by M. H. Bonham
“What is it?”
“The power to create and destroy,” Rhyn said, his eyes glowing in the ruddy light of the fire. “It exists within all things. Rhyn’athel and Ni’yah use it to create; Areyn to destroy.” He propped his chin on one arm and met her gaze. “Why are you curious about the Fyr?”
“Could it be used against us again?”
“It could,” he admitted. “But Areyn isn’t that desperate. Not yet.”
His confidence was reassuring, and Lachlei pulled herself closer to him. She could feel him respond as her body pressed against his. Her face was only a few inches from his. “Rhyn,” she whispered. “I’ve reacted badly.”
Puzzlement glinted in Rhyn’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I never thought I could love another,” she said. “And yet, I love you.”
Rhyn stared at her as if not believing he had heard correctly. Lachlei pulled him towards her and kissed him. Rhyn took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily. She responded, sliding her hands over his mailshirt and unbuckling his swordbelt.
A scream shattered their passion. Rhyn was already on his feet, refastening the belt and drawing his sword. Another scream — this time louder — and Lachlei could see the anger in his eyes. “What is it?”
“Demon,” Rhyn growled. His Sword of Power was glowing as he eyes followed the unseen menace above them.
Lachlei stood up, her silver eyes trying to see the demon. She had instinctively drawn her sword and could see something moving above the encampment, but nothing substantial. Rhyn’s focus was so completely on it, that she found it easier to watch him than try to discern the demon in the dark sky.
Other warriors were to their feet as well. Rhyn’s eyes glowed menacingly. “Reveal yourself, Heath-stalker!”
The demon screamed, and Lachlei caught her breath. The demon stood above them, its wings beating furiously. Its long serpent neck was furred, and it had the head of a wolf. Yellow eyes glowed as it growled at the warrior god.
Cahal was beside her, pulling her away from Rhyn. “No!” she snapped.
“Let Rhyn do his job!” Cahal hissed. “He’s a demon slayer — let him kill it.”
Suddenly, the demon screamed and dove, but not at Rhyn. Instead, the demon charged right at her. Lachlei swung Fyren, trying to focus on her power. The blade parried the demon’s massive claws, throwing her backward. She heard Cahal’s cry from somewhere behind her and saw the demon rise above her, its claws posed to grasp her.
A yell and a blinding flash. Black blood and drool poured from the slavering creature. Wings and claws whirled around her, and Lachlei thrust her sword upward as the demon bore down on her.
Lachlei could not breathe or see. The demon’s weight crushed her. Then, for a moment, she saw a warrior glazed in light, his sword glowing in his hands. He looked like Rhyn, and yet wasn’t. This warrior was powerful and terrifying. He thrust the sword deep into the demon and it thrashed.
Was it Rhyn’athel, himself? Her thoughts went back to Rhyn’s words. He seemed confident that the warrior god was with them.
“Lachlei?” Rhyn’s voice snapped her out of the vision. “Are you all right?” Gone was the warrior god, replace by darkness and demon-stench. Rhyn and several of the Chi’lan pushed the demon’s body from her. As the body rolled off, Lachlei freed Fyren from the demon’s chest. Fyren had cut through the demon’s thick armor and into its heart.
“I think so,” she said. Despite being covered in gore, Lachlei had not been injured. She found it odd that the demon tried to pick her up, not rake her. It had purposely avoided Rhyn, its obvious challenger.
Rhyn grinned as he saw the wound. “You killed it,” he said. “I only managed to pierce its hide in the back.”
Lachlei wiped the blood from her blade and considered Rhyn thoughtfully. “That’s not what I saw,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze.
Rhyn tilted his head. “What did you see?”
Rhyn’athel.
Rhyn started at the name. “Are you sure?” he breathed.
You are Rhyn’athel’s champion, not me, Lachlei said. That is why you were so certain Rhyn’athel is with us.
Rhyn relaxed visibly. Nonsense, he said. You bear the mark of Rhyn’athel.
CHAPTER Forty-Six
Fialan awoke in a tent at the army’s encampment. Every nerve burned within him, and he lay in agony for a while. Slowly, as the pain diminished, he was able to see again.
