The Strength to Serve (Echoes of Imara Book 3)

by Claire Frank

  Raed stood next to him, resting the end of his spear on the bridge. “There is little we can do for them. They must retreat down the other side.”

  “They’ll never make it, even if they turn around now,” Daro said. “I’m going after them.”

  “How?” Cecily asked. “There’s no way to get there.”

  Daro judged the distance. If he put enough power into it, he could probably make the jump. “I can make it.”

  “What?” Cecily said. “No. No one could make that jump. I don’t care how strong you think you are.”

  He turned to look at his wife. Her face was smudged with dirt, her cheeks flushed. Laying his palm on her cheek, he let a surge of energy flow into her. “I’ll make it. Get yourself down the chasm and follow the river. I’ll meet you at the ship.” He glanced over the chasm again. “I have a responsibility to them, Cecily. I won’t leave them to die.”

  Cecily took a deep breath. Her eyes were tight, but she nodded as she reached up to squeeze his arm. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Daro checked his sword, making sure it was fastened tight, and adjusted the baldric that secured Katalis to his back. Backing up toward the stronghold, he looked at the others. “Get down to the bottom quickly, before that arrow volley picks up. We’ll meet you at the ship.”

  Filling his body with a swell of power, Daro sucked in a deep breath. He moved the energy to his legs, focusing on the strength he would need to jump across the chasm. It was nearly two hundred feet from the edge of the bridge to the other side. A jolt of adrenaline shot through his gut as he took off, his feet pounding against the stone, propelling him forward. He raced for the breach and hurled himself up, pulsing all his power into the jump. As he soared through the air, the wind blew past, and the edge of the chasm raced closer. A sinking sensation sent a whirl of nausea through his stomach and he realized he was falling. He wasn’t going to make it.

  A streak of energy coiled around his middle, whipping him upward in a sudden rush, the quick change in direction making him dizzy. It hurled him across and he felt Cecily’s heavy Push at his back. His feet found the ground just inches from the edge, and he stumbled forward, throwing himself away from the precipice to land heavily on his chest.

  Pulling in a heaving breath of air, he surged to his feet and turned. Cecily stood at the tip of the broken bridge, her arms outstretched. He raised a hand, palm outward, then touched it to his lips, feeling the security of their bond as she did the same. As he waved toward the edge, she nodded, then hurried to the side to begin the climb down the chasm wall beneath what was left of the bridge.

  Shale and Pathius weren’t far away, standing next to each other, facing the oncoming force. Most of the infantry had crossed the bridge and were now stranded in the stronghold, leaving behind mostly archers and the men who operated the siege weapons.

  A spate of arrows flew toward them, but Pathius spread his hands wide and most fell; a few clattered harmlessly off Shale’s stone armor. Daro rushed ahead, intending to turn them around and help them retreat down the cliff, when both men charged, running headlong into the throng of soldiers.

  Drawing his sword, Daro ran, pulling energy through his feet as they hit the ground. The odds were catastrophic—three men against so many—but he found he didn’t care. He would make them pay for Stoker and the thousands of Halthians that had fallen, killing as many as he could until the ground was stained red.

  Men dropped before Pathius, crumbling into heaps of frozen flesh, and Shale burst into the mass like a battering ram. Adrenaline poured through Daro as he closed in, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Enemies closed in from all directions, but he felled them one by one as he pushed his strength and speed. Most of the Attalonians were archers, fumbling for short swords worn at their belts as the three men cut into the throng.

  Rage spurred Daro onward, his sword an extension of his fury. Katalis pulsed on his back, the heat from the blade searing through his armor, begging to be let out. He caught up with Pathius as the other man struck with an Imaran spear, then reached out to Absorb the archer’s energy. For a brief instant, Pathius’s eyes met Daro’s; their mutual resolve was clear. They would cut through this army like a scythe through wheat.

  Reaching onto his back, Daro pulled Katalis from his baldric and slashed the wrappings with his other sword. The blade gleamed blue, jolts of lightning flashing along the surface, as he brandished both Heorun swords in front of him. Twisting his wrists, he turned the blades in a quick circle as he launched himself at his enemies.

