The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set

by Jamie Edmundson

  Lyssa looked from Dorian to Belwynn. Belwynn could sense her desperate need to be believed. And maybe, most people would have dismissed her wild story as a dream. But Belwynn had grown up with Soren. She had no reason to doubt the existence of the mysterious—of dark powers. And what she had witnessed in the last year had only confirmed that.

  ‘I think we should check on them, just in case,’ she said.

  Dorian nodded. ‘And, there is a secret passage at the back of the library,’ he added.

  She looked at him. It was no joke he was making. If Lyssa had witnessed Sebastian’s murder, who or what exactly had walked off with Elana?

  ‘Come on!’ she said, suddenly feeling the need to act quickly. ‘Stay here!’ she said to Lyssa.

  Belwynn and Dorian ran together into the Temple. ‘Elana?’ Belwynn shouted at the startled followers of the priestess.

  One of them pointed down a corridor to Elana’s private room, an obvious place to take Sebastian. Private, but dangerous, for there would be no witnesses.

  Belwynn ran in that direction, her lungs burning from the effort, Dorian still by her side. He got to the door first, shoving it open.

  Despite Lyssa’s warning and her own mounting dread, Belwynn still couldn’t process the scene before her. Elana lay on the floor, a pool of dark blood visibly growing around her. Sebastian, knife in hand, turned to them, a repulsive snarl on his face. Lyssa had to be right. Sebastian wouldn’t have done this.

  Dorian charged him, avoided a knife swing, and then tried to wrestle the weapon from Sebastian.

  Belwynn barely cared. Her eyes fixed on Elana. The priestess’s eyes were open and she was looking back. She mouthed ‘Belwynn’. In a daze, as if she was in her own nightmare now, Belwynn walked to her, kneeling in the blood. She located the wound in Elana’s side, putting her hand to it to try to stop any more from leaking out.

  ‘Can’t you heal yourself?’ she asked desperately.

  There was a crash behind her. Dorian had been thrown to one side, the knife clattering across the floor, and Sebastian, with a final look at Belwynn and Elana, ran from the room. Dorian got to his feet. ‘I’ll get him,’ he said and gave chase.

  It was deathly quiet in the room.

  ‘Belwynn,’ came Elana’s voice, weak and breathy. ‘There isn’t much time. I need you to hold my hands.’

  Belwynn grabbed one of Elana’s hands and put it to the injured side of the priestess. ‘Here. You are on the wound. Heal yourself.’

  Elana smiled. It was gentle and full of sadness. ‘I can’t, Belwynn. Hold my hands. Please.’

  Belwynn shook her head. No. This wasn’t happening. Elana wasn’t going to die.

  She took Elana’s hand back, sticky with blood. She held Elana’s other hand. Elana closed her eyes. A shudder ran through her and she winced in pain.

  Belwynn felt something, it felt like a tiny spark in her mind. Some sensation, not quite an itch, or a pain, in the back of her head. A presence.

  Then the sensation started to grow and swell, filling her mind, her head, her heart, her body, then her soul. It blazed throughout her like a fire, and it burned like one, blinding her. She cried out in pain, overcome by the force that had entered her. She thought she could hear Soren’s voice calling to her, but she couldn’t focus on anything, her senses overwhelmed. She knew she was going to lose consciousness. She tried to pull her hands free of Elana, but it was too late.

  Straton slumped on his bed, a snot-filled handkerchief by his side, a half-finished meal on the floor. His cold had stolen his appetite and he had no energy for anything, so he sat on his bed, staring about his room, brooding.

  Since the defeat he had lurched from impotent rage to a lethargic despair and back again, and this torment, coupled with his confinement, had made him ill. It was a gilded cage he had been given, under guard in his own rooms, treated with the utmost respect, nothing but the very best from the kitchens delivered every day. He would rather have been given a prison cell in the dungeons for everyone to see the truth. But Theron was too clever for that. He had imprisoned the royal family here in their own castle, and yet no doubt the citizens were falling over themselves to praise him for his magnanimity.

  The door opened and a knight stepped into the room.

  ‘Excuse me, Your Highness. You have a visitor.’

  Straton looked up in a disinterested way.

  Dorian. The one member of the family not kept under lock and key, strolling around Heractus without a care in the world.

