“So how would I know if I was telling the right person?”
“If that happens, then you would be wisest to wait on sharing your secret until you're one hundred percent certain. You can only tell one person, but you can wait as long as you want to tell him or her.”
Zellíd's face grew pale. Miles smiled and raised his hand to Zellíd's shoulder. “I chose you for this position because you have a lot of wisdom for your age. Trust yourself and know if you're put in that position, you aren't the first.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Ed and Adelina were murdered, the Head Elder was also gravely injured. The Healers couldn't save him and he soon succumbed to his injuries. That left no one outside of this village with knowledge of the stone. The only tales that speak of it don't mention the stone's location.”
“It wouldn't matter if they did,” Nick said. “They're children's bedtime stories. No one believes them.” He crossed his arms and studied the Elder. “Was Darius the Head Guardian at the time?”
“He was,” Miles said. “But he didn't share his secret with anyone right away. In fact, he waited five years to mention it. Another Head Elder was appointed after the first died, but the Guardian army was in disarray and it became difficult for us to tell who could be trusted. He could be, as it turned out, but another of the Elders couldn't. She killed him and two other Elders in their sleep. Sam managed to fend off her attack. We arrested her, but she swallowed poison before we could interrogate her.”
“So Darius told Sam?” Zellíd asked.
“No. Sam became the new Head Elder by default, but he's never wanted to hold the position. He kept it long enough to appoint four more Elders and then stepped down. I was elected for the position and Darius shared his secret with me.” Miles trailed his fingers down the stone. It flashed and faded again. “This stone protects itself well enough, and we do our best to aid it, but don't believe everything you've heard in your bedtime stories. Time will not stop if the stone is destroyed.” He left his hand on the quartz and turned toward Zellíd. “We don't protect the stone because it's irreplaceable. We know how to make another one. It takes a year, but it can be done. We protect the stone because the magic in it's so old that it's living. We feel that's worth preserving.”
Zellíd touched his fingers to the center of the clock face. “I'll remember that,” he said.
“Good. Also remember that if it comes down to staying and protecting the stone or evacuating the village if it's being attacked, you should choose the latter option. Your first priority is your people.”
Both men dropped their hands. A bell tolled in the distance, marking the beginning of a new day.
“There's a third option,” Nick reminded them. He stared down at his hand. He could still feel the energy that pulsed through him from the stone. It was similar to the energy he had felt in the ancient Spellmaster's residence, and it was different. It felt stronger, more insistent, as if the magic coursing through the lands of Ærenden had somehow changed. “You could lead the villagers into battle,” he said and looked up, meeting Zellíd's eyes with an insistence that matched the magic empowering him. “Not to protect the stone but to protect their way of life. You could meet Garon's army and defeat them at their own game.”
Zellíd's grin told Nick that he liked that option.
“Well now,” Miles said, chuckling. “That's what we came for, isn't it? Now let's wake these people and teach them how to fight.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
METAL CLANGED against metal, a resonating sound that charged through the air, ominous and powerful. It shouted of battle and of struggle. It conjured images of horror and death. It reverberated chaos, and it tensed Nick's muscles, catalyzing his body into hyperawareness. He was ready to react, to turn and deflect a blow in a fraction of a second. He was ready to pull his own sword from its sheath and yield it against the enemy. His fingers itched to feel the leather of his hilt, even though his mind understood that no danger greeted him.
He walked the length of the field, watching those who fought with a calculated eye. Men and women dressed in yellow tunics wielded swords and knives against those wearing red. Hands bearing scythes faced maces or tried to prevent active powers from advancing. A Firestarter engulfed three of his enemies in a cage of flames. A telepath tossed his foes aside, waving them off with a flippant hand in the same way he would deter a pesky fly. A woman with the talent to create shields sat on a rock, knitting a scarf as blades bounced from her invisible barrier.
