by M. H. Bonham
“This looks like an easy fight,” remarked Galen, a Silren noble who sat beside Areyn Sehduk.
Areyn nodded in acknowledgment, but chuckled inside. Easy fight, indeed. It will be a slaughter. There were only a few hundred Chi’lan to guard the village along with other soldiers. While each Chi’lan was worth five Silren in battle, Areyn had ten thousand troops. He had already planned for the logistics of moving the army, having prepared for it months before.
Moving ten thousand troops a hundred miles across the border without being seen had been simple. Areyn used his magic to conceal the troops and speed up their movement. They moved now at demon speeds.
Areyn gazed into the dark night. Something still did not feel right. He turned to Galen and fixed the Silren with a cold smile.
“Patience, my friend,” the death god said at last. “We’ll attack an hour before dawn.”
CHAPTER Eleven
Fialan awoke to darkness. He lay against hard ground and groaned. How long had he been out? he wondered. Not long, he thought, as he gazed into the dark sky. It had been night when they had been attacked on the King’s Highway. Perhaps it had only been a few hours.
And yet, Fialan’s mind whirled with the inconsistencies. Something was different now. Despite his dizziness and confusion, Fialan felt no pain. The night had been a rare moonless night, but now as Fialan opened his eyes again, he realized that there were no stars. It was truly dark here.
Fialan sat up. The memories flooded back. He had been in a forest when the Silren had attacked. No, not a Silren, Fialan corrected himself. It had been a demon of some sort. It had killed his entire personal Chi’lan guard and their horses with a glance. He had wounded the demon and it had…
No!
Fialan looked around frantically for some familiarity, but saw none. He was no longer in a forest, but instead sat on a cold, windswept plain covered with dry grasses that looked sharp to the touch. The sky was beginning to turn blood red in what he could only guess as being east.
He shut his eyes again as he remembered the demon looming over him. The intense pain as he felt his very life force sucked away to feed it…
“So, you’ve finally come around,” came a voice. A feminine voice.
Fialan turned and saw a female Chi’lan standing next to him. She was tall, wearing old-style scale mail sewn into a jack, and a conical helm with a noseguard. She leaned against a polearm as she offered him her hand.
Fialan took her hand and stood up. He could barely make out her features in the dim light, but he could tell she was beautiful. “Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”
She looked as if she had answered the questions many times before. “I am Eshe, Chi’lan warrior. I died in the Battle of the Nine Worlds, killed by a Jotunn. You’re in Areyn’s Realm, called Tarentor. You’re dead.”
*****
The walk from the mountain to Caer Lochvaren had tired Rhyn’athel. While his body was in peak condition, the god hadn’t expected the limits a mortal body imposed. Rhyn’athel had eaten no food, and he suspected part of the weariness was due to lack of it. He could augment his strength using his own powers, but Rhyn’athel thought it might attract unwanted attention from Areyn. If he couldn’t handle the basics of being mortal without using his powers, what chance did he have convincing Areyn Sehduk he was simply a mortal?
Lachlei led the three into Caer Lochvaren, past the guards and the torchlight at the stockade fence, and through the cobblestone streets of the lower grody. Caer Lochvaren had been built on the side of a mountain in the Lochvaren Mountains, ringed by valleys and hills. Outside the city, vast fields of wheat and barley lay cut, already harvested and laying fallow until the spring.
Merchant shops and taverns lined the streets of the grody. The buildings were wooden or wattle and daub, suggesting a certain amount of recentness or impermanence to the structures. Rhyn’athel noted that while most of the dwellers were Lochvaur, there were many other kindreds here and even a few Ansgar. Despite the time of night, the buildings were lit and there were people walking about.
“Caer Lochvaren has grown considerably within the past few centuries. Since our truce with the Silren, we’ve been able to focus on our lives, not war,” Lachlei said, seeing Rhyn’s interest in his surroundings.
“Indeed,” Rhyn said. The sensations of this world were almost overwhelming, and he realized he was grinning foolishly.
“It’s not much,” she ventured. “But we’ve had so very little time to put up better defenses.”
