The Elder Blood Chronicles Bk 1 In Shades of Grey
Page 2
“You mean to surrender?” Zachary demanded in an incredulous voice
“Never,” Damon returned. For that single word, the grief and despair was gone from his voice, and the word came strong and filled with determination. Damon Veirasha High Lord of Veir did not surrender.
“What do you mean to do?” Tyber said, cutting his brother off before he could speak again.
All eyes were on him, each expression different from the next, Damon noted. He saw grief and hope and outrage painted clearly. Victory alone wore an expression of respect as if the boy could already see what Damon would do. “I mean to end this,” Damon answered in cold finality.
“How?” Tyber asked in a voice heavy with skepticism.
Damon ignored the question and turned his attention to Zachary’s comrades. “While I cannot think of proper words to thank you both for your assistance, I’m afraid the two of you will have to leave Veir very soon. This is not proper treatment for such valued friends, but I’m afraid it’s for your own safety that I ask you to go,” he stated in a cool and firm voice. There was no room to argue with him when he used that voice.
“As you say, Lord Veirasha.” Victory bowed his head and gave Havoc a light smack on his arm. “We will not argue, Havoc. We will do as the High Lord requests.” He spoke firmly, and Havoc’s eyes narrowed.
Damon watched the two of them for a moment. Neither of them realized he knew of their status with the Fionaveir. Normally he would avoid bringing the topic up, given the Fionaveir were considered outlaws by most, but he did not have the time for delicacy. “I would ask you to take word of this day back to the Fionaveir. I would ask you to give my regrets to Caspian. I think his plan would have worked, had we been given the time,” he said, and both young men froze. Havoc actually looked down at his own arm, as if to see if the telltale tattoos of the Fionaveir were showing.
Victory recovered first; the shock slowly melted away. As his green eyes stayed attached to Damon’s face, he gave a slight bow. “As you say, Milord. We will report all we have seen,” he agreed.
Damon gave them a nod and turned his attention back to his sons. “I do not intend to surrender. Veirasha do not surrender. Death before dishonor.” He reassured them both. He picked up a bottle from the table and poured them all a glass of the fine dark wine. “All of you have one last drink to Veir and House Veirasha. We end this soon and when it is finished, neither will exist. Drink to the memory of what was bright and true. What is left will be much darker I fear.” Damon lifted his own glass to his lips as he spoke. He watched the confusion play across their faces, but they humored him and drank. “Tyber,” he said and waited until his son set his glass back down and gave him his full attention.
“Yes, Father?” Tyber asked.
“I name you lord of this land now before these witnesses. What is left of me after this will not be fit to lead. What remains of Veir will not be much and you may hate me in time for what I gift you with. But if our line is to continue we must take what remains to us and make it our strength.” Damon’s voice was filled with resignation.
Both of his boys looked at him in confusion, and Zachary looked ready to object, but Damon silenced them both with a gesture. “Victory, Havoc you should go,” Damon said as he looked back down at the wine in his hand. It set poorly in his stomach, and he wasn’t sure if it was the sickness or the situation. Either could turn a man’s stomach. He watched the two outsiders leave, and looked to his sons. “Be strong, be honorable, and always remember this day. This plot was not Merrodin’s alone, Tyber. Merrodin hasn’t the wit for the plague that was sent to us. Watch for his accomplice and see that he is punished for his crimes,” he said and stood slowly. The boys followed him out of the tent, their expressions unsure.
“I have no idea what is going on,” Havoc complained. Victory had nearly used the last of his magic to transport them beyond the borders of Veir. He sat on Avalanche, his great white warhorse, with his eyes locked on the green hills of Veir in the distance.
“Damon is going to do something very drastic,” Victory replied, his eyes never leaving the distant hills.
“But what?” Havoc asked.
Victory ran a hand down his horse’s neck and gave a slight shrug. With a grim smile, he slowly dismounted. “Why don’t we see?” He offered. With a slight gesture of his hand, a small circle of light formed before the two of them. In moments, it coalesced into a perfect image of the encampment they had so recently left.
