“You wanted my secrets, Lorta?” Saetala asked in a cold tone. “See this shaft?” Lorta’s rolling eyes flicked toward the pit. “At the bottom lies the Aldor Sokatasa, the very weapon that caused the Great Destruction. It has been my life’s ambition to discover such an important archeological find, for in it lays a treasure trove of secrets, my secrets. Seeing as you are the emperor, however, I am going to let you be the first to enter the Aldor.” With that, Saetala tossed Lorta into the pit, his scream fading as he disappeared into the abyss.
“That is for killing my son,” Saetala said to himself.
A scream of rage resounded from the entrance to the throne room, accompanying an Aukasian general charging in with dozens of soldiers sprinting after him.
As Sitrell followed the soldiers, who only moments ago had been trying to kill him, his eyes darted left and right scanning the chamber. His breath caught at the sight of a muscular man standing near a hole in the marble floor. A black horror wrapped the man’s lower middle, and he was covered in blood. That has to be the Medasylas! A few meters away he spotted Ashra.
She cowered next to one of the room’s marble pillars, a gentlemen’s coat draped about her shoulders to hide the fact that she was only dressed in her undergarments. What have they done to her! Anger coursed through him like a river that was both ice and fire. Sitrell screamed and doubled his run, weaving through the mob of soldiers until he was at the forefront just behind the Aukasian general. As they closed on the Medasylas, Sitrell raised his sword in preparation for a jumping strike.
Both he and the Aukasian general leapt almost at the same time, swords swinging downward in an attempt to cleave the Medasylas in two. Medasylas shot forward in a blur and grabbed both he and the Aukasian general in mid air. He tossed Sitrell to the side as if he had weighed no more than a child, his sword clattering to the ground just a few feet out of his reach.
“Sitrell!” Ashra screamed as he rolled to a stop just a foot from where she stood. She ran to his side, kneeling over him “You’re alive,” she gushed, tears running down raw cheeks.
Sitrell met her gaze, the sight of her revitalizing his courage. “I came for you.”
She smiled, her stare falling to a large gash running along the top of his forearm.
“You’re hurt,” Ashra said as she laid her right hand on his wound. He jumped as her eyes exploded into a crystal shine, the same color as Yuiv’s. Energy suffused Sitrell, washing away his pain and fatigue as his flesh knit closed. He felt even better than if he had just awoken from a fresh night’s sleep. He sat up and kissed her before leaping to his feet.
“You know of the Tayaden passage?” he asked as he retrieved his sword.
Ashra nodded.
“Then go! I’ll give you the time you need to escape!” He turned toward the sight of the Medasylas smiling as he strangled the high ranking Aukasian general.
“False-Sage,” the general wheezed
The Medasylas scoffed.
Sitrell heard Ashra say something about Kaiden as he rushed forward, but her words were lost as the furious beating of his heart pounded in his ears. The Medasylas was too focused on watching his victim die to hear Sitrell charging toward him. With another leaping strike, Sitrell brought his blade down in an arc, severing the arm that held the Aukasian general by the neck. The Medasylas bellowed and stumbled backwards, cradling his bloody stump sliced clean just below the elbow. The general fell to the ground, gasping and coughing as he reached for his scimitar. Sitrell put himself between the man and the Medasylas, ready for the monster’s retaliatory attack.
“He’s strong,” Sitrell said to the general as the man rose to stand at his side. “But not a warrior, I think that will give us an edge.”
The general, clearly the famed Hakell Salache, nodded and raised his curved sword to a guard position. “Are you familiar with the ‘strike of a thousand serpents’ tactic?” Salache asked in a thick accent.
“Yes, men use it for hunting large game, several allies striking and then retreating in staggered order.”
“That’s right,” Salache said.
Sitrell warily eyed the Medasylas. The hulking monster of a man seemed to increase in bulk, burning eyes intensifying as they settled on him.
“Now!” Salache barked.
Sitrell and several Aukasian soldiers leapt forward, striking at the Medasylas and then retreating as another wave of soldiers led by Salache moved in to strike.