  The two swords flashed through the air, cutting through armor, flesh, and bone. Energy pulsed through Katalis, feeding off Daro as if it had an insatiable hunger. Every slice and blow made the blade sing, glorying in the rush of battle, and Daro struggled to maintain control of the weapon, bending it to his will.

  An arrow sank into Daro’s shoulder, but he was so saturated with energy he swiped it away, leaving little more than a nick in his skin. He rushed at the archer, cutting him down with a blow from each sword. Slashing at the next man to get close, he knocked his opponent’s sword to the ground and plunged Katalis through his neck, drawing it out slick with blood.

  A frozen corpse fell next to him and he glanced back at Pathius. The other man fought with fury, his eyes shining with Absorbed energy. Shale swung his hammer fists, knocking men into the air and caving in helms and chests.

  The Attalonians kept coming, but their eyes were wide with fear and the growing wall of bodies slowed their advance. Daro could tell the archers weren’t used to the ferocity of close combat. With two swift cuts, Daro hacked down two more men, leaving them to die on the ground, and the screams of the wounded rang in his ears as he slashed his way through. Spattered with blood, Daro pressed on, consumed with the desire to destroy as many of them as possible. They had threatened his home and his wife, and had killed his friend. He would make them all pay.

  As he launched for his next foe, the man staggered back, but Daro’s blade caught him in the throat. The men around him stumbled, looking around with wild eyes as they tried to back away. One by one, they turned, many dropping their weapons, and fled.

  Once the flight began, the rest of the army reacted in kind, spurred on by their fellow soldiers. In their haste to get away from the three warriors, the Attalonians tripped over each other, dropping their swords and colliding in the ensuing chaos. Daro, Pathius, and Shale chased them down, running after the retreating force and cutting down the few who still tried to face them, before they stopped and looked at each other.

  Behind them was a mass of bodies strewn over the plain. Daro’s breath heaved in his chest as he looked out over the carnage. Hundreds of men lay dead or dying. Had they done that? Pathius bled from several wounds, but none appeared serious to Daro’s eyes, and Shale was heavily protected by his armor of stone. Daro felt a slash on his arm he didn’t remember receiving, but it was shallow, and the arrow wound was hardly a scratch.

  They stood for a moment, catching their breath and watching the army retreat before them. Daro’s head began to clear and he looked down at Katalis, pulsing with blue light. Pathius was staring at the sword.

  “What is that?” Pathius asked, gesturing at Daro’s glowing blade.

  Daro blew out a breath. The sword still hungered for more, urging him to run after the retreating force, but he maintained control. “It’s a long story. We should get out of here while we still can.”

  Shale’s eyes were wide, as if he was bewildered, and Pathius clenched his teeth together but nodded in agreement. Daro sheathed both swords and they picked their way through the bodies, hurrying to the edge of the cliff.

  The sun dipped low, shrouding the chasm in shadow as Daro pulled out the rope he carried at his belt. Shale secured one end to his waist, and they tied it around Pathius and then Daro.

  “Don’t fall,” Pathius said as Daro climbed over the edge, gripping on to the sides of the chasm.

  Daro punched through the rock w
ith his hands and feet, making handholds as he descended. Pathius followed, balancing on the grips Daro made, but keeping watch for any arrow fire from across the chasm. As they made their way lower, Shale hoisted himself over. His hands and feet simply melded to the rock as he made his way down, as if he was suctioned to the wall.

  A few arrows clattered around them, but Pathius deflected any that came too close. Daro’s arms and legs burned with the effort, and he pulled in more energy to stave off the fatigue.

  “I thought the chasm might not seem so deep once we were actually in it,” Pathius said in a strained voice as they worked their way down. “I was wrong.”

  When his boots touched the ground, Daro stepped back to allow Pathius room to descend, and Shale jumped the last few feet, landing with a crunch of rock. The walls of the chasm soared into the air, cutting off their view of much of the darkening sky. The ground sloped gently downward to a wide, swift-flowing river in the center, and the broken chunks of bridge stuck out of the water.

