Saviors- Duty and Sacrifice

by Devon Vesper

  How long had he been out? He chanced discovery by opening his eyelids by a sliver, just enough to see through his thick, pale lashes.

  The surrounding snow hadn’t melted much. The light seemed to still be the same brightness as when he dashed through the woods, still from the same direction he remembered. Had it only been a few moments? He did a mental check of his body. His head ached, but that was from hitting it on a root. His skin still felt like bugs crawled just beneath the surface, but that didn’t feel urgent. Not yet. Everything seemed to be whole.

  A hand pressed to his temple. Valis fought the urge to flinch, to fight. He still had no plan. Nothing solid, anyway. He could save his energy, try to overpower his uncle, but Rygas had magic, and proved able to exhaust two Aesriphos. What chance did Valis have?

  The crawling sensation grew so intense that Valis gasped. All the invisible bugs rushed toward that hand. It left Valis feeling drained and somewhat nauseous. His uncle chuckled and patted his shoulder. “It is time to wake, my nephew. You cannot sleep in the snow. It isn’t healthy.”

  Valis shivered from something other than the cold and curled into a tight ball. The last thing he wanted was to be at this man’s mercy, but if Darolen or Kerac hadn’t arrived to save him yet, they probably never would. The helplessness that welled up in his breast threatened to drown him. It was his father all over again, only with a new evil. At least the feeling of danger and being trapped was familiar, but he had thought to never feel that again after he’d learned to love Kerac and Darolen. They had shown him so much, and only now, when he was faced with his uncle again, did he really appreciate what they had given him. Freedom and love and kindness and hope. He didn’t dare feel that hope now. It would crush him.

  That hand moved from Valis’ temple once the invisible bugs receded. It stroked down his face, along his shoulder. The way it caressed his flank, down to his hip and squeezed his ass made him more nauseous than the crawling sensation from those invisible bugs, if they were bugs at all. It made more sense for them to have been a spell that his uncle had slammed him with than anything the forest could do to him. Not with the kind of intensity that he had felt. He shivered. Not from the cold, but from the revulsion his uncle’s touch inspired in him. It made him feel greasy, unclean.

  “Such a shrinking flower,” his uncle cooed. “I will teach you to writhe under my touch, not shrink away from it.” He squeezed Valis’ thigh and shifted. When Valis glanced over, Rygas had a speculative look in his eyes, his hand never leaving Valis. It continued to rove as if Valis were a prized possession. “I would show you such delights now, but I fear the cold would do little for our pleasure.” He smirked and smacked Valis hard on his rump. “And someone spoiled the fun. You may not be able to enjoy it for some time yet. Though… at least I was able to see my prize before we must run.”

  Run? He didn’t seem in the mood for running, or prepared for it. Rygas appeared as relaxed as he had been in Valis’ father’s study with a glass of warm brandy in his long-fingered hand. And that thought brought on memories Valis would be glad to eradicate from his mind. His uncle staring at him from hooded eyes, a slight smile on his full mouth. One of those long fingers tapping the cut crystal that encased his brandy, aglow from the firelight from the roaring hearth. The way his breath skated down Valis’ throat before his father ripped Rygas away from him and hissed, “You will not!”

  It was one of very few times that Valis appreciated his father’s possessiveness. It had at least protected him from Rygas. Not now, though. Roba was in stasis back in camp. Kerac more than likely still stood watch, preparing dinner. Darolen… where was Darolen? Could he shout and bring him closer? Would he hear?

  Before, it had seemed like magic. The way Darolen found him, the way he always made Valis see he couldn’t run from duty any more than he could have run from his father. Darolen hadn’t made him feel lesser, but had made him want to be a better person, a better friend. Now, he wondered if it wasn’t magic, but Valis’ own predictability. Otherwise, wouldn’t Darolen have found him by now?

  Rygas finished his musing and grabbed Valis in a deceptively gentle hold and started to haul him up off the forest floor. He wasn’t about to help him. Anything to hinder the man’s progress. Instead, Valis remained limp, always looking for a way to escape. If his assumptions were correct, Rygas had stopped him with magic, a spell of some sort. That would explain the invisible bugs, the way he’d passed out for only moments. With that kind of magic, he’d have to disorient his uncle in some way, make it so he couldn’t think.

