I'm surrounded by black knights. They're going to attack me. I'm alone. I don't know where Sir Gavin and the others are.
Relax and let me see.
Achan breathed deeply. He couldn't feel when his uncle looked out from his eyes.
We shall fight them together. Sir Gavin told me you can storm.
Two more balls of green light shot skyward.
Um...I've only done it once. Accidentally.
Keep your sword ready. They will attack physically while the leader attacks your mind. Do you know where the leader is?
My sword is gone. I have no weapon.
Stay calm, Nephew. Look for the leader.
Achan scanned the dark sandbar. The four black knights had encircled him ten paces away. I only see the four, but I think the leader spoke to me. Does that mean he's close?
It may or may not. Perhaps he is one of the four apparitions.
Uncle, I don't think these are apparitions. One is Silvo Hamartano, I'm certain. Achan kept his eyes on the thin figure.
Then it will be easier to defeat them. I will take the two to your left. You take the other two. One at a time, seek out a mind and storm.
Easy for Prince Oren to give the order, but these men weren't trying to enter Achan's mind. They simply stood there, appearing weaponless, conjuring green orbs. How did one storm? He'd only managed before because he'd sensed Sparrow trying to get into his mind.
Achan concentrated on the knight he thought to be Silvo Hamartano. A familiar, lofty voice chanted words he couldn't understand.
Rabab rebabah rabah yarad. Ruwach aphar mayim esh, machmad parar.
Achan blinked. A dark line obscured part of his vision. He stared at a dazed pale man wearing a doeskin jerkin.
Wait. That was his body. Pig snout! He'd entered Silvo's mind, the black mask obscuring his vision. Why couldn't he stay in his own boots? Had he concentrated too hard?
Silvo's breath hissed, creating warm moisture between his face and the wooden mask. He continued to chant, oblivious Achan had entered his mind. Rabab rebabah rabah yarad.
The black knight on Silvo's right crumpled to the ground.
"Zinder? Zinder!" The wooden mask muffled the panic in Silvo's voice. "Marken? Zinder has fallen!"
Prince Oren had defeated one man.
"Rabab yarad!" a voice yelled from Silvo's left.
"Fine!" Silvo continued to chant the words in his mind. Rabab yarad. Rabab yarad. Rabab yarad. Rabab yarad.
A shadow stretched out in front of Silvo. He glanced back to see four figures--identical to him--closing in. To Silvo's left, another four approached the black knight there. The three remaining apprentices were acting as wielders, calling forth apparitions of themselves.
"Yes," Silvo whispered, looking back to Achan's dumfounded, empty body. "Fight these, stray."
Achan popped back into his own mind. He staggered, surprised to find his muscles weakened. The twelve apparitions glided past their wielders, advancing toward him. He couldn't stand here and be killed. He sprinted toward the fallen man.
"No!" Silvo yelled.
"Concentrate," another knight said.
Achan slid to his knees beside the body. He patted the man's waist, found a sword, and wrenched it from its scabbard. He spun around barely in time to meet a fierce cut from a black blade. He backpedaled and took stock of his opponents. They moved toward him slowly, as if they had overeaten and were too full to move faster. Behind them, the three wielders stood like statues, arms outstretched as if worshipping the green orbs.
A man's voice cried out and one of the wielders crumpled. Four apparitions vanished.
Achan calmed, glad Prince Oren--a capable warrior--fought with him. Eight apparitions now. Better. Still, it might be best to flee. Slow as they moved, he could likely escape.
He sprinted into the dark void, praying the sand remained level and dry. Two clouds of glowing green smoke whirled before him and solidified into two black knights. Achan skidded to a stop, head twisting as he tried to keep all eight apparitions in sight. He lifted the sword to the closest one, hoping he could stall it long enough to drive off the second.
The apparition swung. Achan parried, but the opposing blade sailed through his sword and body. He screamed, startled, and barely remembered to turn and meet the second apparition's blade. This one struck, rattling Achan's arms.
Why were some solid and some not?
Nephew? Prince Oren called.
The other apparitions had reached Achan now. He parried another blow and ducked, wishing there were rocks to throw. I'm here.
What happened?
Uh...I failed. Again.
