by Sanan Kolva
“Right. And you can make trips to the Shrine to woo a lovely elven woman who can turn into a bear,” Kithr said.
Lyan turned bright red. “I… wha… Kithr!”
His friend just chuckled.
Embarrassed, Lyan opened his pack and found one of his books. He read until the sun set, and Kithr didn’t disturb him.
“Wake me for a turn on watch,” Lyan told Kithr when he lay down to sleep.
“I will,” Kithr promised.
o0o
Night passed without incident, and the two elves set out again in the morning. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and the stalks bent and bowed as the horses walked, leaving a trail Lyan hoped would fade as the grass dried. He had few questions Kithr could answer. Instead, Lyan turned his eyes to the blue sky.
Partway through the morning, Kithr dismounted to search the ground. He muttered curses under his breath.
“Kithr, what’s wrong?” Lyan asked.
“Lost the old man’s trail. I thought I had it, but…” Kithr shook his head. “Come on, I need to backtrack.”
Lyan caught the reins of Kithr’s horse and followed as Kithr walked. The sun continued its relentless course across the sky, and Lyan tried not to dwell on the time or the knowledge that Aikan moved further from them. He fretted, anxious and exposed, wishing for the company of Cailean and his men.
Finally, Kithr made a sound of satisfaction. “There! I was careless—the old man changed his course and I missed it. First turn he’s made from his straight line. Wonder where he’s headed.” He swung back into the saddle. “We’ll catch him soon. Before the end of the day, I expect.”
Kithr’s voice didn’t hold the confidence his words proclaimed. Lyan watched him. “You’re worried.”
Kithr shook his head. “Just cautious. I see a few other tracks. Might be patrols or other people in the area. We’ll avoid them.”
But what will we do if Aikan did not do the same? If he runs into other people, what will he do? Who will he tell them he is?
Kithr called a halt after midday to rest the horses. Lyan dug jerky from his bag and shared it with Kithr.
“Are we gaining on Aikan?”
“I think so.” Worry creased Kithr’s brow. “Lyan, do you have any sense that we’re being followed?”
“Followed?” Lyan blinked in surprise. He thought a moment. “A general feeling of ‘I don’t like it here’ and ‘Something’s making my skin crawl,’ but nothing specific like ‘We’re being followed’.” He hadn’t been consciously aware of the sensations, but they explained his unease at the delay while Kithr backtracked, and when they stopped early the night before. “What about you?”
“The same, and I don’t like it.” Kithr took bow and quiver from his saddle.
Lyan clutched Equinox. Kithr’s tense stance said he expected battle at any moment, and that, more than anything, fanned fear in Lyan. Dark clouds flowed over the sun, blotting out the light, and Lyan glanced up in surprise. He wondered how he missed signs of a gathering storm, but now a chill wind whipped through the grass. Shadowstar and Kithr’s horse both snorted uneasily, pawing the ground and stamping their hooves.
“I really don’t like this, Kithr,” Lyan said, clutching Equinox.
“Neither do I.” Kithr sidled back toward his horse.
Lightning ripped across the sky. Thunder shook the ground, leaving Lyan’s ears ringing. With the storm’s first strike came something unnatural. It chilled Lyan to the bone and froze him where he stood.
Both Kithr’s horse and Shadowstar reared with whinnies of fear, then bolted. Lyan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Shadowstar… fleeing? What is this…? This isn’t right.
The first icy drops of rain pelted down. Lyan’s eyes caught movement, indistinct shapes flowing toward them. Kithr’s arm shook as he raised his bow and took aim. An arrow flew from the string, and passed straight through the center the target’s center without effect. Lyan read the same desperate terror that he felt in Kithr’s fumble with another arrow and rapid draw. The second arrow had no more effect than the first.
Kithr panted for breath. “Go!” he ordered, shoving Lyan away from him.
Lyan stumbled, clutching Equinox. He wanted to run, but his legs, like blocks of ice, refused to move as the shapes oozed forward like living pools of ink. Kithr didn’t waste any more arrows, but drew his sword.
“Go!” Kithr repeated. Fear made his voice sharp. “I’ll watch your back.”
“Run,” taunted a whisper through the air. “Yes, run.”
