The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) (2 page)

The power sprang alive, ripping down his spine like ice water. He stepped left, not knowing why but just letting the power guide him.

An arrowhead glided past his face, and the point grazed his face.

It drew blood. The wound burned as if it been an edge of fire cutting him.

The invaders roared and began to charge. Lethos's smile vanished, and he turned to run. He did not need magic powers to tell him a rabid pack of raiders at his back was a bad thing. And these men not only intended to kill him, but seemed actually capable of it.

He dashed away, the invaders right behind.

CHAPTER TWO

Lethos ran with the speed that only life-threatening terror could inspire. His legs pounded up the slope, deftly avoiding ruts and rocks hidden in ankle-high grass that had browned with the start of autumn. His power was a tingling finger of cold ice that stroked his spine. It blurred the edges of the world, as if he were viewing it through a frosted window. His soft leather boots landed exactly where they should to avoid tripping. His every jolt avoided an arrow screeching past him.

None of this made him feel better about his prospects. As he sprinted across the fields, the roar of ravenous madmen in pursuit filled him with dread. A review of Kafara's "highly inconvenient" injuries--dismemberment, decapitation, immolation--all seemed quite within his pursuers capabilities. While his flesh was iron to normal weapons, like iron, if held down and hacked long enough it would eventually snap. Not to mention hurt.

I held them up long enough to introduce myself, Lethos thought while hoping Grimwold remained open to his communication. Another trick they had both learned from Kafara and Turo was how to shut off each other's influences. Grimwold was far too adamant in enforcing his wall. He thought Lethos was too emotional, which he considered feminine and something to be avoided. Right now, he needed Grimwold to hear that he was bringing a full-on charge with him and experience his desperate fear.

An arrow bounced off his shoulder. His cloak and shirt tore, but his skin did not break. The shaft did. Splinters showered in front of him as he ran. A stand of dwarf pines and tall elms appeared through the morning haze. Grimwold would be arriving from that direction, so he turned his feet toward them. A glance over his shoulder and he realized the pursuers were gaining on him. Secondarily, he realized he was leading them directly toward the closest settlement.

"Damn you for a fool," he shouted as he changed direction. After several more strides, as his hamstrings began to burn and a stitch grabbed hold of his left side, he glanced back to see the black crowd of rabid men had changed directions with him. They acted little better than mindless animals. Several had stumbled and, being so tightly packed, had tripped up their companions. Yet, they had not only correctly identified him as Manifested, but they also seemed to have prepared a weapon to hurt him. The cut on his cheek continued to burn and bleed. In prior battles, if a blade had been lucky enough to cut him, the resultant wound healed in an instant. Not this one.

More arrows pelted him, hard thumps on his back that either caught on his cloak or bounced aside. One shaft hit him directly at the back of his shoulder, sinking into his flesh. Yet in the next footfall it fell away leaving a trail of warm blood and a wound that tingled as it sealed. Lethos realized his power was no longer leading him and that the archers in pursuit were landing their shots.

I see you, said a voice in Lethos's head. It was Grimwold. We are on the flank, keep them moving and I will crash into them from the side.

Lethos nodded, out of breath, then feeling his face turn hot. He did not need breath to reply to Grimwold. Still, he heard the heavy footfalls thundering along the ground and could only imagine dozens of men driving their spears into his face. Would his eyeballs turn a spear point, he wondered? Best to never find out.

He was at the crest of a flat hill, now staring down the slope toward a line of trees, when he heard the war cries from Grimwold's band. Lethos continued to run until he stumbled to a halt, hands on both knees and panting. He glanced up the hill to see men turning aside and heading back. A smile touched Lethos's lips. Running like a scared rabbit might not have been very becoming of a Manifested, but he still could not believe himself capable of confronting seven men, much less seventy. He jogged back up the slope to see Grimwold's house guard streaming from the distant woods. The enemy archers, a dozen men at most, were turning their bows toward them.

Lethos sprang down the slope now, realizing he had no sword, and charged for the archers. He was still not in a habit of wearing a sword everywhere like the men of Valahur did. He would have to rely on his enhanced strength to bowl over these archers and hope to lay out most of them before they could organize their defense.

