Lachlei

by M. H. Bonham

  A loud, piercing cry exploded around them. Eshe trembled and collapsed. Fialan knelt beside her huddled form and wrapped his arms around her. “Eshe! Eshe!” he called.

  Another scream made him look up. He was looking into the dark eyes of a demon.

  The demon was huge, nearly filling the covered battlement. It was black with shiny scales and had a large head like that of a dragon. Snake-like eyes gleamed beneath horned ridges, denoting supernatural intelligence. Its torso was that of a large man, but its lower body was clawed. It had a long, barbed tail like a scorpion and bat-like wings. An impossible fusion of dragon, scorpion, and man.

  Fialan drew the ghost blade, but felt Eshe tug at his arm. “You can’t kill it,” she whispered. “Sheathe your sword.”

  Fialan glared at the creature. “No. I won’t,” he said. “I won’t lie down like a coward.”

  “Spoken like a true first-blood,” the demon said sardonically. Its voice grated in the cold air. “More strength than sense. But I don’t come for you, this time, Fialan. I come for Lochvaur.”

  CHAPTER Thirty-Five

  “How do you kill a demon?”

  Rhyn turned around and stared at Lachlei. She stood in full mail, arms crossed. It was late afternoon, and the army was breaking camp. Rhyn had supervised most of the preparations for the march ahead. They would follow the Silren until they caught up with Areyn.

  Rhyn grinned. “Demons?”

  “You promised me you would show me how you kill demons,” Lachlei said.

  “That I did,” he admitted. “But there are no demons here.”

  “Not yet,” said Lachlei. “But that will change.”

  “Indeed it will,” Rhyn agreed. “But we have some time.”

  “Not enough time,” she said crossly. “Now, are you going to show me?”

  Rhyn chuckled. “Yes.” He glanced at the sword, Fyren, that hung at her side. “May I see your sword?”

  Lachlei hesitated. “This was Fialan’s sword,” she said, drawing it and holding it up to the sunlight. The adamantine shone bright, except where a large black stain discolored the blade. “No matter what I try, I can’t remove the discoloration.”

  Areyn’s blood. Rhyn’athel smiled inwardly as he gazed at it. Fialan had cut into the death god, as Ni’yah had said. “May I hold it?” he asked.

  Lachlei nodded and watched as Rhyn took the blade. At his touch, Fyren flashed with a blinding light and glowed. “Sweet gods,” she whispered. “How did you do that?”

  Rhyn smiled slyly. “It’s a good blade. The metal is from Athelren. It was forged before the Truce.”

  Lachlei nodded in amazement and watched as Rhyn made a few experimental cuts in the air. “I thought the stain was the blood of the demon.”

  Rhyn nodded. “It is, but this demon is very powerful for it to have stained the metal in this fashion. Although Fyren is a good blade, it isn’t a Sword of Power. Lochvaur’s Sword of Power disintegrated when he died. This was Lochvaur’s first blade, before he forged his Sword of Power.”

  “How did you know this was Fyren?” Lachlei asked.

  Rhyn pointed to the runes along the blade. “It says so.”

  Lachlei knew the blade was marked, but she was certain Rhyn hadn’t looked to see the blade’s name. How does he know the blade? she wondered. Instead, she decided to try a different tact.

  “But what of Lochvaur’s Sword of Power?” she began. “How do you…?”

  Rhyn’athel chuckled. “Swords of Power were common among the strongest godlings such as Lochvaur. The gods encouraged these Swords because they channeled their power more effectively. The gods actually created similar devices when they weren’t as strong. You may have heard of Runestones or other talismans.”

  “The Runestones of Teiwas?” she said. “I thought they were a myth.”

  “No myth,” Rhyn said. “But Rhyn’athel created those long before the gods learned to forge Swords of Power. The Swords of Power were the culmination of Rhyn’athel’s earlier works.”

  “Must I forge one of these blades?” she asked.

  Rhyn shook his head. “You’re not a godling — you haven’t the power to forge one. Anyway, there is no fire hot enough in this world anymore to forge one. Fyren should work, even though it isn’t a true Sword of Power,” Rhyn replied. “Actually any adamantine blade will work, but the bearer must have enough power to use it.” He handed her the blade. “Hold Fyren and concentrate on it.”

