CHAPTER Twenty-Six
Eshe pulled her helm off and dried her eyes. She wore no mail coif, leaving her neck somewhat exposed. Her wavy red-gold hair was braided in tresses and for the first time, Fialan saw her face fully. She was pretty in a rough sort of way and typically
Chi’lan
. Her nose had been broken at one time and was set slightly askew, and a scar ran from her right lower ear lobe down her neck where a lucky cut slipped between her helm and gorget. Her silver eyes were almost smoke-gray in the waning light. She was tall and athletically built as many
Lochvaur
, and Fialan found her attractive, despite his loyalty to Lachlei. He wondered if she had been married in her previous life.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been so alone for so long.”
Fialan shrugged. “That was two thousand years worth of emotion.”
She shivered. “We should continue,” she said, looking into the twilight-deepening sky. “It’ll be dark soon, and we won’t be able to see.” She slipped her helm on.
“Well, if we fall, we won’t die,” Fialan said lightly.
Eshe grimaced. “It’ll still hurt
—
I once took a tumble off of a ledge farther up.” She stood up slowly and turned to him. “Grasp hold of my cloak,” she said. “And watch your footing.” She began walking upward towards the fortress.
Fialan followed Eshe, watching where she walked. The path was ingeniously cut for those who knew the way. As he had surmised, Eshe knew the trail even in the dark and led him without a misstep.
“Careful. Fialan,” Eshe said, at last. “We’re almost to the top. Only twenty feet to go.”
They had negotiated a path of switchbacks and stairs. Fialan had followed Eshe silently until now. The last twenty feet were straight up the rock face. It was completely dark now, and Fialan could see nothing save Eshe’s form and the cliff before her.
“How do we get up that?” he asked.
“There are handholds and footholds,” she replied. “You’ll have to do everything by feel.”
Fialan stared at the rock face. When he was alive, he would use his mental powers to augment his sense of touch. But now, he had nothing. Nothing except faith in a
Chi’lan
woman who had died two thousand years before. “All right,” he said, taking a deep breath. The fall from this height would hurt; thankfully, he could only see blackness below.
“I’ll go first,” she said. “Watch me as I climb. The handholds and footholds are evenly spaced, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Wait for me to call to you
—
that means I’ve made it. Don’t start climbing until then
—
I could fall and take us both out.” She paused. “If I do fall, go on ahead. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m able to.”
“Very well,” he said. He watched as her fingers ran along the rock face and slid into a handhold. Stepping carefully, Eshe slid her feet into each foothold and slowly searched for the next handhold. Fialan watched her climb, slowly, deliberately, until she vanished into the darkness above her. His sharp ears could still hear the scraping of her boots on the footholds and her labored breath.
He heard her grunt and some scraping above.
“Eshe?” came a voice from somewhere above Fialan. The voice sounded pleased.
“Yes, Kiril, it’s me,” Eshe said.
“What are you doing here?” Kiril asked. “You left us.”
“There’s a new first-blood who insists on speaking with Lochvaur,” said Eshe.
“Demon fodder,” Kiril spat. “They like the first-bloods.”
“His name’s Fialan. He has some news that might change things.”
Fialan frowned.
Demon fodder?
He searched until he found the handholds and then slipped his feet carefully in the footholds.
“So, he’s a first-blood?” Kiril asked. “From Lochvaur?”
“Yes.” Eshe sighed. “Listen, Kiril. He’s different. He’s like Lochvaur
—
he thinks the Truce is broken…”
“Eshe,” Kiril laughed. “No one believes Lochvaur any longer
—
you know that. We stay here because the demons won’t come here.”
“Have you ever thought why they don’t come?” Fialan said as he pulled himself over the final ledge. He could barely see the two speaking. “Don’t you have torches or doesn’t fire work in this world?”
Kiril was a heavy-boned
Chi’lan
—
unusual since most
Eleion
were medium to light framed. His thicker face and jaw line suggested
Laddel
blood, but his skin that gave away his true lineage. It was deep bronze
—
a sure sign Kiril was
Shara’kai
—
a half-breed of
Ansgar
and
Eleion
. Even so, in the dim light, he reminded Fialan of
Chi’lan
Tamar. “Wood and pitch are a premium here. We don’t waste it.”
“I didn’t know there were any
Shara’kai
Lochvaur
,” he remarked. “Let alone,
Chi’lan
. Where did you come from?”
Kiril flinched imperceptibly at the word ‘
Shara’kai
.’ “From the North, near the Tundra Steppes.”
