offspring to me? Then you may go off with your Healer and watch your son grow to be the first emperor of Ha’las and Righar!”

  “I do not trust you,” Callo said. “I remember well how you shaped me, Uncle. I have no idea how you would use my offspring, but I know you will never let me go.”

  “No?” The King’s arm tightened again. Kirian struggled, her face growing red. The King drew his dagger out from its sheath on his belt, and held it ready. “I have no compunction in slaying your lover.”

  Kirian was beginning to choke. Her mouth was wide open, struggling for air. Callo saw her hands drop to her side, her fingers opening.

  “Hold on, Kirian,” Callo said. He gathered his strength. Energy ripped from his fingers and arrowed towards the King. Callo could feel the heat of it from where he stood. He waited for it to slam into the King’s shield, prepared to grab Kirian while the King’s attention was on his own defense.

  The King laughed. He watched, apparently undisturbed, as Callo’s wall of flame impacted his mage shield. The shield glowed
as it apparently absorbed Callo’s attack. The King and Kirian stood untouched.

  “I begin to think you are quite sincere,” the King said. “Since you do not agree to spare your whore.” He sighed, and a wall of color magery spun out from the protective globe that encircled the two on the dais. “If you will not comply, Royal Bastard, I will see the end of you.”

  Callo flung up an arm wrapped in force. Color magery streamed from his hands, forcing back the King’s attack. The King smirked, loosing his hold on Kirian’s neck a little to concentrate on Callo.

  Kirian drew a deep, gasping breath with a desperate sound audible across the room.

  “I am sick unto death of coddling you, all the while guarding my life against you,” Martan said. “You wanted me to believe you—well, I now do so. You are too dangerous to live if you are not my own to deploy as I wish. Prepare to join your half-brother in hell, Royal Bastard.”

  A ball of flame arced from Martan’s outstretched hand. Callo’s defense wavered in the face of that power; he could not defend against it with his attention on the psychic magery that kept the guardsmen somnolent. The King’s mage attack slowed and weakened when it neared Callo’s defenses, striking Callo in the chest.

  The force blew Callo off his feet. A fireball of pain spread across his chest, down his arms and up his neck. Desperate, he drew all the strength he had into the mage energy, striking at the King. The energy scattered before the King’s coruscant mage shield, washing up the pale walls in a futile show.

  Sharpeyes laughed. “Everyone has told you how much potential you have. You have craved hearing their praise, watching them as they envy you, haven’t you? You have not bothered to realize how powerful I am! Neither your color magery nor your psychic magery can reach me.”

  Callo pulled his shaking legs under him and stood. His head reverberated as with the echo of a meteor strike. Behind him, someone groaned. Metal scraped, as if one of the guards tried to rise. On the dais, Yhallin stirred from her enforced lethargy. The psychic magery had been held too long, drawing from an emptying well of strength; Callo tried to reinforce it. He felt the room move slowly about him, and knew the magery was taking its toll. He must try to bring this to its conclusion before he succumbed to the reaction.

  On the dais, Martan stretched out a hand. Brilliant color emanated from every pore, merging into a beam of magery so intense Callo could not keep his eyes on it. The killing stroke, he thought. He dropped the psychic influence he was exerting on the guards and pulled all of his power into an opposing force.

  “Jashan, aid me,” he whispered, and flung a bolt of power just as Sharpeyes released his own magery.

  They met in a blast of color that whited out Callo’s vision. The air heated; Callo sucked in breath through a dry throat, trying to maintain strength. There was a cry behind him, and a clatter of arms, but he knew the guardsmen would be confused as they woke from their torpor to this hell of energy, and Callo could spare no strength to deal with them anyway.

  For the first time since he was a child, he reached inside for more energy to fuel the magery, and came up dry.

  The glare of magery began to thin. Peering through white light, Callo saw the King slumped over the armrest of the carved chair beside him. He panted in the dry hot air. He had lost his hold on Kirian, who sat with her legs drawn up before her on the floor, gasping.

  * * * * *

  Through a fog so deep he could see nothing, Ander could discern shouting and the snap of color magery as if it were in the room with him.

  With an immense effort, he managed to move his arm.

  He lay in his bed, his arm in contact with cool linen bedding. His body felt light, wasted.

  “My lord!” There was a scraping sound as if a chair was shoved aside, and footsteps approaching. “Good gods, my lord Ander, it is good to see you move!”

  He opened his eyes but it was a few moments until he could see anything other than a smear of garbled shapes, in colors like paints spilled on a canvas. Then the object in front of his eyes resolved into a face—Jesel’s face, only a few inches from him.

  “Water,” Jesel muttered to himself, withdrawing. “Sugared water, let me get something into you while I can.”

  Ander closed his eyes again. He remembered something pulling at him hard, for a long time, carrying his strength with it as a river in flood carried everything with it. Now the sickening pull was fainter. Barely a thread stretched from his heart into the ether.

  There was an arm beneath his neck, lifting him. Ander found the mug being presented to his lips. He sipped. Cool, sweet liquid soothed his throat. He could already feel the strength flowing along his wasted limbs.