  His sword. He couldn’t leave his sword. He let his head loll to the side, saw it lying next to the melted area his body had just occupied. If he could just get it…

  Valis didn’t have time to think. As Rygas lifted him up, Valis spun. His hand cracked painfully against his uncle’s skull. It sent shocks up through his forearm, but he didn’t stop. He rolled again, thrashed until Rygas dropped him. Once he hit the ground, he reached for his sword, gripped the hilt as tight as his aching fingers would allow.

  The frustrated roar of rage from his uncle made Valis move. He rolled to the side, just barely in time to see a black streak blacken the ground mere inches from his head. He brought his sword up just as his uncle launched at him. Somehow the man managed to knock it aside. Valis barely managed to keep it in hand. With strength he didn’t know he possessed, he brought the hilt down on the side of Rygas’ head just as he reached for Valis’ throat.

  Something snapped in those ice cold blue eyes. All the warmth drained from them, the playful glint gone. Murder showed in their icy depths, chilling Valis more than the snow, more than the initial terror of seeing his uncle again after believing they had escaped him.

  Valis brought the hilt of his sword down again, but Rygas knocked it away. He grasped Valis’ throat and went to haul him up. Gold light flared all around them. A bellow of rage escaped Rygas. He dropped Valis like the sack of flour he seemed to weigh in the man’s hands and spun around.

  Darolen said not a word. He seemed like a mute statue, craggy face full of pain and rage. His brown eyes were harder than chips of tiger’s eye stones, jaw working as if he were crunching those stones himself. If that gaze had been leveled at Valis, he would have quailed in fear. But now, that look gave him hope. He took the moment that Rygas had forgotten about him to catch his breath, to make his sore throat open to let in more air.

  Another blast of gold brightened the day, made Valis’ chest ache with the beauty of it. It slammed against a shield of blue haze with crawling black veins that both looked like streaks of foul lightning, and pulsing, diseased flesh. The miasma made it hard to breathe. It surrounded Valis as if his uncle were protecting him from the man who sought to save him.

  And then he realized that’s exactly what he was doing. He knew Darolen would do anything to get Valis back. Anything to get him to Avristin where he might have a normal life with friends and family like he’d never experienced before. Those thoughts rose up in him in a sudden storm of confused feelings and bitter regret. He watched with new anxiety as Darolen faced off against Rygas, how he shielded himself with a bare thought before dropping it and attacking with a fury that Valis had only seen in his own father when Valis had done something he’d vehemently disapproved of. It both made Valis shiver with dread, and his heart soar because that look was directed at Rygas, and not him.

  His wits came back to him slowly. Getting the crushed feeling to abate from his throat took more time than he would have liked. He worked it with his hand, careful to keep his actions slow and deliberate, trying to stay as quiet as possible so his uncle would stay facing Darolen. With his back turned to Valis, Rygas might actually forget he existed. Or, that was his hope. He moved into a crouch, curled around his knees to try to work at his throat, swallowing hard to see how badly it had been damaged. But that hope… it filled him with each successful swallow.

  Hope. He found that his soul clutched to it as it never had before. Darolen and Kerac had d
one that, made hope seem like a thing that wasn’t worthless or for fools who had no grasp of reality. Hope was something he could work toward, something that, if he fought hard enough, was brave enough, could carry him toward the life he wanted.

  Darolen staggered back. Black lightning skated over his dimming shield in an unrelenting stream of foul magic. He grunted with the strain, sweat slicking his brow, plastering his shaggy hair to his forehead and neck.

  Another blast, and the world slowed to a crawl as Darolen stumbled over a tree root and fell, in slow motion like a falling leaf, to the forest floor. A wild cry escaped Valis. He gripped his sword in hand. Tightened his grip until his knuckles ached and blanched white. Rygas started to turn. The world rushed back, seemingly at a greater speed than normal. Valis lunged from his crouch. His legs burned from the power he pushed into every muscle. He kept his sword close to his body. Pulled it back as he shoved himself forward.

