“By my oath, I shall preserve our prince. Stay silent or be gone!”
A knight tapped Reuven on the shoulder. He stood up, and looked at Ser Lucius Godbert. “With me, Elder Reuven.”
Reuven walked with the knight away from pit, and the big man pointed towards a door at the eastern end of the yard. “That is where the assailant ran, lest my eyes fool me. I gave chase, but my heart gave out to my prince.”
“Who did this, Ser Lucius?”
“Few guests are permitted into the city, and of those who seek the Marcanas family are under my watch. I knew of Counsel Stephen Francis when he came here not long ago: caustic and abrasive, never over bold, and beleaguered in his movements. What I witnessed was a strong man in his prime—a merciless and deadly foe. That could not have been him.”
Counsel to the Voice, and commandant of the Faithsworn.
He recalled his own informers revealed that the counsel was a man of ambition, holding unwavering belief in Mother God, twisting Her will to his. A big man, portly, though the only callouses on his hands were from tomes. To best the Cleaver Prince in single combat was unfathomable. “That cannot be,” Reuven protested. “A priest could not have slain him.”
“It was but the words of my prince. Words that can never be unsaid; words that will force the king’s hand. Return to His Grace, Elder Reuven. My knights will find whoever did this, and throw his lifeless corpse before the king. If this man should be Dalian, their grasslands will weep with blood.”
If you but find him, it is he that will spill your blood upon the floor. “That is your place, Ser Lucius. Your knights have blooded men before the Lion Throne. Your king needs you. This madness begets desperate men. It is your hand that must steady the tide.”
Pain marred the knight’s face. “We both know what will satiate the king,” Ser Lucius shook his head regrettably. “I will do as my heart portends.”
Reuven could not waste any more words on the knight. He ran off towards the eastern door, sprinting through the halls; his eyes desperately looked towards any cloaked movement: searching for any stirring of the Dark Will. Stephen Francis may have been the name that was uttered, but Reuven knew it was another. Long ago, Amos had mastered illusions and shape-shifting, and he surely would have passed it on those who served him.
Reuven fled into antechambers, side rooms, ascended stairs, and across walkways. His head on a swivel, he searched for a man on the run under a veil of Darkness. All he saw were armed men too occupied looking for the slayer of their prince to pay him much heed, or anyone else.
I can still feel your presence, as I know you can feel mine. You run, but why? There is no refuge, no escape for you. Face me and answer for what you have done!
Reuven was on the ground floor, near the north-west tower. The hall was wide with a tall ceiling, and between each suit of armour were children cowering, crying, and holding onto each other desperately.
“It is to the Lord of Death that we will be delivered,” a child to his left said, eyes red, before they faded and tears streamed down his cheeks.
“You elude me, not I, you,” a little girl said further down.
“You are naught without them,” another declared near a stair door.
Reuven sprinted away, knowing full well that these children were just pawns in a sadistic game.
He emerged in a narrow hall, silent, but for the chaos below. He pushed forward, and a knight brushed past him who muttered, “Just a little further now.” Reuven refused to look back, and ran past bolted doors.
He came to a walkway on the third floor of the castle, and saw a blundering man in blackened mail turn a corner, crimson eyes briefly staring back at him, challenging. Reuven gave chase; the man never turned back, and seemed to be always one step ahead. A door to left was ajar, leading up a spiraling tower. He heard the thundering steps of his foe further ahead. He stopped when he emerged on a round roof high above the city below.
The face that stared back at him was Stephen Francis, all but for the crimson eyes that seemed to weep blood.
“You are less than your brother, Reuven, to not sense my presence ‘til the wretched prince did fall,” the man declared. “A wish of the priest and all those faithful in Dalia. I will not have to lift a finger this time.”
“Take off your mask.”
The daemon laughed mockingly as his face thinned, and scars raked across his flesh. His lips moved like worms pressing against each other, and his voice was coarse and throaty. “I am not so pretty anymore.”
“Lord Eldred!” Reuven shouted, unlatching the stave-sword from his back, and the thin steel lashed out.
“You mean to fight me, Reuven? Fool that you would be for it.”
