The Rise of Nazil

by Aaron-Michael Hall

  “We have those who teach of the gods, too. They’re called the Nohek. All we know of the Seven we learn from them.”

  “The Seven?”

  “Yes, the Seven. The gods of Mercy, Truth, Protection, Strength, Judgment, Forgiveness, and in the center of these is Love. Are these not your gods?”

  “No, they’re not. I’m familiar with some of your gods and those who lead them. The Cha teach of only four gods. Nazil serves the gods of War, Power, Courage, and Judgment. There are no others.”

  “Is there no love in the gods of Nazil? What about mercy and truth?”

  “Our gods are those of strength and power. There’s love, yet there’s no god for it. We are merciful, yet need no god to command it. Our god of judgment is as yours, it seems. For all men must be judged,” he said, kicking his heels into his mount.

  “I didn’t mean to cause offense,” Brahanu said. “I’ve only known the Seven. I never considered that there might be other gods worshiped. Forgive me.”

  “There’s no need for forgiveness. If we are to learn about each other, we must speak of all things. Love is at the head of our very lives. Our Four aren’t named for love, but we do feel it from them. In return, we express that love to others.” I give it to you now, freely. I need no god of love to be engulfed by the feeling, he thought.

  “I’d like to learn about you in all ways,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You—you spoke of giants in the mountains.”

  “Yes. Not the giants of stories, but giants of men: a reed high, and twenty-five stones or more. The mountains were named for them. They’re said to have dwelled in Faélondul, and believed cursed by pythonesses haunting the Animus Wood. They ride great winged beasts larger than any of these lands.” He paused, his brow knitting. “What force could drive such men to the mountains, so far from what was their home? That part was never told. However, they are there.”

  When Brahanu’s eyes widened, he smiled. “Allay your fears, my lady. No danger will come from the mountains. No one has ever seen such beings, not even in the days of my father’s father. But even if the tales about the Dessalonians were true, that’s not where the danger would lie.

  “There are many Nazilians who want nothing more than to destroy the humans. Ruling Faélondul isn’t enough for them. Cleansing the lands of humans rules their hearts and minds. Even with those few, more Nazilians are like me. But how do you stand against a man who has thousands of warriors prepared to die for him?” He sighed wistfully, shaking his head. “I know and respect many humans. I learn from them, and them from me. It isn’t something that a Chosen of Nazil should say, but this is my heart. Even an orator as adept as the Cha Asham can’t turn me from what I know is true. The humans are right to fear, Brahanu. This peace stands tethered to a brittle filament, and Draizeyn waits for the opportunity to shatter it. Don’t allow my kindness to supersede Faélondul’s histories and conflicts. If we were discovered, both of our deaths would come, but not swiftly, not for our offense.”

  “That puzzles me all the more. You’re risking everything to help me. There isn’t anything that I have to repay such a debt. I’ll be forever grateful.”

  “What you don’t realize is that you have nothing to repay. Permitting me to escort you is an honor beyond price. What you’re giving me is a gift, and one that I shall eternally cherish.”

  They continued to ride, following the dim light of the moon. The ride seemed less daunting now that they were far from Nazil. Although fatigued, they persisted, not wanting to lose the coverage the darkness provided. Many turns of the glass had passed before they arrived at a small fall at the base of the mountain. Pentanimir stopped, leaping down to help Brahanu dismount. As he lowered her to the ground, a crescendo of howls caused her to grip him tighter.

  “What—what was that?”

  He smiled, drawing her in to him. “Those are jaenitu. To you, they’d appear as large dogs. The jaenitu call this wood their home and none other in Faélondul. It’s considered a good omen to have them near, and they’ll keep deadlier prey away from our camp. Come, I’ll prepare a shelter,” he said, enjoying one last embrace. “There’s a clearing through those trees and a pond where the falls empties. I’ll risk a small fire since the trees and mountains should shield us from the watchtowers. Go now, and I’ll gather some wood.”

  When Pentanimir turned to leave, she gripped his hand.

  “We’ll be all right, I promise. Come.”

