The Reckoning, page 3
“Where are the others?” he whispered.
Her lips tightened. “You mean, Tannith?” She paused. “The princess has traveled to the lake with Prince Kaden. We are to meet them at Jahl, or Antibba if they do not arrive in time—I will explain later. Ohma and Erik are dealing with the guards. All I have to do is cut you lose and find a way out of here.”
“Why are you doing this—risking your life for me?” When she did not answer, he spoke again. “Will you not give me an answer?” he prompted gently. “You have saved me not once, but twice now. Why?”
Skylah shook her head. “Do you not know, Etan? Can you not guess?”
Unable to face the truth gleaming in her emerald eyes, he turned away. Of course, he knew. He felt it too—the strong attraction, however impossible it was. The feelings so plainly written across her tiny face matched his precisely. Sadness and a longing for a love doomed to failure. Better he told her a lie than to have her live in false hope for something that could never be. “The reason eludes me, Faerie, but I am grateful anyway for your help.” He glanced toward the door, unable to bear the condemnation in her eyes.
She lifted into the air. “Then let it be so.” She blinked back her tears.
Etan groaned inwardly. Filled with self-loathing, he refrained from speaking while she worked on his bonds. Little by little, the hemp strands parted under Skylah’s tiny knife.
“Erik should have dispatched the guards in the hall by now. Ohma was to manage the gatekeeper. All we have to do is find a way past the sentry at the door and we will be out of here.”
“I have a plan,” he said quietly.
“As I knew you would.”
Etan was about to explain, when he was interrupted by a harsh grunt followed by a muffled thud and a rattle of keys. The cell door creaked back on its hinges to reveal a figure dressed in indigo robes. In his hand, he clutched a rosewood staff.
“Ohma.” Skylah flew up to greet him.
“Well met, little one. I see you have accomplished your task.”
“And you, yours.”
“Indeed.” The Druid’s face dissolved into a thousand fine lines as he turned to Etan. “Still on the floor I see, boy. You seem to have a penchant for them.”
“Is that your notion of a jest, old man? I am not amused. Hurry and cut me free.”
“All through!” called Skylah, swooping down, and severing the last strand of rope.
Etan tried to stand but stumbled and dropped to his hands and knees. Ohma bent to help him to his feet.
“I can manage,” the captain grumbled, shaking free and stepping back. “I am just weak. I have not eaten for two days, and they allowed me just enough water to keep me from death. I appear worse than I am.”
“And you smell twice as bad,” Skylah called, shooting toward the door.
Ohma chuckled, and Etan stared after her. “What did you say?”
“The sentry is waking,” she threw back. “Ohma, your staff!”
The old mage scurried past her and struck the man to the skull. “There, that should settle him.” He turned as Etan came up beside him. “Give me a hand to gag him. We can lock him in your cell. That way no one will hear if he cries out.”
“It would be easier to slit the vermin’s throat.”
Ohma picked up the guard’s legs and began dragging him toward the prison door. “I have taken an oath. I cannot spill blood.”
“But I can.” Etan’s voice was cold and edged with steel. He bent and slipped the guard’s dagger from his baldric. “If you have no stomach for the deed, leave.”
Ohma dropped the man’s legs, and Etan rested his gaze on Skylah hovering nearby. “You too.” He motioned with his head. “Go! Get out of here.”
She turned and fled after Ohma as he strode down the dimly lit corridor.
Etan watched them, a determined slant to his hard jaw. Then he knelt, and with ease born of necessity, drew the dagger across the man’s jugular and straightened. He wiped the knife on the guard’s crimson cloak and slipped the blade into his own belt.
“He and I had a debt to settle,” he told Ohma, catching him up in the corridor.
He was the guard who dragged him behind his horse on the way to the fort.
An Elisian always paid their debts.
Chapter Three
In the chill light of dawn, Dannock-Shae, high priest of the Urakians, stood in the courtyard of the Old Fort. A premonition of danger held him uneasy.
