The Trials Of Ashbarn ( Book 5)

by Jeff Gunzel

  Flash

  More memories filled his head. More forgotten skills, gifted to him by the fallen spirit. A man who once believed he was the Gate Keeper. A ghost now seeking redemption.

  In spirals of white, clouds of mist began to leave his body, each healing the wounds they exited from. They spun around in a flurry of white, each lending their knowledge, giving their skills to the one who had truly earned the title. Eric’s eyes shone brightly in the dim light. His charred tattoos gleamed with golden light, crackling with energy.

  “Kill him!” roared the madman, slashing his hand in the air. The first wave of cats rushed in, snarling and clawing, hungry for blood.

  Calm Waters: Spark flashed around him in an intricate display of whirling slashes, leaving a trail of fire, ash and flesh. It was an ancient technique used to fend off multiple foes at once, a technique he had never learned before, or even heard of. Ears, snouts, and legs rained down around him in a bloody downpour.

  Sleeping Scorpion: Eric calmly sat down on the ground, his legs crossed, looking relaxed. With his sword pointed straight up in the air, eyes closed, he appeared to be completely vulnerable. Smelling blood, the second wave of beasts rushed in. At the last second, eyes still closed, he swept his blade around his head in one complete circle, then brought it back to rest, holding it high above him. Throats opened, spraying blood; the surrounding cats wilted to the ground, a few still gurgling, long, wet tongues hanging out.

  Eric’s eyes popped back open, still radiating light. Leaping up to his feet, he whirled his blade around his back, slicing two more he couldn’t have known were there. His hate-filled eyes locked on the man in white. Even with the remaining beasts diving at him with reckless abandon, he ran straight for the madman.

  Ancient Tree

  Foaming Sea

  Gliding Hawk

  One after another, the lunging beasts tasted the edge of his sword as he performed ancient techniques masterfully, born from memories that were not his own. Executing kill after kill with breathtaking efficiency, he pressed forward. Eric wanted the madman’s blood, and nothing would stop him this time. “Once again you have underestimated me,” shouted Eric, slashing open the last of the cats and picking up speed. “Now you will witness the standards of the Gate Keeper!”

  Eye’s wide with terror, the man in white ripped at the air, quickly forming a doorway. In desperation, he bolted through. It began to snap shut before Eric could reach him. “No,” he whispered, reaching out his hand, then spreading his fingers open. “You will not escape me again.” Having closed to the size of a fist, the doorway pulsed like a tiny heart, then snapped back open by pure will of the Gate Keeper.

  Eric dashed through, the doorway shutting behind him. He found himself on an old stone bridge, brittle gray rock crumbling with each step. Down below was a river of thick, red liquid. Hands and screaming faces bubbled up from the red ooze. They begged for mercy, pleading for someone to stop the pain. This dimension must have been some sort of purgatory for these lost souls. A black void, lost somewhere between the living and the dead. The man in white turned back, hands in the air. “No. No, I… How did you follow me here?”

  Eric stalked forward, his sword still hungry, even after feasting on so much flesh. Its appetite was insatiable. “I warned you never to cross me again,” said Eric, his voice echoing through the eternal emptiness of this place. “It seems that warning has fallen on deaf ears. Tell me, madman, are you going to beg for your life? All the innocent people you’ve killed—women, children—tell me, did they beg for their lives as well?” His voice boomed, an inhuman rumble. “Did you grant them mercy?” He approached the kneeling man, looming over him like a giant while he cowered against the rail.

  “Wait! Wait,” he cried, appearing small and insignificant, cradling his head with both hands. “Don’t kill me. We can join our forces. Together, united as one, no one could ever stand in our way! The gods have given you a gift. One you cannot waste on righteousness, or the illusion these humans call freedom. You and I were born to dominate those lesser than us.”

  Eric looked down at the man, pity in his eyes. The flames pulsing down his sword extinguished with a light crackling. He slid his weapon back into its sheath. Hoisting the pitiful creature back to his feet, he whispered in the madman’s ear, “That thinking, my friend, is exactly why I cannot let you live.”