“Easy, Fialan, you’ve been through a lot.”
As his eyes focused, Fialan looked up and saw his father’s face. “Father?”
Lochalan nodded. He sat beside Fialan, looking much as Fialan remembered him. Fialan smiled as he realized how close he had come to resemble him. “Yes, my son, though I wish our meeting was under happier circumstances.”
“Where are Eshe and Kiril?”
“They’re both resting. You should rest as well.”
“Lochvaur,” Fialan said. “I heard Areyn and Lochvaur talking.”
Lochalan shook his head, but said nothing. His eyes hardened. “What were you doing away from the army?”
“Eshe — she…” Fialan paused. “She was disoriented from leaving Tarentor. She wandered away and got lost,” he lied. “Kiril and I went looking for her.”
“A noble gesture, but one you shouldn’t have made.”
Fialan sat up. “Lochvaur. Where’s Lochvaur?”
Lochalan hesitated.
“Father?”
“Lochvaur has taken the punishment intended for all of you.”
“Punishment?” Fialan stared, remembering the conversation between Lochvaur and Areyn.
Will you take responsibility for their actions?
“A flaying,” Lochalan said.
“No,” breathed Fialan. “Why? If Areyn wanted to punish anyone, he should have punished me.”
“Lochvaur is responsible for his men’s actions,” his father said. “Just as you would take responsibility for your own men.”
“But a flaying?”
“The demons wouldn’t have shown any mercy, my son. I don’t think you would’ve been able to recover from those wounds on top of your new body.”
“My new body?” Fialan stared at his hands. They looked the same.
“When you hit the perimeter, you burned off your body. That was the pain you felt. You’re not up to full strength yet.”
Fialan sat on the edge of the bed. His armor had been removed, and he was barefoot but he wore a tunic and breeches. “Where’s Lochvaur?”
“Resting — as you should be.”
Fialan tried to stand. Nausea assailed him as the room began to spin. He closed his eyes, fighting the heaves from his empty stomach before standing up.
“You’re more stubborn than even I remember,” Lochalan said. “You won’t be up to strength for at least a day.”
“I need to speak to Lochvaur,” Fialan said. He glanced around and saw that Eshe and Kiril lay unconscious beside him. Both looked deathly pale, and their eyes were open and unseeing. Fialan stared at them in horror. “Eshe? Kiril?” He turned to his father. “Are they…?”
Lochalan barked a short laugh. “You were that way for nearly two days. They’ll come out of it in time.”
Fialan saw his armor and weapons on a chest nearby. He pulled the arming shirt and breeches on and slid the heavy hauberk over his head. “Father, I must speak to Lochvaur. I bring news that may help us.”
Lochalan shook his head. “Very well, I will take you to him, but he may not see you.”
“I’ll take my chance.”
*****
Lochalan brought Fialan before Lochvaur’s tent. The tent flaps were closed and guards were posted outside the entrance.
“No one has been allowed inside — not since the flaying,” Lochalan said. “It takes time even for a son of Rhyn’athel to heal from such terrible wounds. Luckily, we have that time — the Silren and Eltar are late.”
“Silren. Eltar.” Fialan shook his
head. “We are Lochvaur — not battle fodder.”
“We are Undead — Braesan. We are expendable,” Lochalan replied. He turned to the guards. “My son, Fialan, wishes admittance.”
One guard shook his head. “No. We have orders from Lochvaur, himself. No one is to be admitted.”
Fialan? Lochvaur’s voice rang in his head.
Yes, it’s me, Fialan replied.
Lochalan looked at his son in amazement. “You can mindspeak?”
Let him pass, came Lochvaur’s voice.
“I’ll explain later,” Fialan said. He stepped into the tent.
Lochvaur sat in near darkness, cloaked and hooded, so Fialan could not see his face.
Fialan hesitated as he entered. “Lochvaur, I…”
“There is no need for apologies, Fialan,” Lochvaur replied. His voice was raspy and barely audible. “Forgive my condition; I’m still not quite healed.”
“By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” Fialan swore. “Why? Why you?”
“Because Areyn can, Fialan. Areyn takes great pains to prove to me who has the upper hand. It’s almost as if he doesn’t believe it, himself.”