Rhyn nodded. “It’s larger than North Marches,” he said, trying to sound casual. “How many live here?”
Lachlei smiled. “The city, itself, has only forty thousand or so — but not all are Lochvaur, as you can see.” She paused. “The outlying areas, maybe a hundred thousand more. Fifty thousand soldiers; maybe of those, two thousand Chi’lan.”
“How many Chi’lan are there in North Marches?” Cahal asked.
Rhyn thought of North Marches, his supposed home. How many were there in that village? His mind reached out to survey the village and felt the equivalent of a hard slap. He hesitated, trying again to focus on the village…
“Rhyn?” Lachlei asked, breaking the god’s concentration. His eyes had become glassy. They now returned to meet her gaze. “Are you all right?”
Rhyn smiled weakly. “Sorry, I get distracted when I’m tired.”
Lachlei shook her head. “Of course, you’ve had a long ride.” She turned to Cahal. “Can you bring him to the Great Hall and see to his needs, Cahal? I must meet the Council and discuss this vote with them. Kellachan?”
Rhyn was going to object, but nodded instead. He didn’t want to leave her — now that he was mortal. But he didn’t want her to suspect he was anything other than a Chi’lan. Not yet. Not now. “I will see you later?”
“I’m sure you will,” she said. Lachlei turned to her cousin and motioned him to follow her.
Rhyn watched Lachlei as she disappeared from sight and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Cahal grinning at him.
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” the Chi’lan remarked.
“That she is,” Rhyn agreed.
“Come on, let’s get you some food,” Cahal said and led Rhyn in the opposite direction.
Rhyn’athel followed silently, lost in his thoughts. He felt rather foolish at his reaction to her and everything around him. He felt so transparent — it would be simple for Areyn Sehduk to find him if he continued to act as if everything was new. He was a god — he created most of the things in this world. He knew the very secrets of the Nine Worlds — where the Runestones lay, where the Web of Wyrd touched the fabric of this world, where the Fyr lay chained — but he gawked at simple things like a village or a woman. Rhyn’athel had thought that knowing was the same as experiencing. He was quickly getting a lesson in the experience area.
“I’d be a little more subtle, if I were you,” Cahal remarked, breaking the god out of his reverie. They halted at the main gates to Caer Lochvaren. Chi’lan and soldiers guarded the massive iron gates that protected the fortress inside. They nodded to Cahal as both he and Rhyn’athel passed through.
Rhyn’athel hesitated, but he could see Cahal smiling. “Don’t worry — I won’t say anything,” the Chi’lan assured him. “That’s the first time Lachlei has smiled since Fialan’s death. And Rhyn’athel only knows why she decided to accept the throne. Lachlei wouldn’t even consider it before you appeared.”
CHAPTER Twelve
Fialan stared at Eshe. “What? I can’t be dead!”
Eshe smirked as she leaned against the polearm. “Really?” she said. “What was the last thing you remember before you woke up here?”
“I was in a battle with a demon that looked like a Silren…” he began. He paused as the voices came unbidden to his mind.
“What are you? Demon?”
“Your death. I grow weary of this game.”
“I can’t be dead. What about Lachlei? My son,
Haellsil? My kingdom?” He tried desperately to access the mind-link he shared with Lachlei, but it was gone. Fialan stared at Eshe in disbelief. “The mind-link — what happened to it?”
Eshe sighed, looking bored. “They all say this — or something like it.” She eyed him in amusement. “So, you were a king?”
“Heir of Lochvaur,” he said. “First-blood.”
“You’ll find Lochvaur here too,” she said. “I fought for him. Your titles and bloodlines have little meaning here. Your first-blood powers will not work anymore.”
Fialan drew a sharp inward breath and then shook his head. “I can’t be dead — I breathe.”
“You have a body in this world,” said Eshe. “Courtesy of Areyn.” She turned and began to walk away.
“Where are you going?” Fialan called after her, running to catch up.
“Back to the others,” Eshe said. “My job with you is done until Areyn calls me again.”