  Interlacing their fingers, he led her to a clearing encircled by flowering bushes and creeping vines. The trickling falls seemed harmonious, resonating faintly off the surrounding mountains. Brahanu’s eyes widened; the beauty surrounding them was breathtaking. It was a beauty unimaginable from the barren, rocky pass they’d traveled but moments ago. Even after the rains, the sweet smell of honeysuckle perfumed the air. Brahanu closed her eyes, enjoying the fragrance and the cadence from the falls.

  “I’ll tether the horses.”

  “This is beautiful, Pentanimir. Never have I seen anything like this. Not even near my village is there any place so magnificent. How don’t you steal away daily and forget all the troubles in the lands?” she asked, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun on her face.

  “If such a blessing could be, I’d bring you as often as your heart desired. Come. I’ll gather some wood and stones for the fire. You need to rest.”

  She nodded, following behind his gentle pull. For reasons she didn’t understand, that simple gesture was heartening. She attempted to gain control of her thoughts and feelings, but couldn’t sort any of it out. Nothing made sense, yet everything did. The why of it began not to matter, leaving only the feelings he evoked in her and the ways she imagined exploring them.

  “I wasn’t certain what you liked,” he said, pulling her from her thoughts. “I have some salted meat, cheese, fruit, bread, honey, and wine. The muladorn stew has grown cold, I fear. Please, take whatever you wish.”

  As she leaned forward, he noticed the dried blood staining her bandage.

  “Brahanu, your hand. Why didn’t you tell me that your wound reopened? I must tend to it immediately.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you. I can tend the wound.”

  Kneeling in front of her, he unwrapped her hand and took supplies from his satchel. She watched him intently. With the rising sun, his handsome features were no longer obscured. She’d never considered Nazilian men as anything but barbarous zealots, but Pentanimir wasn’t like that, and she found herself enjoying his touch more than she should.

  “I have some fresh cloth to wrap your wound,” he said, dabbing the water away. “This naja will help reduce the swelling, and there’s more ignatia to ease the pain. It’ll serve until we can reach the settlement.” After applying the root oil, he wrapped her hand again.

  Brahanu stared at him as he gathered his supplies. She couldn’t calm her thoughts or quell the eruption of heat surging through every part of her. She was both confused and captivated all at once.

  “Pentanimir, could you check my leg? It was bothering me as we rode,” Brahanu lied. Her leg bothered her not at all.

  “With your permission, my lady.”

  Brahanu smiled, extending out her leg. Without being fully aware of it, he caressed her calf, feeling tingles of pleasurable tickles beneath his fingertips. Gliding his hands up near her thigh, he admired her smooth, ebon skin, entranced by the contrast of his fingers upon it.

  “Par—pardons,” he stammered, noticing the evidence of his arousal. “It—it’s fine. There’s no seepage and it’s healing well. I’ll apply some more ointment to stave off infection.”

  “Thank you. You say that you’re no lakaar, but your skill would show you false. How did you learn about herbs and healing?”

  “When you’re a Chosen, healing is a necessary skill. You never know when you’ll have an occasion to use it.”

  After clasping his satchel, Pentanimir stood, regaining his composure. The influx of emotions and thoughts
were nearly debilitating. Never had he felt so vulnerable or exposed. He was the First Chosen of Nazil, with thousands of soldiers under his command, and yet, in this, he felt defeated. In the most perilous of circumstances, he didn’t falter. He never flinched, never second-guessed, never wavered—never, until now.

  “I’ll prepare a shelter,” he finally said. “The rains might return, and I don’t want you to catch a chill. That tree has branches low enough to serve. Please, continue your meal, and I’ll see it done.”

  Once he retrieved his supplies, Pentanimir prepared the shelter and then rejoined her by the fire. “I hope this is suitable for the daughter of a high lord and Caretaker.” He smiled. “I know that you’re tired, and the sun will be at its peak soon. We have little time to rest.”

  “Aren’t you going to rest, too? I don’t want to be alone just now. Please, come and sit with me a while longer.” He was hesitant, yet inclined his head, taking a seat beside her. Although he desired their closeness, he also feared it.