Nick frowned when he saw her. The nonchalance at which she paid attention to the battle bothered him. Despite his daily instruction to the villagers, some of them still did not see the point in helping others during battle. It appeared this woman would need a one-on-one lecture, courtesy of her King. If that failed, Nick could always entertain the possibility of throwing her in the village jail for a day or two.
An arrow sliced through her shield, shimmering as it flew, then tore the knitting from her hands. Continuing its course, it imbedded into the bark of a nearby tree. The woman's eyes widened as she watched the ends of the impaled scarf blowing in the breeze. She jumped from her seat, sending the ball of yarn in her lap to the ground. It skittered away, leaving a trail of yarn behind it. Nick traced the trajectory of the arrow back to its source, surprised to find Zellíd grinning at him as he lowered his bow. Though Nick knew Zellíd's reputation as a skilled archer, even the finest shot could not pierce a magical shield.
When the woman raised her force field again, Zellíd fired another arrow. It broke through her barrier and sank into the ground at her feet. This time Nick saw the true attacker. A woman in a red tunic with piercing blue eyes and long, black hair stood behind Zellíd. She had nodded as he fired his bow. Most people would have missed the significance of her gesture, but Nick knew which power used that move. He had grown up watching one of his closest friends master the same power.
This woman was a Weakener. A single nod toward her intended victims and she could weaken their powers, making them susceptible to attack. That effect alone made the weakener power devastating, but it proved even more dangerous because it provided no warning. The victims only learned of the attack once their powers could no longer protect them.
Zellíd nocked another arrow and drew it back. This time, his target did not attempt to raise her shield. She reached behind the rock and grabbed the sword she had long ago discarded. When Zellíd fired, she deflected the arrow with her blade. Anger blotched her face as she glared at him, but when he reached for another arrow and inclined his head toward the battle, she got the point. She could help her fellow villagers or she would have to fight him, but she could not sit out the training any longer. In answer, she turned and launched herself into the battle. Zellíd let go of his arrow, allowing it to drop harmlessly into the quiver on his back.
Nick approached him. “Nicely done,” he said. “And a lot more effective than the lecture I had planned.”
“I tried the lecture route,” Zellíd told him, “after the first practice battle and the second. She doesn't seem to understand that if she's the last one standing, she's not going to survive either. She seems to think if she waits out the battles, she'll be fine.”
“It's the curse of an active power,” the woman behind Zellíd said. “Or at least that's what I've found. Those who have them think they're invincible. It's been my pleasure on more than one occasion to teach a lesson to those holding that philosophy.”
Nick chuckled. “I imagine so. I would love to be able to do that myself sometimes.”
She grinned and extended her hand. “I'm Kyna.”
“Nick,” Nick responded, shaking her hand.
“Of course. Everyone knows that,” she said, then jumped back when a wall of fire sprang up at her side. Her eyes swung from the flames to the battle. A short man in a yellow tunic grinned at her. She returned the grin and nodded. His fire flickered, lowering to half its height, and Kyna took the opportunity to attack. She plucked a kn
ife from her belt and threw it, her aim swift and confident. Nick could tell she had practiced with the weapon, but she did not have the natural talent he had nurtured in Meaghan, and the knife missed its target. Instead of hitting the man's heart, it found his shoulder. Or at least it would have if the spell protecting the battle had not deflected it. Kyna's weapon fell to the ground, and so did its intended victim. The man would remain unconscious until the battle concluded.
“I guess we should get back to training,” Kyna said and ran into the fray, seeking out another yellow tunic.
Zellíd followed her, moving slowly while he watched the villagers fighting. He stopped several times to provide tips to those losing or struggling with their weapons and Nick smiled. Miles had chosen well. In the three days since they had started training the villagers, Zellíd had established himself as both a respected leader and a patient advisor. Nick had no doubt Zellíd would make this village his home for a long time.
Nick turned to survey the makeshift battlefield surrounding him. Closer to the tree line, near the edge of the protection spell, Miles worked with a group of villagers selected by the Horse Masters to train with their prized animals. While Miles stood among them, offering tips, the Horse Masters instructed their horses, teaching them how to react in a fight and calming them when the noise of the battle became too much for them. This village was the first to train cavalry, but Miles had plans to teach others in the area, training them in the same manner.