“Does he have the upper hand?”
“What do you think?” Was there a tinge of ironic humor in his voice?
“I think Areyn does at the present, but he is like a man who has caged a terrible dragon,” Fialan said. “He taunts the dragon, but isn’t quite certain of the cage’s strength.”
“An apt description,” remarked Lochvaur. “And now you know the game he and I play.”
“A dangerous one.”
“Is there any other kind to play?”
“What does Rhyn’athel think?”
“Rhyn’athel isn’t involved in this. This is personal between Areyn and me,” Lochvaur said. He paused. “Certainly, you didn’t come to chide me over our little game?”
“No, though Eshe and Kiril still lie unconscious because of it,” Fialan said.
“Eshe shouldn’t have fled; Kiril and you shouldn’t have gone after her.”
“Perhaps not,” Fialan said. “Would you like to know how we found her?”
Lochvaur stood up. “I was wondering who would be the first to no longer be Wyrd-blind…” Amusement colored his voice.
“You know?”
“I suspected — I’ve been feeling my own powers grow again, despite this poor facsimile Areyn calls a body…”
“But why?” Fialan mused. “Why can I mindspeak? Why am I starting to show my powers when I had none in Tarentor?”
“Because you’re a creature of the worlds of the living, Fialan — just as I am,” Lochvaur said. “Your powers are returning because you gain your strength from this world. We already have to eat and drink. The more of this world we take in, the less we are of Tarentor. We become of this world again, Fialan. The only other world that would allow us to gain our power back would be Athelren, itself.”
“Because we came from Athelren originally,” Fialan mused.
“You’ve been talking to Eshe — she remembers a time before when the Eleion came from Athelren.”
“Then, it’s true,” Fialan marveled. “Athelren is our home.”
“It always has been — and it will be so again,” Lochvaur said. “And Areyn only suspects the depths of my power.” With that, he shrugged off his cloak.
Fialan stared agape. Lochvaur was nearly healed. The lines were still there — ugly weals that crisscrossed his face, but they were healing rapidly. “Your face…”
“The scars will be gone within a few hours,” Lochvaur said. “As I said, like you, I am growing stronger.”
“But the pain…”
“Is inconsequential,” Lochvaur grinned. “Areyn will have to double or triple his efforts to keep me contained. To keep you contained. To control the Chi’lan — the best Lochvaur warriors. All that takes power — power he can’t use against Rhyn’athel.”
“Or Lachlei,” Fialan stared. “You chose the most powerful Chi’lan…”
“That is what Areyn wanted,” the godling said slyly. “With each day, he will weaken…”
“And each day, we grow stronger,” Fialan said.
“I hope you weren’t fond of Tarentor, my friend,” Lochvaur said as he drew his cloak and hood around himself once more. “We may yet find a way out of this.”
Fialan turned to leave, but instead, paused. He gazed at the godling thoughtfully.
“You’re curious about something?” Lochvaur asked.
Fialan hesitated. “I was wondering how you died,” he admitted. “You are more than any Chi’lan warrior — indeed, more than any Eleion. It seems impossible to me that you could die.”
“I had a mortal body.”
“Yes, but you’re part of Athelren, or the Wyrd…” Fialan felt at a loss for words. “Yes, Eshe came from Athelren, but you’re more so…” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it.”
“It’s that apparent even to my heirs?”
Fialan considered Lochvaur thoughtfully. “It’s apparent to me. How apparent it is to the others, I don’t know. How did you die?”
Lochvaur chuckled. “It seems your curiosity won’t be satisfied easily, even with a straightforward answer. Areyn sent a small army of arch-demons and Jotunn to ambush me.”
“But the Truce had already been agreed upon,” Fialan objected. “The Jotunn and arch-demons were banished from Elren by then.”
Lochvaur laughed. “So, they were — or so we thought.” He raised a hand to silence Fialan. “Enough questions, my friend. I must rest, and Eshe is awakening.”
Fialan nodded and left. As he greeted his father, he glanced back at the guarded entrance to Lochvaur’s tent, wondering what exactly Lochvaur was and why Areyn Sehduk feared and hated him so.