Lyan managed several steps back, gripping the Spear in white-knuckled hands. Two forms drew themselves into shapes resembling large dogs—lean, wiry, muscled bodies with sharp, pointed heads and alert ears. Their eyes glowed red, and lips curled back to show gleaming white fangs, the only spots of color on otherwise unrelenting black bodies.
The other two shapes took on humanoid forms, and Lyan couldn’t say which, dog or humanoid, stirred deeper terror in him, freezing him where he stood and turning his thoughts to senseless babbling. One of the humanoid shapes looked directly at Lyan. Its eyes glowed red, like those of the dogs, and its hungry grin revealed a mouthful of teeth, jagged as glass shards. A long black robe hid its body, but its head looked like that of a mummified corpse—desiccated skin stretched too tight across the skull, beginning to peel away. Thin strands of pale hair spotted the scalp. In its bony hands, the thing held a harvester’s scythe.
“By the gods…” Kithr whispered.
Four sets of glowing red eyes fixed on him. A dry, dusty voice rasped from one of the robed figures, sending ice down Lyan’s spine. “Men rise, and men fall.”
The other continued. “Gods rise, and gods fall.”
They spoke the last lines in unison, the words rattling like the last breath of a dying man. “Lord Murdo takes them all. So sing the reapers.”
Reapers. These are reapers. These are what terrified Vynzent and his men so much that I had a chance to slip free of them. Terror held Lyan like a vice as the two reapers and their dogs advanced on Kithr. Kithr stood as unmoving as Lyan. One scythe swept out in a lazy arc, opening a slash across Kithr’s arm.
Kithr cried in pain, but it broke him free of the paralyzing fear radiating from the reapers. He raised his blade to block a second swing, grimacing as the force of the seemingly effortless attack knocked him back. Kithr gripped his sword with both hands, shifting his stance to brace himself in the slick grass. He cast one look over his shoulder to Lyan.
“I said go, blight it!”
“It won’t help.” The words came in the softest whisper from Lyan’s lips, lost in the gusting wind. Don’t just stand here! Help Kithr! Come on, Lyan, don’t stand like a fool and watch them cut him down!
His body wouldn’t obey his mind’s frantic orders. Kithr blocked another swing, but even Lyan could see the reapers merely toyed with him. A scythe ripped across Kithr’s back, too quick for him to dodge. The dogs lunged as one, sinking fangs into Kithr and dragging him to the ground. Kithr screamed as ragged teeth tore through cloth and skin.
The reapers laughed—horrible, hollow laughs. Together, they bent over Kithr. One tore the sword from Kithr’s hand and knelt, pinning Kithr’s arm under its knees. Lyan smelled blood, and Kithr screamed in agony, thrashing against the creatures that effortlessly held him to the ground.
One reaper raised its head to look again at Lyan, blood dripping from its mouth. A black tongue darted out to lick its lips, then it returned its attention to Kithr, confident Lyan could neither react nor flee. Lyan heard flesh tear, and Kithr screamed again, spasming.
No. No! Lyan’s hands gripped Equinox so tight he expected something to break.
His eyes opened wide as one thought forced through the terror. Lyan tore his eyes from the reapers to stare at the Spear. Equinox, Spear of the Stars. I’m such a fool.
“Help me,” Lyan whispered.
The Spear might have been waiting, as if Lyan finally opened a door in his mind blocking
Equinox out. Heat shattered the icy fear that pinned him to the spot, and knowledge flooded his mind, too much to comprehend at once.
“Give me some way to save Kithr!”
Equinox pressed unfamiliar words into Lyan’s mind. He shouted them before he realized he spoke. Lightning burned across the sky. The reapers raised their heads as one, glowing eyes fixing on Lyan. One dog snarled, crouched, and sprang at him.
Equinox glowed in Lyan’s hands. The drenching downpour should have made a billowing cloud of dust impossible, yet one rose before Lyan, choking the air momentarily. Lyan tensed, expecting the dog to slam into him.
He sensed a presence in the cloud before him. The dog yelped in surprise and pain.
The dust dispersed. Lyan blinked rapidly, and shook wet, muddy hair from his eyes, to find himself staring at a back. It was a muscular back, with a massive pair of draconic wings settling against bronze skin. A slender feline tail twitched lazily back and forth, nearly brushing Lyan’s leg. The owner of back, wings, and tail stood two heads taller than Lyan.
