Wrath of the Usurper (The Eoriel Saga Book 2)

by Kal Spriggs

  Grel's face darkened again, but it was clear that the focus of his anger was at Kerrel, so Covle didn't care much at his outburst, “That bitch? She's just his squeeze, nothing more.” Clearly he realized that the Ducal Investigator title was one step down from his own as the Duke's Hound, yet her increased rank made her superior to him in military function.

  Covle knew better, but if anger would motivate the other man to hate her, then all the better. The last thing he wanted was for Grel to think to cozy up to her and perhaps be willing to speak of Covle's... indiscretions. “She's headed south on his orders to make peace with the rebels... and it isn't hard to believe that she would throw you to them as a gesture, is it?”

  “She'll be dead before she gets the chance if she tries it,” Grel snarled. “And why are you still smiling at me?”

  “Oh,” Covle waved a hand idly, “I'm just glad you're back. There's plenty of work to do.”

  Grel just scowled, it did not improve his appearance, Covle noted. “I'm going to get some food. Tell those bastards if they try to stop me I'll stick them with my sword, rather than my fists.”

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Aerion Swordbreaker

  The Eastwood

  10th of Agmat, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Aerion leaned forward in a stretch and felt the scar tissue on his thigh pull. It wasn't the painful tug he had felt as recently as a few days ago, but it still was an uncomfortable reminder that he wasn't at full health. While the Wold healers had done wonders, Aerion knew that he had come very close to death.

  In more ways than one, Aerion thought as he once again saw the Armen axman as he swung what should have been Aerion's deathblow, only for a spear throw to slay the Armen mid-swing. In some of his nightmares, Aerion saw that strike completed and felt the impact as the ax clove his own skull. It was not a pleasant sensation, even experienced in a dreamscape.

  A knock at the door brought his head up and Aerion pulled his shirt on and moved to the door. He opened it, surprised to see Gantarel. Aerion only recognized the young hunter because he had seen him at practice with Ceratul when Aerion occasionally practiced with Simonel. “Yes?”

  Gantarel gave a nod of greeting, “Swordbreaker, some of the hunters were going to play Nadir Ebeli and I thought I would invite you.” The young hunter had a eager expression on his face.

  “Is it some kind of game?” Aerion asked.

  “It is a sport,” Gantarel said with a quick smile, “One that I think you would enjoy.”

  Aerion had never been much of one to play sports. As a child he wasn't often selected to play, in most part, he knew, because as a fatherless bastard the other children had shunned him. Then too, he had always had to keep control of his strength and size, so as to not hurt anyone. That had often meant he came across as uncoordinated and hesitant, which had brought additional ridicule. He started to politely decline, “Thank you Gantarel...”

  “It is just a game, Swordbreaker, but I understand if you think you wouldn't put on a good showing,” the young Wold said politely. Even so, Aerion didn't miss the edge of goading in his tone. Gantarel cocked his head, “Few are brave enough to play, it is, after all, the sport of hunters.”

  Aerion's single blue eye narrowed and he felt his jaw set, “As I was going to say, let me just get ready and I'll accompany you.” He saw something like excitement on the other man's face and he knew he'd been played, but he didn't care. Aerion would beat the Wold at his own game... whatever it was.

  ***

  Lady Amelia Tarken

  A looming figure rose above Tirianis. The hooded shape was something out of nightmare, hunched and twisted, with long, grasping talons, and eyes that burned with green flame. The figure rose higher over the Wold princess and then dissolved like fog boiling away in the sun.

  Tirianis gave Amelia a sharp look, “What exactly was that?”

  Amelia shook her head, “I'm sorry. I'm just finding it hard to focus.” Such a mental illusion was normally easy for her to control, yet today everything seemed so muddled. A night of odd dreams and tossing and turning had left her feeling drained in a way she hadn't felt since... since my father left for the Northern Fleet, she realized suddenly. She had meant to conjure up a very different image, but had instead pulled up something from her nightmares.