  He looked full of purpose, staring at the knight until the door was shut and they were left alone.

  ‘What do you want?’ Straton demanded.

  Dorian looked about the room, his eyes coming to rest on the plate of food, the handkerchief, and finally on Straton.

  ‘I’ve come to get you out of here.’

  Straton laughed. There was something absurdly funny about that.

  ‘You’ve come to rescue me? Where were you when I was fighting for our family against the Knights? When your help might have actually made a difference?’

  Dorian showed no remorse. Instead, he walked over to the bed. He grabbed Straton by the front of his shirt.

  ‘Quit whining,’ he said, a look of utter contempt on his face.

  Straton didn’t know how to react.

  ‘You’ve allowed the Knights to walk all over you, and ruined every opportunity you had to regain control.’

  This was so unlike Dorian, so unexpected, that all Straton could do was stare into the seething anger of his brother’s twisted features.

  ‘I’m going to make you king, so get out of your pit and do what I tell you.’

  15

  Betrayal

  IT WAS A SOMBRE GATHERING in Maragin’s hall, in the high lands of the Grendal clan. Rabigar could take no pleasure from his return to the place where he was raised, despite the flood of memories that assailed him as he once more entered rooms, strode past buildings, looked out on the stark mountain views, that had then been the daily sights of his youth. For, despite their victory in Haskany some eight months ago, the Krykkers had effectively been defeated in a matter of days. The dead littered the mountain slopes of his homeland: butchered by Drobax, burned by dragon fire.

  ‘There is only one location open to us,’ Maragin argued. ‘The Isharites may fall on Kalinth at any time. The Empire and Guivergne will also fall to a sustained attack, and we cannot be sure that our people will be welcome there for a long spell. We must evacuate to our cousins in Halvia.’

  Most reluctantly agreed, having come to the same conclusion. If that decision was easy enough, the logistics of it certainly weren’t. It would involve the Krykker people travelling across the Lantinen Sea, with the risk of being targeted by the Kharovian fleet. If it went wrong, it could be catastrophic.

  ‘What of my people?’ asked Kelemen.

  Rabigar studied him. He had that fierce look that comes when you have gone past exhaustion and you are living off your last reserves. His people had already come close to being wiped out by the Isharites. There were even less of them left now.

  ‘Would they give us sanctuary?’ he asked.

  ‘I would say so,’ said Rabigar. ‘They have given such sanctuary to the Vismarians, and that people could hold the key for us. When we visited, they told us they still had ships. If the warships of the Sea Caladri can keep the Kharovians away, the Vismarians could help to transport our people across the Lantinen.’

  ‘What say you, Captain Sebo?’ Kelemen asked the Sea Caladri captain.

  ‘We were given orders to only engage the Kharovians if necessary,’ Sebo said. ‘But at that time, our Council had no way of knowing that the fate of our cousins, not to mention the Krykker people, would be at stake in such a way. We are ready to do whatever it takes. I suggest a crossing of the Lantinen now. I will need to speak with the Vismarian captains and agree a strategy. What we are suggesting is a very complicated manoeuvre.’

  ‘Are you suggesting your wh
ole fleet sails again?’ asked Maragin.

  ‘No. That would be too risky, and may alert the Kharovians to our plans. I will take Red Serpent across on a night-time voyage, to avoid being seen.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Rabigar. ‘The people there know me now. I’ll persuade the Vismarians to help us.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Maragin. ‘Meanwhile, we continue the evacuation. The Grendals will hold the mountain passes for as long as possible. Our people are to be gathered in the lands of clan Swarten, ready for the crossing. We need those ships, Rabigar, or it will be a massacre.’

  Moneva stood next to Gyrmund, looking on as the fighters entered the roped area for the Contest.

  Gansukh’s fourth day, and the opponents were starting to appear thick and fast now, the best of the best arguing over who should be the one to kill him. Bolormaa had warned them of this. If Gansukh lasted seven days, he was khan. Those who did not wish to bend the knee to a superior would risk their lives between the ropes, to end the threat to their independence.

  Qadan was the man who had won the right to defeat Gansukh today. He was huge, towering at least six inches taller than his opponent, with broad shoulders and huge limbs. His mount was the largest Jalakh horse Moneva had seen—it had to be to carry that weight and still be able to move fast enough to compete in the Contest.

