by Nat Russo
“If they don’t kill me, I’ll likely trip over an anthill and do the job for them,” Mujahid said.
Donal extended his arm. “Take my hand and let’s make for Arin’s watch.”
Mujahid nodded and let the king help him to his feet. He didn’t agree with Donal’s plan to defend Arin’s Watch, but maybe he could convince him otherwise on the road. Or better, maybe he could convince General Garon. Donal was many things, but foolhardy wasn’t one of them. He’d listen to a battle-hardened officer.
Shouts reached him from the direction of the gate as the other necromancers arrived.
“Keep your penitents at the ready, all of you,” Mujahid said, dusting himself off. “I’ll summon another and scout to the north. Protect the king.”
The necromancers bowed and fanned out behind the retreating Tildem soldiers.
Mujahid ignited the symbol of ascension and allowed the necropotency to embrace the skull symbol.
How about someone a little more evil this time? Someone who’ll stick around a little longer.
He cast the symbol forward and waited for the namocea to take him.
Two days passed without Mujahid spotting another Barathosian.
A day earlier, Mujahid recommended turning east toward the coast, secretly hoping they would find a Religarian naval patrol in the Sea of Arin to escort them out of Tildem. Donal had agreed with the course change, though Mujahid kept his true purpose hidden. Donal was being hard-headed about saving Tildem.
He couldn’t fault the man. Mujahid would pay a dear price to protect the safety of the Mukhtaar Estate and all its secrets.
But Mujahid had ways of protecting the estate that didn’t involve a foolhardy attempt to defend a defenseless set of walls.
As they drew closer to the sea, Mujahid found it unnecessary to scout far ahead. He tried to tell himself the Barathosians couldn’t navigate the treacherous waters of the Sea of Arin this far north of James’s Gate—the narrow straight between Tildem and Religar. But the truth was if the Barathosians did appear on the horizon, there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.
Mujahid stood at the top of tall, white cliffs that ran north and south along the Tildem coast. A hundred feet below, gentle waves lapped against the shore of white sand, bordering the sea in a rim of white froth. Billowing gray clouds formed a thunderhead to the east, and the winds from the desert plains of Religar drove it toward them.
But that thunderhead wasn’t the only storm on the horizon.
Hundreds of ships anchored off the cost of Tildem, forming a series of concentric circles around a massive catamaran that had three decks above water. There was something strange about the catamaran’s pontoons, though. A row of narrow, rectangular portholes ran fore and aft along each pontoon, encased in a wooden frame. Pontoons were normally a single piece, or several connected at seams, but they never had portholes.
There was no way this fleet could have slipped past the Religarian scouts.
The crags north of the fleet were daggers of rock reaching into the sky, and they were impossible to pass without intimate knowledge of the sea and seasons. But the Barathosians were launching smaller, more agile vessels capable of navigating the twisting pathways of water and rock. And those ships were heading north toward Pilgrim’s Landing.
That would put the Barathosians within reach of the Pinnacle.
As the small ships entered the craggy, narrow waterways, several turquoise blurs shot out from the crags and over the ships, creating a mist from the beating of their wings, which spanned at least forty feet.
Shrillers. Odd for this time of year.
Several shrillers circled the small ships, craning feathery necks as long as their wings.
The ships began to veer off course. Some crashed into the crags, while others collided with each other.
Something’s wrong. Shrillers hunt in pairs or alone. They never swarm.
As the leading ship steered into a rock face, a shriller flew through one of the sails and crashed into the cliff, falling to the water and narrowly missing the boat’s upper deck.
What’s stirring them up like this?
The main flock flew south, over the concentric rings of ships, straight toward the catamaran. Or rather, straight toward the catamaran’s pontoons. Several shrillers flew into the side, crashing into the closed portals and falling into the sea, only to rise and crash again.
“It’s worse than I’d imagined,” Donal said as he approached Mujahid from behind. “You should back away in case they spot you.”
