“Starved and delirious,” the other called out. “You’ve made him useless! Remove him.”
The chained and manacled slaves returned. Rastín heard and felt them grip his arms, but he did not see them. He saw only the images flashing before his eyes—the tapestry images. And then he realized what he should have known from the first. He heard the words spoken previously and became Rastín Dnyarr Túrring, son of the High King of Élvemere.
He stood, throwing off the hands of the slaves. “You are Ky’el, son of Rnothen, of the titans,” he said.
With a wave of his hand, the titan sent the slaves running from the room. “Tell me, scrawny one. Tell me of the theatrics on the calends of Atonement. Did you truly sacrifice yourself for me as Karthar claims?”
“S’amore was razed when my father arrived, riding at the head of the armies of the Élvemere. You glory in this, the battles my people lost.”
“The memories are yours, Túrring. You rode at your father’s side, I know not how. Now tell me, does Karthar speak truth?”
Hearing the name a second time brought a flood of memories he somehow shared with the ageless slavelord. “I did not ride with my father to Dobehen’s aid. I was not—”
“The tapestries do not lie, Túrring. They show what I wish to see, and what I wish to see is your worthiness to be called to my service among the twice-born. It is a rare one who has memories of things beyond the gray room. Usually it takes many tendays, a cycle sometimes, of conditioning to regain a shadow of one’s past self. And yet—”
“I stand before you, no shadow of my past self.”
“Indeed, so it would appear.” Ky’el seemed pleased by Rastín’s forwardness, if only fleetingly so. “Or perhaps you are more clever than most.” Ky’el sat in a large, plush chair. He studied Rastín as Rastín studied him. Just as a voice from a distant place called out the reckoning toll, Ky’el said, “Kneel before me and beg to be among the twice-born.”
“I will never kneel before you or anyone again,” Rastín said boldly. As Ky’el stood, his eyes seemingly probing for Rastín’s inner thoughts, Rastín was overwhelmed by the irrational feeling that what was occurring was never seen before.
“Though ignobility suits you well enough, you will. You will kneel before me; you will kneel before all. You will not do so out of esteem or reverence, but because you must.”
Rastín dropped to his knees, but did not bow his head. At this, Ky’el bared his teeth in a broad, angry smile.
“And so Karthar…Was it his intention to have me take you to service, or to have me doubt and cast you back? Clever…clever…The son of a high king, no less. The power of the line mine if I but dare…”
Throwing his arms back, hands with fingers outstretched, eyes wide, Ky’el called out in the language of the ageless. The tapestries spun their tales. The ceiling mural flowed. Time passed. Rastín remained where he was, kneeling, looking up at the titan.
Then without word or warning, the titan turned on Rastín, unleashing his full fury. Rastín instinctively dodged the blows with the lithe precision that set the Élvemere apart from most other peoples.
“It was you,” Ky’el said as he lashed out at Rastín. “You wanted death, invited it, and took it in—did not find it. Yet I know not whether to applaud or jeer. Death to you is not solace as sweet as retribution, and I offer you a chance at such as you only dared to hope for.”
Rastín countered the titan’s fists with a series of feints, never daring to strike back. His increasingly feral eyes showed the beast within him trying to break loose even as Ky’el took up a long metal rod and struck out with blow after blow.
Ky’el’s eyes never left Rastín’s. “I give you permission to strike back. Show me what you are capable of, land blows on my person, and you’ll never again need permission to strike out at one who has set upon you. I know you want this! Take it!”
Rastín obeyed. Ky’el’s rod became a ceaselessly moving blur. Rastín fought on. To break through the wall of air and metal, he used quick jabs and sharp thrusts with both hands and feet. Pain was his only reward.
“Half starved and you fight with resolve and single-minded fury that is almost admirable. Too bad you’ll rot in this place and wonder to the end of your last miserable day what could have been.”