A horse reared up, guided by its rider, and then slammed its hooves back onto the ground, trampling the opponent Miles had created from rags and hay. The rider whirled the horse around, brandishing his sword in time to block a blow from his sparring partner. Both men rose in their saddles, their arms swift, and their steeds steady as they continued to lash at each other. Nick watched them circle around the Horse Masters, tall and imposing, and rekindled a hope he had not dared to feel in years.
In the few days they had been training, these villagers had shown more progress than any he had trained before. Many of them had never held a weapon, yet they made up for their lack of experience with determination. They fought until darkness overcame them, and dove into combat soon after the sun rose. Though they moaned from their aches at night and shuffled through the soreness born from muscles unaccustomed to use, they chose not to complain. Instead, they kept a steady supply of jicab tea brewing in their fireplaces and drank it gladly to ease their pains. They understood the necessity of their training and welcomed it. They also spread the word of their adventures to the neighboring villages. Young runners made appearances throughout all three days, their eyes wide in awe at the battle before them. They carried stories back to their villages and returned with invitations from the Village Heads and Leaders, asking Nick to schedule them next for training. It was a welcome change from the nonchalance of the first villages Nick had visited.
But his hope came from more than the villagers' progress. He watched another horse trample a hay-stuffed opponent and felt his good mood soar. The Mardróch could only hover so far off the ground and run so fast. Even with their protective cloaks and terrifying powers, they would have trouble defeating the cavalry. A horse and rider came close to the same height as a Mardróch and could almost match the evil creature's speed. And now that the men and women of Ærenden had combat training, they finally stood a fair chance against Garon's legions—especially given the news Ambler had shared with him that morning.
During the young man's run-in with the Mardróch last year, he had discovered they were incapable of freezing animals. If trained properly, the horses could break a Mardróch's freezing hold or better, they could keep moving to prevent the monster's red-eyed power from taking effect. The cavalry could wipe out the biggest threat before the foot soldiers came within eyeshot of Garon's monsters.
Although Nick had no experience planning battle strategy, he felt certain Faillen would be more than pleased with the advantage and would put it to good use.
Nick took another minute to watch the cavalry train and then turned to study the hand-to-hand fighting. Six men and women battled each other. Four wore red tunics and two wore yellow. Though outnumbered, those in yellow fought with both weapons and powers. A tall, lanky woman held a scythe in one hand while she used her other to force a shield at her opponents, pushing them backward toward her partner. He moved at double speed, the knives in his hands no more than streaking shadows as he sent two of their opponents into artificial death. The last two men in red shirts backed against each other, moving quickly to deflect the rain of scythe and knife strikes. The taller of the two men handled his sword with ease and strength. Once he had a clean shot, he felled the blurred form of the man in yellow.
The portly man who pressed against the taller man's back did not handle his sword with the same grace. He swung it clumsily, blocking the woman's scythe more from luck than skill. Her timid advances kept the man alive longer than Nick expected, but soon she grew tired of the fight and dropped her shield to lunge for the kill. The man fell to the ground, comatose from the battle spell. Nick shook his head and approached the two survivors before they fought each other.
The woman saw him and brushed a hand over her tunic, wiping dirt from her palm in a nervous gesture he had seen many times before. Her fingers went to her hair next, pushing strands of blonde from her face, then moved to her side to fiddle with the hem of her shirt.
“What did we do wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing, Silvy,” Nick said. “You did much better today. Partnering with Gildar was a wise choice. You make a good team.”
“Really?” Relief eased the tension from her body and Nick saw her smile for the first time since he had met her. “When you came over here, I thought we'd messed up again. We've been practicing at night.”
“It shows,” Nick told her. “You're still a little too timid, which will hurt you if you're not careful, but as you gain confidence in your ability, that should change.”
