6
The Feykin hurry to butcher the belraphi, jungle hares, and large predator that Luke has been told is called a culkra. Skins are cleaned and put aside to be turned into clothing while bones are saved to be used in soups, a collection of large cauldrons already bubbling over open flames. A shaman with crackling hair works on drying out the innards, her youthful assistants hastily grounding the prepared organs into powder for a variety of potions. Not far away, another group removes the poison from the yellow berries and divides the other fruit to be handed out among the citizens. All of the children help by doing the simpler tasks, many of them sneaking a few pieces of food when the adults are not looking. With two successful supply runs in one day, the Feykin are happier than they have been in months. Only a hint of tension remains in the atmosphere and it comes from a handful of warriors who are still obsessed with marching on their enemies.
Staying out of the way, Delvin watches the thorough and organized process that has routinely impressed him since first arriving in Rhundar. He is reminded of ants working as an efficient team to take down prey or carve up large plants. Not a single member remains idle and the tasks get done within hours instead of days. Part of him considers how such a system would work in combat, but he eventually realizes that he would have to leave his new home to put it into action. Most of the Feykin are not warriors and to turn them into an army would corrupt the natural peace that Delvin has come to admire. The champion reminds himself that the city’s former serenity is what he is fighting to revive instead of pushing for conquest like he believes his fellow ruler desires. With a sigh of contentment, he turns his attention back to the scrolls that have been piled on the table.
“Why does being in charge always involve paperwork?” Delvin asks, glancing up at his friends. Luke and Timoran shrug before going back to their drinks, the fruity mixture helping to relax their aching muscles. “I don’t know what most of these are. The Feykin don’t have any records beyond history books. I’m not even sure what language this is. All I can see is that I have to sign every page. Wait a second. Does this one have Luke’s name?”
“Let me see that,” the forest tracker says over the lip of his glass. Taking the parchment out of Delvin’s hand, he scans the scribbles several times and chuckles. “I’ve no idea what this is about. If you can find somebody to read it out loud then I have a shot. Maybe part of their records involve having people sign their names to prove they were there. Then again, the handwriting looks like pointless scribbles. Will I go to jail or be executed if I don’t sign this thing?”
The brown-haired warrior shrugs and pushes the papers aside, clearing the way to his untouched drink. “No, but I’ll talk to Zohara about it. If she says it’s important then I know where to find you. Being king is a real pain at times. Maybe I should let Sari take the throne while Zohara and I settle down to something less stressful. Then again, that could be a big mistake. Our lovable gypsy is practically a warlord at times. She really wants to march from town to town and wipe out the Order. Some days I wonder if she’d take the time to confirm that her targets are really enemies. Not sure that’s the best path for the Feykin.”
“One who focuses entirely on conquering will eventually find enemies where only allies stand,” Timoran claims while staring forlornly at his drink. The local brews have no effect on the barbarian, their taste reminding him of juice instead of alcohol. “A mutual friend that you requested we not name mentioned something about Sari. Her naiad powers are different in the jungle because of the heat. It requires more effort for her to create ice, which makes me wonder if anything similar has happened to you. Not to say that the Feykin are involved, but it is possible that the cultists managed to strike a blow that you are unaware of. It could even have been something you ate from the jungle, which harms those not from the area.”
Delvin seems hesitant to agree, but eventually realizes the wisdom in his friend’s words and takes a quick drink to steady his nerves. He extends his arm and focuses on his aura, the churning energy coming to the surface in the form of a perfect cube. With his other hand, he grabs the corner and pulls to turn the shape into a flexible handkerchief. Tossing the cloth in the air, the warrior snaps his fingers and the magic explodes into a swarm of tiny meteors. The small orbs streak around Rhundar, staying high enough to avoid threatening the people below. Satisfied with the flashy answer, Delvin calls the energy back to his palm where it becomes a cube again and sinks back into his skin.