Mujahid stepped away from the cliff, but Donal remained, staring at the enemy fleet.
“Shouldn’t you?” Mujahid asked.
“The shrillers won’t harm me.”
Mujahid raised an eyebrow. Shrillers were many things, but discerning wasn’t one of them. Donal’s expression, however, was smug.
“You’re hiding something from me,” Mujahid said.
“I’m a king, Lord Mukhtaar. I hide many things. But you should see this. It defies explanation.”
Mujahid approached the cliff.
Several Barathosian sailors had run out onto the deck of the catamaran, stripped to their waists, and knelt at the bow, facing the incoming shrillers.
“Are they insane?” Mujahid said.
A shriller diverted off its trajectory toward the pontoon and swooped up across the bow, grabbing a Barathosian sailor in its hind talons and disappearing behind the crags. The other sailors remained kneeling, as if nothing had happened.
Mujahid knew religious devotion when he saw it. Those sailors were worshiping.
Two shrillers diverted from their path, but they didn’t attack the bow. Instead, they plunged into the icy water without a splash and disappeared from view. One emerged a moment later with a Ranthean shark caught in its hind talons. The shark was the size of two adda, with fins sharper than a Religarian scimitar.
Other shrillers soon followed, dropping fish of all sizes on the deck of the catamaran before veering off and diving for the pontoon.
“I…I don’t have the words,” Mujahid said.
Donal laughed as he watched the shrillers.
“Speak up, man,” Mujahid said.
Donal walked away from the cliff, but Mujahid wasn’t going to let him get away.
“As Clan chief—”
Donal spun. “As King, some things are more important than Clan Mukhtaar.” He lowered his voice as he walked off. “Some things are even more important than kingdoms and kings.”
What was he hiding that riled him so?
A soldier in loose-fitting hide armor stopped and saluted King Donal.
“Majesty, General Garon says we make camp north of here,” the soldier said.
“Not good enough!” Donal said. “Bring Garon to me, now! We march until we reach Arin’s Watch.”
The soldier gaped as if Donal had slapped him.
Mujahid gestured for the soldier to give them some space and stepped closer to Donal.
“I know how badly you want to protect Arin’s Watch,” Mujahid said. “But you’ve seen that enemy fleet. Even with the shrillers and the crags, they’ll get there before we do. There’s no longer a chance to defend Arin’s Watch, but—”
“I’ll not—”
“But you might just have a chance to take it back if the men are rested and prepared. Let the General do what he thinks is best for his soldiers.”
“They’re my soldiers, and they’ll go where I direct them to go.”
Mujahid’s heart pounded in his ears. This wasn’t like Donal.
“You have more than just an army to lead!” Mujahid said. “You have a nation. If you don’t trust Garon, then replace him. But don’t give a man authority and then undermine it. You’re the king. Start behaving like the man I know you are, instead of the child you seem to be.”
Donal straightened his back. Mujahid worried he’d overstepped his bounds. But after a moment, Donal relaxed.
“For a man who prides hi
mself on protocol and formality, you certainly know when to dispense with it,” Donal said.
“When Tildem is secure, I’ll turn myself in.”
“Tell the general to prepare his camp as he sees fit.”
The soldier saluted and ran back toward the mounted soldiers who had crested the rise overlooking the sea.
It took forty-five minutes to reach the camp site, but it was clear General Garon knew his craft. A granite outcropping, curved like a crescent moon, protected the command tents on three sides. Moreover, the outcropping was at the top of a rise with a commanding view of the surrounding plains. This would make a great site to fortify.
Donal may have agreed to camp for the night, but Mujahid wasn’t sure he’d see the logic of staying here indefinitely.
Shouting arose from the command tent area.
“Forgive me, Majesty!” a voice yelled.
“I have this all wrong!” Donal shouted as Mujahid approached.
A cook’s table lay on its side, with pots and knives scattered around the rocky ground. The shocked cook was backing away from the king as if Donal were pointing a sword at his throat.
