The Truth about Heroes: Complete Trilogy (Heroes Trilogy)

by Krista Gossett

  “If that is so, then we are fools to waste it in silence! We should make peace and have faith we will see our friends before we meet our fate!” Verity snapped.

  Finn met Verity’s eyes as if he finally realized she was there and had the grace to look apologetic now.

  “I regret that I never got to take you as lover… I know it’s petty that it bothers me, but it does,” Finn admitted, feeling it was a shallow, ridiculous confession in light of what was looming ahead. Verity didn’t look judgmental though and smiled at him tiredly, touching his arm.

  “The funny thing about time is that we always think there will be more of it. But if we knew when our time was up, then the risks and rewards would both lose meaning,” Verity agreed in her own way, taking his warm hand in her own. Finn thought about how she had to lose everyone she loved to learn that hard lesson. Finn halted in his tracks and turned, waiting for Krose to catch up.

  “I could run ahead if you two want some privacy,” Krose offered without innuendo.

  Finn shook his head and smiled anyway.

  “It would be dangerous to separate and this is certainly no place for privacy,” Finn conceded, as much as he would have liked to do so. Krose shrugged and walked ahead, but they fell into step close behind him. In truth, he was afraid that if he lost sight of Krose for even a second, the next Krose he saw would not be his friend at all.

  “What did you mean when you said the old gods are waking? You seemed certain of that,” Krose asked Finn with a frown creasing his brow.

  “The Mother had warned me that Viper would wake them soon, with or without us to play his game and not long ago, I heard the world below tremble violently as if the old gods stirred again. Some part of his plans must have been realized again,” Finn admitted.

  “You heard the world below trembling?” Verity asked, not sure she heard that right.

  He simply nodded affirmatively. “I have a falcon’s hearing. I am almost afraid to see the damage, but then we may not. The Mother says our chances are slim. Not impossible, but not likely either.”

  “We have defied odds so far; we shouldn’t be so quick to discount our chances,” Krose reminded them and Verity smiled, her thoughts very much the same.

  “I am not discounting them, but I am preparing to give it my all. We have everything to lose so we really have nothing to lose by finishing with our best effort,” Finn defended.

  “Finn, do not be careless. We are precious few left and the world’s only hope. I hope you are not preparing to rush in on a suicide mission,” Verity cautiously pointed out.

  Finn laughed, short and without amusement.

  “I am not doing that either, but if it comes down to saving everyone at the expense of myself…” Finn did not finish because they had gotten the point and knew they felt the same. It was just a hard thing to say aloud. It was a given—if all would die anyway, then dying to stop that was just changing the significance of your death, not the inevitability.

  Finn’s eyes held to the beacon and dared to hope there would be a world to return to. He had the light ahead and the light of his life beside him and for now, it helped him hold onto that hope.

  Viper had been tempted to send in more death machines in his impotent rage, but he had gathered his senses, not wanting to lose his foothold and superiority over three little pawns that had wormed their way out of death with a bit of clever thinking. He had underestimated Verity, not realizing she had such ingenuity in her. He might have bested them easily if not for those splitsecond calls.

  It seemed a waste to just obliterate such a worthy opponent and he wanted to reserve a special sort of torment for her later. If luck favored him, he would be able to give them all a special sort of torment as the clever shade had done with Rienna. Already, this place was doing so well in breaking them further.

  Rienna had slept through the day and well into the next morning before waking. Melchior had held onto her the whole time and Dinsch had taken to caring for Melchior to keep busy, making sure he ate and rested. Even when Melchior slept, he would not let go of Rienna. Dinsch could not think of any words and Melchior had not been conversational either. They both worried about Rienna and mourned Ashe. No one could have foreseen the shade crashing back into the struggle and doing such damage. Foresight had not been one of their gifts and it was unfailingly their greatest downfall.

