by Jeff Wheeler
“Kill them all,” he ordered.
Annon raised his fingers and muttered the words to summon fire.
Paedrin lunged at Tyrus, quick as an arrow.
“There is no possible source of evil except good. It does not occur on its own. Good men become evil.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin reached Tyrus in an instant. Annon brought up his hands, ready to incinerate him with fire. His heart groaned with pain at the thought of destroying his friend. With the Dryad’s kiss, he remembered every comment, every precept from the Bhikhu about injuring and not killing. How could he kill his friend? He knew that unleashing the fireblood would not harm Tyrus, but Paedrin’s skin would burn. How could he do it?
The hesitation unnerved him. The flames quivered on his fingertips, nearly guttering out.
Paedrin grabbed Tyrus’s wrist, the hand that held the blade Iddawc, and quickly twisted it to force the weapon free. Tyrus’s other hand chopped down and caught Paedrin on the neck, a stunning, forceful blow. He bunched his muscles together and then shoved Paedrin back with a maneuver hauntingly like the Bhikhu. Paedrin went back, but he was not down. He came at Tyrus again and Annon raised his hands to unleash the fire.
Suddenly Hettie was there, knives in hand, blocking the way to Tyrus. “Don’t kill him, Annon. It’s the Arch-Rike’s ring!”
All it took was Hettie’s word and the small ring caught Annon’s attention.
The soldiers of Kenatos let out a battle shout and charged into their midst from every side. There was no time to think, let alone plan. Swords and shields converged around them. Shafts of light from the Paracelsus wove interlocking ribbons of color around the room and into the air, causing a net of energy to trap them inside the room. They were outnumbered and Paedrin was one of them. It was madness.
Kill him, Druidecht. I know he is your friend, but he has betrayed you. That blade will destroy us all. You must kill him! Nizeera shrieked in fury and launched at the nearest soldiers, terrifying them with her scream and slashing claws. Some butted her with shields, trying to protect against the ravaging fury she unleashed.
Kiranrao plunged into the midst of men, vanishing like a vapor of smoke only to reappear elsewhere a moment later, blade plunging into a soldier’s side. The prince stood like a tree rooted in place and deflected attack after attack with his bare hands, crippling elbows and crushing knees. Even the girl Khiara fought back with a long tapered staff made of white oak, whipping it around and clearing the ground around her.
The Arch-Rike’s voice thundered in Paedrin’s mind. Tyrus will not be taken easily. Cripple the girl and then come at him from above. Quickly now!
Hettie slashed and swiped at Paedrin, trying to keep him back, but he was too fast for her. He caught one of her arms and kicked her hard in the ribs then smashed into her knee, dropping her. Even knowing the truth about her, it pained him to hurt her. She grunted in pain but refused to cry out. Instead, she grabbed his tunic front and tried to wrestle him to the ground. She swore at him, but her words were lost in the commotion. He clubbed her neck, and she went limp; he shoved her down.
Paedrin whirled on Tyrus, sucking in his breath and floating up. Then exhaling sharply, he came down on him like a stone. He did not know how it happened, but Tyrus was no longer there. Paedrin slammed into the floor, seeing only a flutter of robes as the Paracelsus shifted away. Suddenly dazzling tethers of energy struck Tyrus from three sides at once. The blasts should have torn him to pieces, but the magic was absorbed by a gemstone embedded in an amulet around his neck.
Paedrin was still in a crouch and launched himself at Tyrus again, amazed at the older man’s reflexes. He held up his hand and Paedrin saw a ring on his finger flash red. Paedrin remembered his earlier battle too late and found himself thrust violently backward, his own momentum suddenly reversing and spinning him.
“Calvariae!” Tyrus screamed in the Vaettir tongue. It was a word Paedrin had never heard before in context. It meant “place of the skull.” It was an ancient term for a graveyard.
The word contained power.
Deafening explosions rocked the chamber, stunning Paedrin. Multiple thunderclaps, cracking stones, searing light as sharp and ferocious as the commotion of a thousand steel blades clashing with stone. The Paracelsus surrounding them were thrown back as their amulets and rings all shattered.
