Rising Vengeance (The Anarian Chronicles Book 1)

by Stephen Trolly

  “You trust people too much. Loyalties are being tested everywhere. Will your empire hold itself together when I kill you today?”

  “Your replacement is as much a match for you as you are for me. In a way, I am glad the two of you never liked each other. It will make it much easier for her to kill you, traitor. That is, if you survive me.”

  “You chose Reeshnar to take my place?” Makret laughed, loudly. “I once respected your judgement, but now I see that you are nothing more than an old man losing your hold on your wits.”

  Taren chose that moment to begin the fight. Driving forward with his left foot, he drew Mishdonkar with all the speed and strength born from centuries of practice. A lesser man would have died under that stroke, without even the chance to defend himself, but Makret Druoth was no lesser man. His speed and skill were the equal of Taren’s, if not his better, for all the strength that the old Morschcoda had expended during the previous few days. The swords met with a resounding crash that shattered glass all through the room. The War Chiefs backed as far away as they could, to feel safer if nothing else. Taren and Makret fought.

  * * * * *

  Time lengthened out of all reckoning for Taren. Long days of fighting in the pale northern sun had taken their toll on him, and now he was engaged in a battle with a man as close to his equal as was possible. Much as it pained Taren to admit it, Makret had the advantage. He was well rested and well fed, whereas Taren had had his fill of neither since before arriving at Agrista. ‘At least I did not exhaust my powers during this bloody campaign.’ Taren’s magical strength was the one thing left to him that was not battered and exhausted, aside from Mishdonkar.

  Makret wondered from a moment how long their fight had dragged on already. Surely there had been a time before it began, but he did not try to remember any times before The Kindler had returned to Anaria. Such distractions could mean his death in a battle, and certainly would against one such as Taren. Instead, he thought only of the names of the forms he used. Mordak’s Pounce drove him forward, only to be met by Taren’s Dragon’s Spiral, which led into Diving Eagle that Makret struggled to block with Upswept Wings. Taren scored the first hit, bending away from Lion’s Paw to deliver an awkward stab that bounced of Makret’s armour.

  The touch unsettled Makret, Taren could clearly see, but he could not take advantage of it. Makret almost instantly drove back with and unusual combination. Dragon’s Tail turned into Rain of Blades, which Taren countered awkwardly only to be forced to stumble backwards due to Mordak’s Pounce. Taren went to counter Mordak’s Pounce with Dragon’s Spiral as he had before, but before the blades met, Makret pulled his back, causing Taren’s block to miss completely. Executioner’s Axe nearly split Taren’s head, but he pulled sideways and received only a glancing blow on his left arm. Dropping his sword with his hit arm, he turned sideways and let his right hand slide down Mishdonkar’s hilt, giving him an advantage in reach when he whipped the blade downwards at Makret, which resulted with only a prick on Makret’s left wrist that did no real damage.

  Neither man could truly control the fight, but both started to become more cautious with their attacks. Both men had fought to kill before, but never against each other or any other men considered their equals. Makret struck twice in quick succession, the first with Upswept Wings, with which he scored a large scratch on Taren’s breastplate, the second with Lion’s Paw, taking Taren in his right hip. It was then that Taren let go of his caution. Makret swept his sword up to counter Rain of Blades, only to have to fight off Diving Eagle. Before Diving Eagle struck, Taren pulled Mishdonkar back and swung the blade sideways, landing a much harder blow on Makret’s hip than Makret had on him. Makret jumped backwards, out of Taren’s reach, but Taren waded in, fully committed to the assault he had begun.

  When the two of them finally broke apart what seemed like hours later, Makret struggled to remain upright. His right leg nearly failed him as he tried to walk back to the War Chiefs, but he willed it to hold. He refused to appear weak before the War Chiefs, not that they mattered. If he lost, he was dead. If he won, no one would dispute his strength.

  Taren collapsed onto the steps of the dais. The blow to his hip was painful, perhaps more so because it came from a sword wielded by a man he had always known and trusted than because it had done any damage. As for the scratch on his breastplate, Makret had no idea how close he had been to ripping it in half and killing Taren then and there. Taren refused to let him get that close again.