  Lachlei held Fyren in both hands. She stared at the blade, trying to imagine it sparking to life. It felt heavy and cold in her hands. She turned to Rhyn’athel with a puzzled expression. “I feel nothing.”

  “Relax,” he said. “Focus on your power.”

  Lachlei closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She exhaled slowly and tried to clear her mind. Lachlei became more aware of Rhyn’s presence beside her — each breath he took, his nearness…

  “Don’t focus on me,” Rhyn said. “On the sword.”

  Lachlei smiled slyly. She turned her mind towards the sword, focusing on her power. Fyren began to warm in her hands. She opened her eyes and saw it glowing silver-white. She caught her breath.

  “Keep focusing,” Rhyn said, his voice stern.

  “It takes a lot of power,” she whispered.

  “It will.”

  Lachlei reached deep within herself. This was the sword she would kill the demon who murdered Fialan. She would take her revenge…

  The sword flared with her anger and burned her fingers. She cried out and nearly dropped it in pain and surprise. Rhyn’s hands wrapped around hers as she dropped to her knees. Fyren clattered to the ground.

  “Lachlei!” he said. “Lachlei!”

  Lachlei gripped his hands. They felt remarkably soothing. She did not pull away and looked into his eyes and saw worry. “Rhyn, it burned me…” She turned her hands over and saw no blisters or scars. “What happened?” she whispered.

  “You must have tapped your rage,” Rhyn said. “It is a powerful weapon, but one that cuts both ways.”

  “You mean my anger can destroy a demon?”

  “It could,” he admitted. “But it might destroy you as well.”

  “If need be,” Lachlei said.

  Rhyn shook his head. “I would not like that,” he said, gently running his fingers through her hair.

  It was then Lachlei realized that she was in Rhyn’s arms. He leaned over and kissed her, and for a moment, she responded. In the month that followed Fialan’s death, Rhyn had been beside her, and yet, she had never thought…

  “No!” Lachlei pulled herself away.

  A mixture of bewilderment and anger flashed across Rhyn’s face, and Lachlei became afraid. The hint of power that she sensed in Rhyn blazed through him like a door that had been cracked open and then shut. Then, he became Rhyn once more. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He released her and she scrambled to her feet. He followed slowly, meeting her gaze.

  Lachlei stared. Did he love her? She had not given any thought about all the time they had spent with each other. She had thought of Rhyn as a warrior and a friend…

  “It’s all right,” she found herself saying, but it sounded false to her ears. She picked up Fyren and sheathed the sword. “I’m just very tired and …”

  Rhyn’s face was a mask. “It’s all right — I understand.”

  Lachlei barely heard his words as she turned and fled to her tent.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Six

  “Lochvaur?” Fialan repeated. He raised the ghost blade above his head in a defensive posture. Perhaps it did not have Fyren’s power, but maybe the blade would hold its own.

  He felt a steady hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Lochvaur standing beside him. “Easy, Fialan,” the godling said. “I’ve been expecting this.”

  Fialan lowered his sword. “What?”

  “Flayer, it’s been a long time,” Lochvaur said, facing the demon. “What does your lord want with me?”

&
nbsp; Flayer’s teeth shone. “My lord wants to speak to you now. There has been a change.”

  Lochvaur glanced at Fialan. “I was aware of this change,” he said. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I suggest you ask Areyn Sehduk, yourself.”

  “Very well, take me to him,” Lochvaur sighed.

  “Wait!” said Fialan. “You’re not going without at least one guard.”

  The demon and Lochvaur gazed at him curiously. “A guard?” Lochvaur repeated.

  “You can’t go without a Chi’lan guard,” Fialan said.

  “And who would be my guard?” Lochvaur said. “I can’t promise their safety, nor can they ensure mine.”

  Fialan’s gaze steeled. “I’ll go.”

  “What are you saying?” Eshe gasped. “Are you insane?”

  “Perhaps,” said Fialan. “Perhaps not. But I think I deserve to look on the face of the god who killed me.” He sheathed his sword.

  Lochvaur grinned. “Perhaps insane, Eshe, but very brave. I couldn’t ask for a more loyal guard, Fialan.” He turned to Flayer. “Take us both to Areyn now.”

  The demon’s jaw opened as though in mocking laughter, but no sound came from it. Instead, it beat its vast wings, and in a sudden rush of darkness both Lochvaur and Fialan were pulled away.