He had no idea what was going on, Sernon had not deigned to enlighten him. A hush fell across the courtyard as he watched the sorcerer dismount the steps of the main entrance and stride toward him. Yet, could it be called striding? He floated more than walked.
He stopped at Dannock’s side.
Dressed in rich robes of purple and gold, he fronted at least a thousand warriors. On the wave of his hand, they dropped to their knees onto the red dirt of the courtyard. With another command, they rose again.
However, five Urakian soldiers in the front line separate from their comrades did not.
The soldiers were dressed in full battle regalia―steel-ringed chainmail extending from neck to knee with sleeves to the elbows. The skirts were split front and back for ease in the saddle, and leather leggings protected their legs. Laced behind and attached to the coat was a coif covering the head, protecting the throat. Over this was worn silver helmets, visors open.
“Do you know why you are here?” Dannock-Shae heard Sernon ask Captain Bracus, a veteran soldier of twenty summers.
“No, my liege.”
“You let a highly valuable prisoner escape. Have you nothing to say in your defense?”
“The man was aided by magick, Sire.”
“That is no excuse for incompetence. I expect my men to lay down their lives in my service. Is that clear?” His voice rang out over the ocean of faces.
The captain bowed his head. “Yes, Sire.”
“I should have you drawn and quartered,” Sernon intoned softly, staring impassively at the five men.
Bracus’s face paled.
“Yet, I have decided to be merciful.” A cold light appeared in the sorcerer’s death-like eyes.
The soldier relaxed his shoulders. “You are most gracious, Sire.” He began to rise.
“Did I say you could stand?”
Instantly, he dropped to his knees.
Sernon smiled coldly. “Remove your helmets and coifs and place them at your feet.”
The five soldiers complied, glancing down.
“Look at me!”
Their heads shot up to stare at their liege.
“That’s better.” A grim smile curved his lips as he raised a slender hand and extended it. As he pointed, a red light shot from his second finger, lancing toward the soldier on the end of the line to rest just above his shoulder, level with his throat. “As I promised, I shall be merciful. You will die without pain.”
Before the horror of Sernon’s words could register in the man’s mind, the sorcerer directed the beam of light across the throat of the soldier at the end of the line and continued through the other men’s necks in quick succession, and their world slipped away.
****
Dannock could barely believe what he was seeing. Blood ran, and heads toppled one by one to the red dirt, to rest beside their silver helms glinting in the newly risen sun.
Although their lives had been extinguished, the bodies remained kneeling, straight and unmoving, in the same position as if frozen by time.
“Let this be a lesson to those who fail me!” Sernon’s voice rang out, deep and resonant, his eyes burning with an inner fervor.
A hush settled over the crowded courtyard. No one dared to whisper. Not even the wind dared to stir.
The sorcerer closed his eyes, raised his hands to the sky. and began to chant. “Neela, Balah, Norendoch!” Deep concentration marred his pallid face. Black clouds gathered overhead, billowing out to blanket the formerly clear sky, swallowing the sun. A chill blew in from the north, whipping at their cloaks, churning up red dust from every corner, and soft rain fell.
With the first drop of moisture to touch his face, Sernon lowered his hands and opened his eyes. When he signaled to the six Urakian priests standing to his left, they rushed forward carrying a flat altar stone to set upon a raised dais of bronze. Made of solid onyx, the altar measured six feet in length, three feet across. and two inches thick.
With a snap of his fingers, two sentries appeared dragging a flaxen-haired girl of no more than sixteen summers. Dressed in a gown of transparent white silk that molded to the slight contours of her body, she struggled. Her terrified violet eyes peered up at the sorcerer as she beseeched him, but he ignored her. She was merely a means to an end. He gestured to his men, and they tossed her down on the altar stone and secured her flailing arms and legs.
Only then did the sorcerer look down at her.
“Help me!” the girl cried, turning from him. She fought her bonds, but her struggles were of little worth. “In the name of Magus, release me. I will do anything you ask.”