  Daro wound the rope around his arm as he looked out across the river. His Imaran Sight could see his bond to Cecily, like a trail of light leading farther down the chasm. She appeared to have made it down and was traveling downriver as planned.

  He fastened the rope to his belt and turned to his two companions. “Let’s make for the ship.”

  61. EVERY SACRIFICE

  Isley kept Gwinele’s secret tucked away like a treasure, savoring it like a glass of rich red wine. She’d seen the general several times since speaking with her servant, and countered Gwinele’s hard stare with fluttering eyelashes and a demure smile. She had decided not to go to Horadrus with it. Without a better understanding of how he would react, she worried revealing Gwinele’s indiscretion might not have the desired outcome for herself. He might simply eliminate Gwinele, which would suit Isley well enough. But what if he blamed her, as the bringer of bad news? It was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

  Finding Gwinele alone was proving difficult, as Isley did not have access to her suite. Stoic men guarded her doors, barring Isley from entering. But as she hurried down the hallway, brushing her long hair back from her face, she smiled to herself. Brynn had rushed to her room, her face flushed, and told her Gwinele was alone on a terrace overlooking the lower gardens.

  The door stood ajar, letting in a soft whiff of fresh air into the corridor. Isley glided through, her slippered feet silent on the sleek marble walkway.

  Surrounded by an iron railing, the terrace protruded from the side of the palace, high above the gardens below. Gwinele stood at the edge, facing outward, her hands resting on the rail. Isley found it strange that she had never seen Gwinele without her armor; the tall woman’s torso was always clad in her ornamented plate.

  “A lovely day, wouldn’t you say?” Isley said.

  Gwinele whipped her head around, her eyes narrowed. “Get off my terrace.”

  Taking a leisurely step forward, Isley smiled. “I hardly think this terrace belongs to you.”

  “Regardless, leave.”

  “Are you certain?” Isley said. “I think it’s long past time you and I got to know each other.”

  Gwinele turned, red spots standing out on her high cheekbones. “You are everything we have worked to eliminate,” she said, her voice full of venom. “He may abide your presence, but I will not.”

  “We’re not really so different, you and I,” Isley said. “You may hide inside that armor, but I see a woman beneath those metal plates.”

  “I am nothing like you.”

  “I’m not so certain of that,” Isley said. “We are both warriors, in our own way, and neither of us is truly in control of our own fate. There is an order to the world, and we both know precisely where we stand. We serve a master because we must.”

  “I do not serve His Eminence because I must,” Gwinele said. “I serve because I choose. I chose him a long time ago and I have never deviated from that choice.”

  “His faith in you is well put,” Isley said. “A woman like you is a rare gift, willing to devote your life to a man who is not yours.”

  “His Eminence is more than a man,” Gwinele said. “He has transcended into something greater. They are right to call him a god-king. He has lived for centuries beyond centuries and will continue until he deems his work is done. To call him a man is an insult to his divinity.”

  “I mean no disrespect,” Isley said, feigning shock. “His Eminence is the most glorious being I have ever laid eyes on.”

  “He forfeits everything for this world,” Gwinele said. “His body, his mind, even his own death. I am nothing compared to him, and it is the honor of my life to serve him.”

  Isley pressed her lips together. Gwinele was such a banality, the loyal servant willing to sacrifice everything for her glorious ruler—except Isley knew Gwinele had not made every sacrifice that was asked of her.

  “It is remarkable, it truly is,” Isley said. “How fortunate that you were given the opportunity to be at his side. The joy of servitude must outweigh all the sacrifices you have made to please him.”

  “You would know nothing of this.”

  “I know more than you realize,” Isley said.

  Gwinele looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I know what you are doing. I hear what the servants say, but I know the truth, and soon so will they. You are not the Reinara; you are nothing but a vile Wielder, a scourge on this world. I will never comprehend why he does not destroy you, and if I have my way your end will not be pleasant. To look on you is corruption.”