  Tirianis gave her a friendly smile, “It's okay, Amelia. To tell the truth, my mind isn't entirely on our training myself.” Her smile faded a bit and Amelia recognized an expression of strain on the other woman's face.

  “Working hard to build up the defenses?” Amelia asked.

  Tirianis nodded. “Without the Enchantress, many of our defenses are down. Physically we are weakened and vulnerable without the many constructs and spirits she could call upon. Worse though are how vulnerable our lands are to spiritual or even wizardry attacks.” She shook her head. “I've plenty of experience, but I am far out of my depth. Even our best spirit-talkers and enchanters are having difficulty unraveling the complex layers of enchantments.”

  Amelia nodded slowly, “I can imagine.” The immortal Enchantress was famous even among her own people. It was said that she had the powers to bind spirits, constructs, elementals, beasts, and even people to her will. “I do wonder, though,” Amelia asked hesitantly, “What exactly is enchantment? Thanks to your help, I now understand mind magic and I've a basic understanding of runic magic thanks to my education, but is enchantment like our Iron Wizards back in Boir?” That was the impression she had, anyway, though the materials and effects seemed different. The constructs of Boir's Iron Wizards were often large, built of iron, steel, glass, and wood, and often blatantly utilitarian. Those she had seen so far in the Eastwood were often artfully carved of stone, with woven strands of crystalline material inset, frequently in the shapes of animals or even fantastical creatures.

  Tirianis nodded slightly, “In some aspects they are similar, though of different schools and methods of thought. Really, your Iron Wizards practice two very different forms of magic, from what I understand. They have both the Iron Runes, which they have developed themselves, and then what we would term as Artifice Enchantment.” She took a deep breath and sighed, I suppose I should have instructed you about all this before, but much of it is common knowledge among my people.”

  Amelia bit back an acidic reply to that. When someone had something approaching an endless lifespan, almost anything could be 'common knowledge.' Sometimes the way the Wold took that for granted really annoyed her. Still, at least Tirianis wasn't abrasive about it, not like some others.

  “Enchantment, overall is a form of magic similar to Wizardry. Whereas Wizards utilize runes to harness and apply energy, Enchanters utilize physical structures to do the same. The People of the Eastwood practice Artifice Enchantment, but there are other forms of enchantment and many, most, are less physical. Blood magic is slightly more abstract, what is commonly referred to as magecraft. mages focus on the healing and improvement of living creatures.”

  Amelia shivered a bit, “That's also what sorcerers do, isn't it?” She thought suddenly of her brother Xavien, executed for that very crime, but somehow still alive.

  “It is,” Tirianis said, “Though very different in how they do what they do. Mages use their own energy or energy freely given by plants or people. Sorcerers take energy from people and animals. They modify life with a focus only on their own goals and often they take dangerous shortcuts that can have terrible repercussions.” She paused and shrugged, “Still, sorcery, just like magecraft, is part of enchantment.”

  “Do any of your people practice sorcery?” Amelia asked.

  “Some have delved into areas best left alone,” Tirianis said sadly. “Those have been dealt with. It is a crime punishable by death, even among my people, to do so. Like others, we burn sorcerers alive, in order to make certain that they and all their works perish.” Despite the sadness of her tone, Amelia didn't miss the steely resolve in her friend's voice.

  “What o
ther forms of enchantment are there?” Amelia asked, eager to change the subject.

  Tirianis gave her another smile and pushed her raven black hair over one ear. “There are two other main forms of it, what we commonly term elementalism and evocation. Both are similar to one another, but different in application. Elementalists create and control elementals, energy constructs that survive off of one particular form of energy, often found naturally, such as heat, light, and gravity.” She shrugged, “Evocationists craft energy into constructs that perform functions, much as our physical guardians. They are typically more complex than elementals, but more limited in their ability to grow outside of their purpose.”

  The basic concepts seemed simple enough to grasp, but the thought of shaping energy as if it were a physical thing made her head hurt. “How do they do that?”