They both watched in silence as Lord Damon moved to a hill overlooking his eastern seashore. The lord scarcely looked older than his two sons. He moved gracefully, despite the plate mail he wore, and his jet-black hair was as unmarred by grey as his face was of wrinkles. Tyber and Zachary followed in his wake. Zachary walked with a defiant set to his shoulders, with the reins of his horse held in a clenched hand. Tyber followed, moving with grim determination. To anyone watching, the remaining Veirasha did not look defeated. Tired? Yes. Grief stricken? Most certainly, but not beaten. Damon took a moment then, at the top of the hill. He turned and looked to his lands. The lush green fields, once so full of life. The once shining sands of his coasts now reflected the bloodstained battlefield. It looked to Victory as though he were trying to commit these last sights to his mind.
Havoc raised an eyebrow and looked to Victory with a questioning glance but remained silent. Victory shook his head slightly and gave a faint shrug but never took his eyes off Damon. The old lord was gathering power. It was done so subtly that Victory had thought him simply admiring his lands. He should have known better. Damon was coldly practical, and that was an action of a sentimental man. He was gathering a lot of power Victory realized. Far more than he himself would even dare to attempt to hold. Tyber and Zachary seemed to realize what was happening then, and they looked to each other for an answer.
It all happened so quickly, not even the greatest mage could have countered it. Damon gave very little indication he was gathering power and none at all when he released it. The air around him blackened and the sky above went pitch, all signs of the clear spring morning gone. The land of Veir began to wither and what remained of his army died where they sat. Victory watched dark mists swirl around the Veirasha lords, and they seemed to disappear in its embrace. With a roar, the magic consumed Veir with savage hunger, and then standing in the midst of it all was Damon, stepping from the black mists like some terrible wraith. With a pale hand, he gestured toward the ships and then to the east, toward Merro and the Lord who had sent these disasters upon them. The magic seemed to swirl faster and part of the blackness gave way, leaving Veir seemingly trapped in twilight.
“I claim destruction. I claim the mantle, and if any dare challenge me, let them do so now,” Damon said in a voice as cold as ice. He waited for a long moment then turned to his sons. Their once silver armor was darkened to black. A halo of shadows seemed to surround them as they moved. “Veir is gone, what remains shall be Oblivion. They sent death and destruction to us, so we take it now and make it our strength,” Damon said to his sons. They looked at him with faces devoid of emotion and solemnly nodded. Victory gave a slight shudder at the sight of Zachary so cold. He had known him for half his life and Zach had always been vibrant. He seemed a shell now after the magic. Damon motioned toward the encampment below and shadowy and twisted forms began to rise. They bore the vague shape of a man but nothing more than that. All humanity had been stripped from these souls in death. “These are your subjects now, Tyber. Manage them well for they will always be eager to destroy. Keep them on a very short leash, and when you find the accomplice, remove that leash. Never remove the strength of Oblivion from them. To do so would be to surrender them to death.” Damon’s voice was cool and firm. His sons knew better than to speak when he used that tone.
Victory shivered slightly as he watched and glanced up to Havoc. His scry began to flicker and then died. His strength was too far gone to maintain it summoning the serpent had simply been too draining on him.
“That was the ascension of an Aspect. Out of all of them, Lord Veirasha will be the closest to a true god. He has just claimed destruction, a mantle no other dared to take up,” Victory answered. He had never thought to witness such a thing. His gaze turned toward Merro. “Woe be to his enemies,” he muttered.
Havoc remained silent for a long while as he stared at the distant black cloud where Veir had once proudly stood. “So we report to Caspian now. I’m sure he will just love this report.” Havoc sighed.
Victory shook his head slightly in disagreement. “No, now we do what? Let me rest and regain a bit of power, and then we go to see what remains of Merro,” he corrected in a quiet voice. He doubted they would find anything remaining at all. In the conflict of Merro and Veir, there was no victor. As Damon had said he would do, he had ended it. A Veirasha was always good for their word. “I told Lord Veirasha we would report all and we can’t do that until we see Merro.”