“I shouldn’t have listened to you,” Donal said. He faced the cook. “I bet you agree with them, don’t you? Don’t you!”
The cook looked to Mujahid for help. Mujahid dismissed him with a nod.
“Donal,” Mujahid said.
“I’m the king!” Donal said.
“Something’s troubling you.”
Donal’s eyes were wide, never settling in one direction for longer than a moment. His hands shook as if he were in the midst of a violent rage. Mujahid had seen this behavior before…in people addicted to Shandarian powder.
Donal thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket and grew calm. To all appearances, he was his old self again.
This was something other than a drug addiction. And if Mujahid was right, the situation was far worse than he’d imagined.
“I’ve made the wrong decision,” Donal said. “You were right to say defending Arin’s Watch would be futile and costly.”
“I’m glad you see—”
“But you were only half right.” Donal faced a nearby soldier. “Bring me General Garon.”
The soldier saluted and ran off.
“If you’re proposing a military operation,” Mujahid said, “I implore you to share it with me. It would be best if—”
“I absolutely propose a military solution, Lord Mukhtaar. It’s high time I began doing what’s right, instead of what everyone wants.”
Donal kept squeezing something in his pocket, clenching his fist and relaxing it.
General Garon stepped past the overturned table and saluted King Donal. Donal returned the salute, but he did so with his off hand, leaving his right hand clasped around the object in his pocket. It was a horrible breach of protocol, but if Garon felt slighted, he did a good job of hiding it.
Garon emanated an aura of command. The two short swords hanging from his waist were combat-ready, not ceremonial. His uniform was tactical; trousers secured around laced boots to keep water out, and a heavy cotton shirt—buttoned from neck to waist—instead of a general’s coat with gold medals. His belt was thick, black leather. Several daggers and containers were tied down against it for stealth operations. In short, Garon was a man of war.
“General,” Donal said. “We’ll camp for the night if we must, but tomorrow we strike camp and turn around.”
“Majesty?” Garon said.
“I should never have allowed you or the Mukhtaar Lord to talk me out of taking Rotham back. I intend to do so.”
Garon’s jaw clenched.
Mujahid couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Rotham was lost.
“This is a mistake,” Garon said. “With an army twice the size of Tildem’s…maybe I could take Rotham back. That would be pressing my luck further than a gambling man would.”
“You’ll have to make do,” Donal said.
“This isn’t about preference, Majesty,” Garon said. “Our cavalry is at one-third strength. Our archers are at one-quarter strength. We don’t yet know if Commander Yuli’s three centuries made it out of Rotham alive. Our infantry may as well be non-existent, unless you’re suggesting I hand out swords and pikes to the refugees.”
“Calm your tone, General,” Donal said.
Garon stammered for a moment. Mujahid could tell he hadn’t been expecting that reaction from the king.
“Forgive me, Majesty,” Garon said. “I simply wish to understand. My officers inform me necromancy is no longer a viable weapon here. How are we to defeat an invading army at our current fractional strength that we cannot defeat when at full force?”
“That’s enough!” Donal yelled. He squeezed his hidden fist so hard, Mujahid thought it would rip through his trousers. Donal’s eyes darkened, the whites turning black as pitch.
Mujahid knew those eyes. Any Lord of Hell would. They were the eyes of the demon-possessed.
Donal released a surge of necropotency that swept around Mujahid, and a skeleton materialized.
Garon stepped back, hands on his swords.
Mujahid had seen enough. He sent a blast of necropotency toward Donal, knocking him backward onto the rocky ground. As the skeleton reached Garon, Mujahid summoned a penitent of his own at the foot of the other. Donal’s penitent was no match for one enhanced by the power of a Mukhtaar Lord.
Donal regained his balance and faced Mujahid with the darkness of unfettered evil in his eyes. Again he drove his hand into his pocket and clenched his fist.
Mujahid wrapped Donal in a rope of necropotency, lifting him several feet off the ground.