  “There are tools,” Tirianis said. “Often those without mind magic utilize those sorts of tools, crafted through Artifice and then applied to those ends. However, most powerful enchanters are also gifted with the abilities of mind magic that allow them to manipulate energy.” She shrugged, “Our Enchantress not only had those abilities, but many others, with thousands of cycles of experience to draw upon. So as you can imagine, her loss is a heavy one to bear.”

  Amelia nodded slowly. From what she had seen, many of the Wold seemed on edge, and a few had seemed almost at a loss to explain why. She wondered if while some of it was the loss of the Enchantress and her abilities, much of it also came from the loss of a figure so central to their culture. Amelia felt the silence grow long and a look at Tirianis showed the other woman was caught up in memories, her head hung low and her dark hair flowed over her face.

  Amelia started to speak, but then Tirianis lifted her face and wiped away tears from her eyes, “I am sorry, my friend, sometimes it is hard for me.” Amelia nodded slowly in understanding. Tirianis was an empath, a very powerful empath. While it made her an excellent healer of both physical and mental injuries, it also made her more vulnerable than most to emotional trauma. It must be terrible, Amelia thought, to feel strong personal loss and then to be surrounded by those who feel that same emotion, multiplied tenfold.

  “Well,” Tirianis smiled slightly, “to change to a happier subject, how has my brother's courtship gone thus far?” She made the transition easily to her most favorite subject.

  Amelia flushed. Even as tactfully phrased as that, it was a far more direct question than she would have heard back in Boir. Affairs of the heart were not something she felt confident in discussing with anyone... much less the sister to the man she felt attracted to. And even knowing he feels that same attraction, she thought as her cheeks warmed, does not mean I feel certain about any of this. “We have spent some time together,” Amelia hedged.

  “Ah, he's taking his time with you,” Tirianis nodded. “After your previous trauma, he doesn't know if you've healed. He's afraid of hurting you or scaring you away.” She shook her head, “Sometimes, my dear, men need a few hints.” She gave Amelia a level look.

  Amelia flushed, “I'm not sure I'm really ready for that.” Even so, her mind flashed to certain thoughts she'd had more recently.

  Tirianis shook her head, “No... I think you know better than that.” The knowing tone she used caused Amelia's face to burn all the way to the roots of her hair. “And while I understand you are a very proper and prim lady of Boir... well, Boir is a long way away and it's not like any of us will go telling stories to the nobility there. Besides, a pleasant romp with an exotic prince is probably the subject of half the romances the ladies there read.”

  Amelia's felt her blush burn even deeper and she absently wondered if her hair might catch fire. Her friend wasn't far wrong, she knew, for she'd read a few of those romances herself. “Tirianis...”

  “Oh, come now,” Tirianis said with an exasperated snort, “what fear you? You two enjoy one another's company and I haven't seen Simonel so smitten by anyone since his crush on Annela when he was a child.” She shook her head, “It is a simple thing, the pleasures of the flesh, something to enjoy and experiment, not to be hung up upon with worries and fear.”

  “That's easy for you to say,” Amelia snapped. She saw a look of hurt go across her friend's face and she instantly regretted the comment. She sighed, “I'm sorry, that was out of line.” The rape she had suffered had scarred her deeply, yet Tirianis was responsible in large part for helping her to heal. If anyone knew the full depth of her pain, it was her friend. Amelia realized with a shock that she was angry not at the idea that Tirianis was pushing her when she wasn't ready, but because of her own stubbornness not to be pushed into something hastily. “Tirianis... I do appreciate the advice, but I don't think this is something I should rush into... I want to be certain that when, if, I do become physical with your brother, that it is what I really want.”

  The Wold Princess closed her eyes, “I must apologize as well, my friend.” She opened her eyes and met Amelia's gaze with her own. “I simply can tell you two make each other happy. I'll admit some selfish enjoyment of that, myself, but I can't wait to see the two of you that happy.” Her gaze went distant and Amelia saw something else behind those green eyes for a moment, something that looked remarkably like pain.

  “Tirianis, is there something else...”