Amid mocking laughter, Reuven saw a mottled bird upon the daemon’s chest, orange and yellow, glowing.
“To reveal yourself before these people would bring your father down upon you,” Lord Eldred croaked. “You are not the Betrayer.”
Reuven did not flinch. He could not. “Why did you slay Adreyu Marcanas?”
“Why did all those monarchs fall?”
Defiance. You know that as well as I do, even if you spit upon his legacy. “You do not serve the will of Emperor Archelaus! You do not serve the Mazain Empire! You are naught more than a spawn of Sariel, our eternal foe. Argath, Damian, Adreyu, they are all Children of the Dawn. What do you know of the Father Above and what he intends?”
“The tides have turned, Reuven. Was it not you that served your emperor loyally, faithfully? Was it not you that spurned Amos, who plead for Jophiel’s exile? Whatever he decreed you carried to fruition. It was what you were. Traitor I name you.”
It is not I that has changed, but Emperor Archelaus. Since that day he has been weathered, grounded to the shell that he is now. I must do what he cannot. “The only traitor is the dark god, and all who serve the Dark Will. Aleksander, Gareth, Luc, and you, Eldred.”
Lord Eldred laughed again. “You were sent here to retrieve the stones, yet instead you plot with King Tristifer, and give to Aerona Harkan the Heart of the Sand. Defiance lies at the heart of all your works.”
“How do you—”
“Have you forgotten who I am, Reuven?”
Reuven felt a gloom and dread that was far more than palpable now. He thought it as real as the air he breathed. The sun seemed to blot out, clouds darkened from above the tower tops, and a suffusing shadow creeped all ‘round the daemon.
“I am Sariel’s chosen vestige,” Lord Eldred declared. “His lifeblood dwells within me. Whence the stones are gathered, none shall stop my ascension. It has come once before, and now again. You fought it then, and it nearly cost you all that you were. That girl is not the Bringer of Dawn, even wielding the beating heart of Light itself. This plane will become as Darkness—reborn in its purity. All planes will become as one, Creation challenged, and a new existence that should have come at the dawn of time!”
Reuven recalled the Time of Ascension, fifteen thousand years ago, whence it first came to pass. Amos and Jophiel were held within the walls of Old Mazain, whilst Emperor Archelaus and all his children fought the dark god on the slopes of the northern mountains. The memory itself was much a nightmare: daemons with blackened steel and crooked swords, avatars that rent the earth. The only thing that Reuven could trust, all that his brothers had belief in, was their emperor.
In those days, Emperor Archelaus was the Light itself. Vindication, a blade that shone through the Darkness, carved through their foes. His own strength, his perseverance, his force of will, were all drawn from that inescapable Light.
It cost so much. So many were dead, cities were destroyed, shrines to the God of Deliverance were shattered and defiled. All that they knew, held close, was dismantled. Reuven thought that more than aught else they could protect these wayward children, guide them, as Emperor Archelaus declared they would. In the end, they were weak; and in that weakness, they unleashed a monster.
Year after year passed, and their mettle was tested again and agai
n. Light faded and flickered, but it always held steadfast by Emperor Archelaus, the First Born, Justine, Gabriel, and those Jophiel molded to service. That was all a fading memory now. Emperor Archelaus was finished, and the Bringer of Dawn rejected her place.
Reuven stared into Darkness. “You will draw them here, Lord Eldred, and undo all that has been wrought.”
“That is why Adreyu Marcanas died at the hand of Stephen Francis,” Lord Eldred replied.
“There will be naught left!”
“All will be brought to death. Darkness, the lord of all things. What does it matter if they fall with the First Born, or by the hands of their sworn foes? Throw down your weapon at my feet, and I may yet be merciful. My brotherhood has need of those with strong arms and sharp minds.”
Reuven did not flinch. “Darkness is not the path I shall walk.”
“It is the only path. Do you not weary of this? Fifteen thousand years this has gone on, and those who sent you here only look on, powerless to do aught.”
“That is my brother talking, not you, Lord Eldred.”
“You are a fool.”
“The Bringer of Dawn will see to otherwise,” Reuven insisted. “As she always has.”
