Wrath of the Usurper (The Eoriel Saga Book 2)

by Kal Spriggs

  Across the stretch of water he saw Merenedar had just pulled herself onto the shore. She looked too exhausted to stand as she crawled up out the water. Gantarel was midway across. Aerion didn't look back again, he just dove for the water and hoped he wouldn't hit any rocks.

  The water's painful cold was an even worse shock than the first time. The icy water seemed to sap what little strength he had. Aerion thrashed his way through the water, his arms pumped and he kicked with legs that felt like lead weights.

  The island seemed to only grow in distance. Aerion's world narrowed down to the water and the green island. He forced his legs to kick, kept his head above water, and flailed his arms as best he could. Slowly, ever so slowly, the spot of green edged closer.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Aerion's kicking feet struck bottom and he forced himself up out of the water and onto shore. He dragged himself, arm over arm, across the rough stones of the shore, out of the icy water and into the warm summer air. He felt the rocks dig painfully into his arms and legs, but he didn't care as he gasped for air and slowly, ever so slowly, pulled himself out.

  He collapsed next to where Gantarel lay, the Wold gasping for air. Beyond him he saw Merenedar, who had managed to move to a seated position. Aerion envied that energy just now. He could barely breathe, his lungs felt afire and his limbs were so heavy he couldn't lift them to wipe the sweat and water out of his eyes.

  Yet then he heard splashing, and he managed to raise his head. The two dozen remaining hunters were splashing their way ashore. Their faces were intent and eager. Aerion felt a wave of panic. We completed the run, Aerion thought, we made the shore of the island, why hadn't the hunters stopped?

  As the hunters drew closer, Aerion slowly forced himself to his feet. He saw Gantarel and Merenedar do the same, the exhaustion on their faces a mirror of his own. Aerion felt a snarl draw his lips back. He was not about to be beaten like a dog, not without fighting back.

  “Enough!” A high, clear voice called. Aerion looked over to see that King Simonel had also arrived, his face stern. When the hunters didn't immediately stop, his voice hardened, “I said enough!” Aerion had never seen Simonel in full king mode. His eyes almost seemed to glow with power and his voice seemed to resonate. The Wold hunters stopped instantly, several of them so quickly that they stumbled. Their faces went to their king and Aerion felt relief as he saw reason enter their eyes.

  “Today, for the first time in many cycles, we have not just one, but three victors of the Nadir Ebeli,” Simonel said. “This is grounds for celebration. Therefore–”

  “My king,” one of the hunters near the front spoke. Aerion didn't recognize him, but he did recognize the arrogance it took to interrupt their monarch, even amongst a relaxed people such as the Wold. “Tradition states that the Nadir Ebeli cannot be ended until the hunt is finished...”

  “Gedrain, they stand upon the Entraluri Mitsa, they have swum the waters of the Gulis Sqali,” Ceratul snapped from the other side of the hunters. The tall Wold's face was hard, his dark eyes locked upon the hunter who had spoken. “Thus they have completed the Nadir Ebeli and so it is ended.”

  “But they have not be recognized by Dzmoba Suliskvet,” Gedrain snapped back.

  Simonel spoke, his voice powerful and strong in a way that Aerion couldn't describe. It was almost as if something else spoke through him, “Even were this to have been a proper trial, the Dzmoba Suliskvet has empowered me with the right to speak on such matters... unless you wish to go before it yourself?” When Gedrain didn't respond, Simonel's voice grew softer, “As King, I therefore declare this Nadir Ebeli completed.” He looked to where Ceratul stood and Aerion saw the Warmaster had his hands on his weapons, clearly ready to enforce the King's words should any hunters seek to continue the fight. “This is grounds for celebration. As part of tradition, the hunters must prepare the feast for the victors to show their good will. I suggest you get to it.”

