by Meagan Hurst
“The Dragon goes to the east side of the castle; I go to the west.” The Islierre started walking to the stables. “Is it true you get to die today?”
The Mithane closed his eyes, but when they opened they were a cold black the Islierre had seen twice before. “The Dragon told you.”
“Why else do you think you’re riding with me? I want to watch.”
The Mithane was silent throughout the rest of their walk. He remained silent as they rode out into the battlefield. The Alantaions on his force were uneasy to ride with their ruler, but the Mithane managed to put everyone at ease—even the Ryelentions—with a few soft words. Hating the Alantaion again for having such a weak, but effective power, the Islierre rode out reminding himself the Mithane would not be returning to the castle alive.
They were ambushed less than a quarter of a mile from the castle. Calling his troops to form up and counter the attack, the Islierre found his shadow was needed in large amounts; there were too many of the enemy to fight. Pulling as many as he could into the shadow realm he had created just for this war, the Islierre resorted to his sword only when Midestol’s forces got too close. Around him those under his command were dying, but he could barely protect himself; he certainly couldn’t protect many of them.
The Syallibions were systematically separated and slaughtered. Trying to turn his stallion to go to their aid proved to be a futile effort, and it seemed to him the Syallibions hardly put up a fight at all today; clearly mourning the loss of Zyrhis. If they were that weak, they deserved to perish—they would otherwise only endanger those who were still willing to fight.
Hissing as he took a deep cut to his ribs, the Islierre managed to kill his attacker and pull back as his troops tightened against him; forming a circle they from which they could attack without having anyone sneak around their back. A brief and soothing touch of magic caught his attention, and his gaze was drawn for a second to his recently acquired wound. It was healing. There was only one reason this could be. He turned his attention to the Mithane. The Alantaion he wanted to savor the death of. He found the immortal wasn’t looking at him; the Mithane was fighting for his life and trying to heal him.
The Islierre yanked the Mithane’s attacker into the shadows before doing likewise to the few that remained of the group that had successfully ambushed his unit. “My thanks, Evieck,” he said after a lengthy pause as the Alantaion’s gaze touched his for a second.
“You are welcome, Yasyan,” the Mithane replied tiredly. To the Islierre’s eyes, the Mithane seemed to have grown weaker—much like a human.
“You’ve used your power too often.”
“Healers often do in war.” Black eyes lost some of their coldness, but they didn’t gain enough warmth to make the Mithane seem any less annoying. “It appears the war is becoming even more difficult. It will be interesting for sure. I almost wish I could survive to see it.”
He spoke loud enough that all could hear him, but when the Islierre went to answer him they were attacked again—and his force was split. “Form up!” the Islierre yelled angrily. “Keep them from managing to separate us completely!”
But they couldn’t. Midestol’s party outnumbered them, and the Islierre knew his force wouldn’t survive. He would be like so many others here; a name. A name and little more. His people would have Shalion, if he survived, and Zimliya, if she did, but they would be without his guidance. He hadn’t been a kind ruler, but he had protected his people from outside threats as well as he could.
He wasn’t weak like the Mithane. Yet the Mithane’s Alantaions were far more loyal to their ruler than his Ryelentions were to him. Perhaps there was a strength he couldn’t see in the Mithane’s pitiful softness. Shalion had some of the same failings, yet the Ryelentions seemed to respect him almost as much as the Alantaions respected Evieck. It was one of the reasons he had held off on killing his son; he had been certain there would be a backlash if Shalion died mysteriously in the kingdom.
Somehow the Mithane ended up near him and the Islierre found his back guarded as Evieck moved his mare to stand beside his stallion. He was shocked. This was the immortal who had slept with his wife and ended up being the father to a halfling. Evieck had later killed his half-breed daughter out of fear when it became obvious she could call the shadows, but he himself had killed Shalion’s mother. Evieck wouldn’t have even considered it.
It had built a deeper rift between the two kingdoms, and no one had known about it—except maybe for Zimliya. The damn human had a knack for finding the deep secrets everyone tried to hide, but she had never spoken of it to him. The Islierre discovered every wound he took continued to heal, and he debated on whether to kill the Mithane out of sheer irritation. He didn’t want to accept Evieck’s help. The aid of someone he considered beneath him was almost an insult.
But he had been willing to work with the Mithane to save Zimliya. Because despite her humanity Zimliya was worth protecting. Everyone who wasn’t afraid of her power knew that. Cutting down more of Midestol’s seemingly endless army, the Islierre glanced over his shoulder at the Alantaion who was choosing to fight beside him for reasons he couldn’t fathom. It was impossible to return the favor; calling the shadows was now far too risky. He was exhausted and he would be unable to pull Midestol’s men into the right location. He could escape; he knew he could, but that would accomplish little as well.
The Mithane was dying. The scent of Alantaion blood erased every other smell and the Islierre glanced over his shoulder in time to see the Mithane fall from his saddle. He was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long. Zimliya would be without her adoptive father. And she couldn’t be.