He was also, as best Lyan could tell from behind him, naked.
Unconcerned by his nudity, the newcomer gripped the dog by its throat. He spoke in a deep voice that Lyan felt in his bones, tone heavy with disgust. “Reapers.”
Toned arms twisted. The dog gave a strangled yelp before its neck snapped audibly. The winged newcomer tossed aside the limp, broken dog and stepped toward the reapers.
One reaper screeched in rage, lunging at him. “Men rise and men fall…”
A casual flick of the winged man’s wrist sent a lance of blue light into the reaper. Lyan’s hair stood on end at the strength of the magic. “Maybe so,” the winged man said, “but there won’t be any more singing from you.”
The other reaper and its dog abandoned Kithr, backing away with hisses and snarls.
“Do you think I’m going to let you run, reaper?” The winged man gestured, and blue fire burst from the ground in a wall behind reaper and dog. He advanced like a stalking feline closing on its prey, tail twitching in predatory anticipation. “Murdo won’t even be able to find your blackened soul to question you.”
A coil of fire lashed out from the wall to snatch the dog’s hind legs. The dog yowled, thrashing as the coil dragged it into the blaze. The stench of burning hair filled the air before flames consumed the creature.
The reaper screamed, glowing eyes maddened with fury and pain. “Gods… rise…,” it rasped.
“And reapers fall.” Shimmering blades sprang like claws from the winged man’s fingertips. He slashed through the reaper, shredding its body and severing its head.
Finally, the winged man turned to face Lyan, piercing amber eyes studying the elf. “So, that damned Spear found itself a new Bearer. Well, at least you summoned me for something halfway interesting.”
Overhead, the storm clouds broke apart and the rain cut off as if it had never been. The first golden shafts of sunlight fell on the man, gleaming on impossibly dry bronze skin. Shivering, soaked to the skin, Lyan dully repeated, “Summoned?” He couldn’t deny what his instincts told him, nor what his eyes did. He’d seen this tall, winged figure before. Never in the flesh, but cast in gold in a temple hidden in the depths of the Forests of Cossette. The twist of his mouth could be a smile or a sneer, the eyes could be mocking or promising vengeance on enemies. But cold metal had failed to capture the dark amusement in the god’s expression. Lyan licked suddenly dry lips and whispered, “Nachyne.”
Chapter Eleven
Mortals and gods
Earth and sky
Ever seeking, ever searching
Let dreams and prayers fly
The god of monsters sketched a bow. Despite the storm that had raged moments before, he stood dry, not a single dark hair out of place. “The one and only. And you, Spearbearer?”
Kithr gasped and jerked, tearing Lyan’s mind from the question before he could answer. He bolted past Nachyne to his friend. Kithr’s eyes were closed, breath quick and shallow, pale face beaded with sweat. Blood ran, especially on his chest and abdomen—jagged wounds torn by jagged teeth, as if the reapers had been eating him alive. Remembering the blood-spattered face of the reaper as it looked at him, Lyan’s bile rose. He choked it back down.
“I am impressed he’s still alive. A reaper’s bite poisons their victims even if the unfortunate escapes their feeding.” Nachyne followed Lyan, looking down at Kithr. “I suppose you want me to heal him.”
Lyan’s head jerked up. “Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Then heal Kithr. Please.” Desperation and fear made Lyan ignore the presumption and sheer idiocy of demanding anything of a god—the “please” little more than an afterthought. Each breath Kithr took grew more labored, and his skin’s pallor grew worse.
Nachyne crouched beside Kithr across from Lyan and held a hand over the bleeding elf. A yellow-green glow bloomed under his palm, the unhealthy color spreading to settle over Kithr. Kithr jerked and cried out, his voice a thin sound. Lyan’s jaw tensed and his hands tightened around Equinox.
Nachyne didn’t look up. “I’m forcing his body to mend faster than is natural, and burning the poison from his body. Neither are pleasant, but necessary if he’s going to live. He should live. He won’t remember this pain.”
Lyan forced himself to relax. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you obviously have no idea what’s going on. Because I have no desire to give that damned Spear another taste of my blood. Because the lords of the dead would get very irate if I had to intrude on their domain to bring your friend’s soul back to his body.”