  It seemed to Aerion that most of the hunters hurried away, all but Gedrain, who stood silently for a moment, almost as if he sought some way to change the outcome. Simonel came forward and offered first Merenedar, then Gantarel, and finally Aerion a hand-clasp. “Well done, each of you. With how their spirits were aflame, I would have said all of our runners would be lucky to have survived, much less any one of you reached the end.” He gestured at Ceratul who came forward and passed each of them their weapons. Aerion felt a moment of relief to have his sword back. The spirit of Southwatch had bid him protect it, and while he expected someone like Ceratul could protect it far better from physical enemies, Aerion felt it wasn't right to have someone else carry it until he found the rightful owner.

  Merenedar just stood silent. Aerion took a moment to study her. She was darker than most of the reddish-bronze Wold, with skin darker even than the Armen he had fought at Southwatch. She was also shorter than most of the other Wold he had seen, with a stocky frame that would have passed commonly among his own people. She still had the sharp, fine features of the Wold, however, along with a rain of midnight dark hair and dark eyes.

  Gantarel spoke, “My king, you do us much honor.”

  “Traditionally,” Simonel said, “after completing the Nadir Ebeli you are each allowed to ask for one favor from me, requested before the sun sets.” There was a tone of resignation to his voice as he said it, almost as if he knew what he would be asked.

  Merenedar spoke quickly, almost before Simonel had finished speaking, “My king, ten cycles have passed since my younger brother left the Eastwood. I wish to be granted your leave to go in search of him.” Aerion heard a raw note of worry in the woman's voice.

  “You are past the age of majority, Merenedar,” Simonel said. “By the terms of our exile, only those too young to be held to the law are allowed to leave.” His face was stern, “I cannot break the terms of our exile for one wayward boy.” Simonel paused, “However, I will speak with Warden Ivellios and I will see if it is possible to grant you temporary passage.”

  Merenedar nodded and Aerion saw tears in her eyes. Apparently, she had much reason to fear for her brother's safety. Then again, if someone hadn't been heard from for ten cycles, normally it would be wise to assume them dead. Perhaps the Wold woman had some knowledge of his survival, though Aerion couldn't guess just how.

  Simonel looked to Gantarel, “And you, hunter?”

  Gantarel nodded politely, “My king, I ask only for the opportunity to hunt and fight at your side, to serve as your guard and to learn from you.”

  “Well spoken,” Simonel said. “This I will grant you.” He turned his attention to Aerion, “And you, Aerion Swordbreaker?”

  Aerion shrugged, “I, uh, guess I'll have to think on that.”

  Simonel smiled, “Wise of you...” he turned as a boat came up on the beach.

  Aerion recognized Princess Tirianis and Lady Amelia Tarken, but he didn't recognize the third woman with them, green eyed and as tall as Simonel but with bright red hair and pale skin.

  “I see we have the three victors,” Princess Tirianis said, her voice friendly. “We wanted to come down and congratulate them in person. She stepped out of the boat. Aerion blinked as he realized that the boat had no oars and no guide rope, it had apparently come to the island on it's own power somehow. “Indeed, we would have been here sooner but for Amelia, it seems the excitement was a bit too much for her.”

  Aerion didn't miss the way that Simonel's green eyed gaze went to Lady Amelia. Apparently the concern the King felt was more than that for a friend. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Amelia said. She cleared her throat and looked down at the ground. Her behavior seemed odd to Aerion, normally she spoke confidently. “I think it was just the peril of the runners and not being able to do anything for them.”

  “Well,” Simonel said, “If Tirianis...”

  “You, there, boy,” the redheaded woman spoke. Her voice was strong, yet there was a tone of arrogance that instantly set his teeth on edge.

&n
bsp; Aerion looked over at her, surprised at the interruption. “What?”

  Her narrow, fox-like face was intent and her green eyes almost seemed to glow, “What is it that you carry?”

  “This?” Aerion asked, surprised as he lifted the sheathed sword.

  “Bring it here,” she commanded.

  Without realizing it he found he had begun walking towards her. Aerion was unable to stop, his feet moving seemingly of their own direction, right until Simonel stepped in front of him. “Seraphai,” Simonel said, his voice stern, “Stop this. He is my guest.”