Fialan nodded. “Be careful,
Shara’kai
, how you sling insults. Or this ‘demon fodder’ will show you what a first-blood can do, even without his powers.”
Kiril lunged and Fialan drew his sword. “Stop it! Both of you!” Eshe snapped, stepping between both men. “You serve only Areyn Sehduk with your quarrel.”
Kiril eyed Fialan mistrustfully. “Indeed,” he said.
“I would have no quarrel with you, Kiril,” Fialan said and turned his gaze on the blade he held in his hand. He hadn’t drawn it since he died, but now he gazed at it in amazement. It
looked
like
Fyren
.
“What’s wrong?” Eshe asked as she noticed Fialan’s interest.
“This is
Fyren
, but it’s not,” Fialan said, studying the blade.
“It’s a ghost weapon,” Eshe said. “Same as your armor and body. Like what you had in life, but not.” Eshe grinned at Kiril. “Thankfully.”
“Why is that?”
“A
Jotunn
axe separated Eshe’s head from her shoulders,” Kiril said with a grin. “You came here in one piece didn’t you?”
“A ghost weapon
—
then, it’s not real?” Fialan asked.
“It’s real, all right, but it’s a doppelganger of the real thing. Right down to the metal, but it doesn’t hold the essence of the other blade,” said Kiril.
“The only exception to that are the Swords of Power,” Eshe added. “Those are real.”
“Is that really
Fyren
?” Kiril asked, looking at the blade inquisitively.
“Look, you can even see the blood where I cut the demon…” Fialan began and stopped, staring at the blood. It glowed blue-black in the dark and dripped down the blade as if he had just used it. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping the blade.
Kiril and Eshe glanced at each other. “Kiril
—
you fought demons before
—
have you ever seen anything like that?” Eshe asked. Her eyes were wide with fear.
Kiril shook his head. “Never
—
and I’d bet no one else has seen such magic
—
save perhaps Lochvaur.” He looked at Fialan in respect. “What did you strike?”
“Something that should’ve died by my sword but did not. Something that robbed me of my first-blood magic.”
A cold wind blew through them. A lone cry echoed across that desolate land. Eshe shivered. “We’d better get inside, Kiril.”
Kiril nodded. “Sheathe your sword, first-blood. I think Lochvaur will want to hear what you have to say.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Seven
Fog began to seep down the hills and into the valley where Rhyn’athel knew his enemy lay in wait. The warrior god rode forward, flanked by Cahal and Tamar. The King’s Highway was barely a road here, just wide enough for horses to scramble through. The road was marked with occasional cairn stones, carved with ancient runes. Rhyn’athel glanced at them
—
they spoke of the builders of the roads
—
Eleion
who were no more. At one time, they had been Rhyn’athel’s warriors; now they belonged to Areyn Sehduk.
Rhyn led the warriors down the narrow ravine, through the talus and scree and into the deep pines, silent in his musings. He had lost many warriors to Areyn
—
too many. Areyn’s power came from the energy of those who died.
“Strange,” said Cahal, interrupting the god’s thoughts. He glanced apprehensively at Rhyn’athel.
“What?” the god asked. He glanced around in the growing dusk. The fog made the pine trees look ethereal, but he could sense nothing worrisome.
“The fog,” the
Chi’lan
said. “It moves with us. Fog normally comes from the valleys, not the hills.”
Rhyn smiled slyly. “Then, we are indeed fortunate
—
it will hide our actual numbers,” he remarked.
Tamar glanced at Cahal. “Sorcery of some sort or I’m not
Chi’lan
,” he growled.
“Perhaps,” Rhyn shrugged. “Perhaps not. As long as it remains in our favor, I am not concerned.” He halted his stallion and held up his hand, scanning the area where he knew Areyn’s troops lay in wait. While Rhyn’athel couldn’t quite sense Areyn Sehduk, himself, Rhyn’athel could feel the death god’s power. There was no disguising Areyn’s stench and the warrior god bristled in anger at the thought of Areyn being within this world.
Areyn is bold if he thinks I will stand idly by and let him tilt the balance
, he thought darkly. For a moment, he felt a dark power that seemed to reach out and brush his mind, but he turned it aside.
Areyn is getting bolder,
he thought.
“The
Silren
will expect us to attack through that cleft,” said Cahal. “It’ll be suicide for us to attack them there
—
they’ll cut us down.”
“But there is no other way through,” Tamar said. “The cliffs are too steep for our horses.”
Rhyn’athel grinned. “Don’t worry
—
just be prepared to attack when I give the signal.”