How do you mean? Speak clearly, boy. This is no time for sarcasm.
I don't know how to storm. I ended up in Silvo's head. I can't understand the difference between watching and messaging and storming. A sword clipped his shoulder. He growled, rammed the offending knight with his other shoulder, and went down, tumbling on the wet sand.
Get back on your feet, boy. You're too easy a target on the ground.
Too late. The apparitions swarmed, kicking and nipping his flesh with their black blades.
Achan cradled his head, squeezing every muscle and groaning against the lacerations and strikes biting his flesh.
Call on Arman, Prince Oren said. Only he can help you now.
Arman? A boot struck lower back. He choked on a scream as the shocking pain flared his old arrow wound. What could he say to Arman? I'm a fool who cannot use the gift you gave me? Please defeat these evil apparitions?
A kick to the side of Achan's head ended his need to figure it out.
* * *
Achan jerked awake underwater. He sucked in a sharp breath, and tepid water filled his nose and throat. He gagged and tried to hold his breath but there was little in him. Thankfully, someone pulled his hair, yanking his head above the water line.
He coughed and sputtered and opened his stinging eyes. Dark, firelight, before a stream. But the rotten smell left no doubt: he was still in Darkness.
He knelt on sharp, rocky soil before a wooden tub, wearing only his linen undershorts. Water dripped down his face and neck and made winding streaks down his chest. His wrists were shackled behind his back, the metal cool on his skin. He groaned through another cleansing cough. A familiar trace of bitterness coated his tongue. Aleh?
He called out to test his fears. Prince Oren?
Whoever held his hair released it. Achan swayed, head throbbing, chest burning. He sat on his heels and turned. Two black knights stood behind him. Their wooden masks were flat with two straight slits, one long one for the eyes and a smaller one for the mouth. Achan craned his neck the other way. A campfire burned a few paces back. Beyond that, four horses were tethered beside a cart with a mule hooked to the front. Two bodies lay on their backs in the cart. The moisture on the spindly, black trees glowed in the distance, outlining a forest.
But only two black knights. Prince Oren had done well disabling his targets. But how would Achan get away? If they had silenced his bloodvoice...
Achan sniffed. "Where's your leader?" His voice sounded weak.
"He is advising us from afar," a man said. Not Silvo. His accent sounded like Inko's.
"What do you want with me?" Achan gasped in another long breath. "Where are my companions?"
"Lord Falkson wishes to sacrifice you to Barthos in a ceremony to honor our god and master." Silvo. The slender olive-skinned Jaelportian removed his mask and glared down on Achan, his eyes as oily and black as his hair.
Achan's mind reeled. "Lord Falkson is your master?"
"All of Barth will attend the ceremony. The slaying of Arman's king will be a day celebrated for centuries to come."
Slaying? Achan stalled, seeking a way to escape. "Come now, Silvo. You don't believe I'm anyone's king, do you?"
"Unfortunately, I do. You've changed jobs more than my sisters change gowns. First a stray, then a squire, then a servant, then a soldier. It should have taken m
uch longer to work your way up the political ladder, but at least this way I'll see you killed faster."
If Achan could get to a horse... No boots and almost no clothes, but at least he'd be free. "Was Jaira also trying to kill me?"
"I no longer care what my sister does. I have aligned my future with Barth. Men have power in Barth, you see. Women rule in Jaelport. They always have. A Jaelportian man must leave Cela Duchy to find true freedom. This I have done."
"How's that work, exactly? Do women blow powder in your face every time you disagree?"
Silvo snorted. "You have no idea what my mother and sisters are capable of. I will never go back. My brother and I prefer to serve a more powerful and just master."
"Brother?"
Silvo's eyes narrowed. "What did you do to him?"
"Who?"
"My brother, Sir Marken, you fool."
"I didn't do anything."
"You hurt him. And Zinder. What did you do?"
Achan opened his mouth but didn't speak. He didn't know enough about storming to explain Prince Oren's actions.
Silvo grabbed Achan's head and pushed him toward the water. Achan twisted so his shoulder struck the top of the wooden tub. Silvo had better leverage and forced Achan down. Achan's arm scraped over the tub's rough edge. He managed a deep breath before his head plunged beneath the water again.