  A roar erupted as he was introduced, and not just from his own tribe. The area was heaving with Jalakhs from all tribes, many keen to see Gansukh defeated, others wondering whether they were witnessing history being made, with the making of a new khan.

  Bolormaa and Soren sat next to each other, ready to use their powers to help Gansukh to another victory. They would be opposed by any sorcerers from Qadan’s tribe, and, Bolormaa had warned, others who wanted Gansukh to lose.

  The shout went out and the two combatants charged forwards to meet in the centre, horses circling, curved swords swirling. Qadan was faster than Moneva thought possible for his size, his blade sizzling forwards to attack and moving across to parry with what looked like relaxed ease. He was not, perhaps, quite as agile as Gansukh. But his blows were stronger, forcing Gansukh to move back or to the side. They allowed Qadan to go on the offensive more often than not, dictating the pattern of the fight.

  She looked across to Soren, recognising the signs of strain that showed he was using his powers in an effort to blunt Qadan’s attacking prowess. Then, a new expression appeared on his face, one of surprise, or shock.

  Moneva nudged at Gyrmund, telling him to look at Soren.

  Then, suddenly, the sorcerer shuddered, and shouted out loud.

  ‘Belwynn?’ he shouted.

  He looked about him desperately, blindly, as if she might be here.

  Moneva and Gyrmund rushed over to him, as the members of the Oligud tribe he was sat with stared at him.

  ‘What is it?’ Gyrmund asked Soren, kneeling next to him.

  ‘Belwynn!’ he shouted out loud again, then slumped over.

  Moneva caught him and laid him down on the ground. She placed Onella’s Staff back into his hands, hoping that the weapon might revive him, but it seemed to have no effect.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said to Gyrmund. ‘Why shout out Belwynn’s name?’

  He shrugged, no wiser than she was.

  Next to Soren, Bolormaa was visibly sweating as she concentrated on her son’s fight, lacking the support that Soren had been providing until now.

  Moneva turned to the fight. She wasn’t surprised to see Qadan gaining the upper hand now, driving Gansukh back, his defence getting more desperate. Then, a brutal blow landed on Gansukh’s shoulder, smashing through his scale armour and cutting into flesh. A gasp emerged from the crowd. Gansukh reeled backwards but somehow stayed on his horse, weaving away from Qadan’s follow up attacks. Excited talk babbled across the crowd, as they discussed the wound that Qadan had inflicted. Even if Gansukh didn’t die right now, his quest to become khan seemed over. Moneva knew it wasn’t the gash itself, so much as the damage to Gansukh’s movement that was the issue. If he couldn’t move his shoulder and arm properly, he would have no chance of defending against further attacks. The situation was critical.

  Gyrmund knelt down to Soren, talking in his ear, even giving him a slap on the face in an effort to wake him.

  Moneva could see tears in Bolormaa’s eyes, but she maintained her focus. Her face was red with effort.

  Qadan and Gansukh clashed again. Gansukh made no attempt to attack, his energies directed at moving, guiding his horse this way and that, unbalancing Qadan so that he failed to land a clear blow. It was an impressive display of horsemanship, but it was surely only a matter of time before Qadan landed a second blow. And that might be it.

  Soren stirred, mumbling incoherently.

  Desperate, Moneva and Gyrmund lifted him into a sitting position.

  ‘Belwynn?’ he asked drowsily.

  ‘Soren,’ said Moneva. ‘We need you to focus on the fight right now. Gansukh is injured.’

  Soren frowned. She saw his knuckles turn white as he squeezed his staff, perhaps drawing on its energy to revive himself. He opened his eyes and stared at the fight ahead of him.

  Gansukh parried Qadan’s blows, but he was getting weaker. He couldn’t lift his arm properly. Qadan was growing frustrated, trying to batter his way through Gansukh’s flimsy looking defence, his chest heaving with the exertion, his horse’s sides lathered in sweat.

  Then, Gansukh turned it around. He went to parry a blow, dodged it instead, then flicked his blade at Qadan’s wrist. Qadan managed to hold onto his sword but Gansukh was on to him, lightning fast, sending blows to the left, then the right, at his face, then his sword arm. Qadan never completely recovered, desperately trying to get back to neutral. Gansukh faked a high blow, circling around instead, then plunging his sword into the horse’s neck, before withdrawing it in a fountain of blood.