  Melchior mourned his brother’s short miserable life, knowing that Rienna had been the one bright spot in it. His friend in Guileford may have been a blessing, even the friends he had for a short time while training in the mountains, but not in the way Rienna had been. He had certainly failed as a brother although he had done his best to make up for that. So much could have been different if he hadn’t been such a coward.

  Melchior was three years old when Ashe had been born and, like a lot of toddlers, he had been extremely jealous of the new baby and mischievous in his bid for attention. He would break pots and hit other children and hide shoes; small things, really, but purposely done to cause annoyance while he mourned the spotlight of an only child. His parents did not dote too much on Ashe, but caring for a baby required a lot of work and every bit of lost time was stressful to the little boy who did not relish sharing parents with the squalling lump of flesh.

  Although the Suleika chief was always busy beyond what time he gave to his wife and new baby, he had made extra effort to give at least one hour a day to Melchior alone. He would take the boy out to allow his wife some quiet time and he would show Melchior what the men of the village did and Melchior would stand in awe of his father, returning home a good boy, worn out and ready for bed before the sun blinked out of the sky.

  When the time came to get his Mark at the age of five, he had been unable to stop shaking but he kept his face stoic and his father had been proud. The Mark took several hours to be tattooed into his upper back and shoulders and sometimes the pain was so great, he thought he would pass out but he did not. He simply looked at his father and his father’s nod of approval energized his resolve.

  Ashe had been two by that time and the two-year-old Ashe was more fun. He could walk although he was a bit clumsy, and he was starting to talk and he followed Melchior like a shadow whenever he could. Melchior did not mind sharing with his brother now, although Melchior had been reduced to tears when, several days after his first tattoo, Ashe had smacked it and he howled in pain. This just delighted Ashe and he smacked it repeatedly in a fit of baby laughter until their mother had snatched Ashe away and comforted Melchior. His mother even promised not to tell the chief he had been crying.

  By the time it was Ashe’s turn to receive the Mark, Melchior had already been hearing the whispers of omens surrounding his brother’s true nature but an eight-year-old boy doesn’t fully understand such things. Despite the whispers of warning, the chief had insisted Ashe have the Suleika Mark and no other. Melchior had already begun hunting with the men and he had 2/3 of the tattoos that would mark his body, but he was far from being a man. The script on his body told the story of Erised and Nuriel’s rivalry and warned of the dangers of opposing the elements. The story would be finished by his tenth birthday; the final Mark would be a dark phoenix across his chest.

  When he received the Mark, he had felt such pride, such confidence that he was truly a man, but it was that night when the barbarians had come to wipe them out. Melchior had woken before his mother had come to wake her sons and he had gathered his bow and arrows and ran out of the door before she could wake Ashe. In hindsight, Melchior punished himself for ever having left them at all, but he may have been killed if he had stayed. He had quivered like a coward, much further from the destruction than Ashe had been.

  What haunted him more than his own cowardice was that he had seen the Reaper take his brother and he had done nothing. He had not even followed the barbarians or attempted to rescue his brother. In his despair, he had told himself that Ashe would join their parents soon and it was pointless to try. What little courage he had fled him c
ompletely when he first heard Ashe’s gutwrenching screams from the Reaper’s tent. He ran as fast as he could, following the Lesthene River south, not daring to take the main roads. He had dropped the bow and arrows before fleeing and he never could bring himself to touch those weapons again. To him, they only reminded him of his own cowardice—a long reaching weapon that had given him too much room to flee rather than fight.

  In the three years before he went to the Hargreaves Orphanage, Melchior had stuck to lying low and scraping by to survive. He had tried to run with other orphans but there was a pecking order he was always at the wrong end of. Melchior was built strong and it did not take long for his hard way of life to turn him into a formidable boy. Once he had gotten over his own consuming guilt, he had been a cunning creature of quiet rage and he did not get picked on for long. When he took it upon himself to snap at the leader for picking on him, beating the arrogant son of a bitch within an inch of his life, he had to flee from that little hamlet and head further south to avoid the wrath of the other boys.