“The Heart of the Sand shall be mine,” Lord Eldred cackled. “Entwined in Sariel’s will. Union in all things: rebirth laced with Darkness.”
“Your dream is a farce. We are guardians of the children of Emperor Archelaus. If I must slay my own brother to preserve that goal then I—”
“Empty boasts! You are strong Reuven, yet not as strong as I am. Not even you can repulse the Fell Darkness!”
Reuven succumbed to a searing, wretched pain. The nightmares and terrors of the great struggle were naught compared to the agony inside of him. Lord Eldred stood there still, hand extended, though his whole vision was a darkened fog; it formed a visage that was so incomprehensible he could not believe his eyes.
Aerona Harkan was skewered by Lord Eldred on the slopes of Mount Cimmerii, Darkness flowing through him, reverberating across the land. Reuven struggled forward vainly, commanding the Deathsworn to follow, though they were all eviscerated by the power that flowed forth. Amos, hovered above, laughing at their anguish. Reuven pushed on, but he knew his grip on life was failing.
The Heart of the Sand rolled from Aerona’s lifeless body, swallowed by the Darkness; its Light, not faded, but laced with the umbral essence, was stripped of all that it was—the first of many rebirths under the dominion of the new god who ascended and blotted out the sky: sable, churning, thunderous, commanding; it was all lost.
Edren fell from the sky. Hundreds of thousands lay dead. Reuven stared in disbelief. The First Born are dead and gone. We were never meant to die, we never could die. That was why Amos still walked in the Seat of Creation; and why Emperor Archelaus sought to control him. The essence of the realm itself is tied to our sustenance.
“A gift freely taken, willingly given,” a deep-throated voice gave in reply from the heart of Darkness, “is life anew, and not a slayer of spirit.”
“This is not life,” Reuven protested. “This is not what we fought for.”
“Your battle was lost long ago.”
“It has not yet been fought. Not while I still draw breath!”
“Then die, like the Adtier.”
Through the Darkness a crooked blade swerved through it, but Reuven’s fore blade matched it, and pushed the assailant back. His body was wrenched in pain, though he stood, and with each step the visage faded ‘til he saw that it was Lord Eldred once again; and Reuven kept pressing down against his foe’s blackened blade that seethed shadows. “Sariel has not yet come, and you are just a man.”
“I am so much more,” Lord Eldred replied as waves of Fell Darkness emanated, pushing Reuven back. “I am the wounded, betrayed, and fallen. It is through my wrath that all will be remade. My life for all life.”
“Ser Elin Durand,” Reuven replied, spitting out blood. “Bury it deep within you all you want, but that is all you are. A lost, wayward boy, screaming for help.”
Rage glittered in Lord Eldred’s eyes as he leapt forth. Reuven swiped at his foe’s feet with a downward swing, though the steel caught naught but air. He chased his foe down, swung from above, then below, parrying with one end, extending with the weapon’s great reach by the other. He cut only shadows.
“There is but only one who can stand against us,” Lord Eldred mocked. “And you gave up that power.”
“Dusk will fade to Dawn. It always has. It always will.”
“Come then,” Eldred spoke like a muse as he floated up into the air. “Come to the slopes of the future that Sariel has seen. Watch as Dusk cleaves the Dawn. Watch as all those you swore to protect fall before the Darkness Rising!”
“Lord Eldred! We are not done!”
The daemon pointed a crooked finger past behind him.
Reuven whipped his head around, and seven of the Royal Protectors stood with swords drawn and visors down, all but Ser Lucius Godbert who stood at the fore with flickering eyes. Judgment and determination marred his face.
“Prince Adreyu ne’er wanted you here, Elder Reuven,” the knight began. “My prince thought you were a sickness that needed to be purged. The man was not without his flaws. Impulsive and brash. Now he is dead and you remain.”
“You do not want to fight this foe, Ser Lucius,” Reuven plead. “Leave him to me.”
“I would take great pleasure in spilling your blood, traitor!”
“He is…” Reuven’s words trailed off as he looked behind, and saw only a pool of shadow where Lord Eldred was. “I did not do this.”