  When the two closed for the second time, Taren opened his attack with Rushing Waters, a series of low, fast, and powerful attacks whose main purpose was to keep one’s enemy’s focused on their feet. From Rushing Waters, he fell to one knee, and swung Mishdonkar in a complete circle, instead of the traditional Dragon’s Tail, which was only a more powerful form of Lion’s Paw. Makret blocked, but Taren transitioned into Upswept Wings, and then almost immediately into Executioner’s Axe. Makret stepped backwards, and then attempted to run Taren through with Mordak’s Pounce. Taren batted the sword aside and slammed Makret’s chest with Roaring Tide, a magical attack that sent Makret to the other end of the throne room in a torrent of white water. Makret noticed distractedly that one of the War Chiefs went down underneath the water. Makret dropped his sword as he rolled to his feet and threw several balls of water, compressed to the point of being almost solid, at Taren, who threw up Wall of Water as a hasty defence. It partially worked. Two of the balls stopped completely, another two made it through, but changed angle and missed. The fifth struck home, throwing Taren a good twenty feet and causing him to land both heavily and awkwardly on his back, sliding up to the base of the dais steps. Makret had picked up his sword and started to charge as soon as he had released the fifth ball and was almost to Taren when he hit another of his enemy’s hasty defences. Hidden Reef tangled his feet, causing him to fall forward and cut his cheek and forehead on sharp coral. Swinging his sword to cut himself free, he had to react quickly to block Taren’s sword as it descended toward him. Rolling backward with his sword braced against his shoulder, Makret blocked Mishdonkar, and then hit Taren with several magical attacks in quick succession. Taren stood firm against Roaring Tide, cutting it in two with Jagged Rocks, which was only the same kind of power that was used to condense the spheres of water into such deadly projectiles, but Swift Current carried him into the tangle of Makret’s own Hidden Reef. It was at this moment that several things went horribly wrong. First, the Deshik Chiefs decided that Makret did not need the credit for killing Taren, and the three still standing started to charge him. Second, Makret twisted his right hip too far, causing the traumatized joint which Taren had nearly destroyed to fail him, sending him down on his back with his leg at an awkward angle. And third, Taren began summoning superheated groundwater, creating geysers all throughout the throne room, and all too likely the city which Makret had ordered occupied. One geyser erupted under the three Chiefs, instantly cooking one of them, and sending the other two, badly burned, to the roof, one hundred feet up, and then dropping them. One landed on a balcony, breaking it and sending it crashing to the floor. The other merely fell to the floor, landing barely ten feet from Makret. As he got to his feet, Makret felt a geyser forming underneath him. Instead of moving, he channeled its raw power as it erupted underneath him. Instead of it sending him to the roof as one had the War Chiefs, he sent it from his hands straight at Taren. Taren was pushed back several feet, but he maintained his footing, holding Mishdonkar, braced by both hands, in front of him to push against the massive force of the water.

  Both Makret and Taren felt it at the same time. The land that the city stood on shifted. The heat from the geysers, the large amount of water suddenly not frozen underneath the city, and the force of the geysers themselves, had already destroyed much of the city. Parts of Agrista were collapsing into the ground, which was caving in because of the melting ice. Some of the city’s larger houses, towers, and grander buildings were not made entirely of stone, but were held t
ogether with a good deal of Rista’s magical element. The city had been built where it was because of the ice caves and the natural formations of rock. The ice that held those formations together was now melting rapidly.

  “Taren, do you have any idea of what you have done?”

  “You caused this Makret. Your betrayal did this to Agrista.”

  Taren started to laugh. It was not normal laughter. It was the laughter of a man who wanted to die. Who not only wanted to die, but who wanted a spectacular death: a death that would be remembered, a death that would take his enemy with him. Taren would have that and far more. The ruin of Agrista would become a monument to him; a monument to the Stand of the Last Garrenin. ‘Insane’ sprang to the turncoat general’s mind, but Makret admired Taren’s audacity. And then he ran.