  He did not kill that boy but shortly after his 11th birthday, Melchior had killed his first man. The man had attempted to violate Melchior as the Reaper had done to Ashe and Melchior’s blood had run cold when his rage boiled hot. He had drawn the man’s own sword to run it through the man’s hefty gut. It slid into the tissue with a sickening sound that was music to his ears. He marveled that it was tougher to remove, like the man’s body was so frantic to seal the wound that it sucked on the sword, greedy to find the flesh it invaded. Melchior had also discovered that some people paid enormous sums to have people killed. He was not exactly proud of it but he could live several months comfortably on that kind of pay so he had killed many men over the next couple of years. He thought of them as animals of the hunt, only his illusions were not so demented as to lead him to devour the remains. In some case, he made sure the bodies would never be found, but sometimes speed was more important.

  When Melchior had learned of orphanages at the age of 13, his curiosity got the best of him and he had made his way to Hargreaves. He did not want to kill anymore. His eyes were becoming too hard and his body was not a boy’s anymore, but despite the hard edges, he found if he did not meet anyone’s eyes and stuttered nervously, he looked more like a child his age. He tried to rationalize that the men he killed were evil, but some guilt always lingered. He had no honor and no need to kill and it tired him. It was also dangerous work and some men would want to kill innocent people—refusal meant he would have to flee for his life. Even then, he would always have to watch his back to make sure he was not a new name on the hit list.

  Not long after the orphanage accepted him, the Ersenais soldiers came by on their annual enlistment rounds and Melchior had been excited to be accepted. As much as he had wanted the peace of a childhood, he found he was restless for more.

  Through it all, he would think about his little brother from time to time. When he met Belias, he had thought of Ashe even more, since Belias had the same fair hair and eyes and would have been the same age. Belias was why he gave in to joining the King’s army. When he had met Rienna and fallen for her, he had known a different kind of love. That love had had to come second when Belias and her had found each other. Melchior never felt as if he deserved any of it anyway and when he had dared to be selfish, dared to challenge his friend, he had lost his hand.

  Even now, as he watched Rienna stirring in his arms, he thought of her as Belias’s or Ashe’s, never his, although he would never be so stupid as to let her know that. She belonged to Belias once; not the one who had tortured her but the boy who had loved her. Still, she was Ashe’s, although he was gone now too. Heartstrings were not severed as cleanly as lifelines. His heart was sad as he watched Rienna try to open her smoky grey eyes. Offhandedly, he had remembered that the princess of Ersenais had once had a kitten the color of Rienna’s eyes. He would never admit that he liked to play with that fluff ball if he ran into it on nights he couldn’t sleep.

  Melchior kept his left arm behind her back to prop her up, but his right gently took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips to kiss it firmly then grip it against his heart.

  Rienna’s eyes met his and she tried to speak, a wretched croak slipping out. Dinsch handed Melchior a flask of fresh cool water and Melchior pressed it to her lips carefully as she swallowed it as quickly as he would let her. He handed it back to Dinsch and held her hand against his heart again.

  “He’s gone…” Rienna affirmed in a weak whisper and they all knew what she meant. Melchior nodded and Dinsch’s eyes were wet with tears. Melchior envied a man who could cry so easily. It probably eased the ache so much more than holding it in.

  Rienna pulled her hand out of Melchior’s grasp and touched his face with trembling fingers.

  “You were good to him, Melchior, don’t blame yourself,” Rienna told him, knowing he would anyway. She knew part of what made Melchior a jerk was his masochistic tendency towards self-punishment.

  “Same goes for you,” he shot back, smiling crookedly, his smile faded when she tried to sit up and cried out in pain.

  Rienna’s core was still tender from the abuse she had endured.

  “You need to heal yourself, Rienna,” Melchior told her with a voice of authority. She nodded, not wanting to keep around this grim reminder of her repeated rapes. Sea Star had exhausted her immediate use of power but Rienna could still channel the waters on her own.