Havoc gave a slight nod of acceptance. “Rest then, if you think you can, I know I won’t. Whether he was walking or not I believe I just witnessed the death of a friend. That creature in the black armor was not Zachary Veirasha,” he said in a quiet voice, his expression solemn.
“Zachary Oblivion now, I suppose, or something of those lines. We will know in time,” Victory said, as he unrolled his bedroll and wondered if he actually could sleep.
Chapter 1
Northern Merro
The sky was lightening with dawn when the first of the noises started below. She listened carefully, straining her ears for the sounds. First was the soft cry of her brother, followed soon with mother’s soft footsteps and soothing sounds. Then the heavier tread of her father as he headed downstairs. She had learned that there was a proper time to leave her room. If she were up too early, Mother would know she’d had another nightmare and that upset her. Silently, Jala adjusted her position in the windowsill and watched the last of the stars fade from the sky. She’d go down when the rattle of dishes started. If Mother was occupied with cooking breakfast, she wouldn’t notice how alert Jala was. Father would, of course. There wasn’t much he missed. The nightmares didn’t seem to bother him, though, not like they did Mother. She didn’t really understand that, but didn’t spare much thought for it either. It’s just how they were, and she accepted it.
Last night’s dream had been the worst ever, but she hadn’t run to her parents. She hadn’t cried either. She had huddled for a time, snuggled against Cap, and the dog had eased some of the terror. The amulet had helped, too. She lifted her tiny fingers to the necklace. Her Aunt Carissa had given it to her when Father had told her of the dreams. She was a priestess of Fortune, and said her god himself had blessed it.
A whine came from the bed behind her, and she turned to see Cap poking his black and white head from under the blankets. By now, the collie was used to the routine too, and he had heard the telltale rattle of breakfast. With a quick nod to him, she slipped back down from the windowsill and pulled her boots on. She had dressed hours ago but had known better than to put on shoes. Bare feet could move silently, while booted ones would not. Cap stood, waiting silently by the door by the time she crossed the room, his shaggy tail wagging as his eyes gleamed at her expectantly. With a grin, she ruffled his head. He was gone as soon as she opened the door. She closed her door quietly and listened to the clatter as he made his way down the rough wooden stairs, then the chuckle as her father opened the back door for him. She made her own way downstairs, her pace somewhat slower, but not by much.
“Morning, sweetling,” her mother called as she entered the kitchen. Her brother was already seated at the small table with a glass of milk and bowl of thick porridge in front of him. He gurgled his own greeting to her and clapped his hands. With a quick hug to her mother, she surveyed the countertop to assure herself that her brother would be the only one eating the porridge. Thick slabs of bacon sizzled in the pan, and her mother was busily finishing biscuits. She concealed the sigh of relief and gave her mother another quick hug as she headed off to find her father.
As she had expected, he was seated on the back porch stairs, sipping his tea and watching the world outside awaken. She moved as quietly as she could and sat beside him, leaning her head on his arm. It was their routine. How they spent every morning. She would awaken first and pretend she hadn’t. Mother would cook. And she would sit by father, and his steady presence would diminish whatever lingering parts of the dreams refused to be ignored. He didn’t even have to say anything; it was just him. It didn’t matter what was wrong, he could fix it.
“Going to be a good day for riding today,” he said quietly after a long silence. His voice was deep and mellow and as soothing to her as it was to the animals.
“Momma said I had to help in the garden today,” she answered just as quietly. Her own voice reminded her of squeaking, compared to his, and she frowned.
He looked down at her and smiled. “Let me handle your momma. I said you could go with me to check the cows, and Blackjack will need to be exercised.” She grinned back up at him and nodded.