Cursing himself, the Islierre finally surrendered to the woman who had told him years ago that one day he would stand on a battlefield and not care about his pride, his position, or an old grudge. He couldn’t be the Mithane. He would never lower himself to tolerate the lesser races as Evieck did, and he would never lessen himself enough to allow himself to be seen as weak in anyone else’s eyes. But the Mithane had never cared. Strangely enough, he had managed to survive it. Until today. Until this war.
And the Islierre found he couldn’t let the Alantaion die. Without the Mithane Zimliya would be lost; her Dragon was not as supportive and understanding as the Mithane. He also wasn’t as patient or as wise. He was trying to become that, but it would take centuries and Zimliya needed guidance now.
He could give her the Mithane. Cursing himself a second time as he felt a strike from a sword and sensed the touch of poison he knew he would not survive, the Islierre summoned the shadows. He built them around the Mithane and shoved Midestol’s forces back until just he and the immortal ruler he detested stood alone in a circle the shadows were both separate and a part of.
“What are you doing?” Evieck inquired. “You are wasting your power—”
The Islierre laughed bitterly. “My power has no use to me anymore. I have been hit with a treated blade and not even your healing skills,” he sneered, “can save me. But I—I can save you.”
Evieck’s eyes went straight to a solid brown. “What are you talking about.”
“You’re weak,” the Islierre spat. “The only points that could suggest otherwise are that you managed to bear a child with my wife, and you murdered your own daughter when she developed a talent you couldn’t accept. I find it immensely interesting you have not killed Zimliya, since she holds the reins to the shadows better than I do, or she will.”
His balance was compromised for a second, but he straightened and glared at the Mithane. “She was right—she is always right. I am not fighting for myself; my life has already been taken from me. I no longer care about my position or my power; I mean to save the world.”
“By aiding a dying Alantaion?”
“By sending an injured Alantaion—and you had damned well better survive—to the side of Zimliya. She needs you. You’re weak enough that she feels comforted by your presence. I could never be as weak as you, but she needs it
and I cannot offer her that. Neither can her Shade or her Dragon. She needs you, and for that reason alone I am willing to aid you.”
Swallowing painfully as his chest began to feel like it was burning from the inside, he glared at the Mithane. “You must reach her. I know she’ll need to be healed. It will be tricky to manage this because the power I have in my grasp will only allow me to break through to her shadow realm—I cannot deliver you to her directly.”
“Is she even in her realm?” the Mithane wanted to know.
“She is. She is there and the magic that is present—and actively in use—will end my life cleanly in a way the Keniss will not. Do you agree to this, Evieck? Choose quickly as I have very little time.”
Evieck’s eyes remained brown, but their color wasn’t a shade he knew. Grief, the Islierre suspected, was the almost mud color he saw. It was just another reminder of how weak the Mithane was. “I accept, Yasyan, and I thank you.”
“You have always been the weakest immortal ruler,” the Islierre whispered as he pulled his magic to send the Mithane to Zimliya’s realm.
“That is a personal opinion,” Evieck argued. “She will be proud of you.”
“I don’t give a damn whether she is or not. She had better win this cursed war.” Before the Mithane could answer him, the Islierre pushed his remaining strength outward to penetrate the shadow realm Zimliya had recently created. He could reach it no matter where she had called it from, but the cost was high. The second the Mithane was through, the Islierre dropped his power and as the last of it faded, he found himself slammed into the ground of the world that the only human he had come to respect was fighting to save. At least he wouldn’t be forced to deal with the aftermath of the war. His time had ended.
Acknowledgements
Last year was a rollercoaster when it came to life both in writing and outside of it. I changed job industries completely after having spent the previous fifteen years in one. To say it threw me a curve is an understatement, and while there will continue to be new things to adjust to, the road has smoothed for the most part.
Somehow during the craziness of a new job, I managed to continue to work on this novel. It was, as always, a group effort and I am grateful to my family and friends for tolerating my complaints and slightly frantic moments when everything seemed to be closing in on me. The constant support they offered me is part of the reason this book made it into the wild.
I’m also grateful to my editor, Kathy, who once again offered me her experienced eye when the time came to return and polish the manuscript I had been working on so the next step in the process could move forward. It always takes a team to get each novel put together and I appreciate the team I’ve established over the past few years.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events have no existence outside of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Meagan Hurst
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
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About the Author
Meagan Hurst is an avid reader of fantasy, and the occasional series or novel outside of her favorite genre. She lives in Colorado with her cats, who undeniably rule the house, and her AQHA gelding, Dakkar, who is thankfully nothing like Shanii. The outdoors, archery, books, and animals are topics to avoid, unless you’re free to talk for hours.
You can find updates regarding the series at her website: www.authormeagannhurst.com or at twitter as @meagannhurst.