  “Lay me flat on the ground. I need to concentrate,” Rienna told him. He did so and backed away, but not very far.

  The magic of healing bubbled gently around her and a sigh escaped her lips at the gradual relief from pain as the wounds and bruises and aches melted away. When the magic was done, she breathed slow deep breaths and a smile was plastered to her lips, forgetting what a boon it was to be without physical pain. The smile did not stick around long since the magic could not reach her heart, but both Melchior and Dinsch had been mesmerized and relieved by her reprieve from the physical wounds of torture.

  Rienna sat up, heady from the ease of it without all the soreness she had become accustomed to. She finally noticed the armor on her body and smiled a small smile as she inspected it. Her brows creased when she saw the swords etched over her heart and a tear slipped out.

  “Sea Star sure has one hell of a way of apologizing,” Rienna murmured running her fingers over the etched lines lovingly. Rienna frowned suddenly, placing her hand over her stomach.

  “Can we eat now? I’m starving,” she said sulkily.

  Dinsch had laughed good-heartedly, sniffing and swiping at his drying tears vigorously, while Melchior smiled crookedly and rose to his feet. Dinsch started to comply with her request but Melchior grabbed Dinsch’s arm and shook his head.

  “You’ve been mother over both of us, Dinsch; sit and I’ll take care of lunch,” Melchior told him now, to Dinsch’s surprise.

  Melchior set up a cooking fire and prepared lunch, listening contentedly as Dinsch told stories that made Rienna cheer up again. They all knew the end was nearing, but no matter the outcome, they could not waste any more time on useless things. Melchior would wait one more day to see if anyone else was coming, but then they would have to leave the safety of their circle and brave the illusions to head for the beacon.

  Chapter 5: Trial by Fire

  Melchior couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from where the blast had been in the distance. The smoke had long since subsided, the fire itself had seemed to go out quickly, Elcarim itself always seeming to go back to its eerie state of looking like a surreal watercolor painting, everything far more still than it should be. That was the thing he realized bothered him most. This place wasn’t just asleep or even dead; it was frozen. No wind, no gentle streams, no chattering wildlife, and yet the place seemed to hum, not cheerfully, not serenely, but to him the whole place had felt like it hung on the opening note of a funeral dirge. He did not think he was the only one that felt unsettled here, but then knowing from the get-go
that this was a place that the old gods had been careful to keep hidden (and for a time unimaginable to a short-lived human) was reason enough to be wary. The old gods were so much more than the elementals and a blink of their eyes could topple mountains, so he was hardly under the illusion that anyone could stand up to them.

  It was the stillness of the place that he kept noting so when the bushes at the tree line started to tremble and move, he immediately hoped it was one of their allies—Finn, Verity, Krose, Lyria, Pierait, anything but another damn surprise. This deceptive hell was short of any kind of boons insofar.

  Unfortunately, this was no different and Melchior’s face was set in stone as young women had appeared from the brush, some carrying babies, some with children, but the children were not alive. The babies were still and cold and the children were being dragged behind them. It did not take long for Melchior to realize the women were not exactly alive either, shambling towards them like the lowest of the undead. Rienna started to rise but Dinsch kept to his seat.

  “Even if they are there, the barrier protects us,” Dinsch reminded them, his voice still trembling.

  “Don’t send them away yet. I want to know their game,” Melchior told the two of them. Rienna kept her swords drawn as Melchior did, but she watched his face more than the ones who approached now.

  “It is meant for you then,” Rienna said, not needing the answer, but he nodded firmly anyway.

  “One of the women I have known in my life told me once that my punishment for treating women like water would be their faces haunting me someday,” Melchior told her. He didn’t need to say anymore. The children in tow all had his dark auburn hair. She had not thought much of it but it made sense that promiscuity had its consequences and this was par for the course.

  “Do you know any of your children?” Rienna asked, and immediately wished she had taken it back.