Jalek’s head rested on the floor as he crouched forward condensed into a ball. His beating had ceased hours ago after the phantom of his brother had vanished, Jalek’s bruises and welts disappearing with him. Yet, in spite of this, Jalek still could not rise, Azanoth’s words leaving injuries that wouldn’t fade.
Coward, traitor, heretic!
Those things and more Azanoth had called him, the impact of each of his fists driving the words through Jalek’s skin and into his heart. It had been a brutal episode, definitely reminiscent of his childhood, but different in a way he could not quite identify. Azanoth, his real brother, had never been so vicious with words, though the physical beating was every bit what Jalek remembered. After his brother had evaporated, he was left to wonder what to make of the vision. Was he going insane? Is that why he had heard a mental voice all of his life? He had heard that same voice just before Azanoth had appeared.
Coward, traitor, heretic!
From the noises outside his small window, Jalek had concluded that the Aukasian army had invaded the city. I will be executed when they find me. Oddly, that thought brought a sense of relief. It was a way out. Not suicide, but a release that would allow him to hold to some shred of dignity.
“Jalek,” a voice softly called.
Jalek looked up to find a man standing outside his cell. He was tall with almond shaped eyes and wore his long black hair in a single braid. “Are you real?”
The man smiled. “Yes, my name is Etai, and I am here to help you.”
“Unless you can bring me death, you cannot help me.”
“Do you know what you are?” Etai asked, with the faintest hint of an accent.
“A coward, traitor, and heretic.”
“Not a coward. A man with the courage to do the right thing even when it runs counter to all he knows and believes is not a coward.” Etai smiled. “That is a rare brand of courage.”
“You are talking about my saving the boy?” Jalek shifted to kneel. “How do you know of that?”
Etai glanced at the bowls of rotting food littering the cell floor. “You say you are a traitor, why?”
Jalek bowed his head, the shame feeling as though it pressed down on him. “Because I killed my countrymen and delivered the enemy.”
“What if I told you that a higher obligation rested upon you, a call from YaJiann to protect one of his chosen? What if I told you that you chose your God over your emperor?”
“I do not…” Jalek faltered. “Nothing is clear to me.”
“You are of the Kalyra, Jalek Larale.” Etai gripped the bars of the cell door and leaned in. “You are a child of the Crystal Star, and right now you are needed to battle the darkness. What will you choose: your God or your own self pity?”
Jalek turned his attention to the cold void with the raging nucleus emanating from somewhere in the palace above. “It is him, isn’t it… the Medasylas.”
Etai nodded. “He has killed the emperor and will soon kill Hakell Salache, Sitrell Trauel, and dozens of other brave souls trying to stop him. If he achieves his goal, he will add to his strength so that no one will be able to stop him, not even an Astadi. Darkness will descend on the world faster than we can mobilize the Kalyra, and Aedar will have dominion over Valcoria forever.”
Jalek nodded to himself. Somehow, he knew what this man said was true. He had been denying it for weeks, but in his heart he knew the truth. He was a Kalyra, an Astadi, a child of the Crystal Star, and he had a duty to fight the darkness. Jalek stood, Jia roaring to life inside him. Etai smiled and ste
pped back as Jalek gripped two bars of his cell door and brushed them apart, making a gap wide enough for him to slip through.
“I choose my God,” he said, the flame of YaJiann blazing inside his chest.
Blood gushed from Yuiv’s nose, the result of his taking a blow to the face from the Aukasian soldier manhandling him.
“Which lord is your father?” the soldier demanded.
“I’as not noble,” Yuiv said as he choked on his own blood.
Dissatisfied with his answer, the soldier threw Yuiv to the floor and delivered two hard kicks to his ribs for good measure.
“We are wasting our time. He doesn’t know anything,” one of the soldiers said.
“Then why not be done with him?”
A sudden, ominous silence broke a moment later with the sound of steel being drawn from a sheath.
This is it. I’m going to die, Amigus will fall, and it’s my fault. He closed his eyes. I’m sorry, Olan. I’m sorry, Sitrell. I’m sorry, Mother.