For a brief moment, Paedrin’s mind was free. Then he heard the Arch-Rike begin to scream in fury in his head.
Spirits filled the prince’s manor, wisps of violet and purple light, mingling with sparks and glittering ribbons of magic. Annon realized what had happened instantly. Tyrus had broken the bonds of their servitude, freeing them all at once and killing many of the men who had worn their charms. There was a frenzy of emotion and voices as the spirits, recognizing their sudden freedom, exulted.
“They are yours, Druidecht,” Tyrus said to him, his grin triumphant. “They will serve you now.”
Annon felt the first ray of hope. He did not even need to use words, for they responded to his thoughts, his desperate need. A flurry of spirits launched at the Kishion, swarming him with stinging pricks of pain and searing color. A blast of lightning came from one, blowing aside a team of soldiers rushing against Khiara and the prince. The fury of their magic was unleashed on the soldiers from Kenatos. Stabbing, stinging, blistering magic began to weave through the air at them. Annon stared down at Hettie and sent several to revive her, healing her damaged bones and restoring her strength.
The buzz of magic filled the room as the spirits darted throughout the chamber, unleashing their power on the mortals who had trapped them for so long. They focused on the Arch-Rike, turning their savage fury on him. Annon watched in horror as the Arch-Rike withdrew a cluster of black sticks and his hands turned blue with flames, igniting them into brands. Smoke began to fill the air from the sticks, and spirits began dying.
“Come to me!” he shouted to his men. “The smoke will protect you! Cut them down! We still outnumber them! Kishion, now!”
Hettie placed herself in front of Tyrus again. Paedrin batted away the blinding lights that dodged and taunted him.
“Paedrin, please!” she begged. “Don’t make us kill you! Fight him! Fight him off!”
“Hettie, get away from him!” Annon warned. “Nizeera! Protect Tyrus!”
The Bhikhu had welts across his face, but he launched at Hettie again and found himself colliding with Prince Aran. The two faced off for only a moment before they fought, exchanging a dizzying series of blows and strikes, each one moving like twin whirlwinds. Feet, fists, elbows—all in a mesmerizing series of strike and defense, retaliation and leverage. Paedrin started to rise in the air, but some force drew him back down again, as if his abilities were being smothered somehow.
Annon watched the struggle from the corner of his eye, moving closer, gathering near Tyrus. He watched for his uncle to withdraw the Tay al-Ard again and wanted to be ready to disappear with him. It was their only hope of escape. If they did not touch his arm or the device, he would not be able to take them with him. Khiara saw his intent and moved closer as well, using the long reach of the staff to smash skulls and cripple knees. There were still too many soldiers and several Rikes leading them.
Spirits rushed this way and that, sending blasts of energy into the soldiers and Rikes of Seithrall, but the smoke from the firebrands was beginning to permeate the air. Soldiers grabbed them from the Arch-Rike and charged back into the room, waving them to spread the smoke. Most of the Paracelsus had risen from the original explosion, their chests smoking from where the amulets had been. Annon saw the death grimaces on their faces. Some were retching violently, unable to stand. Then he saw Erasmus, moving like a shadow from one Paracelsus to the next, dagger in hand, making sure each one was dead.
Behind you!
Nizeera growled in warning and launched at the Kishion, who appeared even closer now. The mosquito-like pests had not stalled him. He walk
ed through their vapors without harm and closed in, bringing up a dagger to throw at Tyrus.
“Tyrus!” Annon warned, sending a blast of fire into the Kishion, knowing that it was hopeless, that not even Tyrus’s flames had stopped him before.
Paedrin let out a roar of pain.
The prince torqued Paedrin’s arm around, planting him face-first into the ground. The angle of his arm was excruciating. He tried to do a front roll to unwind his arm, but the prince dropped to one knee, making that impossible. His arm was locked and the rest of his body shrieked in pain.
“Cut off the ring!” Prince Aran said to Hettie. “Quickly!”
If they cut the ring, you will die. They will die. The ring will explode. Let them cut it. You will serve me best through your death.
Hettie’s look was one of agony. “I’m sorry,” she said, bringing the dagger up.
