Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  Lar harrumphed, but dismounted at once and the two switched horses. “Let’s not waste any more time then,” Lar said, sounding a great deal braver than he felt.

  Bryn nodded at him once and then they were off, galloping into the yellow sun.

  †

  Elias opened his eyes. He lay on the floor, his father’s sword grasped firmly in hand. His sword-arm throbbed and his head swam. He glanced at his arm and with a sharp gasp noticed the source of his discomfort: the very same runes etched into the base of the blade were branded into the flesh on the underside of his forearm.

  He examined the four characters that ran from his wrist to halfway up his forearm. Each of the angry, red, and swollen characters was approximately a square inch and composed of both angular intersections and sweeping curves. Elias vaguely remembered that his father had told him of a people in a continent far to the southeast that used a runic language composed of ideograms, where one character could represent an entire word or concept. Whatever their origin, it seemed he was stuck with them.

  Elias gained his feet and surveyed the now innocuous sword. The slightly curved blade had a single edge, like a saber, which glinted blue in the afternoon sun, and left him wondering if it had been forged from some alloy foreign to him. The blade was comparable in length to a long sword, and almost as wide, with an edge fine as a shaving razor that showed not the slightest sign of wear. The sword was expertly balanced and felt no heavier than the wooden staves and foils he had trained with, and if it was as sturdy as it was light, it would prove deadly in battle.

  Elias sheathed the sword and then donned the baldric attached to the scabbard, which strapped to his right shoulder and left the sword hanging at his left hip. The design of the baldric would allow him to adjust the strap to carry the sword on his back while he rode.

  He bent to a knee. The chest only contained one more item—his father’s shield, the badge of his office.

  The badge fit in the palm of his hand and was shaped like a kite-shield. Silver, the shield bore the heraldry of the House of Denar at its center: A stag standing in front of a tree with a circle of seven stars caught in its boughs. The words En Targa were embossed in a banner below the heraldry. Elias did not know their meaning but the ancient words gave him some measure of comfort.

  He attempted to pin the shield to the duster, and found that the pin, though sharp, could not penetrate the thick leather. Try as he might, the duster would not yield to the shield. After a moment of frustration, he discovered a pair of tiny holes in the left breast of the coat, which allowed for attaching the shield. Once in position, the shield rested over Elias’s heart and refracted the slices of sunlight that wedged through the windows.

  Elias closed his eyes. He could smell his father and sense his presence on his effects. Soon, he would avenge the murder of his family—or join them. Elias pulled his rancher hat down, adjusted the baldric to rest his sword on his back, and walked out of his father’s room, closing the door behind him.

  †

  Lar and Bryn entered the edge of Lurkwood that bordered the Mayfair Manor.

  Bryn motioned for Lar to stop with an outstretched hand. Her eyes narrowed as if she were intently focused on something. “En Anora Iska,” she chanted under her breath. Her eyes remained squinted for several heartbeats, and then she nodded to herself, as if she had just heard some expected news. “We should cover the rest of the way on foot,” she said as she dismounted.

  “What was that there?” asked a bewildered Lar.

  “I sense a fair deal of magical energy ahead. Someone has been casting spells of no small consequence,” she said blandly. “Elias’s instincts are correct—something is very wrong here.”

  Before leading them off into the wood, she went to her saddle bags and retrieved a small crossbow. Lar marveled at the weapon, which was made of a black wood and small enough to fit in one hand. It boasted a repeating cartridge that attached to the underside of the barrel and lacked a cumbersome stock. He guessed it ineffective at long ranges, but in close quarters could likely deliver half a dozen bolts with deadly rapidity.

  A skilled combatant, bearer of advanced weaponry, and an arcanist to boot—Lar wondered just who the Tax Bursar really was.

  “Come on then,” Bryn said. “Try to keep quiet and alert.”

  Bryn took the lead as they wound cautiously through the wood. She moved from tree to tree, staying low, seeking cover relative to the direction of the Manor. When she stepped she rolled her foot from the blade to the instep to minimize the sound of her passage. Lar attempted to move in kind, but he could not be sure if he did so successfully, for he heard only the throbbing of his heart.