He bounded forward as the archers released their first shots over the heads of their companions. They used long, curved bows nearly as tall as they were. The strings hummed and the shafts hissed as they arced into the sky toward Grimwold's men. They charged heedless of danger as the enemy formed up with shields braced together. The rabble that had seemed so disorganized a moment ago now pulled into a cohesive force. Lethos was only a half-dozen strides from slamming into the first archer.

Then he felt a red hot chain pull from the side of his head, through the shield wall of enemies, and stretch across the field to Grimwold.

"Stop! Be still!" Grimwold shouted. His voice boomed like thunder and seventy men went rigid at the command.

The power flowed from Lethos to Grimwold. They were a Dyad, a bonded pair of Manifested. Lethos was a Cohort, the one who collected magical radiance from the world and funneled it to the Prime, Grimwold. Each Dyad had its own powers. Grimwold had the power to dominate a man's will, and could do so on a frightening scale. He could hold hundreds of men under his sway and they would be powerless to escape his will.

Even Grimwold's men, at least seventy of his own warriors, stopped at his command. The field had gone from a riot of noise to utter silence. Only the creak of loosening bowstrings made any sound. With a single word, the enemy threat was nullified.

Lethos stepped back from the closest archer, a young man with a thin beard and red cheeks. His eyes were wide with the shock he must have experienced at losing his own will. Lethos had a mind to shove the man over or at least flip off his leather cap. Yet he decided he would join Grimwold's side. His role in the power was decidedly undramatic, merely being a conduit, but at least he could stand next to his broad-shouldered friend and look menacing.

"Lay down your shields and your weapons," Grimwold ordered. Lethos skirted the block of enemies as they lowered their swords. Some struggled, and Lethos saw them shivering to resist. Yet he felt the chain between his head and Grimwold's pulse as he devoured more power. At the same time, Lethos recognized the tickle of absorbing fresh power from the world. It was a gentle sensation, like being showered with rose petals over his head and shoulders.

Grimwold gave him a brief smile as he surveyed the surrendering enemies. The warriors at his back made him seem even more grand than he actually was. The men were not necessary for Grimwold, the war chief of Reifell. Unless invaders attacked by the hundreds, Grimwold would dominate all of them into submission. Still, he had arrived as if expecting a traditional battle. He wore a newly forged chain shirt over an all-black outfit. His gray cloak was held together with a gold pin in the shape of an eagle, a tribute to Kafara and Turo who favored that form. His sword, however, still remained sheathed at his side.

"Good job keeping them distracted," Grimwold said, folding his massive arms as he watched the last of the enemy break down and drop his weapon. Lethos felt the power spiraling away into Grimwold as he drew closer.

"All part of a carefully considered plan," Lethos said, his voice still short from his sprinting.

Grimwold's warriors laughed and taunted the toothless enemies. The invaders' faces were tight with hate and flushed red. The whites of their eyes stood out in stark contrast to their grimy skin. One consequence of Grimwold's power was any of his victims would possess an irrational hatred of him if left alive after the domination. Lethos swallowed hard at the thought of killing all these defenseless men, or worse yet, compelling them to take their own lives.

"Now what to do with the lot of you," Grimwold said. Becoming war chief had suited him. After the battle of Norddalr, Grimwold had been awarded leadership of the island of Reifell, being named its war chief by High King Eldegris. Grimwold stood with folded arms, considering each man as he walked along their front line. None of the enemy would look at him. Lethos knew all too well how horrifying Grimwold's eyes appeared while using his powers. They became the eyes of a mad, dominating god that bored into your own.

"You're not going to kill them like this?" Lethos asked. Several of Grimwold's warriors laughed and begged to be allowed to start the blood flowing.

"And why not?" Grimwold stopped in front of one man, a reedy fellow with a grizzled beard and greasy hair spilling from beneath a leather cap. "You came here with murder in your heart. Why should I let you live?"

Lethos cringed as the man spit in Grimwold's face. He had to credit these barbarians for their pride and fearlessness, no matter how foolish. Grimwold rubbed his face with the back of his arm. Lethos felt the chain of power pull tighter between him and Grimwold.