“Be still! I do not recognize your gods, especially that one.”
Tears flowed from the girl’s eyes, trickling down her pale cheeks. She opened her mouth to scream, but Sernon placed a finger to her lips. “You are vital to my plans,” he whispered, a cold smile curving his full lips. “But perhaps I will leave it to my men to decide your fate?”
She nodded, terror marring her small, delicate face.
Sernon straightened and stared at the soldiers standing in rough formation before him. “This girl seeks mercy. I ask of you as representatives of the Urakian people, would you grant mercy to one of those who seek to destroy you? One who stands in the way of the Urakians becoming the greatest power in all Tarlis, the greatest power in the Universe?” He pointed at the crowd with one hand while the other rent the girl’s flimsy gown from neck to navel, exposing white breasts and stomach.
The girl screamed, and the men roared their approval.
Sernon raised the sacrificial dagger high above the girl, and his voice boomed out across the courtyard. “Life or death?”
“Death!” a young Urakian called out from the front row.
“Death!” The crowd took up the chant.
The girl screamed once more, and Sernon plunged the dagger into her chest. With a vicious downward slash, he opened her from breastbone to belly.
Her screams fell silent, and a mighty roar like crashing waves against rocks filled the courtyard.
Sernon waited, allowing the crowd to vent their frenzied pleasure, then gestured with his free hand for quiet. The cheering ceased, and his lips curved in icy disdain, realizing he had the whole garrison under his dominance. They were his—or almost. Decisively, he reached down into the girl’s gaping body, grasped her liver, and wrenched it free, holding it high in the air as warm blood dripped down his arm.
An ancient and almost forgotten bloodlust whipped through the crowd, stirring it once more into a wild frenzy. Feet stamped, fists punched the air, and shouts rang out across the courtyard, bouncing from the cliffs to the left of the fort.
Dannock watched in numb silence. Sernon had only to command the Urakians, and they would follow blindly. However, the dark sorcerer was not finished. Stepping toward the kneeling bodies of the Urakian soldiers, Sernon took his dagger and sliced the liver into six pieces. Dropping a piece onto each of the severed necks, he raised his arms and called upon Arahmin, God of Blood. In an ancient language, older than the mountains and the histories of Tarlis, he raised his arms and spat three words of power in rapid succession, “Blah Nostran Nevah!”
Lightning splintered, thunder roared, and five demons surged from the ground near his feet and merged with the five corpses. With a theatrical flair, Sernon raised the last piece of liver to his lips and bit down with relish, chewed, and swallowed.
The mob went berserk, and Dannock blanched, as the eyes of The Five heads still on the ground, slowly opened. With each bite the sorcerer took, the heads rose into the air. They floated upon the air currents, hovered above the bodies, and gradually descended. When the heads were sitting in perfect formation on the bodies from whence they came, The Five picked up their helmets and donned them. They stood as one and spoke as one. “What is your bidding, Master? What is your command?”
“There is only one command,” thundered Sernon. He turned to the garrison and punched the air. “Death to the Prince of the Wolfhead! Death to the Elisian Princess!”
The crowd erupted.
****
Kaden awoke with a start, rolled onto his side, and groaned as stitches, shoulder to hip, pulled at tender flesh. The Cross! Was it safe? Had Tannith survived? How could she have defeated the Glaisling? His mind raced.
Purple shadows of dawn surrounded the campsite as he eased himself to a sitting position. He was lying on a crudely fashioned bed made of pine needles and covered by a woolen blanket. Over his body another blanket had been thrown and so had his fur-lined cloak. Underneath he was naked.
He probed at his wounds, realizing Tannith must have stitched them. There was pain, but not acute. More a throbbing reminder of the intense agony he felt when the Glaisling’s taloned fingers had ripped into his flesh. He groaned and rose, knotted a blanket around his hips, and limped toward the lake. There, he found a fallen log and lowered himself to sit, contemplating the waters of Tirfo Thuinn. There was no sign of the rock shelf, no reminder of the night before. He put his hands to his temples. They throbbed. Had it been the night before?