“The opposite happened with me,” he answers with a proud smile. The warrior tries to ignore the sweat dripping from his face, but takes the offered rag from Timoran after a few seconds. “I’m not used to the power yet, but I have more control than ever. It isn’t perfect though. There’s a high risk of fatigue if I overwork my aura or keep an effect running for too long. Zohara thinks I’m more in tuned with the natural magic of the jungle while Sari comes from ocean folk, which means she’s not compatible. Just another reason she probably shouldn’t rule Rhundar.”
“I keep hearing how Sari shouldn’t be in charge, but why should you?” Luke asks, leaning back in his chair. A few of the nearby Feykin glare at him, their eyes turning gray before their leader politely waves them back to their jobs. “They definitely respect you and you’re engaged to High Priestess Zohara. Yes, you have a lot of experience leading armies and smaller forces, but doesn’t that put you in a similar position as Sari? You only have warrior training, which is what you may fall back on when cornered. I’m not trying to insult you, Delvin. I only want to find out why one of my friends thinks he’s worthy to be king of a place he barely knows and over a people that he really isn’t one of. Again, I mean no offense, but Sari is a Feykin while you’re a human. One would think she’d be the better choice due to lineage.”
“That’s funny coming from someone who might marry into a merchant family and knows nothing about business. Not to mention Timoran recently became the ruler of his tribe and he only has warrior experience,” Delvin contends, a deep scowl on his face. His hand falls to his blade, and he taps his fingers against the hilt while taking another drink. “To put it simply, we all have to learn about our new roles. Pride is cast aside to avoid mistakes and we ask questions to those who know more. My time as a mercenary and a champion will help me keep the Feykin out of situations that would call for such people. There is also the fact that Zohara will be by my side. Like Timoran and you, I will be with someone who can help me bridge the gap and support my decisions. So I do take some offense at what you said because you’re not in any better of a position with Kira.”
Timoran clears his throat to stop his friends from glaring at each other, the barbarian calmly adding a few drops of Ifrit mead to his cup. “I have to agree with both of you. Delvin is correct that we can become leaders if such skills are needed. It reminds me that I still have a lot to learn once my adventures come to an end. Yet, I also agree with Luke that you may always be an outsider. His words were more abrasive, but I believe he shares my concern that you will take a path that is not meant for you. Your love of Zohara aside, there may always be a wall between you and the Feykin. Sari would not have this problem. Her only flaw is that she is focused primarily on the Order and destroying them. It is possible that she will return to her old self once the threat of genocide is no longer hanging over Rhundar.”
“What happens to you or Sari when the other takes the throne?” Luke interjects, cutting Delvin off. The forest tracker rubs the pommels of his sabers when he hears a blade rise an inch from its scabbard. “Seems she isn’t the only one prone to violence. You’re on edge and itching for a fight, Cunningham. Unlike Sari, you hide it better. Although I don’t think you’re very good at directing your anger. More like the savage temper of an irritable troll than the controlled rage of a barbarian. Sorry about that comparison, Timoran, but your people are on the positive side of that statement. I know I’m not one to talk since I don’t always think things through, but keeping so much stress and anger pent up is
n’t the sign of a good leader. It also makes me worry about what the loser of your competition will do to the winner.”
“You think Sari and I will try to kill each other?”
“We’ve already seen you two argue and insult each other.”
“I’d never harm a friend.”
“You almost drew your sword on me just now.”
“That could have been any of my people who are ready to defend my honor.”
“I saw you do it with my ears.”
His eyes darting from Timoran to Luke, Delvin curses under his breath and shoves his paperwork into his bottomless pouch. In his haste to storm off, he bangs the table with his hip and spills everyone’s drinks. For a moment, the warrior considers helping to clean the mess, but his churning temper reclaims his focus. Delvin waves and grunts at the few greetings he gets, most of which come from children too young to recognize his sour mood. Rocks are kicked and sent bouncing against buildings, a few hitting doors that are immediately opened by the surprised inhabitants. Wanting to get out of public view, the warrior jogs for the central temple and tries to make it look as if he is exercising. The illusion is routinely undone by the glare that appears on his face whenever he thinks back to the conversation.