Blood rushed to Achan's head. His face burned with pressure. He held his breath as long as he could, then jerked up, hoping Silvo would think him choking and pull him out. He sucked in a mouthful of water by accident. He tried to swallow, but the liquid ran up his nose instead. It burned and caused him to gasp in more water. He tried to lift his head, but two sets of hands held him under. He shook and fought, all the while gulping water.
The hands released him. He pulled his head up and gasped, but air didn't enter his lungs. He coughed and slumped onto his side. His stomach heaved, and a mixture of water and bile streamed past his lips.
Silvo kicked him in the back. "That's disgusting, stray."
Achan panted and wheezed, ignoring the smarting pain from Silvo's boot. Between breaths, he managed, "I'm...not a...stray."
Silvo clutched Achan's hair. He lifted him up and dropped him on his knees. "What did you do to our men?"
Achan shifted his knee off a sharp rock. "I didn't do anything." He coughed up more water and spit it at Silvo's feet.
Silvo punched him. Fire shot through Achan's left cheek. He fell back and caught his weight on his right elbow, barely managing to stay off the ground.
"Did that hurt?" Silvo leaned over and dragged his fingernail over the wound on Achan's left cheek, ripping away the scab. "I like your new marks."
Achan grunted against the pain and slumped back to escape the pressure of Silvo's finger, falling on his bound hands. He tuned his open wound to the ground where Silvo couldn't reach. Silvo straddled him, grabbed his chin.
"Enough," a muffled voice said.
Silvo released him and stood. The second black knight removed his mask. His grey hair puffed out like a mushroom. Achan's brows furrowed. He recognized Sir Nongo as the towering black knight who'd attacked him--who'd nearly killed him--on the journey to Mahanaim.
"Are all of you mages?" Achan asked.
"Sakin Magos are being more than mages," Sir Nongo said. "We are being strong in our bodies and our minds. We are being invincible warriors."
Invincible? "When the four of you attacked me--alone, unarmed, and unaware--didn't two of you go down like redpines?"
Silvo kicked Achan's thigh.
Sir Nongo pushed Silvo back. "We are not having time for this." His pale grey skin and grey hair made him look like a living corpse. "We have been silencing your mind games. You might have been succeeding once, but you will not be again."
Achan ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth. The lingering bitterness was more than the rancid aftertaste of bile. They had given him the aleh tonic. A chill seized him. Not even Prince Oren could help him until its effects wore off.
Call on Arman, his uncle had said.
But Achan knew so little of Arman. Cetheria, the goddess of protection, had been the goddess he'd served all his life, though she had done nothing for him. In fact, the one time he'd entered her temple, he'd heard another voice--Arman's voice--claiming that Cetheria was a false god.
Well, if Arman could talk to Achan, why couldn't Achan talk to Arman? It seemed a bit bold to address any god outside his temple, though circumstances were dire. Perhaps if he--
"We must be moving," Sir Nongo said. "Silvo, be switching his cuffs to the front and hooking him to the cart."
Silvo kick-rolled Achan to his stomach, giving him a mouthful of moist sand. Achan spit the grittiness from his mouth. His right cuff came free and another sharp kick propelled Achan onto his back. Silvo drew his hands together in the front, but before he could hook the cuffs, Achan kneed him in the chin and used both feet to kick Silvo back. Silvo staggered.
Achan jumped to his feet and slugged Silvo's nose. Silvo grunted, shot a dark glare Achan's way, and lunged.
Achan darted aside and swung the iron cuffs into the back of Silvo's greasy head as the young lord stumbled past. Achan spun toward the horses and met Sir Nongo's black blade, pointed at his chest.
He froze and lifted his hands, sucking in long gasps of air. The metal cuff dragged his right wrist downward. His left knuckles throbbed from Silvo's nose.
"Silvo," Sir Nongo said. "Be putting out the fire. I will deal with the stray."
Silvo growled from behind Achan. He teetered past Sir Nongo, a trail of blood running down his neck from his oily hair. His nose didn't seem affected by Achan's fist.
Sir Nongo waved his blade, directing Achan to the back of the cart. "Soon you will be meeting Gazar." The knight snagged the lose cuff, threaded it through a slat on the back of the cart, and secured it to Achan's free wrist.