  *****

  Rhyn’athel had left the encampment and stood within a meadow surrounded by trees. Ancient cairns and rune stones dotted the field. At one time, this had been sacred ground — a small temple to the warrior god had stood here. Even now, the place felt clean and unspoiled.

  He sat on a smooth stone and gazed up at Sowelu, the sun, feeling its cold rays on his face. There was much to learn about being mortal, he decided. Far more than he had thought necessary. Had he been so out of touch with this world in two thousand years?

  Never had Rhyn’athel experienced such a confusing mix of emotions: his desire for Lachlei and his determination to not hurt her. It was a frustrating merging of passion and restraint. In an earlier time, there would have been no restraint, and as a god, Rhyn’athel would have appeared to Lachlei and loved her. But the Truce had changed everything. He found himself cursing the very Truce he had sought to uphold.

  “Welcome to mortality, brother.” The wolf-god leaned against a large cairn. “You were doing well until you kissed her…”

  Rhyn’athel glared. “If Lachlei knew who I was…”

  “If Lachlei knew who you were, so would Areyn Sehduk,” Ni’yah reminded him.

  “I’m a god — the most powerful god in the Nine Worlds — and yet, I can’t even woo a woman. It shouldn’t be this difficult.”

  “Need some pointers?” Ni’yah asked wryly.

  “Lachlei loves me,” Rhyn’athel replied stubbornly. “I could feel it when I kissed her. I know her heart, but she turns from me.”

  “Fialan’s ashes are barely scattered,” Ni’yah said. “Even if she knew who you were, I wonder if Lachlei could love you. She loved Fialan deeply.”

  “I can’t bring Fialan back,” the warrior god said. “I’m a god of the living, not the dead. The dead are Areyn’s. Even my own son belongs to him.”

  “Which makes Areyn Sehduk powerful.” Ni’yah agreed. “Hence, your dilemma.”

  “And then, there is the Wyrd,” Rhyn’athel said. “Damn it, Ni’yah! She must be mine, and yet, I can’t have her.”

  “You could trick her — become Fialan…”

  “No.” Rhyn’athel said it so emphatically that Ni’yah fell silent. “I will not stoop to Areyn’s tactics.” He paused. “And besides, Lachlei would know.”

  “And there is a chance Areyn would learn of it,” Ni’yah mused. He paused and a wicked gleam entered his eyes. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “No!”

  Ni’yah grinned evilly. “Yes — I’ll talk to her.”

  “Don’t you dare…”

  “Or what?” the wolf-god laughed.

  Rhyn’athel drew his sword.

  Ni’yah vanished.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Seven

  Bright light blinded Fialan for a moment, and he held his hands up to shelter his gaze. He could hear quiet, mocking laugher as his eyes adjusted to the blinding glare.

  “Some protector, Lochvaur,” came a voice. A familiar voice. “He can’t even see.”

  “Give him a moment, Areyn,” Lochvaur’s voice rang clear. “I’d love to see the scar he left you with on your last encounter.”

  A silence ensued, and the world came into sharp focus. It was daylight, bright and warm. The world they were in was brighter than Tarentor. Fialan could now tell that they were in a tent, but where, Fialan couldn’t fathom. It felt familiar somehow…

  Areyn Sehduk stood in the form of a Silren — the Silren that Fialan remembered before his death. But now the guise looked incomplete, as though the Eleion shell would not hold. His eyes were a mix of black and ice-blue; his hair was not quite white. Yet his mannerisms still shone with unspeakable power.

  Lochvaur held the death god’s gaze boldly. Indeed, Lochvaur looked more enraged than afraid of Areyn Sehduk, and there was a glint of something within Areyn’s eyes. Fear?

  Fialan had seen enough fear in other’s eyes to recognize the fear in the death god’s gaze. Why does Areyn Sehduk fear Lochvaur, when the god holds our very souls?

  Because it is not what I have done, but what I can do. I bide my time, Areyn, you know this…

  Areyn laughed, breaking eye contact first. “Your threats are unfounded, Lochvaur…”

  “Are they?” Lochvaur asked. “Then, why do you bring me here? Rhyn’athel knows you’ve broken the Truce.”