  “Simonel, you have no idea what prize he carries!” Seraphai's voice was strained. “Boy, bring me that sword!” Her voice seemed to have some special intensity to it, something that went beyond what he heard, into his very thoughts.

  Aerion's panic faded away and suddenly it felt right for him to walk around Simonel and towards Seraphai. Southwatch told me to deliver it to someone worthy, he thought confidently, who else could be worthy of this besides her? As he closed the distance, he extended the sword out to her, hilt first. He felt a smile grow on his face to match her smile of triumph.

  That was, until Amelia stepped in front of him, “Aerion, stop,” her voice shattered his feeling of goodwill and he stumbled back, suddenly horrified at what had happened. He felt violated, that this other woman had stripped away his free will and so easily made him her puppet. He saw Amelia turn to face the woman Simonel had called Seraphai. “Seraphai, this isn't right. Whatever your reason–”

  Aerion felt his jaw drop at Seraphai's next words. “He carries the Starblade,” Seraphai said, “That peasant carries the blade of the High Kings.”

  ***

  Chapter Three

  King Simonel Greeneye

  The Eastwood

  11th of Agmat, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Simonel's eyes widened as Seraphai's words. He felt the world spin a bit under his feet. “Are you certain of this?”

  His cousin stood taller, “Of course I am certain. My father crafted that blade and gave it to his father, High King Gordon. I've seen more of the High Kings bear it than this child has seen cycles. It is the same blade that was broken by Moral when he slew his father, High King Haden, with it. This is the Sundered Blade, the Starblade, the sword of the Starborn High Kings.” Her voice rang with certitude, but her next words chilled him to the bone. “That blade rightfully belongs to me and I will have it.”

  “No,” Aerion Swordbreaker said. “I won't argue what you've said about what it is... but this blade was given to me by the spirit of Southwatch to protect. I'll not say you don't have the blood, but from your behavior, you damned sure don't deserve it.” The iron in the boy's voice startled Simonel, until he remembered the boy's stand at the Pilgrim's Path. He had faced an entire army of Norics and Armen, he had mustered the will to sound Medis Sakveri, the King's Horn, and had stood against Noric demons. He was not one to back down, especially after such an overt attack. Had she asked or talked, she might have had it from him, Simonel thought, yet in her arrogance she alienated him and he'll not surrender it to her as long as he draws breath. On top of that, Simonel was bound, with Aerion as his own personal guest, to protect him.

  “You know nothing of this, you ignorant peasant,” Seraphai snarled. With horror, Simonel saw that her hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of her sword. He wondered, suddenly, how much of her attitude came from her and how much from the sword she carried. With an even more profound realization, he found his own hand clasped around his blade. The three most powerful weapons created by more-than-mortal hands are all in this one place, he thought, and very soon may be drawn against one another. His own blade, Mede Khmali, recognized its enemy in Seraphai's cursed Makhvili Dzala, which followed the will of its creator. Simonel didn't care at all about the Starblade, created by Seraphai's father Noth, himself a powerful Starborn wizard. The Starborn High Kings had never reigned over his people and he himself saw little importance to the broken symbol of their power. Yet he was in the debt of Aerion. The boy had had brought him Medis Sakveri, long thought lost forever. The horn was the second greatest treasure of both Seraphai's people, the Viani, and his own, only after the sword he carried. For its return, Aerion could have asked for vast wealth or riches, yet he had so far seemed content with friendship and time to heal. If he asked it, Simonel realized, I would face Seraphai and Makhvili Dzala together to defend him.

  Clearly, Seraphai saw that as well and he saw the muscles tense in her arm as she prepared to draw her blade. It seemed like time slowed a bit as his own muscles tensed. This would not be an easy fight, not with the power that Makhvili Dzala would give her, he knew. Before he could start to draw his own blade, he saw Tirianis and Amelia step in front of Seraphai, their attention focused on the Viani princess.

  “Seraphai,” Tirianis said, her voice intent. “Think! This isn't you, this isn't how you should handle this. It is the influence of the blade. You are stronger than that, fight it!”