****
Tannith watched from the shadows as Kaden crawled from his makeshift bed, knotted the field blanket around his waist, and limped toward the lake. The sheer magnificence of his body literally sucked the air from her lungs. She cringed to think he had almost perished in the same lake he now viewed so pensively. It was a blur now, how she had pulled him ashore—dragged him through the icy water in the way her father had taught her as a child. The same way she saved Etan, her childhood friend and now bodyguard, from drowning many summers before.
She had heaved Kaden up the muddy bank onto the grass, sheer determination having played a vital part, for his body was twice as large as hers. After rolling him slowly onto his stomach, she gently peeled his shredded shirt from his back. Holding the garment up to the moonlight, it appeared more like a rag, and his flesh was not much better. She remembered stifling her tears as she inspected his wounds. Eight gaping scratches ran shoulder to hip, seeping crimson blood. The way she had dragged him up the bank had compounded the problem. Mud had been smeared into the wounds.
On closer inspection, another five gashes cut through the leather of his breeches and ran down the lower part of his left leg. All had to be stitched. She ran into the forest to collect Phoenix where he’d been tethered well back among the trees. On returning, she built a fire, boiled clean water to bathe the wounds, and set about painstakingly rebuilding Kaden’s body.
Long hours she had toiled into the night and the early morn, working over torn flesh, drawing ragged edges together, and sewing fine neat stitches so the scars would not be too unsightly. The thing that worried her most was that he had not regained consciousness. She had followed every procedure her father taught her―clearing his air passage, pushing his head back, and breathing air into his mouth every few heartbeats. When this failed to bring about the desired response, she pushed on his chest several times.
Finally, he had rallied and rolled his head to the side, coughing up a copious amount of water. Then without waking completely, he slumped back into unconsciousness. His color was good despite having lost so much blood, but his breath was labored.
He drifted into a fitful sleep from which he had not awoken until now. Perhaps just as well, for the sleep numbed the pain of the needle she had used to gather his flesh and join the ragged edges of his skin. Maybe the blackout was his body’s way of telling him he had experienced enough pain for one day.
She took a step and cursed softly as a twig snapped underfoot.
He sensed her presence and turned. “How long have you been there?”
“Not long. I was scouting.” She stepped through the bushes and walked toward him.
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days,” she said, coming to a stop and leaning her back against the slim red trunk of an Umbrella tree.
A frown creased his forehead. “That long?” He answered thoughtfully. “What of the Glaisling? I gather you killed her, or we would not be standing here now.”
Visions of the nightmarish creature ran through Tannith’s mind, bringing with it images of midnight, blood-stained water, and the worst fear she had ever experienced. Even now, her voice wavered as she answered him. “I would prefer…not to speak of it. The deed still haunts me.”
“Did you get the piece?”
She straightened away from the Red Umbrella tree and moved toward him. As she did, she upended the pouch from around her neck and poured the contents into her palm. Kaden rose and tried to make his way toward her.
“You should not be walking. You will undo all my good work.”
“Stop fussing, woman. I am not a baby.” He held out his hand, but she shook her head and replaced the pieces of Cross back into the pouch.
“No, I will hold on to these.”
“You still do not trust me?”
“The Cross contains hidden powers that could be harmful to your kind. I have already proven I can carry it.”
He met her gaze. “As you wish.” His words were evenly spaced, and he lowered his hand.
“What next?”
“We meet Ohma and the others in Jahl.”
“Can you ride?” She looked pointedly at his bandaged leg and chest.
“What? These few scratches? I have had worse in the training ring.” He smiled down into her eyes and raised his hand to tuck a lock of white gold hair behind her ear. “Were you afraid for me?”
“I still need your help.”
His hand fell to his side. “Of course, how foolish of me.” He stepped back. “I should have remembered.” He made to turn away, but she grasped his arm.