  “So, it was Rhyn’athel I fought,” Areyn mused. “He seemed very interested in preserving the Lochvaur bitch…” His eyes glinted as they fell on Fialan. “Lachlei.”

  Fialan nearly jumped at the mention of her name. “Lachlei?” he said. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

  Areyn grinned. “Why, she’s Rhyn’athel’s new champion — and little wonder — since she holds the key to the Nine Worlds...”

  Fialan stared. “What do you mean?”

  “Enough, Areyn — you wanted me, remember?” Lochvaur snarled.

  “It would be difficult to watch a loved one fought over like a scrap of meat between two dogs. Or should I say gods? The Wyrd has woven some very interesting possibilities…”

  “Enough!” snapped Lochvaur, drawing his Sword of Power. The Sword glowed brightly in the tent.

  Fialan stared speechlessly. How was Lachlei involved, and why would both Rhyn’athel and Areyn Sehduk want her? How could she hold the fate of the Nine Worlds? He looked questioningly at Lochvaur, but the godling’s gaze was fixed on Areyn.

  “Why did you bring us to Elren?” Lochvaur demanded. “Certainly, not to torment us.”

  “We’re in Elren?” Fialan asked.

  “Indeed,” Lochvaur said. “Why, Areyn?”

  “Select your best men, Lochvaur. I need them.”

  “I won’t give them for you to drain — choose your own!”

  “Not to drain — to fight for me,” Areyn replied. “I need warriors to fight the Chi’lan.”

  “Have your own demons fight for you — or choose some other Undead,” Lochvaur replied. “I won’t lead a charge against my own people.”

  “You’ll do as I say — you have no will,” Areyn replied. “Or I can make Tarentor very unpleasant.”

  “Burning rivers of flame? Frozen wastelands?” Lochvaur asked, his voice now mocking. “Come now, Areyn, you can think up far worse tortures.”

  “I have — and have done so,” Areyn smiled coldly. “I have taken your will. You have no choice but to obey me. Yes, yes, I’ve allowed your foolish attempts at defying me, but in the end, Lochvaur, you are still mine. Go, select you best men. If you do not, I will choose them myself and any that fails me, will serve me in other ways.”

  Lochvaur stood rigid, his steel eyes cold and filled with hate. “You would make me go
against my father and my blood?”

  “Indeed,” said Areyn. “Pity, that you have no choice.” He paused. “Are you going to use that weapon, Lochvaur, or merely threaten me with it?”

  Fialan watched as he saw a great struggle of wills ensue. Lochvaur raised his sword as though to strike Areyn, but something caught him as though invisible hands gripped his arms. Lochvaur shook under the power, fighting it desperately. Areyn smiled coldly as the godling’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. The Sword fell from his hands and clattered against the floor. Fialan wanted to rush forward to help Lochvaur, but found himself unable to move.

  Areyn casually stood before Lochvaur. The godling’s face was filled with hate and rage. “Remember, son of Rhyn’athel, who owns you.”

  “There will be a day, Areyn, when I will exact my revenge.”

  “Really? Or will you let your brother do that?” Areyn sneered. “Pick up your sword, Lochvaur, and choose your men. I’ll send Flayer for them within a Tarentor day.”

  Lochvaur glared as he stood and retrieved the Sword of Power. “There will come a day, Areyn…”

  Areyn laughed, and the world spun around them. Suddenly, both Lochvaur and Fialan stood on the battlement as though they had never left.

  “Lochvaur!” Kiril gasped as the two appeared. The other Lochvaur stood around them, staring at the two men.

  “Fialan!” said Eshe. “What happened?”

  Lochvaur looked grim and said naught. He nodded to Fialan and strode away without a word.

  CHAPTER Thirty-Eight

  Lachlei entered her tent and found that almost everything had been packed. She unfolded one of the chairs and sat down. Her face was red and when she rubbed it, she found that she had been crying. Why?

  It was one kiss — just one. But that kiss held unspoken passion behind it and she had responded. Had her love for Fialan been so cheap that she would throw it away for desire? Desire that she never knew she had?

  Lachlei looked at Rhyn differently now. Had she encouraged this? She had been comfortable around him and willing to give him command of the army — because he was capable? Or because she wished him to be around. Certainly, Cahal and the other Chi’lan were just as capable, weren’t they?