“I'll work on that,” she promised. “I'm sure Gildar can help me. He has plenty of confidence to spare.”
“Which is why he's passed out on the ground,” the man in the red tunic said. “He thought his power would help him outrun my sword.”
“Few people are faster than your strike, Fedwick,” Nick said. “But you're right. It would have done him well to be wary of you. He'll know better next time.”
Fedwick laughed. “I doubt it. Gildar's my cousin. He should have known better already.”
Nick chuckled as he dropped his gaze to Gildar. He had not noticed the resemblance between the two men before, but now that he knew their relation, he could not ignore it. Both men had the same cherub face—round with red cheeks—and both of them had black hair coiled tightly against their heads. Nick's attention slipped from Gildar to the reason he had come, the sleeping figure of the portly man lying two feet away.
“I could use your help,” he said, looking up at Fedwick again. “And yours,” he nodded toward Silvy. “I'm concerned about Abram's progress. I don't think he'll last long in a real battle if he doesn't learn how to handle a weapon.”
“And you want us to train him?” Fedwick asked.
“Yes. Silvy will make a good sparring partner and he'll learn well from your instruction. Although I don't think the sword is the right weapon for him.”
“I agree,” Fedwick said. “But I'm not sure what weapon to try next. I've seen him with a bow and arrow. It's not pretty. He nearly hit Miles the last time he took a shot, and the Elder was a good twenty feet away from Abram's target.”
“He's worse with the scythe,” Silvy said. “And he nearly cut his own toes off with a knife. Zellíd thought it would be best to keep him away from them until our new Healer arrives. Since Miles hasn't agreed to one yet, it could be a while.”
“Well that certainly rules out the traditional weapons,” Nick said, “but I don't think he's hopeless. Let's see if we can find something else.” Waving a hand over Abram, he recited the spell to wak
en him, “Lost in battle, not in life; find the will, awake, arise; bring awareness back to limb; revive the spirit once again.”
As soon as the words passed Nick's lips, he was peering into Abram's bright green eyes. The man looked confused at first, but soon disappointment settled over him. He sat up. His whole body seemed to sag, deepening the shadows a frown painted over his face.
“I'm dead again,” he said, and then pressed his palms against his eyes before dragging his fingers through his thinning, gray hair. “It might be simpler to dig my grave now. I'm sure to be one of Garon's first kills.”
“I'm not ready to give up on you,” Nick told him. He leaned over to offer Abram a hand. The older man took it and Nick pulled him to his feet. “What's your power?”
“It's not useful for fighting,” Abram responded. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “Look, Nick, I appreciate your kindness, but there are a lot of other people who—”
“I didn't ask if it was useful,” Nick interrupted. “I asked what it was.”
Abram's eyes grew round. His cheeks flared in embarrassment at the reprimand, and then he nodded, deferring to the command in Nick's voice. “I'm a Butcher,” he answered.
“And a good one,” Fedwick added. “He cuts the cleanest piece of meat I've ever seen.”
“Oh yeah?” Nick asked, grinning. “Then you don't want to see what I did with an ambercat over the winter. I mangled a portion of prime roast so badly that it had to be used for stew.”
“That's appalling,” Abram said with a shudder, though the corners of his lips soon upturned. “Next time you're lucky enough to catch one of those animals, bring it to me. You won't recognize what you ate over the winter once you've tasted my cuts.”
“You have a deal,” Nick promised. He cocked his head to the side, studying the older man. Now that he was more relaxed, his arms no longer folded over his chest or clutched at his sides, Nick could see something Abram had hidden before. Thin white lines marked the edges of the butcher's fingers, evidence of cuts long since healed into scars, and hard calluses decorated his palms, worn there by constant use of a wood handle. Abram had skill with a blade, a skill that extended from his power, and Nick had no doubt it would serve him well in battle. If he stopped trying to apply it to the wrong weapon.
Aerenden: The Zeiihbu Master (Ærenden) Page 8