CHAPTER Forty-Seven
“What is Lochvaur, Kiril?” Fialan asked as he entered the tent where both Eshe and Kiril had lain comatose. Both were awake now. Eshe sat on her cot, drinking hot tea and eating what appeared to be hard tack. Kiril had drawn his sword and was idly swinging the blade back and forth, testing the new body. Beads of sweat ran down his bronze skin as he swung the broadsword over his head.
Kiril halted in mid-swing and gave Fialan a dark look. “Some way to greet your friends,” he remarked.
“I’m glad you’re ok,” Fialan remarked brusquely. “But my father, Lochalan, already assured me that you’d come around.”
“Well, that’s sensitive,” Eshe replied sarcastically. She bit into the hardtack and spit it out. “Awful. Simply awful.”
Fialan took a slow breath inward. “Eshe, I’m glad you’re ok.”
She glanced at him and then looked away. “Kiril says you asked him to help search for me.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“You shouldn’t have fled.”
“And why not?” Her silver eyes were unreadable.
“You would’ve been flayed.”
“My skin seems remarkably intact,” she replied, holding her hands outstretched for him to examine.
“Lochvaur’s isn’t.”
A silence ensued. Kiril stopped swinging the sword and brought it point down into the dirt. “By Rhyn’athel’s mane,” he whispered.
Eshe blanched and looked away. “That was his choice.”
“Yes, it was his choice,” Fialan said evenly. “And Lochvaur took the punishment meant for us.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that,” she snapped.
“No, you didn’t. But you ought to be more grateful. Kiril and I took a dreadful chance trying to find you. I would’ve taken my punishment gladly if I had a say.”
Eshe stood up and moved to draw her dagger. Fialan caught her arm. “Leave me alone.”
“No,” Fialan said. He eyed the weapon. “If you’re going to draw it, Chi’lan, you’d better be prepared to use it.”
“Chi’lan,” Eshe spat. “We’re Braesan. Undead. Unwanted and unloved by Rhyn’athel.”
“I don’t beli
eve it — not for a moment,” Fialan said. “I think your time in Tarentor has rotted your mind. You’ve listen too long to the demon’s lies and now you believe them.” He met her gaze coolly. “Listen, Eshe, there’s still hope. There’s always hope — even for the damned.”
Eshe’s hand wavered and she dropped the dagger. She collapsed on the cot weeping. “I don’t know anymore, Fialan. I used to be so strong…”
Fialan held her and glanced at Kiril. Kiril nodded once and silently left the tent. He stroked her hair and kissed her. “Eshe, I’m so sorry.”
Eshe dried her eyes on her tunic sleeve and smiled weakly. “It is I who should apologize,” she said. “The demons would’ve flayed us had it not been for Lochvaur.” She shook her head. “It is so like him to take our punishment.”
“Why?” Fialan mused.
“Lochvaur feels responsible for us,” she replied. “He’s a good commander — he always has been. He never asked any of us to do something he wouldn’t do himself. And, he always felt that the Lochvaur were his children — even if we all weren’t descended directly from his bloodline.”
“Do you know what he is, Eshe?” Fialan asked. “A godling, certainly, but I’ve known Laddel and Silvain, and neither is anything like Lochvaur.”
“I don’t know exactly what he is, except he is Rhyn’athel’s son,” Eshe admitted. “He was at least two thousand years old when I was living, but I don’t think there were any Eleion alive who knew him that long ago. Perhaps he was one of the original Eleion.” She kissed him, and Fialan held her as he stroked her hair. She was so unlike Lachlei, and yet, he sensed a strength within her that had been buried deep. “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity, mostly. Why does Areyn fear him?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Those of us who saw Areyn’s fear the first time took heart. But as the millennia passed, nothing seemed to come of it, and many of us gave up hope. We thought we had deluded ourselves into thinking we saw what we saw.”
“I know what I saw. I saw fear in Areyn’s eyes,” Fialan replied. “Lochvaur spoke of a game he played with Areyn.”
“A game?” Eshe mused. “Then it is a very old game. Areyn Sehduk has been Lochvaur’s enemy as long as I can remember. This contention didn’t start with Lochvaur entering Tarentor — it started well before that.”