  Geysers erupted all around him as Taren expended ever more of his magical power, but still Makret ran through the palace. The sight that greeted him as he escaped the massive building was almost beautiful in his mind. A massive lake, filled with Deshika, living, dead, and dying, filled the ruins of what had been Agrista south of the palace, where the ground was lower. Makret did not even slow his stride. At the edge of the water he pushed off with both feet and dove into the new lake of Agrista. He stayed under until he reached the other side, not daring to swim to low, because of the geysers that were still erupting, filling the city with ever more water, but refusing to surface and see the true extent of the destruction. He finally made it to the other side and tried to haul himself out, only to be grabbed by two Deshika, supposedly intent on helping him and any others who made it out of the water that had suddenly stolen their victory from them.

  * * * * *

  The Kindler did not like being interrupted. Three charred Deshik warriors could attest to that. The third one had convinced The Kindler that something was wrong, however. The Kindler had killed him anyway, but only as a matter of principle. If he had known what he was being interrupted for, half the camp would have felt his displeasure. Instead, he held his anger in check, pacing along the water that had passed where the walls of the city had once stood at their southernmost point. Sections of the wall still stood, looking out of place in the strange new landscape, but that was not what occupied the mind of The Kindler. There had been almost fifteen thousand Deshika, not to mention all of the living War Chiefs, inside the city when the geysers started erupting, cooking those they hit directly, burning anything they touched, melting the ground around them. Of all of the soldiers inside the city, maybe seven hundred had escaped, and one War Chief. And then he saw a Morschen hand grab the shore. He instructed two of his guards to go ‘help’ Makret out of the lake. The Kindler continued to look at the destruction to the city as one of his guards stabbed Makret through his stomach. The other guard pulled him over to The Kindler and threw him at his feet.

  The Kindler did not even look at the mess of a man that was his general. “I lost fifteen thousand soldiers because of your mistake, Makret Druoth. You must have known that Taren Garrenin was capable of such feats.”

  Makret’s response was weak, but proud. “Knew? Of course I knew. I bear his Brother Ring. I am his equal in everything. And you knew what he was capable of as well as I did. You fought him, long ago. He is Taren Garrenin sent back down to Anaria. He was. He bore his Ring, maybe. He probably had the same sword.”

  The Kindler turned his dark eyes to the Morschen lord at his feet. He watched as his guard kicked Makret in the face. The other pulled the beaten, bleeding Morschen up by his hair until he stood under his own power. “You are a stubborn man, Makret Druoth.” He had meant to continue, but Makret spat at his feet.

  “You mean I refuse to die easily. You fought our kind at the dawn of time. You should know that it will take more than you pathetic servants to end me.” Blood poured from his shattered nose as he spoke.

  The Kindler grabbed Makret’s throat and started to squeeze. He forced the smaller being’s face upwards until the two met eyes once again. The Kindler’s eyes were black, merciless, knowing neither pity nor compassion. Makret’s eyes were blue, cold as ice, with the strength of the endless seas, and the stubbornness of a man who had tamed them all. The Kindler released the Morschen man, letting him fall to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He turned and started to leave, but Makret, struggling to his knees, called after him, not begging for the mercy that he knew did not exist.

  “I fought Garrenin because you were too great a coward to reveal your presence, even when he knew you were already here. He is dead. His blood still dries on my blade. Is this what I receive for doing what you cannot, Kindler, Tyrant of the Third Hell, Lord of the Seven Devils?”

  The Kindler continued to walk away.

  “What will you do if somehow, Garrenin survives this?” The Kindler stopped. “How will you find Dishmo Kornara? No one among the Ringless can take you there.” Makret’s voice was reaching a fevered pitch. He was on the brink of death. The Kindler turned and pointed to a Deshik Shaman. “Heal him.”

  * * * * *

  Almost an entire day passed. Seven Shamans had formed a circle around him, all muttering incantations, all pouring energy from their body into his to keep him alive. Finally, Makret stirred. He opened his eyes, and forced himself to his feet.