Undaunted, Rastín pushed on, unleashing the beast within him. A lifetime’s worth of wrath and rage poured out of him. His hands and fists became moving blurs, matching the moving blur that was the rod expertly wielded by Ky’el.
One moment his feet were striking out, the next his hands. The dais became his springboard. He used it to reach heights on a par with the titan. Turning, twisting, launching, tumbling—ever moving.
The rod in Ky’el’s hand halted mid-blow. Rastín pulled back even as Ky’el recovered.
“Kneel,” Ky’el commanded. “Accept judgment. Swift death or life in service—both better than rotting in this place.”
Rastín dropped to one knee, bowed his head, and waited.
“I find you undeserving. You failed to touch my person. How would you ever battle Empyrjurin clanlords, shadowriders, or even the eternal—?”
Without looking up, Rastín launched forward, tumbled, spun in the air and struck out with a high kick, his foot catching the titan under the chin. He landed on both feet and hands like an animal, head raised, eyes watching. Poised, ready to launch again, he waited.
“Indeed,” Ky’el said. Rastín waited, unsure whether the titan was pleased or displeased, although the other’s air of peerless superiority returned. Ky’el called out to those unseen, “Remove him.”
Two chained ones entered. Rastín’s expression clouded. “I’ll not return willingly.”
“I expected no less.” The titan focused, reached out with his right hand, and drew a line in the air. The manacles and chains the guards wore dropped away. “These two failed as you failed, and yet I asked Karthar to withhold punishment and retain them. I’ll offer no such quittance to you. You have not earned it.”
Rastín said nothing. He eyed the two as they picked up their weighted chains and wielded them before him. He held firm, watching the rhythmic movement of the chains. It seemed he had to focus to see them and the chains. As they hurled the weighted ends of the chains at him, he tumbled backward and spun to the right, where he picked up the titan’s metal rod.
Normally such a heavy weapon would be ineffective in the hands of one as lean and slight of frame as he, yet he had worked the dark land as both elves and beasts did. He bore the long rod before him as few could, lashing out left and right, striking first one and then the other.
Recovering, the two took to the air, their powerful wings making them agile, fast, and sprightly. It was two against one, but Rastín held his own. As they circled and attacked, Rastín defended, the long rod giving him advantage over the long chains even as their wings gave them advantage over his feet.
Nevertheless, the two were beating Rastín back. With the wall looming a double step behind, he hefted the rod, focused, and then hurled the rod like a javelin in a desperate gambit. He caught one of the two full in the chest. As the one crashed to the floor, unmoving and lifeless, the other caught him with the chain, ripping his legs out from under him.
Rastín tumbled to the floor, the whole of his left side taking the full force of the impact. He spun and pulled to rid himself of the chain, only to bring the other closer. He swung up with his right arm, catching its leg near the thigh.
The other pumped its powerful wings, and Rastín thrust out with his shoulder, throwing the full force of his weight and strength into the other’s lower abdomen. His battering ram approach felled the other. In an instant Rastín was sitting on the other’s chest, gripping the other’s head between his hands and bashing its head against the raised edge of the dais.
“Enough,” Ky’el called out.
Rastín looked up, straightened. Ky’el focused, reached out with his right hand and drew a mark in the air. A knowing expressio
n on the titan’s face spoke to Rastín. Rastín looked down; found he was standing over an Empyrjurin. He looked over to the other, finding one of his own people where once the winged and horned one had lain.
He staggered over to his fallen brethren still impaled on the rod. As he leaned down to remove the rod, his brows knotted with anguish. He glared at the titan, even as he sank to his knees.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Twice-born. It was a curse. Rastín was as sure of this now as anything. Rocking on his knees, hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He flung his head back and cried out, “What have I done?”
Ky’el focused his eyes on the fallen, swept his hand in a wide arc. They vanished, only their discarded chains and manacles remaining. “What you have done is convince me of your worthiness. Now put on their chains and manacles.”
Rastín glowered at the titan. “I will not put on another’s chains.”