  With a shove, he sent the man over the side of the bridge. His shrill scream echoed all the way down, until he splashed into the red ooze. The madman re-emerged, choking, trying to spit the thick goo from his mouth. Slime-covered hands grasped at his flailing body, pulling him down into the blood-red river. Hairless faces covered with red ooze rose up and bit into his flesh, tearing and ripping until he dipped back below the surface.

  * * *

  A golden doorway ripped the air. Eric stumbled through, then fell to his knees. The men with shaved heads were all still there, looking down at him with blank expressions. Each of them wore flowing, orange garments, with a slash of purple across the chest. Eric’s body had been pushed far beyond its limits. With heavy eyes, he looked up at them one last time before collapsing onto the stone.

  The men exchanged silent nods with one another. Two stepped forward, collecting his unconscious body. They carried him on a primitive-looking cot made of sticks and vines, then walked over to a large bell seated within a small stone tower. In front of the bell was a thick log, strung up with rope. Two more men approached the log and pulled back the rope. When they released it, the log crashed against the bell, sending its piercing song out across the desert. Using the log, they rang the bell nine more times.

  It is said when the Shantie Rhoe is named, the skies will be bathed in light. The Mountain of Dreams will drop its veil, presenting its true form to the world once and for all.

  On the tenth toll, a brilliant ray of blue light fired up from the tower, striking against the black, cloudy sky. Lightning began to flash incessantly, lighting up the sky as if the gods themselves were at war. A single bolt crackled downward, striking the side of the mountain. It ripped away bits of stone, scattering a spray of red-hot pebbles into the air. Another struck the other side, then another and another. The Mountain of Dreams was suddenly being torn apart by nature’s wrath. Stone fragments cascaded in all directions while the stormy onslaught continued.

  After a final bolt crashed near the top, everything went quiet. The light from the tower faded away, the blazing skies now quiet and calm. Many of the men looked over the side, gazing down at the shocking transformation. The mountain had become squared off with four flat sides. Carved directly into those newly shaped cliffs were ancient symbols, similar to those burned into the Gate Keeper’s arms.

  The ancient stories were true. The Mountain of Dreams had revealed its true form. The Shantie Rhoe had been named...

  * * *

  Seated on a mound of straw, Ilirra leaned back against the cold stone wall. A single oil lamp hung from an iron hook just outside of her cell. It flickered a dim but welcome light. Wearing nothing but a torn brown tunic, she was filthy and covered with soot. She had been forced to stay in this cell while Filista carefully integrated her band of crytons into the city’s political system. But that was not the thing that hurt her most. Her monarchy had been given away, and no one had the right or power to dispute that. She did what needed to be done, and there was no room for regrets.

  But the looks on people’s faces when the crytons had marched up to Taron’s walls... Queen Ilirra Marosia, hands bound behind her back like a common thief. The expressions of horror on the children. Men at arms lined along the great wall, dropping their weapons and lowering their heads in shame. The look on Azek’s face when he met them at the gate, forced to allow them to parade their prize through the streets of Taron.

  These were the lingering images that would haunt her the rest of her days...

  She heard footsteps and the jingling of keys just outside of her cell. A moment later, the door opened and Filista st
epped into view. Covered in fine gold jewelry with her hair pulled back, she wore a long, yellow dress. With her was the short cryton. He still did not look comfortable with the idea of being her interpreter. She hissed and popped a few guttural words to him, but kept her eyes on Ilirra.

  “You must come with us now,” he said, avoiding Ilirra’s eyes. “Before the torch can be passed, the people of Taron must see you in a certain ‘light’ for them to fully accept the coming change in leadership.” Filista added a few more words. “Do not worry. The temporary disgrace is just for show. No harm will come to you.”

  Ilirra held the confident woman’s gaze but said nothing. Filista gazed back at her curiously, then muttered something else. “You’ve abandoned your crown, all for the sake of saving the lives of a bunch of commoners,” he repeated. “You’ve lost everything. Don’t you have anything to say to me?”