“Areyn calls you again?” Fialan repeated. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Eshe turned to him and for a moment, she looked as though she might strike him. Instead, something flickered in her eyes — pity? Her silver eyes then hardened. “You’ll learn soon enough, Fialan.”
*****
Lachlei strode into the High Council of the Lochvaur. The Council room was a large hall, hewn from oak, with exposed rafters and tall clerestories that brought in light. It was dark and smoky inside. A firepit with a crackling fire sat in the middle with rows of benches arranged before it for the nobles. The ruddy light cast shadows on the nobles’ faces, but she could see that many were still here. A small dais with two thrones sat along the back wall. Red and gold tapestries lined the walls and the Lochvaur banners hung overhead. The tapestries depicted heroic battles in Lochvaur history.
One tapestry, which Lachlei had always loved, was of Lochvaur fighting side-by-side with Rhyn’athel, the god of warriors. All first-bloods could trace their lineage back over two thousand years to Lochvaur, the son of Rhyn’athel. She gazed at the creatures they were fighting — dark, shadow-like things with teeth and claws. They were demons — creatures of Areyn Sehduk’s creation. Like so many things touched by the god of death, these creatures lived only to destroy.
Lachlei suppressed a shudder. She had sensed the vile magic that had tainted the bodies and wondered about the demons yet again. Lachlei had considered herself a powerful first-blood, and though she was loathed to admit Kellachan was right, she had been Fialan’s equal in many ways.
Her mind strayed to Rhyn for a moment. The handsome Chi’lan was a bit of an enigma for her. She had never felt someone with that much defense, nor had her mental probes ever been detected. Could he be the next Lochvaur champion?
Lachlei turned and glanced at Kellachan, who nodded to her. She strode in and met the chief of the High Council, Laewynd. Laewynd was possibly the oldest Lochvaur alive, being nearly five hundred years. Most Eleion were not much older than Lachlei, herself, because of the frequent warring between the kindreds. Despite his age, Laewynd looked only slightly older than Lachlei, but no longer had the hardness of the warrior build.
Lachlei was surprised to see most of the council members present. Six men and one woman made up the Lochvaur High Council. Tarchon, Moira, and Kieran sat alongside Laewynd, but Lachlei noted Talar and Elrys were absent. Her cousin Kellachan was the youngest council member, chosen because of his first-blood. All had been Chi’lan at one time — each bearing the scars of battle. Of all the council members, the only two Lachlei had known well were Laewynd and Kellachan. Lachlei had known Moira as a Chi’lan since Lochalan’s rule. Moira had been a Chi’lan when Lachlei had earned her badge, but had left the Chi’lan to become a council member soon after. Kieran and Kellachan were the only active Chi’lan warriors on the High Council who had served Fialan and now served her.
Lachlei grasped Laewynd’s arms in the traditional Chi’lan greeting and noted the softness of his hands as her own fingers brushed the backs of them. Not the hands of a warrior, she thought. She wondered if the Lochvaur had been imprudent to have someone who wasn’t Chi’lan anymore in charge of the High Council.
“My queen, Lachlei,” Laewynd spoke.
“You’ve presumed much, Laewynd,” Lachlei said crossly. “I am Chi’lan…”
“I know, I’ve heard,” Laewynd said. “And I want you to stop this foolishness…”
Lachlei stared at him speechlessly.
“We all know that you are the last first-blood with power — save perhaps your son, Haellsil, but he is an infant,” the chief councilmember said. “There is no other choice, Lachlei, you must be queen.”
Lachlei shook her head. “There must be others…” she hesitated as she saw the nobles shake their heads. “There is first-blood in North Marches…” she began.
“And we know nothing of them,” Kellachan said. “Lachlei,” he said, turning to her. “You, alone, know what killed Fialan — I can see it in your eyes. You know what we may be up against. The High Council agrees — those with the Sight have seen darkness ahead. We believe you alone might see us through.”
Lachlei looked around at the familiar faces. They had served her husband well. Now, they were putting their trust in her. As the commander of the Chi’lan. As queen. Her gaze strayed back to the tapestry of Lochvaur and Rhyn’athel. Did she really know what killed Fialan? Did they really suspect something as sinister as she did?