“No!” Paedrin said, his face contorting, his eyes wild with panic. “Don’t…cut…it!” He tried to free himself. He felt the tears squeeze through his lashes. He tried to speak, but the Arch-Rike clamped his mouth shut. He tasted blood on his tongue. His entire body shook with pain, but he could not free himself from the prince. They were going to die because of him. They would all be killed. He looked pleadingly in Hettie’s eyes.
She had tears in her eyes, but she took hold of his fingers and tried to pry them apart to get at the one with the ring.
Nizeera slashed at the Kishion, but he dodged her blows and planted a knife in her haunch. She shrieked in pain, scrabbling in spasms, and he shoved her away. He would be on them in moments, Annon realized. He tried to summon a spirit to heal her, but the hazy smoke was driving them to escape from the windows in droves. Annon saw the look of terror on Paedrin’s face. The ring would not come off easily. Even if they cut it, what would happen?
There had to be another way.
“Wait,” Annon said, rushing to her.
Tyrus shook his head in despair. “It’s a Kishion ring. He cannot remove it himself without dying. Cut it off.”
“No,” Annon said, his mind whirling. A spirit hovered near him, whispering. He tried to make out the words amidst the commotion.
Neodesha warns you. The spirit ring. Someone else must release him from the trap. He has not shed blood yet.
It all came together in his mind, a flash of insight. In the woods of Wayland, he had seen many rabbit snares left by trappers. A rabbit would race into it headfirst and it would cinch around its neck. The more it kicked and tried to flee, the tighter the noose became until it strangled. He had freed several rabbits caught in such snares. The memory came to him as a whisper from Neodesha far away, but spoken through his mind in the form of a memory. They were connected somehow. Her wisdom seeped into him. Paedrin could not remove the ring from himself. He was the rabbit in the snare. But someone else could if he had not killed anyone yet.
Annon pushed Hettie aside and grabbed the Kishion ring. With a hard twist, he pulled it off of Paedrin’s finger.
There was no explosion. It was yet another lie told by the Arch-Rike. The irony struck Paedrin bitterly. The Rikes and their rings were all a great lie. His imprisonment was a lie. His destiny as a Kishion was a lie.
Everyone stared at him, wide-eyed. Annon held the Kishion ring in his hand and jerked as if it scalded him. He dropped it to the floor.
The voice in Paedrin’s mind was gone. He would never allow it in again.
Paedrin’s eyes focused, a feeling of intense relief flooding him. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, Annon.”
Prince Aran released his hold and Paedrin straightened. He turned to the Quiet Kishion and launched at him like a spear shaft. He was free and it gave him energy and a sense of duty he had never felt before. Everything in Kenatos was a great lie. It was time for the truth to be shown.
The two were embroiled together. Paedrin observed everyone cluster around Tyrus, who withdrew the cylinder. “Gather round me!” Tyrus barked. “Hold my arm!”
Paedrin kicked and punched, using every technique of the Uddhava as well as his own violent passion. He wanted to humble this Kishion and teach him a lesson in pain. The Arch-Rike’s treasured protector. Paedrin fought fast and hard and gave it his best. Master Shivu would have been proud. In the Bhikhu temple, he had never met his equal. The duel only lasted a few moments. He was kicked in the chin and then thrown across the room, skidding until he struck the wall and blackness took over.
Kiranrao appeared in a smoke-stain of magic next to Tyrus. “Give me the dagger, and I will face the Kishion next.”
Annon stared at the Vaettir, full of distrust. “No,” he warned Tyrus. “Do not trust him.”
Kiranrao gave Annon a scathing look. “I can defeat him. Give it to me!”
Prince Aran glanced at both men and then confronted the Kishion as Tyrus hesitated. Prince Aran blocked the way, standing still as the Kishion advanced. If he defeated the Kishion then Kiranrao would not need the dagger. The two faced off silently, their visages grim. Annon had seen the Kishion up close once before, and the look of determination and murder in his eyes terrified him. He felt the last of the spirits abandon the room, one by one, their power fading as the stench of the smoke filled the air.
“Kill the others!” the Arch-Rike ordered. “They cannot harm you now. Go!”