Lyan tried to make sense of the god’s words. For the first time, he noticed a wicked scar on Nachyne’s side—an old, long-healed wound, but the only mar on Nachyne’s otherwise flawless body. Lyan opened his mouth, but didn’t speak.
“Ask your questions. They won’t distract me,” Nachyne said.
“How many questions do I get?” Lyan asked uncertainly.
“As many as you want.”
That sounded unusually generous for the god of monsters, not known for benevolence to those outside his domain. Or to those within his domain, for that matter. “Why?”
“Because you’re the Spearbearer of Equinox.”
“What… does that have to do with you?” Lyan asked.
Nachyne made a face of distaste. “I suppose I might as well get this particular humiliation out of the way now, rather than have you drag it out one question at a time. The third—no—fourth Spearbearer of Equinox after Murdo. She thought highly of her skills and ability to wield the Spear’s powers. At the height of her arrogance, she issued a challenge to me. I accepted, and we fought.”
Lyan blinked. “A Spearbearer challenged a god?”
Nachyne grimaced. “To my continuing regret, her opinion of her skills was justified.”
Lyan paled and looked at the Spear in his hands. A Spearbearer challenged a god to combat, and won? How? To what end?
“As a result, I’m bound to that damned Spear, at the call of whatever bearer it chooses to adopt. Despite my desire that the… ‘incident’ be erased from mortal memory entirely, Equinox has an unpleasant habit of prompting its wielder to draw on all possible solutions.” Bitter anger colored the god’s voice, but it didn’t show on his face when he stood. Kithr gave a final, fierce jerk, then fell still. A moment passed, then Lyan saw him draw the steady, even breaths of deep sleep. “Your friend will wake hungry and sore tomorrow morning. So, what title am I supposed to call you, Spearbearer?”
“Title?” Belatedly, Lyan remembered Nachyne’s earlier question. “My name’s Lyan, and that’s my preference. Just Lyan.” His thoughts still raced and tumbled. I knew Guardians of the Spear who failed the Trials became bound to serve the Spear and its bearer, but a god? Equinox can bind even a god?
“Just Lyan. Hmm. Lyan the Just? No, too pretentious for you. No titles at all?” Nachyne mused.
“The elves of E
ilidh Wood don’t hold to many titles beyond ‘Elder’, and I’m no village elder,” Lyan answered.
“That never stopped previous Spearbearers from finding honorifics that suited their fancies,” Nachyne said. He crossed his arms over bare chest and studied Lyan as if thinking what to attach to the elf’s name.
“Some of my friends call me Lyan Stargazer when they feel a need to call me by more than just my name,” Lyan allowed, not wanting to know what title the god of monsters might find amusing to impart.
“An astrologer?” Nachyne raised an eyebrow. “An interesting choice by Equinox.”
“Why?” Lyan asked, feeling his defensive ire stir, ready to defend his worth and that of reading the stars.
“Don’t think I’m ignorant of an astrologer’s skills, Just Lyan Stargazer,” Nachyne told him. “Most Spearbearers have been warriors of one sort or another since the last astrologer who became Spearbearer.” His eyes narrowed. “That didn’t turn out so well.”
“What do you mean?” Lyan asked, surprised. “Who was the last astrologer to become Spearbearer?”
“Murdo.” Nachyne spat the name with distaste.
Lyan stiffened. “The… the Mad God? An astrologer?”
“He was. I’m sure he’d love to be one still, but in his prison, there are no stars.” Nachyne smiled grimly.
Lyan nodded quickly, the course of the conversation uncomfortable. He looked around for Shadowstar and Kithr’s horse. Not seeing either, he murmured, “Shadowstar, please find Kithr’s horse and come back.”
He finally realized he was shivering, and remembered his own clothes were soaked through, as were Kithr’s. He looked around for dry wood, but didn’t see any good tinder to build a fire. Nachyne stood by, arms crossed, watching with a mildly interested and slightly amused expression. Lyan turned to the god.
“I’m sorry to be asking something so… mundane, but could you… start a campfire or something for us?”
“Simple, mundane, mortal concerns.” Nachyne gestured casually, and a deep blue flame burst to life on a clear patch of ground, the size of a moderate campfire. The wet ground hissed and steamed around it. The heat drew Lyan, and he finally stopped shivering. Nachyne studied him again. “How long have you carried Equinox, Just Lyan Stargazer?”