  As they approached the edge of the wood, Bryn held up a hand to halt Lar in mid-step and placed an index finger to her lips. The manor loomed a few hundred yards ahead. Bryn nodded toward a massive oak. They took position behind it and dropped to their haunches.

  Bryn leaned in and whispered into his ear, so close that he felt her breath on his skin. “I can’t see anyone, but I sense someone is near. He may be in the house. There is a field of magical energy in front of the door, so he may be standing there but is hidden from view.”

  “Is there any sign of Elias? Should we wait for him?”

  Bryn shook her head. “He may not have arrived, or he may be inside already. We have no way of knowing, but we can’t risk it in case he needs our help. We should try to enter from the back, but there is no cover on the sides so we will have to cross open ground. I will keep an eye on the front door as we circle around while you scout ahead. Got it?” Bryn waited for his nod and then they set off, abandoning the relative safety of the wood.

  The two would-be rescuers crept a dozen paces when a sardonic laugh cut the silence. Bryn realized her mistake at once and spun on her heels, crossbow raised to fire, but she knew she was too late as tendrils of dark magic, writhing like black snakes, wound around her, sapping both strength and will. She managed to half turn her head toward Lar but he too had frozen, sword half drawn, eyes wide with terror.

  Slade leapt from the tree he had hidden in and landed in a crouch. Despite having been perched some twenty feet in the air, he landed easily with a felid resilience. He smiled warmly at his quarry as the oily tentacles of his fell power enveloped them.

  “Welcome to the party. I am ever so glad you decided to join us.”

  †

  Elias reined in his horse. He promptly dismounted and tied Lar’s stallion to a gnarled, towering tree. He figured it better not to announce his presence by galloping right up to the front door. Stealth seemed prudent, even though he had an abiding feeling that his nemesis awaited him even now.

  He tried not to dwell on the morbid images that wanted to flash through his mind: Asa’s dead stare fixed on him; his wild-eyed sister reaching for him as she tumbled from the carriage; the tears in his father’s eyes as he looked on his son for the last time. Instead, Elias focused on the black river of rage roiling inside him, for it alone had the power to sustain him now.

  He rested his back against the tree and drew the potion Phinneas had given him from the saddlebags. A prickling tickled up his spine as he leaned on the tree and Elias felt the peculiar sensation that he was being watched. He pressed himself from the tree and dropped into a combat crouch as he scanned the wood. He saw no one.

  He turned back to the tree and the pins-and-needles rushed back up his spine. A wytchwood. He laid a hand on the ebony, craggy bark. It felt warm to the touch. Taken aback, he withdrew his hand and looked up into the twisted network of branches that reached high and wide.

  The last time he had seen a wytchwood he had been but a child on a foray into the Lurkwood with his mother to gather herbs and berries to make a tonic for one of Danica’s fevers. His mother had shown special delight when she found the wytchwood, for she said it was a sacred tree whose spring berries possessed mysterious properties. She had told him more, but the details eluded him, fogged by the passage of time.


  “Be with me now, Mother,” Elias said, “for I go to avenge your husband and save your daughter, if she’s still alive.”

  A brisk breeze stirred through the Lurkwood and tugged at the brim of his hat and the flaps of his coat. Elias shivered despite the warmth of the day. He spun about, half expecting to encounter a shade, as the sensation of being watched redoubled.

  The wind died as fast as it had come. Elias scrubbed a hand over his face. He knew that the same anxiety that was causing him to tarry was likely playing tricks with his mind. He gave the wytchwood a final glance before returning his attention to the tonic Phinneas had given him.

  He uncorked the flask and quaffed its ruddy contents. The brew tasted bitter and earthy but it sat well enough. A feeling of warmth radiated from his stomach at once, spreading through his trunk and then his limbs. His bodily pains washed away and his muscles loosened. The doctor was good to his word, thought Elias, as a rush of profound energy overtook him.