"On your knees," Grimwold said, and the man crashed to the grass. "Put your dagger to your neck."

The man obeyed as swift as taking orders from the High King. His eyes, however, were nearly popped from his head and veins stood out on his temples. The others around him, still frozen from Grimwold's command, glanced sideways at their suicidal companion.

"I could make you saw your own throat open for the sunbirds," Grimwold said, crouching down beside the man. He held the enemy's glare as the knife quivered at his throat. Grimwold popped upright again. "I could make all of you do the same. Instead, you have found me full of mercy. You were defeated the very day you decided to attack my island. Do you not know who is master here? Has not my fame preceded me far enough that only a fool would raid my people? All of you should have known better."

Grimwold gave a dramatic flip of his hand and released the enemy from his grip. The man fell back exhausted and began to sob. Lethos glanced aside, feeling dirty for his part in this humiliation. A fair fight would have been one thing, but this felt like kicking around a gang of children. Still, if Grimwold had not been here, much more blood would have been shed and possibly much worse.

"I command all of you to leave Reifell and never return, never send anyone to return in your place, and never raise your swords against me again." Grimwold held his hands up as if his power flowed from them. Yet Lethos knew it was his words and the invisible chains that Grimwold claimed he felt shooting from his forehead to everyone under his command.

The enemies all turned and began to walk away. Grimwold's men gave a collective sigh and shouted taunts. Lethos gave his own sigh, for he still expected Grimwold to fall back into his baser instincts. There had been a day when his power was known as the dead man's tide. He would compel warriors forward to surrender themselves to a gory execution, turning a battle into mass murder. This was a credible step toward decency that Lethos was glad for.

Then the ice flowed down his back again. His head tingled. He shouted his warning before he understood it himself.

"Grimwold, get down!"

Across the field one man, the young archer with the red cheeks, stood stock straight with his bow extended. The bowstring snapped and the arrow flew. Lethos saw it all as clearly as if it had been no more than a pantomime. The gray feathers on the arrow shaft fluttered as it sped across the distance to Grimwold. The head was not iron but stone, carved into a sharp point. Grimwold began to drop, but was too slow.

The arrow plunged through his mail as if he had been wearing a cloth imitation. The shaft sank halfway into his chest, and Lethos experienced a hot flash of pain in the same place. It was a numb agony, as if a war hammer had collided with his breast bone.

Grimwold fell back like a tree, crashed into the grass and bounced. Lethos collapsed to his knees, holding his chest and gasping for breath. The connections of power snapped and he suddenly felt as cold as death. His mind screamed Grimwold's name, and nothing returned.

The retreating warriors spun around and the look of murder in their eyes told Lethos all he needed. After all, there would be bloodshed and worse to come this day.

CHAPTER THREE

Syrus the Silver stood on the threshold of the temple to his goddess, Fieyar. He was her last worshiper, at least as far as he knew. No one in all the islands paid her the respect she was due. Instead people prayed to more practical gods like Danir the First Father, Miljnr the god of war and storms, or the Great Shark who ruled the lives of those daring the wide oceans. When High King Eldegris had asked Syrus to build a temple to the goddess of duty, he could not believe it. Yet a year later and he was standing within its cool confines, the heavy scent of fish oil lamps filling his nose.

The temple was not as grand as he had intended. Rebuilding after Norddalr's destruction in the great war had been overshadowed by the constant demand for laborers and supplies redirected to other villages on the island. In the end, Syrus had built most of the temple himself and had been grateful for whatever assistance he had received. Most people grumbled that the temple should have been raised in the Great Shark's name, for he had appeared directly to defend Valahur. Syrus took issue with that thought. First, the Great Shark cared not one whit for worship of any sort. Second, the appearance of the Great Shark had been a trick of the Manifested Dyad, Kafara and Turo. It gave the people great hope to see a god fight on their behalf, but in the end it had not been real. Even if Syrus was not a worshiper of the Great Shark, he had still been deflated to learn the truth from Lethos. The world needed its gods, and they hardly ever spoke to their worshipers.