The Kishion came forward and struck the prince in the stomach. It was a solid blow, enough to drop anyone, but the prince did not flinch. He struck back. Then the two traded rock-hard blows, meant to maim each other. The prince grimaced at the speed of the other man and deflected the next two. He struck the Kishion in the neck. He struck him again, to no effect. It was like striking rock. The Kishion was unstoppable. Several more blows were exchanged. A strike to the Kishion’s abdomen. A blow to his collarbone. He did not even try to defend himself. He let the other hit him, to show him that he could not be harmed.
The prince’s look filled with shock. “You are Chin-Na!” he breathed in awe and despair. The Kishion gazed at him coldly and struck him down in a single blow to the temple, delivered so quickly it could hardly be seen.
“Give it to me!” Kiranrao raged.
Tyrus’s face went hard with frustration. Would nothing stop the Kishion? What protected him? Annon’s heart raced with fear. He watched as his uncle, the man he had always believed to be his uncle, handed the Iddawc to Kiranrao.
The look on the Romani’s face. The look of surprise and pleasure. “Arch-Rike! You are mine!” he threatened, rushing across the room, leaving the Kishion unchallenged. Was he trying to draw away the Kishion to protect his master?
The Arch-Rike’s expression shifted from fury to terror. He withdrew his cylinder and vanished. Kiranrao laughed in triumph. He looked back at them facing the Kishion, nodded in farewell, and vanished in a puff of inky smoke.
Nizeera! Annon pleaded. To us! We must flee!
I cannot, she replied, struggling to crawl to him. Go, Druidecht!
Annon’s heart was ready to break. There was Hettie, Khiara, Tyrus, and Erasmus left. Their fighters had all been brought down. He searched his memory. Something to help them. Something that would save them. The quest could not end now, not when it had just begun. Dead before even entering the Scourgelands. His stomach shriveled in fear as the last of the spirits darted away. The fireblood could destroy the soldiers, but not the Kishion. He knew that if they left through Tyrus’s device, then Paedrin, Aransetis, and Nizeera would be killed. They were all needed to survive the Scourgelands. It was an impossible choice to make. Annon did not know what to do. He turned to Tyrus in despair.
Tyrus pushed past Annon and lunged for the Kishion. He looked back once, giving Annon a desperate glance. “She’s in Stonehollow,” he said, reminding him. Pleading with him.
Tyrus’s daughter—the missing linchpin.
He was handing the charge of the quest to Annon, and he was filled with despair.
When Tyrus struck the Kishion, they both vanished.
Annon turned t
o Hettie, raising his hands and facing the remaining Kenatos soldiers and Rikes. Hers turned blue as well.
“I have heard it repeated as an oft-favored quote of the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. One that was spoken a generation ago. He said it thus, ‘Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan on erecting a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.’”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin awoke, his spirits revived and his body healed by the touch from the beautiful Vaettir girl Khiara. He did not know by what power she healed him, only that her hand brought the most deliciously warm feeling. He remembered her scent, the smell of jasmine, as he opened his eyes. She stood, holding the long tapered staff to rest herself.
The carnage in the room was horrific.
He stared up at Khiara, dipped his head to her in thanks, and found his feet. He scanned the room, looking at the bodies. Some writhed in pain. Others moaned. The dead, of course, were silent.
“Paedrin,” Hettie breathed, rushing up to him anxiously. He stared at her warily, shocked at the rush of emotions—at the feeling of betrayal that poisoned the air between them. He jerked a curt warning to her with his head, a nod to forestall her words. He was unable to trust himself to speak to her yet.
“We cannot remain,” Prince Aran said stiffly. “If the Arch-Rike could send men here once, he can do so again. We must flee.”
Annon looked pale, as if he was about to be sick. “Agreed. To the woods then. Nizeera.” The she-cat creature padded up to his side, obviously healed as well.
Paedrin gathered himself up and nodded in agreement. He approached Annon and gripped his shoulder. “Thank you. I owe you a debt.” The freedom in his mind was absolute. It was like breathing air again when he had been used to breathing water. He could no longer feel even the shadow of the Arch-Rike’s taint in his mind.