  “Taren Garrenin is dead, my lord Kindler. What is your command?”

  Convergence

  Edya Reeshnar glared at the three men and wished that she was half a foot taller so that she could at least come close to looking them in the eye. Erygan Dalrey was struggling to stay awake during the long daylight hours that their debate required. Marrdin Redernin was almost useless. It was all he could do to keep his tears for his city from falling on the maps and other documents that were scattered across the table, though complete control of his emotions was beyond him. Edya shivered, as Marrdin in his grief had seen fit to unleash one blizzard after another upon Drogoda. It had already snowed in Alquendiro for four days, the snow from an already long winter was still piling up, and the people, Edya with them, had had enough of the Ice Lord’s grief. As for Galeth Tendornin, he could barely move. The day of Agrista’s fall, he had been in the air over the city. He had flown for four days at top speed without stopping to bring the news to Alquendiro. He would not have made it in seven if not for the gale force winds that had driven him into southern Meclarya by the third day. She was not doing well herself, and she silently cursed the men around her for not seeing what she thought was obvious. She had loved Taren as a father, and maybe more, but now, Taren was dead. She did everything she could to hold back her tears. She could not appear weak. Not now, when the defence of practically all of Anaria rested on her. She failed miserably.

  * * * * *

  It was a day later when Erygan recalled the other three to his tent. He was almost glad the Edya had broken down when she did, but he could not help her. The death of a mentor was something Erygan had gone through many times, but he knew that his mentors meant practically nothing when compared with the sense of loss Edya must have been feeling. He looked at her as she entered. Her proud bearing was back, but that did not fool him. Tears still streaked her face, and she looked as though she had been crying for the entire day. Her thin face, scarred above her left eye, looked more tired than Erygan had ever felt. He thought he knew why, but he dared not say anything. Drogs were more like Armandans than any other race of Morschen. Both were practically ruled by their emotions, especially the extremes of anger and love. The more he thought about Drogs, the more he wondered how Taren could possibly have been one. Then he remembered the report Galeth had brought about the fall of Agrista. The city had practically erupted in Taren’s fury, according to the Dragon Rider.

  Galeth looked from Marrdin to Edya. He was not sure which one looked more defeated. He could not allow any more distractions though. He had known Taren for many centuries. Taren would want them to forget him, and quickly. He would not have sacrificed himself had he not thought that those that still lived could survi
ve the onslaught that was sure to come. Clearing his throat, he tried to begin. Edya cut him off.

  “When will Kallin get here?” Her throat was dry, and her voice cracked when she spoke.

  “He should be here today.” Erygan’s response lacked its usual force.

  “And the other Morschcoda?”

  Galeth looked up. “I think that Daliana and Gelida will arrive together, sometime tomorrow or the next day. Norrin is bringing his army to his eastern border, so I doubt we will see him for a week yet. Xari is having trouble in her own land marshalling the Flame Weavers. They are refusing to march to war at the command of a Drog, even Taren.”

  Outside the tent, Guinira still wore the guise of a Dothrin courier. She did not wait to hear anything else, and burst into the tent. “Morschcoda Erygan, I need a portal to An-Aniath, and I need it right now.”

  “I don’t take orders from couriers.”

  Guinira, who had forgotten that she still maintained Distorting Smoke, dropped her disguise. “If you don’t, then Armanda will be of no use to you.”

  “Guinira?”

  “Yes, Marrdin.”

  “Then … you are why Taren came north.”

  “Yes.” She hung her head, almost looking ashamed of herself. “I am the reason for the fall of Agrista. But I can also be the reason for the stand of Anaria.”

  Erygan wasted no time. “Go, and may Lasheed’s blessings follow you.”

  Guinira was gone before another word was spoken.

  “If we had the time, I would have been shocked to see her, I think.”

  “She was the reason that Makret went to Agrista.” Edya tried hard to put some emotion, namely shock, into her voice. Instead, the words came out flat, more of a cold statement. “Well, the reason Taren sent him.”

  “We have to stay focused. How do we replace Taren? Especially with Makret as a traitor.”