Why are you giving up? Tyra whispered.
“Cuz I’as canna fight em,” he said.
You are very special, Yuiv. More special than you know, Tyra repeated. Call upon your Jia before you surrender to death.
Yuiv tapped his Jia. The flame of his inner fire exploded to life inside his chest, warming every part of his body with the very essence of life. Yuiv’s eyes snapped open and he saw his interrogator standing over him, brandishing a curved sword. The soldier was about to raise it, but paused as he looked down at Yuiv, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“What is this thing?” he said, tone incredulous. “His eyes are―”
The moment was all the opportunity Yuiv needed. He shot his hand up faster than he thought possible, slamming his palm into the soldier’s kneecap. The soldier cried out as Yuiv broke his leg backwards. In a heartbeat, Yuiv was on his feet. He shoved the soldier in the chest, and the man slammed into the wall so hard that the stone above his head cracked.
The sound of more unsheathing swords caused Yuiv to whirl around just in time to catch the arm of a soldier trying to cleave him from behind. Yuiv broke the man’s arm and flung him head over boots to the floor. Another soldier attacked him from his left and Yuiv kicked him square in the chest, knocking him through the door and out of the gate house in a explosion of splintered wood. The two remaining soldiers bolted at seeing Yuiv’s display of unnatural strength, dropping their swords and shoving to outpace one another as they fled.
Yuiv didn’t wait for the soldiers to leave. Instead, he rushed toward the floor-wheel and slammed into the push bar so hard it broke free. Yuiv tumbled to the floor and then rolled over as the floor-wheel spun in a whirlwind of motion. The loud sound of two large double doors opening accompanied the wheel’s spin. He had done it. He had opened the south gate. He was not a coward after all.
“We wasted our time coming here!” one of Dyon’s lieutenants hissed. “It will never open!”
Dyon was about to reprimand him for his outburst when he stopped, realizing that the man was right. They had wasted their time coming to the south gate and were aggravated after waiting over an hour. Dyon had gambled on faith and had been kicked square in the fork of his legs for it.
“Shards!” he grumbled around a mouth full of Lettle and then looked at his men. “Double time to the east gate!” he shouted.
The order was relayed a dozen times over and in moments his column was again marching, this time to the north east. They had scarce marched half a mile when shouts began to ring out from behind him. Dyon turned in his saddle to look back at his marching army and froze. Lettle juice spilled into his beard as he gaped at the sight of the south gate’s iron doors swinging inward.
Faith.
Maybe Aun was right. Dyon spit his wad of Lettle onto the ground. Maybe it’s time I gave up my vices.
Sitrell leapt out of the way as the Medasylas launched his remaining fist at him. The blow struck one of the throne room’s giant pillars leaving a crater at the point of impact, chips of marble spraying outward. Only a handful of Aukasian soldiers remained alive or on their feet, the Medasylas having felled over fifty men. Sitrell and Salache warily circled the red-eyed monster, his torso now covered in dozens of cuts and his stump-arm still gushing blood.
How can he keep fighting when he has lost so much blood? Sitrell gritted his teeth in frustration. He did seem a little slower to react, but if he were a normal man, he would’ve succumbed long ago. But he’s not normal. Sitrell remembered what Etai had revealed about the Jihan Truik granting its bearer an unlimited supply of strength. Where’s Gevan? He hadn’t seen the man since they entered the throne room and his Niazeride hand unit would be a great advantage to them at the moment.
Salache lunged forward, his curved scimitar swinging in an artful arc meant to decapitate their enemy. The Medasylas was ready this time and moved in a blur, dodging the swing and catching Salache by the back of his uniform. The Medasylas spun the Aukasian general and hurled him like a discus. He slammed shoulder first into one of the throne room’s marble columns. Salache struck the floor, collapsing into a heap, a stream of blood trickling from his mouth and pooling beneath him.
Sitrell reacted out of instinct, lunging forward flanked by the few surviving Aukasian soldiers. They attacked in unison. Sitrell managed to scratch the abdomen, but the hit was shallow. He is just too fast! The Medasylas seized one of the Aukasian soldiers by the neck and used him as a club to knock away two others, the process breaking the poor soldier’s neck. Sitrell ducked just in time to avoid being struck by the corpse’s boot and flung himself again at the Medasylas.