  As the horse fell, Qadan somehow managed to land on his feet, charging at Gansukh in a final bid for victory. Gansukh’s horse didn’t need to be told what to do, skipping out of the way, and as Qadan’s blow fell way too short, Gansukh chopped his scimitar down, the razor-sharp edge cutting through bone and detaching his enemy’s sword-hand from his arm.

  Qadan stood there briefly, gazing at his raised stump, in apparent disbelief that the fight had ended in such a way, before Gansukh finished the job.

  The Oliguds cheered, rushing to the ropes to guide their champion back to the embrace of his tribe.

  Bolormaa, shaky on her feet, immediately ordered that Gansukh be sat down and his wound inspected. Her son had won, but she wore the face of defeat.

  She tutted at the injury as Gansukh was cut out of his armour. He needed rest for it to heal, but if he was to become khan, he had to fight again tomorrow. And his opponent would know exactly where to target.

  ‘It’s over,’ Bolormaa muttered, but Gansukh raged at her, saying he would never withdraw.

  ‘Her husband died on the fifth day,’ Gyrmund said quietly for only Moneva to hear.

  They turned away from the scene and went to check on Soren.

  He was still sitting on the floor, his staff resting on his knees, a dazed expression on his face.

  ‘You called out Belwynn’s name?’ Moneva asked him.

  ‘Something’s happened to her,’ he said dully. ‘Something-,’ he paused, looking up at them, as if trying to find the right words, and then giving up. ‘Something I don’t understand. She’s not replying to me.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’ Moneva asked. She felt a sense of dread. They shouldn’t have left Belwynn and Elana alone for this long. It had been a bad mistake. She knew, as much as anyone perhaps, what the Isharites could do. Heractus wasn’t safe.

  ‘No. I felt her pain, a sense of loss. And I felt something else. It reminded me of Samir Durg,’ he said, his face ashen, ‘when Siavash was inside my head.’

  A sense of helplessness came over Moneva then, a feeling she had sworn she would n
ever tolerate again. All this time wasted, and they were still no closer to getting their hands on the Jalakh Bow, their one chance fading away in front of their eyes.

  She walked over to Bolormaa. The woman looked exhausted, observing her son’s wound being cleaned before they would sew it up.

  ‘I need to talk with you,’ said Moneva.

  Bolormaa looked up at her. She seemed ready to tell Moneva to get lost, before relenting, and the two of them walked away from the crowd gathered about Gansukh.

  ‘We need to try something else,’ Moneva said. She didn’t have to explain why. Gansukh had barely come through that fight, and no-one expected him to win tomorrow. ‘Show me the main challengers to Gansukh; the men who are likely to enter the Contest tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bolormaa. ‘What will that achieve?’

  ‘I’ll make sure they never make it to the ropes.’

  Bolormaa stopped walking, instead looking Moneva in the eye. Moneva didn’t look away. What was the woman’s problem? Had her suggestion gone too far, challenged some sacred rule that Bolormaa wasn’t prepared to break?

  ‘Very well,’ said Bolormaa at last. ‘I will show you.’

  Eighteen of them crossed from Kalinth into Persala. Eight Barbarians; five Persaleians; two men of Rotelegen; two Dog-men; and a Magnian. Clarin decided they’d go no farther this day. It seemed a decent place to stop for the night.

  A cluster of buildings on the Persaleian side marked the border. Here the authorities used to regulate traffic passing between the two countries, but they were now abandoned. Trade was dead, and the Persaleian government destroyed when the Haskans had invaded and taken the capital, Baserno. They could only speculate about who was in charge now. A Drobax army had been seen crossing from Persala into the lands of the Grand Caladri days ago. That suggested that both Haskany and Persala were now firmly back under the control of the Isharites.

  Either the people who lived here hadn’t left in a hurry, or someone else had come since and cleaned the place out, because there was nothing much to show for it after they carried out a sweep of the buildings. Still, the inn was cosy, with a good roof. Spring was different this far north compared to Magnia. The days were pleasant enough, but the nights were cold. Cyprian got a fire going in the hearth and they all made their beds in the main hall. Clarin organised two lookouts at a time, in two-hour shifts, and everyone enjoyed a comfortable first night.