Donal’s coal-black eyes went wide.
“Garon!” Donal yelled. The tenor of his voice had changed, as if several people were speaking in chorus. “Do something! I’m your king, man!”
“The king is not himself at the moment, General,” Mujahid said.
Garon drew a sword and stepped toward Mujahid.
“I’m not the enemy here,” Mujahid said. “This is a matter of priesthood now.”
Garon glanced at Donal and his expression changed from aggression to confusion. He sheathed his sword and took several steps back.
Mujahid faced Donal. “You summon a penitent to kill an innocent man?”
“I’ve watched you do the same and more,” Donal said.
“Be silent!”
“I…will…not—”
Mujahid ignited the symbol of ascension and sent it into the hellwraith in his mind. It was a guess, but an educated one.
“I command you to be silent!” Mujahid yelled. The hellwraith leapt from Mujahid’s mind and entered Donal.
Donal’s words choked off as if a gag had been placed in his mouth.
It was exactly as Mujahid had suspected. Worse. There was evil at play here. True evil.
“Who are you?” Mujahid asked.
Movement on Donal’s right side caught Mujahid’s attention. The clenching hand again.
King or no, Donal was going to turn out his pockets whether he liked it or not. Mujahid grabbed Donal’s wrist and yanked his hand out of its pocket.
When Mujahid saw what Donal held, he stepped back as if dodging the sharp snap of a snake.
Donal clutched a small figurine depicting a smiling man with hands clasped behind his back.
Malvol!
Pulsing orange striations coursed through the Hellstone.
There was only one way to deal with this, but Donal had to give up the Hellstone by his own choice.
“Majesty,” Mujahid said. “The object you hold is an object of hell that should not exist on this plane. How you came to have it is a mystery for another time. But you must drop it willingly.”
Donal squirmed and Mujahid retracted the hellwraith to allow him, or whatever creature dwelt within, to speak.
“The Lord of Hell and his little minions,” Donal said. “Up your arse with your hellwraith! Or maybe Mordryn’s arse, eh? You
r brother certainly enjoyed her. And with as many times as she let him, the feeling was mutual! You can’t place the blame on her, though. You are identical twins.”
The words stung, but it wasn’t Donal who spoke them. Donal knew nothing of Mordryn.
“You can fight this, Donal,” Mujahid said. “Drop the idol and the evil inside will have no power over you.”
Donal’s squirming grew pronounced. A battle was being waged between two forces; Donal’s soul and something else.
“You have the strength of your father,” Mujahid said. “No. You have far more. And your people need you…the true you.”
Donal’s sword levitated out of its scabbard, and the blade’s point turned upward and faced Garon. Donal opened his mouth and a dozen demons laughed.
Mujahid couldn’t allow this. Garon was too important. And so was Donal.
“By my dominion over the seven stones of Abaddon, I command you to leave him!” Mujahid yelled.
Again that disturbing laugh came from all directions.
“I’ll give you one last chance to drop that idol,” Mujahid said, never taking his eyes off the sword. “Please, Majesty. Just open your hand and let it fall. I’ll do the rest.”
Donal laughed and the sword shot toward Garon.
Mujahid cast the hellwraith forward into the idol in Donal’s hand, hoping he hadn’t just killed a king.
A void opened around the idol.
The flying sword dropped to the ground within a foot of Garon, and the general picked it up.
Donal’s eyes returned to normal as he looked down at the void surrounding his hand. The idol began to flake away, the flakes falling backward into the void, and Donal cried out. As the last of the idol flaked into the hellish portal, Donal’s hand flaked away with it. His skin sloughed from the muscle and bone, which was dry and cracked like baked clay. When the skin vanished into the void, the bone fragmented and joined it.
Mujahid’s gaze was drawn to the void. He could sense it again, that entity staring back at him from a place only a Mukhtaar Lord could go. But this time, an emotion passed through the void.
Amusement.
A dark presence flew from Donal to the void, and a demonic wail rose and trailed off.