  A noise startled him. He looked up to see a sparrow flutter through the canopy. Its movement seemed sluggish as if it flew through molasses instead of air. Afraid he had wandered into a trap and triggered some fell spell, Elias waved his hand back and forth in front of his eyes to see if he too had been slowed. To his surprise he noticed that his dexterity seemed unchanged. His pulse quickened of its own accord, but he did not feel unwell. Epiphany struck a moment later as he realized that the tonic Phinneas had given him that so rapidly increased his energy and ebbed his pain must also have hastened his reflexes.

  Not wanting to waste any advantage provided by the potion, Elias struck out toward the manor. He abandoned the path and traveled the remaining distance in the thick of the wood, seeking cover and stepping delicately as his father had taught him during his tracking lessons. After a quarter of an hour he approached the edge of the wood. What he beheld when he peered through the foliage chilled him to the marrow.

  For the life of him Elias couldn’t figure out how Lar had managed to enlist the aid of Lady Denar and head him off. At least they still lived, or so it seemed, despite the predicament of being bound in ribbons of opaque, inky energy. However, he had no doubt that the sole reason they yet lived was to serve as bait. Be that as it may, Elias had lost much in the last twenty-four hours, and he vowed that no one else would fall victim to his malefactor.

  Given what he surmised about Slade and men of his ilk, he guessed the assassin would hunger for the close kill or the satisfaction of a duel, to satisfy his bloodlust. Thus, Elias hoped Slade would select to engage him in melee combat rather than snipe him from afar.

  Ignoring his ensorcelled friends, Elias stepped out of from cover and scanned the edge of the wood across from the crescent shaped clearing that nestled Mayfair Manor.

  Although Lar couldn’t move a single finger, he remained conscious and aware of his surroundings. At first he didn’t recognize the man who walked across the lawn with long, smooth strides—the walk of a man who had cause to hurry but would not debase himself by running—rancher hat pulled down low, the flaps of his brown coat fluttering in the wind. Lar wondered how fast word had traveled to have drawn the presence of a Marshal, especially considering how few remained. Then, as the man drew nearer, recognition dawned on him. Had his jaw retained its autonomy, it would have fallen open in shock.

  It’s a trap, Elias! Lar screamed in his mind.

  Elias stopped some thirty yards from the edge of the wood opposite the one he had emerged from, and peered into its depths. Even now he did not turn to his friends, for he knew the moment he let down his guard his adversary would pounce. He couldn’t see anyone, but he again felt the peculiar sensation of being watched. A blur of movement registered in Elias’s periphery. He pivoted, readying himself for battle, but saw only empty space in the clearing before him. He could have sworn that he detected a distortion from the corner of his eye, like the way a magnifying glass blurred at the edge of the lense.

  His father had taught him to trust in his instincts, and he did so now. Elias continued to focus on where he had seen the blur and said, “Slade, I know you are there. Have you enough honor left to fight me face to face, or are you too much a coward?”

  “Your father was right about you, at least in part,” said a disembodied voice. The air before Elias churned as if it had become as viscous as water. The distortion cleared to reveal Slade leaning back on his heels, one hand placed casually on his scimitar. “Hello, Elias. Kind of you to join us, although you are a little late. I briefly entertained gutting these two like your father, but decided it would be much more fun to force them to watch me kill you first. Maybe I’ll have fun with the girl like I did with your sister.”

  A wild mania danced in Slade’s eyes, which were lambent with a shadowy energy. Elias’s blood went hot, and he felt the impulse to charge Slade and cut him down, but an inner voice rose from within him and bid him to be patient. He knew that Slade’s taunt was designed to manipulate him into rash action, but he refused to take the bait and squander his opportunity for vengeance.

  Elias laid a hand on his sword but did not move to draw it. “You are insane,” he said.

  “Well,” Slade replied, “you have a point. Nevertheless here we are.” He slowly circled toward Elias.

  “Is my sister alive?”

  “Lay down your sword, and I’ll tell you.” Slade crept closer. “I’ll let you and your friends go. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Elias’s hand tightened on the hilt of his father’s sword. “Not a chance.”