  Her friend's gaze snapped back to her and Tirianis shook her head, “No, Amelia, I'm sorry, just drifting thoughts.” Her smile turned wicked and she arched an eyebrow, “Speaking of enjoyment, I hear young Aerion Swordbreaker is playing with some of the younger hunters, a game of Nadir Ebeli. I wouldn't mind watching the young men play a bit.”

  Amelia bit back a giggle at Tirianis's tone. The Wold Princess often made cutting remarks at similar events as to the physical efforts as well as the childish competitiveness that many of the hunters showed. Still, she felt something uneasy go through her stomach at the thought of the sport that Aerion had entered and she wondered if he knew exactly what he'd gotten himself into. Nadir Ebeli translated loosely as 'hunter-prey' and the sport was a violent and brutal event. She'd watched three such events since her arrival and seen at least a half dozen broken limbs and dozens of young Wold receive severe bruises and contusions. That hadn't stopped the enjoyment of either the competitors or the participants. Indeed, she'd noticed a tendency, matched even by Tirianis, that as the sport grew more violent, the Wold's attention grew more focused. Amelia realized she'd been quiet in thought a bit too long as Tirianis cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know,” Tirianis said, “I understand that Simonel decided to adjudicate this one, seeing as there's a royal guest involved. Perhaps, what with all the excitement in the air, you two might be excused for getting carried away sharing a kiss or maybe even finding some secluded spot for a little foreplay.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes, “Thank you for not being at all limited by any boundaries.”

  “Oh, come now,” Tirianis joked, “I just want to watch that young Starborn lad at play. He's got the most delicious backside...” Her friend burst into laughter at the look on Amelia's face.

  Sometimes, Amelia thought, there are issues with having a friend like Tirianis.

  ***

  Aerion Swordbreaker

  Aerion looked around the group of two dozen Wold and then over at where several hundred had gathered around the edges of the clearing to watch. While most of the Wold looked young, it was impossible to miss the fact that those gathered to play were probably the youngest of the Wold hunters. Many had almost puppy-like energy and they bounced between one another in excited discussions.

  A hand clapped him on the back, “Ah, I see they invited you after all, Aerion.” He turned to find Simonel stood behind him and Ceratul close behind. The Wold King wore his simple green armor and carried his sword, as usual, but he had a white cloth band tied around his right arm, Aerion noted. “Though I wasn't certain you would want to participate.”

  “How could I not?” Aerion said in as level a tone as he could manage. Clearly something of his own
uncertainty showed and he saw Simonel's eyes narrow and go in the direction of where Gantarel stood. Whatever thoughts he had, he didn't speak them, though.

  “Have they told you the rules of Nadir Ebeli yet?” Simonel asked, his voice neutral.

  “No,” Aerion said, “Only that it is a sport and that it can be a little rough.”

  Simonel's lips pursed, “I see.” His green eyed gaze went back to Aerion, “That is succinctly put, indeed.” He sighed, “Well, since you have agreed, there is no backing out, I'm afraid. Honor, of course, compels you to continue.” His tone suggested that Aerion shouldn't argue the point. “Still, I think you'll do well enough. It's a simple game, in truth, based off of some of our oldest traditions.”

  “There are two groups, hunters and runners.” He pointed to the west, “In that direction lies the Greenheart Lake, at the very center of our lands, just past the Founding.” Aerion nodded and Simonel continued, “At the center of the lake is an island, what we call the Entraluri Mitsa. The objective for a runner is to reach that island by following the approved paths.”

  “That's it?” Aerion asked.

  “That's it. Though, the objective of the hunters is to stop the runners,” Simonel said. “There is only one rule to the sport: no weapons.”

  Aerion felt some of the blood drain from his face. Even the most violent games of his childhood had some rules, preventing kicking, gouging, that sort of thing. “Ah, are many injured in this sport?”

  Simonel gave him a tight smile, “Yes. I would venture to say that most hunters and almost all the runners are injured. I was a runner, once, when I was younger. I sported a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder.”

  “Did you complete it?” Aerion asked.

  “King Simonel is the last runner to have made it to the finish,” Nanamak said. The short, wiry man startled Aerion once again with his quiet approach. “That was thirty cycles ago.”