“Want to help me feed? Not right for us to be getting breakfast when everyone out here is hungry, too,” he asked as he slowly stood and set his tea mug on the railing of the porch. “Your mother will be wanting fresh milk, too. Best see if you can find Daisy and round her up.” With a bound, she was on her feet and racing off toward the barn. This, too, was normal, and she knew exactly where to find the old cow.
He was just finishing graining the horses when she entered the barn leading the docile old Daisy. She gave the lead readily to her father and moved to the horse stalls. Buck, her father’s huge roan, ignored her and stayed completely intent on his grain.
Blackjack, however, looked up with curiosity as she clambered up the stall to sit on the top rail. She thought he was smaller than Buck by a good deal, but sleeker, with a coat the color of pitch, four white socks, and a thick blaze. Not a mark on him, either. He was perfect. He was by far the best name-day gift she had ever gotten, aside from Cap of course. Father had given her the collie last year and Blackjack this year. Mother teased that just once he should give a gift that didn’t eat. Jala, however, disagreed. There were no children close, well, none her age anyway, and so she had her dog and now Blackjack, for company. She had her brother, of course, but her horse and dog were a lot more fun than a baby. Maybe when Jacob got older, he would be fun to play with, but she doubted it. Wrapping one arm around a post to keep her balance she reached out and pulled hay from Blackjack’s forelock. He nickered to her quietly and pushed her gently with his muzzle. She’d only had him three days, and already he knew her well enough to expect treats. “I’ll bring them after breakfast,” she whispered to him. When no carrots or chunks of dried apple were produced, he went back to eating his oats and she turned to watch her father milk the cow.
He had rolled up his sleeves for the milking, and she studied the tattoos on his left arm thoughtfully. He had scars as well, long narrow ones that crisscrossed both arms and a couple on his shoulder, though she had only seen those once. She cast a glance back toward her father’s horse. Buck had scars like that too, one long one that ran down his shoulder and another smaller one across his jaw.
“How come Buck has scars, Daddy?” She knew he wouldn’t talk about his own scars because she’d tried asking before. He would speak of those no more than he would speak of the tattoos. But maybe if she found out about Buck’s she would understand his. He’d joked once that he’d had the horse longer than he’d had his wife, and he’d sooner part with the wife. Old man Walker had been trying to buy the roan at the time. Walker had laughed, and mother had swatted father lightly, and the matter had been dropped. Her father glanced over his shoulder toward her and smiled. His dark hair fell down over his eyes briefly, and he gave a slight shrug as he pushed it back with his arm.
“Because he wasn�
�t always a farmer’s horse any more than I’ve been a farmer. He earned his right to this relaxing life, same as I did,” he replied and turned his attention back to the cow.
She frowned at the answer. Father’s life was hardly relaxing. He worked from the time the sun rose to when it set. She chewed on her lip a moment and considered his words. It was no more than she got when she asked about his scars. She looked back toward Buck. The horse’s head had risen at the sound of her father’s voice, and he watched him intently. “But how did he earn them?” She tried again, not really expecting an answer. Her father was silent so long she was sure he wasn’t going to answer.
He stopped milking and began to stand slowly, careful not to spill the milk. She clambered back down from the rail and took the pail from him. “I suppose the simplest way would be to say he was a soldier.” His voice was quiet and thoughtful. He rolled his sleeves back down and turned his gaze to Buck. She remained silent, hoping he would continue. He smiled down at her and took the pail back knowing if she carried it to the house, she would spill over half of it despite her best efforts not too. “The simplest answer is not always the best answer though. Soldier isn’t exactly the right term since we never served in an army.”
He started walking back toward the house, and she followed closely on his heels. What he had given so far, was more of an answer than she usually got, and she wasn’t about to let the topic go so easily. Father never spoke of his life before she was born. Mother would occasionally speak of life in the city. Hers was a boring past, though. She would speak of fancy dresses and parties, and things of very little interest to Jala.
Jala tried desperately to think of a way to phrase another question before they got back to the house, because she knew he wouldn’t speak anymore on the topic, once they were inside. “Where did you fight, if not with an army then?” She asked hopefully.