  Brahanu handed him the wineskin, meeting his eyes. There was a connection, a closeness that she couldn’t explain. Those feelings continued to grow with every moment they spent together. She attempted to focus on Itai and the love that they shared, but she couldn’t ignore the eruptions of heat and desires Pentanimir brought to her. But why?

  As they enjoyed their meal, they shared stories about their homes and families. Brahanu spoke about her promise to Itai and their lifelong friendship. Pentanimir could see her beautiful smile and the radiance emanating from her, but the voice he heard was his father’s. A maelstrom of distorted memories invaded his mind. Images of his mother, his brother, and his father, marching with the Chosen Guard that he led. Pentanimir saw the savage as he lay dying, the flames of the Kadul whipping into the darkened sky, casting eerie shadows over the Chosen that surrounded it. His father’s words kept repeating in his mind, assailing him, shattering the lingering vestiges of the wall that he’d erected in his subconscious. AvHotther. The word sounded again, louder and more distorted than the last time he’d heard it.

  “Forgive me,” Brahanu said, noting his expression. “I haven’t given you the opportunity to speak much about your family. You said that your father was a Chosen, too?”

  He didn’t speak, not truly hearing the question. Pentanimir tossed his crust into the fire, rising to leave.

  “Pentanimir?”

  “Beg—beg pardon. I’m more tired than I thought. We can speak more about this after we’ve rested. I’m certain that you’re tired, too.”

  “Yes, I—I didn’t realize how tired I was,” she said.

  Reaching out a hand to her, he led her to the shelter, pulling back the drape.

  “Rest now and I’ll keep watch a while longer.”

  Brahanu wasn’t certain what he expected, if anything at all. She didn’t perceive any malice in him, but she couldn’t remove her father’s warnings from her mind.

  “If he would only give me some indication as to what to do,” she murmured as he turned to leave.

  “Did you say something?” Pentanimir asked.

  “No. I’m—I’m just tired.”

  “As am I. Rest now, we’ll need to ride again soon.”

  On reflex, she grasped his hand, struggling to find her words. “I—I—you—I mean, you’ve traveled as long as I have, and there’s room here beside me. You can rest with me where it’s warm.”

  He caressed her hand, fighting the urgings of both his body and mind. “There’s nothing more I desire at this moment than to lay at your side, Brahanu, but I’ll rest near the fire. Don’t feel obligated to me in this manner, please. I’m a Chosen of Nazil, and vowed to return you to your family,” he paused, lifting her face to his. “And your promised.” After raising her hand to his lips, he smiled, lowering the shelter’s drape.

  Brahanu’s heart thumped in her chest as she nestled in the furs. Although she was relieved, she was also surprisingly disappointed. Raising a corner of the drape, she watched him spreading out his bedroll. The allure she felt only intensified and she smiled. “Pentanimir,” she whispered, allowing the drape to fall.

  Thy Brother’s Keeper

  Entering his home, Danimore sighed, hanging his swordbelt and cloak on a hook beside the door. He wiped the wetness from his face, moving toward the large hearth. The embers were at an end as he rubbed his hands above them, relishing the diminishing heat.

  “Curses,” he muttered, grabbing some kindling from the box to restart the fire. As he reached for a flint, the hackles on the back of his neck stood on end. He tautened for a moment and then spun around, seeing Oxilon seated on a divan in the corner.

  “Uncle? To—to what do I owe this honor?”

  Oxilon stood, taking a long pull from his pipe. The illumination from the bowl flickered over his face, revealing the scowl upon it. “Tell me about your brother,” he demanded, expelling a plume of smoke from his flaring nostrils.

  Danimore hesitated, his eyes resting on Oxilon’s gloved hand pressed against his chest. His fingers curled into a fist, clenching and then loosening again.

  “Has your hearing grown as dull as your senses?”

  “Pardons, Uncle. Forgive me—”

  “Forgive? I asked about your brother. I have no interest in your forgiveness.”

  “No, Sir, I mean to say, I—I heard you. Pentanimir isn’t here. He’ll—”

  “Not here? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He wanted me to inform anyone who asked that he was leaving the city. He’s checking damage from the storm and resetting our traps.”