Time seemed to slow as Sitrell moved into form, offering a silent prayer to the Creator that his father’s spirit might guide his sword as he had guided Sitrell in life. He drew closer, blade on target for the Medasylas’ heart. The point dug into the man’s chest, but before it could sink any further, the Medasylas pivoted to the side and struck Sitrell on the back, hurling him to the floor.
Sitrell heard his father’s sword clang to the ground somewhere off to his right. He looked up at the throne room’s vaulted ceiling, the swimming image making him nauseous as it refused to focus. I hit my head. He heard Ashra scream, the sound meeting his ears as though he were underwater just as the Medasylas stepped into his view. Gone was the man’s smug smile. It had been replaced by a frightening mask of murderous rage. Where’s Gevan? His enemy raised a booted foot above Sitrell’s head.
A blur of motion crashed into the Medasylas and knocked him out of Sitrell’s view. As he regained his senses, Sitrell rolled over onto his right and gawked at Jalek hurling the Medasylas to the ground. His eyes were blazing, crystal blue and he moved with a supernatural speed that caused his figure to leave blur trails through the air.
Gevan watched as the black Aukasian man lifted his father by the throat and hurled him into one of the room’s huge pillars. The impact tore a sizable chunk of marble from the column. Gevan lowered his Niazeride pistol. Even as his father had been about to kill Trauel, he had not been able to press the trigger, a realization that brought him a mixture of both guilt and relief that the Kalyran man had intervened when he did. That hadn’t been the first time Gevan had impotently taken aim, having kept his father as best he could within his sights since entering the throne room. Through it all, he had not been able to fire a single shot, instead hoping that Trauel or Salache, and now this Kalyran, would be able to defeat his father for him.
He glanced down at the Niazeride hand unit’s status window. Luminescent bars touched the top of the screen indicating that it had been set to its maximum power. When the battle started, Gevan had set the levels low so as to be able to merely incapacitate his father, but it soon became apparent that a setting low enough to stun would not stop the crazed monster his father had become.
Gevan looked up as the black man struck Father in the face, knocking him to the floor. His father leapt up in a blur of motion just in time to catch the stranger’s next punch. As fast
as lightning, he forced the Kalran’s hand down, released it, and then struck him in the stomach, doubling him over and then backhanded him in the face. The black man went down, but not for long. He rolled over and leapt to his feet just in time to avoid a booted stomp, the force which sent cracks several feet through the stone floor.
The two titans continued to strike at each other, their blows only landing half the time. Although the Kalyran was obviously a trained warrior, his stamina appeared to be much less than his opponent’s, as evidenced by the slowing of his attacks. Moments later, that disadvantage turned the battle, and Gevan glanced down at his weapon. Would the being Etai called YaJiann—God—be so cruel as to fate him the one to kill his own father?
The man settled into a practiced fighting form, waited for the enemy to charge, and then sprung into action. He launched himself into the air, raised his leg high above his head and brought the heel of his foot down at Rayome’s head, a maneuver meant to kill him. To Gevan’s astonishment, his father had feigned his charge, now leaping aside and slamming his one arm into the man as he descended. The blow hurled the Kalyran dozens of feet through the air before he hit the ground, slipping over the side of a large circular pit in the floor. He held onto the edge with one arm, luminescent crystal eyes lighting the darkness as he glanced into the abyss.
His father was there in a heartbeat, eyes burning crimson as he glared down.
Rayome stared at the man. What was he? He seemed to possess a power like that of his own, though a defective power as the man had tired over the course of their battle. Well, whatever he was, he needed to be destroyed. Nothing could be allowed to threaten his victory, not when he was this close. Rayome raised his right foot and was about to bring it down on the man’s fingers when a flash of emerald light washed over the chamber and something burned into his chest. He looked at his abdomen just as two more emerald energy bolts slammed into him, knocking him back a pace.
Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1) Page 36