Her thoughts turned to her son, Haellsil. If there were a demon out there, as she suspected, the creature might not be satisfied with Fialan’s life. If it targeted Fialan, what was the chance that it might search for Haellsil?
Cold fear gripped her. Haellsil would not have a chance to grow up, much less make Chi’lan or become king. She tried to remember the old stories about demons. They didn’t simply go away after they killed — they drank the life force of those who held power. The demon may have killed Fialan because he was a powerful Lochvaur. Would she simple sit idly by and let the demon grow more powerful until it came for her and her son?
Lachlei knew the answer. For a moment, she thought of Rhyn and his power. Perhaps he too sensed the demon. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t.
Lachlei sighed and shook her head. “Very well,” she said, meeting Laewynd’s gaze. “I don’t want the throne, but I will take it. At least until my son is old enough to become Chi’lan and prove himself.”
CHAPTER Thirteen
Cahal led Rhyn into the mead hall where the warriors had gathered. The enticing aroma of cooked meats reminded Rhyn how hungry he was. In the smoky light, he could see warriors drinking, talking, and playing various games with dice or daggers around the lit firepit. Rhyn hadn’t expected the chatter to be so loud, but he felt at ease here. These were his Chi’lan — the soldiers sworn to the warrior god — and he knew each of them by name.
Cahal nudged him forward, and together they walked in. Heads turned to see the new Chi’lan as he strode by. Cahal led him to a bench just beside the fire, not far from the gamers. Servants brought them plates of food and mugs with amber liquid in them.
Rhyn’athel took a swallow of the amber liquid and grinned. It tasted honey-sweet with spices. Picking up one of the pieces of venison, he bit into it. The hot meat tasted salty with herbs. This was something he could get used to, he decided.
“I’d be careful with the metheglyn,” a familiar voice said. Rhyn’athel looked up to see his brother standing beside him, arms crossed. Suddenly, the room became still as the god halted time.
Rhyn’athel glared at him. “This will draw Areyn’s attention.”
“Not likely — I’ve done it before,” Ni’yah remarked. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Metheglyn,” he said pointing to the mead. “You’re not used to it and it affects gods more than it does mortals.”
“How would you know?” Rhyn’athel replied, taking another gulp of the mead.
“Experience,” Ni’yah said. “I onc
e fell unconscious after downing a flagon.”
“First time you ever stopped talking?”
“Not funny,” Ni’yah replied. “The first-bloods avoid it because they have no resistance, thanks to our blood. It affects demons too, so they don’t drink it either.”
“I’ll remember to offer Areyn a drink the next time I see him,” the warrior god remarked.
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I seemed to be doing all right,” Rhyn’athel said smugly.
“Well, you haven’t gotten yourself killed, I’ll give you that,” Ni’yah said. “But this is a tough crowd.”
Rhyn’athel chuckled. “They’re Chi’lan.”
“They may be your Chi’lan but you’re not one of them,” Ni’yah warned. “You’re their commander. Even if you look like a Chi’lan, they’ll challenge you until you fit in or flee like a whipped cur.”
“I can handle myself,” Rhyn’athel said, taking another bite of the meat, but pushing the mead flagon away. Despite his desire to not admit that his brother was right, the god began to feel the metheglyn affect him.
Ni’yah grinned. “We’ll see.”
Ni’yah vanished and simultaneously the entire hall became alive again. Rhyn’athel chuckled. He knew Ni’yah meant well and was touched by his brother’s concern. But, Rhyn’athel was still a god — the most powerful god of all the gods of light, and arguably, more powerful than any other god. He chose this form, but if necessary, he could shed it.
“You must have been hungry,” Cahal remarked, looking at Rhyn’s empty plate.
“I was,” Rhyn admitted. He leaned back and watched two Chi’lan near the fire try to hit a mark someone had cut in an upturned table. One Chi’lan was a heavily scarred warrior with a broken nose. His frame was large for a Lochvaur — indeed, for any Eleion — making Rhyn look small in comparison.