  Oxilon’s face darkened, stewing in his annoyance. “By whose authority was he granted leave?”

  “He didn’t explain any further and I didn’t ask.”

  “Didn’t ask,” he mocked. “Pentanimir leads our Chosen and he’s not authorized to abandon that position on a whim. Why didn’t you come and report this immediately?”

  Danimore took a step back, steeling his resolve. Oxilon’s disdain for him was evident, and he didn’t attempt to hide it as he had in the past. He’d never discerned why his contempt was so prevalent, but this was always the way between them. However, that derision and the way Oxilon expressed it escalated after his father, Manifir, had passed.

  “I couldn’t report his leave earlier,” Danimore said. “When he left, I was manning my guard post.”

  “Yet here you stand, your duty complete, and still you didn’t report his leave.” Oxilon stepped forward, dumping the ash from his pipe on the floor.”

  “Apologies, Uncle. I should’ve come to you immediately at my duty’s end. My thoughts were on a hot meal and rest. I won’t forget again.”

  “What do you know about duty?” Oxilon sneered. “Your blood is thin, Danimore. You’re of your mother’s line. I warned my brother about your weakness, but he was determined to have you wear the pearl cloak like Pentanimir. You’ll never earn a position on the Chosen Guard. You’re a Thaon of Yarah, not a Benoist of Nazil. Your mind is weak, your build is weak, and your prowess is weak. I tire of both your ignorance and your incompetence.”

  Danimore’s eyes narrowed with a deluge of stinging retorts echoing through his mind. Instead, he took a steadying breath, proffering a bow. “Of this, you remind me often, Uncle. It’s true that my stature is that of the Thaons, but I’m also a son of Manifir, your elder brother, and your former superior. Pentanimir does wear the pearl cloak of the Chosen, and I honor him and his position. I did as he ordered me to do. Is this not what’s expected of a second guard of Nazil?”

  “You have the right of it. You’re not to question your betters. It’s for you to do as you’re commanded, just as the rest of the mewling wandoughts unable to earn an Xtabyren. So, son of Manifir,” he said contemptuously. “Ensure that you send word to me immediately upon your brother’s return. Fail me again and you might be the next one to leave the city.” He turned, glaring over his shoulder. “Just not as you think.”

  As the door slammed
in his wake, Danimore hurled a stool toward the wall. Yelling out in frustration, he pounded a fist on the table. Each encounter with his uncle provoked the same response. No matter the accomplishment, Oxilon was never satisfied. Since he was a child, he was mocked and belittled. He hated his uncle as much as he did him, but he couldn’t allow that anger to manifest. Had Oxilon not blocked his promotion, he’d be a first guard now and training to earn his Xtabyren.

  At that, he took another sobering breath, leaning on the table. After pushing the long mop of hair from his face, he rose, lighting the kindling. For a moment, he stared into the flames, seeking the clarification that he couldn’t find within himself.

  “Like the fire of the Kadul,” he whispered.

  His gaze lowered, noticing the ashes Oxilon had discarded. With the tip of his boot, he ground them into the floor. “You are the fool, Uncle,” he said, moving down the corridor toward his chamber. When he reached Pentanimir’s room, he paused, opening the door.

  Since they were children, Pentanimir had always exceled. His trophies and commendations lined their walls and Danimore felt empty. Nothing he’d ever done could compare to Pentanimir’s earliest achievements. During those times, he’d wanted to hate his brother, but Pentanimir had never treated him as an inferior. Whatever he learned, he taught Danimore as well. He did envy his brother, yet he loved him, too. Conversely, he wanted to be like Pentanimir. It wasn’t the accolades that he craved, only the conviction and purpose.

  After their parents’ deaths, Danimore’s fondness for Nazil dwindled. Their memory and Pentanimir were the only things keeping him in the white city. He wanted, needed a greater purpose, a greater use for the abilities that he alone possessed.

  Even his physique was lacking in comparison to his brother’s. Pentanimir was tall and muscular, whereas Danimore was heavier and considerably shorter. “As the Thaons and not the Benoists,” he said, finding the truth in those words. Indeed, his build resembled the men of his mother’s line, and not the strapping men of house Benoist.