  His shoulder impacted his uncle’s chest as he completed his turn. He expelled all his air in a loud squawk of surprise as if he hadn’t expected Valis to defend himself. The moment seemed suspended in amber for a long stretch. And then the world rushed in again. Valis shoved up, the tip of his sword finding and piercing something soft and yielding. The pungent scent of fresh, hot blood rose around him in a vile haze.

  Valis plunged the blade up, twisting when the hilt met ribs. His uncle’s stately face scrunched up in confusion. He glanced down, saw the hilt sticking out of his chest at an odd angle. He looked up into Valis’ eyes.

  And laughed.

  “The son… is just… like the father,” he rasped. “Just… as ruthless.”

  Pink froth dribbled down the sides of his mouth. Valis hissed and jerked his blade free. Fell to his knees. Darolen was dead. How would he tell Kerac? That man loved Darolen more than life itself, and Valis didn’t know if he would survive such news.

  Rygas tottered on his feet for a moment, then collapsed to the grass. His eyes stared at Valis, full of hate and bewilderment. Then his chest stopped struggling for air. His hand slid away from where he clutched at his wound. The pupils of his eyes expanded in death, nearly completely eradicating the ice blue irises, showing fathomless black pits that stared sightlessly into nothingness.

  Valis shuddered. He didn’t dare look at Darolen. Had that foul magic pierced his shield? Turned his body into a mass of black veins on ashen skin? He shuddered and let out a shrill whimper as he washed the blood off his hands with fresh snow. He couldn’t seem to get it off, but the more he tried, the better he felt, even if—

  He choked on a sob.

  —if Darolen was gone. He wasn’t coming back. Something tore Valis’ soul from his body and left it somewhere near Darolen’s.

  His weary muscles protested when he staggered to a nearby tree for support. Everything ached. He tottered and leaned against the tree until his legs stopped wobbling, then set out to gather food. Returning with nothing wasn’t an option he was about to consider. It would at least give him time to figure out how to tell Kerac that Darolen had fallen. Let him remember where Darolen’s body lay so they could reclaim it and let Kerac send his soul into Peace.

  Using his sword and hands, Valis dug out what roots he could find from the ground that could serve as food. He gathered withered edible mushrooms and vegetation for nutritious salads. With a frosted sigh, he found a tiny gathering of trampled and wilted mint and stuck a few leaves into his mouth to chew to ease his upset stomach. It only half worked, as most of the upset wasn’t due to an overabundance of acid, and the leaves were far from fresh.

  I’m such a fool, he growled internally. A child. He barked a bitter laugh and wiped away tears with the cuff of his sleeve. I don’t deserve Kerac. Monsters don’t deserve friends that gentle. They don’t deserve kindness. They don’t deserve friends like Darolen, don’t deserve to live when they… they fall.

  Again, his gut twisted. His pouch full to bursting, he tucked the last tuber inside and tied it closed. With care, he hung it on his belt and gazed back in the direction of camp. Or, he hoped that was the direction of camp. It seemed right, even after all the fighting. Darolen…

  Loss—so powerful it staggered him—hit Valis in the chest until he sagged against the nearest tree and covered his face with both hands. A shudder ripped through him. I should just keep walking. Kerac wouldn’t miss me overlong. He’d think I died with Darolen. It might… might be kinder that way.

  That thought sent rills of terror through his stomach and along his spine. He shoved off the tree with a ragged breath and headed in the direction opposite camp. He could get Rygas’ horses and use his tent and supplies. He might have to work for food, but that was something familiar. Gods, make up your mind! Angry, sad, determined, or afraid. Pick one.

  His brain wouldn’t cooperate though. It cycled through the emotions like a wind-up carousel. They tumbled through him. Skin cold and clammy from anxiety, Valis found a small clearing and glanced around. He needed something to clear his mind.

  Few options entered his thoughts, but one stuck long enough that he cleaned his sword and began his forms. His movements were jerky and stiff at first. His mind still raged. His body resisted. After a while, though, things began to even out. His mind settled the clutter into neat little stacks that he could pick apart as his body did what he trained it to do over the last three months.