  “Then I’m afraid this conversation must come to an end.”

  “Tell me one thing, Slade. Who hired you?”

  Slade shrugged. “I suppose I owe you that, but don’t you already know?”

  “Still, I want to hear you say it.”

  “I met Macallister at the Summit Arcana. A ridiculous affair if you ask me. You would think the gentry of your kingdom have nothing better to do with their time than pretend to the mysteries of the universe. Imagine my surprise when that dandy described in idle conversation the very man I had been hunting for so long.”

  Bryn, who looked on with keen eyes, cursed to herself, and shouted a silent warning at Elias, in the vain hope that the distiller could sense her thoughts. Slade was stalling to give himself time to gather his power, for he had spent no small amount of it in binding herself and Lar.

  “You knew my father?”

  “Of him.”

  Elias took a step toward Slade. “You took vengeance on a man you didn’t even know?”

  “He had something that belonged to me. Something I want back very much. Something I couldn’t have reached on my own, but that you, as it were, have brought to me. As I knew you would, for I summoned you here. I knew you couldn’t resist the compulsion, for you had to hope your sister was taken alive.”

  Elias’s heart skipped and he blanched. Hot rage transmuted into cold dread as the details of his dream returned to him—Danica bound in a dark dungeon crying out for help. Only it was no dream. His hand clenched on the hilt of his father’s sword, the weapon charged with such foreign and potent magic.

  “Yes, son,” Slade said almost gently, “that small voice inside your head, the nagging urge to return to this cursed place—it was me.”

  “All this,” Elias said choking on the words,” all this, for a sword.” Incredulous, he shook his head and the fatigue of despair overtook him. Yet, in that instant when his mind was stupefied, shocked into silence, from that quiet another presence awoke and it bid him to remain patient and trust his intuition.

  “It’s not personal, kid. Actually, I’m rather fond of you. Because, after all, we’re not so different, Elias, you and I.”

  As Slade spoke his tone changed. His voice became soft and silky, but the words bore an invisible weight, a singular quality that Elias had become familiar with. It was the resonance in his father’s words when he sent the horses away, in Cormik’s when he repelled him in the duel, in the voices he heard upon drawing
his father’s sword, and it meant one thing—Magic.

  “I can see the dark in you, boy. You’ve always had a terrible temper, but you have managed to control it. You’ve had plenty of practice. When the black beast rears its head, though, you become someone else.”

  As Slade continued his hypnotic monologue threads of smoke colored energy sprouted from the ground by his feet and caressed Elias lazily, undulating rhythmically as they sought to subvert his will. Slowly, Slade crept toward Elias.

  “As a child, you feared the night, the absence of light, and you had to keep a candle burning to fall asleep, long after your younger sister had mastered her need to have a night light. But I know what you did not. You didn’t fear the night because of goblins or ghouls but because deep in your unconscious mind you were enamored with the spell the night wove, the void that waited just beyond your reach. Even then you had an aptitude for the dark arts. Elias, you and I are—”

  Slade’s last words ended in a wet gurgle.

  The runes embedded in his forearm burned as Elias waited for Slade to draw near, all the while pretending subservience to his adversary’s fell power. As soon as Slade came within reach, Elias drew his sword in a single, fluid motion, focusing the entirety of his will on its execution, with his eyes fixed firmly on Slade’s throat.

  Slade had the instincts of a jungle predator and leonine reflexes, and that was all that spared him decapitation. Despite his alacritous spring-back, the point of Elias’s curved blade cut through Slade’s windpipe as easily as it cut through air.

  Although the cut was not deep it may very well have been a mortal wound in its own right, however, Slade Kezia had no intention of conceding that point. His scimitar leapt into his right hand in a rising slash even as he attempted to staunch his wound with his left.

  Blood spilled over Slade’s hand as Elias’s sword met his in a ringing clash of steel that birthed an explosion of blue and bruise-colored sparks. Slade launched a second, heavy-handed attack designed to push Elias back. Meanwhile, he poured his dark magic through his left hand and into his sputtering wound.