  Isley’s mouth turned up in a smile as she slowly licked her lips. “Oh, General, such harsh words from a woman I so admire. But which of us is truly corrupt? I make no secret of my ambitions. I would let Horadrus have me on his throne, with all his servants in attendance, if that was what he desired.” Gwinele’s eyes widened with shock as Isley took a step closer. “You indulge your passions with shame, defying the rule of the man you claim to serve with such honor and integrity.”

  With her jaw clenched, Gwinele reached out and grabbed Isley’s wrist, pulling her close. “You know nothing of this.”

  “Don’t I?” Isley said. The grip on her wrist was painful, but she forced her face to stillness, refusing to react. “How long has Axxus been visiting your bedchamber? What will His Eminence do if he discovers your shameful secret?”

  Gwinele let go, throwing Isley’s arm down, and took slow steps backward. “He will never believe what you say if you speak against me.”

  “Perhaps not,” Isley said. “But is that a risk you’d like to take? I’ve known for some time and I have not spoken, though I have had plenty of opportunities. I don’t ask for much in return for my silence. I say nothing, and when Axxus returns, you may resume your little indiscretion at your leisure without a sound from me. I understand a woman’s needs. Far be it from me to deny you your desires.”

  Laying her hands on the edge of the railing, Gwinele looked out over the edge of the terrace. “He will not believe you.”

  “You may keep saying that if you wish, but you can’t be certain that it is true.”

  “What do you want?”

  “It’s very simple,” Isley said. “My son is his heir. It is only natural I should be his wife. If you were not poisoning his mind against me, I might already have what I want. You will no longer utter words of warning in his ear, keeping him from me.”

  Gwinele looked at her from the corner of her eye. “Your ambitions are misplaced. His Eminence is not interested in you in such a way. You are a curiosity, an experiment, and nothing more. He keeps you to see if his methods can contain your repugnant powers. When your usefulness is worn out, he will discard you like the contents of a chamber pot.”

  Isley’s blood boiled with anger, but she kept her voice even. “You underestimate me, Gwinele. I will make him mine and he will worship me as thoroughly as his people adore him. He will love me and take me for his own, and I will be hailed as Empress, revered as the incarnation of the godde
ss Aniya, the Reinara, a worthy consort for the god-king.”

  As Gwinele opened her mouth to speak, a servant rushed out onto the terrace. He took a gulping breath, his chest heaving as if he’d been running. “Your Grace, your presence is requested immediately.”

  Gwinele turned without a word and marched through the doorway. Isley wasn’t certain whether it was the general or herself who had been summoned, so she followed close behind, nearly running to keep up.

  The servant led them to the circular throne room, the colorful mosaics whirling by in a blur as Isley followed Gwinele’s quick pace. When they came around the front of the dais, they both knelt, prostrating themselves low on the floor. The tiles were cold against Isley’s forehead as she waited for permission to rise.

  “I have come to a decision.” Horadrus’s deep voice filled the room.

  Taking his sudden words as leave to stand, Isley got to her feet, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “I must go to Halthas, personally,” he said.

  Gwinele gasped. “Eminence,” she said, her voice oddly breathy. “Such a thing cannot be necessary. General Axxus will have the invasion well in hand. There is no need for you to burden yourself in this way.”

  The lines of Horadrus’s jaw stood out. “The bridge has been destroyed. The Halthians have relinquished the fortress, but they cut my force in two.”

  Gwinele stood in silence, gaping at him. Isley wondered if she wanted to ask about Axxus, but feared to rouse his suspicions.

  Closing his eyes, Horadrus took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. “I cannot allow Halthas to continue in its present state. I have spent too long laboring to right the wrongs that were unleashed on this world. Look at what I have been able to do," he said, gesturing at Isley. “Her power is among the worst I have encountered in centuries, and look at the peace in which she now lives. If I do not prevail, Halthas will be a scourge, a pestilence that will bring all life to a standstill. I cannot let that happen, General. I have sacrificed too much to fail now. I must go.”