Ky’el stepped from the dais, pointed, and gripped Rastín without reaching out. Although Rastín struggled, he could not break free of the invisible hands. “Very well, it is decided then.”
“It is,” Rastín said through clenched teeth.
“Your training was adequate and no doubt the best you could gain under such conditions, but it has not fully prepared you. You have enough knowledge of the Path to strike those who walk in and out of it at will as those two could, and yet you do not know enough to understand or walk the Path yourself. You would last a few battles, perhaps, but not—”
“Try me.”
“In my service, you will ever deal in death. Should I command it, you will fight to your last breath. You won’t negotiate. You won’t capitulate. You will do. You will act. You will die.”
Rastín gave no sign of agreement. Ky’el pointed to the ceiling. He began to rise and Rastín, still gripped by the invisible hand, rose with him. When it seemed they must crash into the top of the dome, they emerged into a vast open space where twin yellow suns shone down from a cloudy sky, and far below great pillars stood among ruins.
Ky’el landed amid the ruins. “Tivarus, the world of my birth,” he said as he released Rastín.
Nearby, the wellspring of a stream flowed into the air, where it joined other streams and became a leagues-long river that floated in the air and flowed to the floating mountains in the distance. A myriad of creatures swam within and about the waters of the river— glass snakes, terrapins, fish.
A colossal fish, with a large forked tail and pointed head, pitched out of the river. An enormous glass snake followed. Rastín lost sight of both as one of the great terrapins settled to the ground and blotted out the view.
The terrapin was so massive and old that the whiskers around its mouth were as thick as tree trunks. Ky’el scaled one of the flippers, climbing onto the terrapin’s thick shell. Rastín followed. On top of the shell was a long, enclosed shelter with many windows and doors; racing toward them from the closest door were many stout warriors with pallid skin, black hair, and orange eyes.
The warriors carried war axes and battle hammers, and following was a green-skinned gargant with a thick green beard, webbed feet, and webbed hands. The gargant and the titan embraced as friends, with Ky’el picking up the gargant and then the gargant picking up Ky’el.
The crack of whips and searing pain gave Rastín a stark reality check. He sank to his knees, putting his arms with hands in fists behind his head to protect his face, ears, and neck.
In the language of the iron peoples, Ky’el told the others, “Put him in the pits or the dregs. Feed him to the Drakón for all I care. But make sure he knows death and hate when his time comes.” To Rastín, he said in the language of the Élvemere, “One day you will thank me for this, but that day is a long way off.”
Then Rastín was dragged into the bowels of what he would later know as a ship—one that went wherever the terrapin went, whether across or beneath water. Beyond thick iron bars of his dark cell, he saw a torch in a sconce fixed to the wall. Its dirty orange flame flickered in a draft he could not see. He thought it meant the terrapin was moving.
Days passed. Rastín lived in the murky cell much as he had lived in the gray room. Thoughts about things beyond the cell began to seem like a dream. He thought of the words in the language of the iron peoples that Ky’el had spoken, and the voices he heard faintly now in this same language. He was sure the stout ones were Fedwëorgs—iron dwarves—and the one who had greeted Ky’el was a sæjurin—a sea gargant. But what were Fedwëorgs doing with sæjurins? And for that matter, why were they helping Ky’el—a titan?
Realizing these thoughts were no longer his own, he rocked back and forth. With his face in his hands, he shivered and told himself, “I am Rastín Dnyarr Túrring, son of the High King of Élvemere.”
But the voices in his head would not let him be Rastín Dnyarr Túrring, son of the High King of Élvemere. One voice told him that he was twice-born and that he had no past. Another told him that the days of the Élvemere had long since passed; and if there ever were such a people, he was surely the last one. Yet another told him he must now awaken and find the Wërg within him.
While he listened to the voices, it was the last voice that roused him from his dreams. “You are awake,” the voice said.
Rastín looked up at the unfamiliar face. “Where am I?”
“If there is a Hellplace, this surely is it—and this you well know.”