*****
Imdyr frowned. “Something isn’t right,” she said as the mist crept forward into their lines. She shivered and pulled her cloak around her tightly as though to ward off a spell. A silence had fallen over the
Silren
army as they waited amid the trees. Hours passed and still the
Lochvaur
army failed to charge through the gorge. The last rays of the sun went behind the mountains, throwing everything into shadow.
Imdyr tried to sense the
Lochvaur
and was abruptly swatted aside like a gnat. She tried again, only to find greater resistance.
“What is wrong?” Areyn said, seeing her vexed.
“I’ve never seen such power,” she murmured.
Galen rode beside Areyn. “Akwel, there’s something amiss with this fog
—
it comes from the wrong direction.” He stared at Imdyr. “What is
that
doing here?”
Areyn glanced at Imdyr. “She is a sorceress…”
“Demoness!” Galen spat. He drew his sword and pointed it at Imdyr as she huddled in her cloak. “The
Eltar
are Fala’s minions!”
Areyn gazed at the
Silren
warrior in boredom. Pity he would have to kill Galen now…
Screams rang through the army, and the
Silren
broke ranks. Flames shot from behind the lines as an army on horseback attacked from behind. Thousands of
Lochvaur
warriors seemingly appeared out of nowhere, charging directly into the
Silren
flank.
Areyn reined Slayer, cursing. “Damn it, bitch!” he snapped at Imdyr. “I thought you said they were attacking from the cleft!” Before Imdyr could reply, Areyn rode towards the warriors, brandishing his sword. “Attack! Attack!”
The
Silren
turned and attacked. Suddenly, the army vanished before their eyes. Bewildered, the
Silren
soldiers halted.
Areyn stared wide-eyed, realizing the trick too late. “What kind of treachery is this?” he snarled, turning the demon mount. A battle cry rang out as the
Lochvaur
attacked. Rhyn led the
Lochvaur
through the cleft and attacked the
Silren
on what was now their flank. The
Silren
were thrown into complete confusion, many breaking ranks and fleeing.
“To me! To me!” Areyn shouted, hoping to rally the
Silren
. He spurred the demon horse and rode towards the
Lochvaur
.
*****
Rhyn’athel swung the great Sword of Power, cleaving through mail, sinew, and bone. The
Silren
warrior he had fought shuddered and collapsed as the warrior god withdrew the Sword, felt the man’s final death rattle and saw the light fade from his eyes.
The waste,
Rhyn’athel thought. He hated killing mortals
—
especially
Eleion
—
but it really couldn’t be helped. Not while Areyn had the
Silren
under his sway. Demons, undead, and
Jotunn
were more to Rhyn’athel’s liking
—
they already belonged to Areyn.
He hadn’t expected the illusion to work as well as it did
—
especially against Areyn Sehduk.
Areyn is out of practice,
Rhyn’athel thought wryly. In the wars before the Truce, such deceptions were commonplace and most gods saw through them. But Areyn did not know he was fighting a god now
—
certainly not Rhyn’athel, himself.
The screams of battle and blood-rage pounded in Rhyn’athel’s veins, and he grinned as he saw the
Chi’lan
force the
Silren
warriors into a hasty retreat. He was still very much the god of warriors, despite the mortal body. He spurred the warhorse forward, brandishing his sword, screaming a battle cry that hadn’t been heard in over a thousand years. He led the charge into the fleeing
Silren
lines.
Then, Rhyn’athel saw the dark warlord on his demon steed. Cold hatred filled the warrior god as he gazed on the warrior called Akwel. The man was
Silren
, with ice-blue eyes and a long white mane, but Rhyn’athel immediately saw through the guise. Areyn rode one of his demons as a mount. The creature snarled and slavered as blood and foam dripped from its fangs. Instead of hooves, it had thick, rippling muscles and massive clawed feet. It turned its red eyes on Rhyn’athel.
The warrior god screamed in rage, ready to leap from his own horse and kill the vile thing.
How dare Areyn bring this creature into this world!
“Rhyn! Rhyn!”
Cahal’s voice brought the god back. Cahal was shouting. “We’ve got to go! Now!” Fear was in the
Chi’lan’s
voice, and Rhyn’athel surveyed the situation. Thousands of
Silren
had turned to fight, and the
Lochvaur
were now fighting for their lives.
For a second, the warrior god hesitated. Areyn was still too far away for Rhyn’athel to reach him. He reined his horse hard. “Let’s get out of here!” he ordered. There would be another time.
*****
Flames exploded between the
Silren
and the
Lochvaur
. The
Silren
jerked back, fearful, but Areyn laughed. “After them!” he shouted.