  Simonel saw Seraphai hesitate, the woman's anger turned upon itself. She would hate being manipulated, he knew, especially in such a heavy handed fashion. Though it turned her own prejudices against her, he thought, that isn't to say it can't be far more subtle than that. He felt a sudden, dark suspicion about just why it had been so heavy-handed. It wasn't hard to believe that the protections built into the Starblade would fight those of the Blade of Power. Perhaps Makhvili Dzala might not be able to keep her bound if she had the Starblade to draw upon. For just a moment, he was tempted to ask Aerion to give the blade up, but then again, he didn't know enough about the weapon to make that decision, certainly not to ask Aerion, as his guest, to take that risk.

  Amelia spoke then, “This isn't how the Starblade was meant to be taken. Moral tried that and he sundered it in the process. If the legends are true, and you would know better than me, then the Starblade must be earned and given, not taken by force.”

  Seraphai looked away and all at once the tension left her body. It took her a long moment to speak and when she did, her voice was hoarse. “You are right,” she said, “All of you, you are right. My curse was... manipulating me. More, my father's work is not meant to be taken, but earned.” She looked back at Aerion and she gave him a nod, “And you are right most of all... I might have the blood, but I do not deserve to take up that blade.” She looked down at the ground, “Thank you... all of you.” She turned away then and walked back to the boat.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Nanamak said. Simonel's mentor stood at his ease, almost as if he hadn't a care in the world. As all eyes went to him, the diminutive warrior raised his eyebrows, “Now, who's ready for that feast?”

  ***

  Lady Amelia Tarken

  Amelia wove her way through the various people mostly unnoticed. She did pause and return Jasper and Jasmine's greetings, when the two called out to her, but most of the Wold seemed focused on the celebration. She had to admit that the hunters had put a tremendous effort into their feast. The many stone tables around the clearing had a vast range of foods, from fruits to a variety of forest animals. They had also produced a variety of the Wold alcoholic beverages which ranged from a rather light mead that she found quite pleasant to a sour concoction of fermented milk.

  The three victors had been the center of attention at the start, but now most of the Wold seemed to be engaged in discussions about previous hunts, both those for sport and those of war. That had left Aerion, at least, out of the conversations. She had wanted to talk with him, to see his impressions and to see if he had felt anything like she had about the frenzy of the Wold during the hunt.

  “Aerion,” she said, as she finally reached the boy. He seemed to have quite the appetite as he worked his way through what looked to be his second plate of food.

  He looked over at her and gave a quick, startled bow, “Lady Amelia. My apologies, I didn't see you there.” He looked around for somewhere to set down his plate, but like most of the Wold functions she'd bee
n to, there were no tables to hold the plates and no servants to take them. He awkwardly held the plate and nodded at her again, “My Lady, I wished to thank you for preventing bloodshed between Seraphai and our host...”

  “Oh, that,” Amelia waved one hand, “I did that as much for my sake as theirs. Once she draws her blade she's not very... particular about targets.” She shivered as she remembered the occasion of their meeting, when Seraphai had drawn the blade to fight the assassins there to kill Simonel. The worst part had not been the brutal way she dismembered men with the blade... it had been the way it seemed to change her very personality.

  “She mentioned a curse of some kind, what did she mean?” Aerion asked.

  “That's not really my place to talk,” Amelia hedged. Yet after a moment, she saw little point in hiding the truth. She doubted that Aerion would fully understand for she really didn't fully grasp it. He deserved to know just what kind of enemy he had potentially made, though for now Seraphai seemed more sorry than anything else, Amelia knew how that could change. “You've heard of the ancient legends, the ones about the King of the Viani?”

  Aerion shrugged, “Not much, nothing beyond that he was powerful and that the Viani... and I guess the Wold, still venerate his spirit.”

  “Well the sword that Seraphai carries, they call it Makhvili Dzala, the sword of power. It was created by his enemy, Andoral Elhonas, to kill him,” Amelia said. “It possesses a will of its own and Seraphai is bound to it.”