Rastín stood, looked down at a thick waist and thigh that he did not recognize, though it was his own. “Who are you? What has happened?”
The dark-haired man with the hazel eyes said, “I am Martin of Voethe—you know this, Yarr.”
“Yarr?”
“You,” Martin said, stabbing a finger into Rastín’s chest. “You’ve taken one too many beatings in the pit. I didn’t think you were going to come back after that last one, but—”
“The language you speak?”
“That of the Kingdoms of Men—you know this. You are the only one I can speak to in this accursed place. You learned my words and I many of yours. You spoke for me when I could not.”
Rastín wheeled around, glared at the iron gates, and turned back. “How long here?”
“You mean, for you?” Martin did not wait for a response. He pulled Rastín to a corner of the cell where hundreds of marks were etched into the wall. “These are your marks—you tell me how long.”
He ran a hand over the marks. “And this pit?”
Martin pushed Rastín to a crude, wooden table. “I’ve saved your rations for the last three days. Eat, regain your strength. There would be more but at the first I was unsure…Your wounds were grave.”
He sat, ate, hung his head. After a long while, Rastín looked up to find Martin nearby. “I thank you for what you’ve done for me. I will repay what—”
“You’ve already repaid me many times previous. I only regret that I have no skill in the ways as you. If I had, I could have healed your wounds as you’ve healed mine.”
Rastín’s eyes tightened. “I’ve…healed you?”
“You’ve taught me the ways of will and dream and spirit, though I have no skill at such. All I can do is put to mind what you teach me and hope to pass it on to others.”
“How long have you been in this place with me?”
“Since the snows of the last cycle and the snows come again.”
Rastín reached for the jug. Somehow he misjudged, and the next thing he knew water was spilling across the table. Martin righted the jug, pouring what little was left into a clay mug.
Rastín drank, sat back. His eyes became weights he could no longer lift.
“Come on, Yarr,” Martin said.
Rastín nodded, stood with Martin’s help. Martin led him to the other side of the cell, where a rustic bed waited. He sat heavily. Martin stood over him for a moment, his bearded, mannish face somehow comforting.
“This new one you speak of in your sleep. This Dierá. You loved her, yes?”
Rastín found pain and
emptiness, but no answers.
“No need to answer. I see it. Now I know why you fight like Great Father himself is at your side. But why do you think of her now after all this time?”
Rastín eyes closed of their own accord. He was done. His arms and legs had gone numb and he could no longer feel any pain. It felt as if he were falling away, as if everything around him was gone and no more. He felt himself settle upon a surface as firm and cold as an altar stone.
Fingers brushed through his hair and down the side of his face, and though they had no true substance, he knew the touch.
“Dierá,” he said, and found it strange that he could speak while the rest of his body was numb.
“You have forgotten me,” a voice said. It was her voice, but distant somehow though she spoke right in his ear.
“I have not,” he said, “I’ve forgotten myself, but I’ve not forgotten you.”
“Oh, but you have,” the voice said. “You call me with her name and yet you know I am not her.”
He wanted to grab her hand and pull her to him, but he could not move. He tried to open his eyes.
“Do not,” she said. “You will not find the one you look for. I am not her.”
Even as he sought to ask who she was, he knew. “Akharran?”
“Yes, my love. Be calm. I’ve much to tell you and little time before we must both return to the waking world.”
PART II
CYVAIR
The Cycle 11231
Drakón Standard
Kurhri da’m te nurrin var ma’hdden
Kurhri adda’tten te garran var sa’dron
Kurhri mo’rren te hurre var de’trod
To blessed victory above all else
To blessed allegiance beyond measure
To blessed death without regret
—From the Empyrjurin Credo
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Battles raged across the hundred worlds. The empire burned. King Nük T’nyr turned his sights on the seats of power. “Kurhri da’m te nurrin var ma’hdden,” he shouted as he led his armies down from the mountains under the cover of darkness.
Rise of the Fallen Page 9