  Ilirra’s lips tightened, the hint of a smug smile slowly creasing her face. “Why would I ever second-guess your actions? After all, you are now my queen.”

  Filista’s grin faded with each word while the man translated. With a huff, she snapped her fingers, then turned away. Two more crytons entered the cell. One hoisted Ilirra off the ground, the other pulled a black sack down over her head. They bound her hands, then guided her away. She heard the loud bang of the cell door shutting behind her.

  Covering her face had been the same trick they used to bring her down here in the first place. She really wasn’t sure which cells these were. After walking for a time, they stopped, then hoisted her up onto some sort of platform. Following the unmistakable feel of a noose tightening around her neck, a soldier spoke softly, “Forgive me, my lady. My orders came straight from the Qu—” Choking up, he couldn’t even finish his sentence.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” said Ilirra, her voice steady and sure—as always, the very depiction of poise. “I am no longer your queen, hence you’ve committed no crime in my eyes.”

  Whatever contraption they had her standing on began to move. Wheels creaked loudly, the immediate, squeaking echo assuring her they were in some sort of corridor, not in the streets as she had first suspected. A second sound, the screeching of metal on metal, a sharp, shrill note she had heard far too many times to not recognize, sent a sinking feeling through her gut. Moxis, the great arena, she thought with a shiver. The iron wheels grinding as the main gate opened were an unmistakable sound. So that’s where they had been keeping her. She should have guessed. Whatever Filista was planning, she most certainly wanted to make a glorious spectacle of it.

  When the grinding came to a halt, Ilirra could hear the calls and jeers associated with a packed arena. Once her wheeled wooden scaffold neared the entrance, a vocal explosion rose up from the crowd. Some cheered, chanting for her head. Others cried out forgiveness, begging for mercy for their queen. Both sides made their presence known, displaying great passion in their choice.

  Ilirra heard hollow thumps all around her: angered spectators throwing old fruit and potatoes. “You made a deal with the demons! You gave them our city!” a woman cried out.

  “We love you,” came another call, this one sounding closer. “Our children live because of your sacrifice! All hail Queen Ilirra.”

  A boy and his mother looked down from the upper balcony. The woman didn’t want to be here, and certainly didn’t want her eight-year-old son to witness to this madness. But Filista’s people had chosen households at random, forcing those families to attend. Many were here in attendance against their will. “Mommy,” said the blue-eyed boy, bits of greasy blond hair hanging out from under his gray cap. “Why is the Queen tied up? What are they doing to her, Mommy?”

  “I don’t know, dear,” replied his mother, a thin woman, wrinkled beyond her years from a hard life. Her long, dark hair was streaked with white. “But whatever happens, you must do as I say. If I tell you to close your eyes, you listen to your mother.”

  “Mommy.”

  “Did you hear what I told you?”

  “Mom,” the boy repeated.

  She turned in her seat to face him. “What is the matter with yo—” She froze, mouth hung open. Her son nestled in close against her, trying to move away from the stranger sitting next to him. The mysterious man, wearing a loose black cloth mask, sat perfectly still. He turned towards them slowly, bringing a hushing finger up to where his lips should be. The mother swore she saw a smile crease underneath the black fabric.

  Not sure how to react, she threw an arm around her son, pulling him closer. She gazed around at the crowd, soon spotting another. He was still as death, wearing the same black cloth mask. He got a few strange looks from those around him, but in general wasn’t doing anything that could be perceived as threatening. The woman turned around, looking up at the walkway a few rows back. She wondered if others were noticing the strange men popping up everywhere. Cryton soldiers stood guard at all the entrances, each holding a spear. They hadn’t seemed to notice anything yet.