Achan forced a brave response. "Arman will ransom me."
Sir Nongo stared down on Achan from heavy-lidded eyes. "Only Barthos is having power in Barth." He walked to a white and black horse and mounted it.
Achan studied the bodies in the cart but couldn't see well enough to recognize them. Silvo's brother, perhaps? Stormed? Trapped in the Veil?
To his left, Silvo kicked dirt over the campfire, bringing a deeper darkness, drawing Achan's eyes back to Sir Nongo, who now held a lit torch aloft. He rode ahead of the mule-drawn cart, pulling the other three horses on a tether behind him.
Silvo climbed up to the wagon seat and steered the mule after Sir Nongo. The wagon wheels grated over the sharp rocks, tugging Achan's wrists forward, then the rest of him.
Achan stumbled along in the dark, his bare feet pained on the sharp rocks. His heart quaked in his chest. He called out again, to see if the aleh had worn off.
Sir Gavin! Sir Caleb! Prince Oren! Inko! Sparrow!
No answers came.
Achan did not want to be sacrificed. He tipped his head back, as if to look up to Shamayim.
Arman!
14
Vrell's horse carried her north. Though her surroundings were black and Darkness called to her fears, she knew her horse was tethered behind Scout, who was directly behind Sir Gavin. She focused on Sir Caleb's voice as he lectured on the long-time feud between Magos and Cherem. Vrell had a pretty good grasp of history, but when Sir Caleb mentioned the Sar's custom of sacrificing his female children, she had to interject.
"The Sar kills all female children?"
"Only his own," Sir Caleb said. "Women are property in Cherem. A man may take two wives: an ishaw and a beten. A beten bears him children. An ishaw is poisoned so she may never bear children and serves as her husband's slave. Should a man's beten be unable to bear children, or should she bear only females, the man may banish her and choose another."
"That is despicable!" Vrell said.
"Esper was an ishaw. I met her in Armonguard when her husband was looking to buy a bow for sport."
"Who
is Esper?"
"My wife."
Vrell sucked in a sharp breath. "I did not know you were married, Sir Caleb."
"You didn't ask."
Vrell paused to consider this. "Where is Esper now?"
"In Armonguard with Tyra. Tyra is Inko's wife."
Inko's wife? How sad to have your husband gone so long. Vrell wanted to hear how Esper came to be Sir Caleb's wife and not the Cherem man's ishaw. Then about Tyra and Inko.
"Achan, what do you think of Cherem's ways?" Sir Gavin asked.
Vrell waited, imagining Achan would be as horrified as she, but he did not answer.
"Achan?"
No answer.
"Light!" Sir Gavin called from the front of the line.
Vrell's horse stopped. Orange torchlight fizzed behind Vrell, illuminating Achan's slumped form on Scout. He must be sleeping. She hoped his mind hadn't drifted too far.
Ahead of Achan, Sir Gavin loosed the rope tethering the horses and reined his horse about. He rode alongside Scout, reached out, and grabbed Achan by the scruff of the neck. "Achan? Speak to me, lad."
Vrell could see Achan's left eye, open and glassy in the torch light. Her breath hitched. He seemed stunned or--dare she think it?--dead.
Sir Gavin gripped Achan's face in both hands. "Come out of this man, black spirit! In the name of Caan, the Son God of Arman."
Achan arched his back as if snow had gone down his shirt. A horrible screech flew from his lips, a sound Vrell knew he could never make.
Her pulse raced and she prayed. Arman, please protect Achan from this affliction. Protect him from Darkness.
Achan's body began to dissolve, slowly shrinking in the saddle like a mound of watery black mud. Vrell screamed. The mud took shape, slowly forming a large bird with a rat's face.
A gowzal.
The bird flapped its long, webbed wings, beating its foul stench over Vrell in bursts of air. Achan's horse reared. Sir Gavin gripped the animal's reins as the gowzal flew away.
Vrell's horse danced about and snorted. She held the reins tightly. "It is okay, boy."
"Eben's breath!" Sir Caleb said from the back of the line. "Where is the prince?"
To Darkness Fled--Kindle Page 14