By the time he reaches the stairs, Delvin is not sure why he is so angry and silently admits that Luke’s question was a fair one. He climbs halfway up the central mound to sit and think about what he would do in either situation. Losing to Sari would not be so bad since he would still marry Zohara and could act as a General. The two champions have only fought over how to handle the Order, which would no longer be a factor. As a military leader, he would have some influence over the gypsy’s decisions while not having to deal with all of the responsibility of being in charge. The more he considers that option, the more he believes it is the safest path for everyone involved. Then again, Phelan would likely become the top General and attempt to phase Delvin out entirely. An assassination from the two Feykin is not out of the question given their aggressiveness. The pair have shown a disturbing amount of joy over killing cultists, which is a bloodlust that cannot be cast away so easily.
On the other side of the coin, Delvin has no idea what he would do about Sari if he took the throne. She lacks the experience and restraint to be a General, which leaves a council position or something outside of the government. When the warrior wonders about the second option, he decides that the gypsy is most likely to create a thieves guild. Many of her skills are geared toward a criminal lifestyle and such an organization could be used to undermine Delvin’s newborn regime. As Luke stated, the former mercenary is a full-blooded human and Sari would not hesitate to use that fact to gain support. Even if she lost the throne, she would constantly remind everyone that they are being ruled by an outsider. The situation could become worse than he imagines depending on the lies and half-truths the blue-haired woman spreads.
“She could create an underground revolution to take me down,” he whispers, his fist striking the stone steps. He stares at his bleeding knuckle and heals the small injury, a pang of discomfort causing him to stand. “I don’t want to kill her, but I’ll keep an eye on her. The others would be upset if I harm Sari, so Phelan would be a better target. All I have to do is make it clear that any attempts to overthrow me will result in him getting hurt. Worst case scenario, they make a blatant attack and I fight in self-defense. Nobody can be angry if they die attempting to murder me. That’s the perfect plan.”
“Come quickly, my love!” Zohara shouts as she hurries down the stairs. The priestess is barely dressed after hastily throwing her clothes on, her hair trailing behind like a waving beam of light. “We have an emergency. The Order has been seen outside of the barrier.”
“I don’t understand how that’s a problem,” Delvin replies as she urgently drags him by the wrist. Citizens are rushing toward the eastern side of town, all of them carrying weapons. “The barrier protects us. You strengthened it this morning. Only Feykin and my friends can get inside. Why is everyone panicking?”
“A group of children crossed the border to gather vegetables,” the priestess answers, the crowd parting to let her through. “They wanted to help with preparations and went without an adult. We have to hurry.”
Two roars can be heard from the far side of town, followed by the high-pitched screams of the children. Delvin frees himself from Zohara’s grip and sprints down the street, his blade singing as it is drawn. He catches a brief glimpse of Sari and Phelan racing toward the scene, but there are no signs of the other champions. Another chorus of screams erupts before being drowned out by a crackling bang, as if something heavy and powerful has hit an electrified surface. Delvin considers slowing down when he sees a plume of fire erupt and pieces of whatever has been killed are sent hurtling through the barrier, which no longer considers the chunks worth deflecting. The long-nosed, stiff-haired head of a troll lands in the warrior’s path, the flaming body part stuck with its mouth open in shock. Seeing that Sari is still running, he knows that this is a moment he must claim control of and his power flares to help him stay on the gypsy’s heels.
*****
“Let’s see you do that again, caster,” a bare-chested cultist says while holding up a polished shield. The other thirty men and women follow his example with their matching gear, many of them nervously watching the scene before them. “These will attract and reflect your combat spells. No telling where they’ll go. You may hit the troll, but you could also hit Rhundar. Their barrier won’t save them from an ally’s spells. So use your magic to help us get in and we promise to let you live.”