  Jesel lowered his head to the bed. Ander sighed. Sleep hovered all around him, waiting. Before he let himself sink into it, there was one thing Ander had to do.

  He found the binding thread that sucked the strength from him, now thin and attenuated, and pulled on it as hard as he could.

  * * * * *

  Callo heard thumping and smashing behind him. The heavy wood doors began to shake as men tried to beat them down.

  Sharpeyes tried to push himself up off the chair, but his muscles trembled visibly, and he fell back. The mage shield still encompassed him, but it grew weak and filmy, gray in places as if decaying.

  Yhallin moved on the dais, pushing herself up off the floor with her arms until she wavered next to Kirian.

  Callo tried to gather strength for another attack. Then he felt someone grasp his hands from behind—a guardsman, managing to resume his duty. He wrenched his arms away with a trickle of magery and stared up at the dais.

  Kirian stood, watching the King pull himself upright.

  She looked at Callo. He nodded, and she raised her arms to deliver one mighty blow to Sharpeyes’ grizzled head, slamming the King’s head down on the wood armrest.

  “Watch out!” Callo warned.

  It was too late. Mage Yhallin grabbed Kirian’s hands from behind and dragged her away from the King. The mage stumbled, but red was beginning to etch her hands as she gathered her energy. Callo knew he had little time before she would be able to attack. And he was too weak to defend himself or Kirian.

  Sharpeyes still hung, fighting unconsciousness, on the carved chair. The King’s mage shield was half gone. The remnants of the attack faded into pools of energy on the walls and floor, then shrank and vanished. Yhallin straightened, raised a hand, and began to replenish the shield, power flowing from her, slow but effective. Kirian whirled and pulled the King’s own dagger from his side, striking at Yhallin. The mage healer jumped back as the blade grazed her arm. Kirian followed, stabbing again deep into Yhallin’s shoulder.

  Yhallin’s magery fell like sand to the earth. She turned and struck out, knocking Kirian to the floor. The blade flew out of Kirian’s hand. Yhallin’s fist connected again with Kirian’s jaw, and Kirian sagged, her hands falling loose to her side.

  Lord Dionar, on the dais, had recovered. He drew his sword, stumbling toward Callo. “Guards! To me!” the man rasped.

  Callo struggled to gather his strength. He pushed them all back with the vestiges of his ku’an magery, visiting the entire chamber with the most powerful fear he could imagine, until they shook and gasped in the corner of the room, afraid to approach or defend. It took his last bit of strength to do it, but the room trembled in fear.

  Dionar dropped his sword and ran to the corner of the room, where he panted in terror. Yhallin dropped down next to Kirian on the floor. She curled in on herself, but Callo saw her still fumbling for the King’s discarded blade, as if she tried to overcome the effects of the magery.

  Then he walked up the two steps to the dais, through the shredding remains of the shield, and approached the King.

  Sharpeyes was in dire condition. His face was gray from exertion, and he held a hand to his heart. His breath came fast as he leaned back and looked into Callo’s eyes. Callo could see the fear there. Sharpeyes’ shield was in tatters, and he too was af
fected by the ku’an influence. It gave Callo no satisfaction.

  “I know you,” the King gasped. “You are too loyal to finish me off.”

  Callo stepped over to where the King’s blade lay discarded on the floor. He pushed aside Yhallin’s hand and picked up the blade. “You are too sure of yourself,” he said. “This will be for all those you have manipulated like puppets to your will—for me, and Ander, and not the least of all Arias. You fear the Sword of Jashan? I am your Sword of Jashan. Greet your gods, Martan Alghasi Monteni.”

  Sharpeyes said, “You cannot do it. You are bound.”

  Callo actually smiled. “I was never bound. You have only yourself to blame for this ending, my uncle. I would happily have worked with you, under your legitimate heir, but you could not abandon the conspiracy you and Si’lan made together.”

  “You still can,” gasped the King. “It is not too late.”

  “Get up,” Callo said.

  Sharpeyes put both hands on the chair arm and shoved himself upright. His right hand was clenched over his heart. His face was gray, and his breath came fast. Callo noticed the man’s hand trembled. But the King’s sharp gaze was on him, and he actually smiled. “You are more than I had hoped—worthy of me,” Sharpeyes said. “You can still join me. I will not insist on the punishment for your treason if you swear to follow my wishes.”

  “No,” Callo growled. “Never.”

  Callo felt a sickening lurch. His psychic magery dropped, his strength gone just like that. The others in the room—too many of them, too many to fight off—groaned and cried but would soon be back on their feet, free of the ku’an influence. He looked at the ragged remains of the shield Sharpeyes had created; it was amazing it still stood at all.

  * * * * *

  Ander drifted up to the surface of sleep. Something nagged at him, something he should do before he let the darkness take him.

  Someone’s hand was holding his wrist. Jesel, he thought. He pulled away weakly so the touch would not distract him.

  “Unknown God,” he heard someone whisper. “Be with him.”