“We pursued a cloaked man through the castle. He was the only man not to run towards our dying prince. We come to this rooftop and find you without your knights. I never imagined I would have to throw your lifeless corpse at the feet of my king.”
The knights closed in on Reuven. Regret, not fear, was all that filled his mind. He held out hope that he could sway King Tristifer from the path that Lord Eldred set, but if these knights were slain, no words would assuage the king. “As was I.”
“Then where is he?”
Reuven knew words were useless. He held the stave-sword with both hands, extending forward, and crouched low to the ground. “Stay your swords.”
“Bleed him!” Ser Lucius shouted.
Reuven parried two of the knights at once, swept towards his left as his blades cut through two who sought him from behind. The other knights came upon Reuven at once; he dodged lazy sword blows, and skewered another in the chest; then withdrawing his blade, he decapitated another.
Three remained. Ser Lucius and two knights whose names Reuven did not know. The knights fanned out to the side as their commander charged forward. Reuven parried the stroke from the fore and another from behind, before sweeping away at their feet, both knights losing limbs, flailing on the stone, bleeding out.
“It does not have to end like this, Ser Lucius. I am not the foe you seek.”
“Prince Adreyu is dead!” Ser Lucius called out. His eyes watered, and anger was in his voice. “The king never loved his brother, but he loved and trusted you. What did you do with that love? You ripped the heart out of his brother. I was never bound by blood to the prince, but he was a brother to me. We were lost when King Marcus near lead us to ruin. Prince Adreyu, his strength lead us out of despair. You have taken our hope from us!”
“I did not take his life’s blood,” Reuven insisted, near shouting. “This is what he wants. The foe that King Tristifer and I labour against. It was he that took the life of your prince. Charge against me and you will deprive all these people of hope.”
“It was always lost, cursed traitor!”
The knight poured all his strength in savage side armed blows, interweaving with overhead slashes that Reuven easily parried. He led the knight in a circle, and he pleaded with the knight to stay his blade.
“When your blood swims with his, then I shall stop.”
&nb
sp; Reuven countered an over the shoulder slash, and came around with the bottom reach of the stave-sword, slashing through his foe’s plate, before spinning back around and skewering Ser Lucius through the chest.
“For…the prince…” Ser Lucius trailed off with the last gasp of life.
There is but only one play left, Reuven reflected, staring down at the corpses and puddles of blood. The Dawn must face the Dusk.
Chapter Sixteen
The Vault of Kings
Daniel loosed his grip from the handholds and splashed into knee-deep water.
The aqueduct seemed to be built deep beneath the city—its stone-ceiling was near twenty feet tall, and the current was calm. Brayan handed Daniel a burning brand that did little more than light a few feet ahead.
“My men have dammed the flow,” Brayan explained. “It will not be so for long.”
The tunnel slanted upwards, flattened, though rarely descended. Brayan occasionally called for a halt as the tunnel forked, and he seemed to weigh each course carefully before lunging forward. Grates were erected that stood less than five feet high. Each was unlocked and then closed tightly. Further on the footing was slicker, and though Daniel could not see much, it felt like muck wrapped ‘round his legs as it slithered past.
“Is that—” Ashleigh began.
“It is,” Brayan answered in a lordly voice. “King Tristifer calls them the dregs. They are discarded, mutilated, and then tossed into the flow. None in the court are wholly unaware of it. Terror culls any thought of insurgency, or even the slightest concern.”
“Is that what comforts you in your defiance, Lord Brayan?” Ser Johnathan asked calmly, though Daniel heard a hint of reproach. “Is it worth so much blood?”
“I have walked through the mud-slicked streets of the outer city often,” Lord Brayan answered. “My brother can recall our father’s chastisement, I do not doubt. Does a man have a right to step on those beneath him on account of his birth and wealth? How many lay dead and dying, the aristocracy without a care, for they are ‘low born scum, no more than animals.’” Brayan spat. “There is more blood on the Marcanas family than they dare admit. Now our king will step over every man and woman who still lives in a desperate play for power. Yes, ser, it is worth that much blood.”
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