Still a little dizzy from the berries’ poison, Nyx ignores the grinning cultists as she maintains a shield spell around herself and the crying children. It is an easier task now that only two trolls remain, the smoking feet of the third still fused to the ground on her right. The twelve foot tall monsters savagely beat on her barrier with clawed hands, the sun glinting off their ebony, crystalline nails. Each beast roars with its two heads, their frustration causing the yellow dots in their abyssal eye holes to grow. The pair move back and charge in an attempt to push their prey into the river, but Nyx holds her ground. Sweat pouring off her face, a sword of flame appears in her hand to drive off the oily predators. She is forced to dispel the blade when she feels the wall of enchanted shields try to launch it from her grasp and into the gathered crowd. With no fire to threaten them, the trolls return to battering the channeler’s shield and bellowing at the terrified children.
When the monsters slam the sides of the barrier at the same time, the bubble shrinks and one of the claws finds Nyx’s flesh. It is a small cut on the cheek that numbs her face thanks to the troll’s icy touch. Frost appears on her eyelashes and she attempts to use a subtle fire spell to clear the mild annoyance. The tiny embers are pulled to the shields and scattered around the area, the magic too weak to do more than sizzle upon contact. Nyx does not know how much longer she can hold the barrier and the growing crowd of Feykin make too big of a target for a deflected spell. She considers trying to overpower the enchanted objects, but knows a lot of damage would happen before the battle ended.
“Let the kids go home and I’ll surrender,” Nyx says, her breathing becoming ragged. The dizziness finally ends and she sends a surge of power through the barrier, which is dragged a few feet toward the shields. “I might not be a Feykin or any type of fae blood, but I’m powerful and have a lot of knowledge about their kind. Take me and you can find out what I know. Just call back the trolls until the kids get away.”
“That’s a ridiculous request,” the cultist leader states with a look of disgust on his face. He spits on the grass and sneers at the children, who cower behind the channeler. “If we let them go then they will grow up to breed. Kids are the easiest targets and are best to be eliminated whenever found. Not like they deserved to be born in the first place. Now drop the barrier and leave. None of this concerns an outsider.”
“I wouldn’t be a champi
on if I did that,” the half-elf declares as she is driven to her knees by the trolls’ latest attack. A powerful bellow erupts from her mouth, but it has no effect on the savage beasts. “The moment these two creatures are gone, I’m tearing you apart with my bare hands. At least if nobody else gets to you first. Aren’t you standing too close to Rhundar to be so confident?”
“We will gladly die to eliminate even one of these abominations!” shouts a young woman as she lowers her shield. She hurls a spear at Nyx, the weapon splintering against the shield. “We have no fear of these monsters!”
Sari’s slender arm slips around the woman’s neck and pulls back to slit her throat with a dagger. Facing the other cultists, the gypsy shoves the wide-eyed body, so it lands face first in the mud. The robed men and women draw their weapons while their leader backs away to keep his attention on the trolls. The man is sent to the ground when watery jaws erupt from the earth and bite off one of his legs at the knee. Satisfied that he will not be any more trouble, Sari sprints at her remaining enemies and focuses exclusively on slashing the cultists’ eyes. Once she blinds one, the gypsy moves on to another and only finishes a person off when their whimpering irritates her. None of the intruders are quick enough to land a blade on the agile champion and most attempts to deliver a shield strike result in them hitting an ally. The blows that do land hit an unmovable figure, the shuddering impact leaving the cultist stunned and exposed for an easy attack.
A growl rolls from the jungle before Phelan charges in from the side and slams into the group. He kills three of the surprised men and woman before he is forced to defend himself with quick parries. Unused to facing so many enemies at once, the Feykin struggles to hold his own while backing toward the river. When he is near the shore, coiled spikes of water erupt from swirling eddies and stab at the cultists. All of the attacks harmlessly splash against the invaders, their amber necklaces shining as an enchantment undoes the fae magic. Realizing that the young man is an easier target, several of the unharmed cultists ignore Sari and charge forward. Before they can reach him, Phelan jumps into the river and disappears beneath the surface.
Charms of the Feykin Page 14