  Dusk began closing in. Even in his sword forms, anger kept welling up within him. Each time Kerac’s pained face flashed in his mind, he faltered.

  His expression didn’t show grief.

  It showed betrayal.

  I betrayed him. Gods, I betrayed him. And now I’ve taken his mate from him.

  He shuddered to a halt mid-swing. The reality of what he had done hit him like a runaway boulder shot down a steep hill. Something welled up inside him. He couldn’t name it. He didn’t recognize it. It bubbled up until he erupted with a roar as he hurled his sword at the nearest tree.

  It struck the side and wedged there. His legs buckled, but suddenly arms like iron bands circled his chest. Shouting, Valis struggled. He fought and writhed to get free. Had Rygas lived? Was the death just a lie, a spell to make Valis vulnerable again? Was—

  A hand cuffed him on the side of the head so hard he saw stars and the world spun.

  “Enough,” Darolen growled. “Enough.”

  Recognizing the voice, Valis went limp and nodded. Darolen lived? How… Valis’ heart ached with something else. He had left Darolen alone, possibly hurt, when the man was still alive. Had abandoned him for dead, and nearly ran off to find his own way, leaving Darolen and Kerac to worry about him. How much of a monster was he? Monster…

  Darolen held on a moment longer, then released him.

  “Go get your blade.”

  Was this a dream? Was Darolen really alive, or was this Valis’ imagination? …He didn’t have a very good imagination. Valis’ legs moved without his mind telling them to. He wrenched the blade out of the soft wood of the tree with ease and sheathed it. When he turned back toward Darolen, he saw the warrior flanked by a dead buck. Six rabbits hung from his belt in the back by vines. His skin was pasty and slick with sweat, but he seemed hale and whole, like he’d just fallen from a misstep instead of a magical blast. …Had it only been that stumble? Had his shield held enough to keep him from Rygas’ magical blast?

  Where Valis expected rage, he only saw Darolen’s face drawn and shadowed with worry and pain. That only made him feel worse.

  “I’m proud of you,” he rumbled. “You not only saved yourself, but you saved me.”

  He saved Darolen? He supposed that was true, but the praise made him shrink back. He wasn’t worthy of praise. It didn’t belong anywhere near him, not after leaving Darolen to rot on the snowy forest floor.

  “What’s wrong?” the Aesriphos asked.

  Valis ducked his head in shame. “I left you.” He sucked in a staggered breath and whimpered. “I betrayed Kerac. …I punched him. And… and I thought you w
ere dead.”

  “Do you feel better?” Darolen asked evenly.

  Valis shook his head and scrubbed his hands over his face. “No. I feel worse.”

  “Are you willing to finally talk about things now?”

  Stunned, Valis’ head shot up and he stared. “What do you mean?”

  The warrior laughed, tired and strained, but it was a laugh and Valis cherished it because Darolen was alive. “You have been pent up and full of angst since you killed those bandits. It has gotten progressively worse each day, especially so after that explosive episode concerning your sire.”

  Mouth opening and closing, Valis fought for something to say. The entirety of the day seemed to vanish except what he’d done to Kerac, and how he’d treated his friends. “Why didn’t you say anything about it?”

  With a shrug, Darolen used the deer’s back as a stool and sat. “We tried. Every day.”

  “Oh.”

  With quiet assurance, Darolen motioned him closer. Valis obeyed on habit and knelt between the Aesriphos legs. Darolen sighed and plucked up Valis’ right hand. His armored fingers ghosted over the bloody skin of his knuckles. Caressed the blood stains left by his foul uncle that Valis had missed in his hasty washing.

  “What did I tell you about regret?” he demanded. “What did I tell you about poison?”

  Valis stared up at him and frowned. “It’ll lead me down the wrong path.”

  He nodded. “Pent up emotions with no release are more poisonous than regret.” He pulled off his right glove and carded his bare fingers through Valis’ loose hair. The touch was so gentle that tears stung his eyes. If Darolen had really died, he would have never again known that gentleness, and even the thought broke his already battered heart. “Keeping them in will kill you. Keeping them in hurts everyone around you because we can see you are in pain, but we are powerless because you won’t let us in.”