  She caught a glimpse of something strange: a large man nearing the back of one of the cryton soldiers. Even from this distance, his bright green eyes were obvious. She looked away, rubbing her own eyes briefly, wondering if all this chaos was just getting the best of her. But when she looked back, the large man was nowhere to be seen, and the cryton soldier was gone as well. His spear laid on the floor, as if he just dropped it in a hurry. Did that large man just—

  “Attention, all,” came a call from the arena floor. “Your Queen commands your attention.” The short cryton stood next to Filista, translating loudly as she spoke. She, along with both human and cryton soldiers, stood on a separate stage, close to Ilirra’s platform. The soldiers wore their traditional armor, but were not allowed weapons. Standing among these men were Azek, Addel, and Berkeni. Having been close advisers to the Queen, they were now committed to serving the new administration. Taron’s laws were clear on this matter, but that did not mean that they had to like it. Azek stared straight ahead, his unreadable face carved from stone. The other two hung their heads, trying to fight back their tears.

  “Today is a day of celebration,” the short cryton continued. “Today, we celebrate the strengthening of this great city.” He gestured to Ilirra standing over a trapdoor, a mask covering her face, a noose around her neck. “Gone are the days when the people were ruled by fear and prejudice. Gone are the days when Taron was laughed at by its sister cities, for she is now a power to be reckoned with. A new day has come when—” He stopped in mid-speech; some sort of commotion in the upper deck was causing quite a distraction.

  “What is going on up there?” questioned Filista angrily, upset at having her moment of glory interrupted. One of the cryton soldiers ran up behind her, urgently whispering in her ear. Her angry gaze drifted back to the upper levels. “A rebellion?” she shrieked.

  * * *

  Men and women went running, chaos erupting all around them. The mother grabbed her son, then began climbing the steps towards one of the exits. Watching her feet, trying not to fall backward, she nearly ran directly into one of the crytons. She screamed when he raised his spear, but the blow never fell. His yellow eyes went wide before rolling back up into his head. The seven-foot giant crumbled down at her feet, an axe sticking out of his back. The green-eyed man ran up and retrieved his weapon, pulling it free with a crackling sound. “Get out of here,” he ordered. The terrified woman looked about as the sounds of battle exploded all around. She kept running as fast as she could.

  Morcel flashed his fingers in silent tongue to the nearest man wearing a black mask. Don’t let them link. Keep them separated. The man nodded, then passed on the message in the same fashion.

  Two nearby crytons ran towards one another, hands reaching out to link. One ended up being thrown backward, a hard tackle taking out his legs. The masked man hung on tightly, refusing to let go while receiving multiple punches to the back of his head. The much stronger cryton managed to sit up, grabbing the man by the throat. A second hand wrapped h
is forehead from behind, tilting his head back, exposing his neck. A quick flash of steel opened his throat, spilling blood all over the steps.

  A large cryton jumped in front of Morcel, spinning his spear in circles. Not waiting, Morcel slashed forward with his axe, forcing him to bring the spear up to block. Immediately Morcel kicked his leg, cracking the kneecap and bringing the cryton down to one knee. In a rage, Morcel forgot all about his axe and began striking the soldier with closed fists. Two, three, four, the cryton tumbled backward, blood flowing from his mouth and nose. Morcel climbed on top of him, then began raining down elbows, cracking facial bones with each strike. Caught up in his bloodlust, he continued the onslaught long after the soldier was dead.

  A second cryton ran up to Filista. “The rebel humans are causing us some serious problems,” he said urgently.

  “Link now!” she ordered.

  He stared at her a moment, as if not sure he heard her correctly. “But I thought we were trying to gain the humans’ loyalty? There will be tremendous casualties if we—”

  “Do it! Teach these troublesome humans who the superior race really is!”

  With a sigh, he nodded, then reached out his hand out behind him. Five others joined him, lowering their heads while he began to utilize their energy.

  The cryton on the end cried in pain, crashing to the floor. His legs had been swept out from under him. Azek stomped his face three times in rapid succession, crushing his head. Another broke free from the link and rushed at Azek. The crafty veteran sidestepped the looping punch, then delivered two of his own to the cryton’s side. Surprised by the suddenness and power of this general, he bent over from the hard blows. Azek struck like lightning. A quick knee shattered the cryton’s jaw, dropping him flat to the ground.