“Wooo!” he said. “I will have regrets when this stuff wears off!”
“Rath, focus!” Mel grabbed his arm and yanked him down to the ground. “I need your help. Don’s lost his mind.”
Rath spun in a circle. Two, actually. He had never noticed how many pretty lights there were at night.
“Rath!” Mel throttled him.
“Yes? Yes! Yes. I’m fine.” He shook his head like a wet dog. “Where’s Izzy?”
“I just told you! Something happened to him,” she said, tripping over her own tongue in her haste to explain, “The deadmen are listening to him. He’s out of his mind. General Canron … Zarra dead … she killed … there are so many of them. Don went off with them toward the Old Capital. What are we going to do?”
Rath waited. Mel had just mentioned a whole lot of horrible, dangerous things, but Rath had not yet been summoned to Izzy’s side. He held his breath, waiting for the tugging sensation that would pull him to his charge.
Again, nothing.
Something terrible was happening, and Izzy wasn’t in danger. Rath was very, very concerned.
He closed his eyes and focused. With his blood pumping so hard and fast through his veins, it took a moment to concentrate. Then he felt it, the familiar warmth that he knew so well. Usually, he could latch onto Izzy’s emotions quickly, but this time, there was nothing. He was empty, like a vase with a hole in it.
Empty was not good.
“He is …” Rath felt again for the warmth, “that way.” He pointed.
Without another word, Mel bolted into the trees.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Rath said. “Just go run into danger. I’m right—” he looked down at his one leg with a sigh “—right behind you.”
Rath lit the lantern he wore at his waist and pulled his large collar over his mouth and nose. Mel had run off with her torch, and the mist was coming in quickly. It was as thick as smoke and rose high into the trees.
Izzy was easy to find. All Rath had to do was follow the trail of blood and destruction and, as usual, the young prince was caught right in the middle of it. This time, however, Izzy wasn’t struggling for his life. It was eerily calm.
Rath pressed himself against a tree as another deadman shambled past. These deadmen were more industrious than usual, and much calmer. They grunted, but they didn’t shriek or scream. They moved with purpose, like worker bees responding to the command of their queen. Each of these deadmen sported glowing red eyes.
Rath’s heart sank. Aerona’s eyes had been ringed with the same crimson coloring. The more insane she acted, the more prominent the red band became. The beast they had faced in the Old Capital and, now, these deadmen, too, had glowing red eyes. Banash had once explained the phenomenon as a sign that there were multiple souls competing for a single body.
He heard Izzy before he saw him. The prince was pacing, muttering to himself. This was a new habit he had picked up in the last couple days. Rath had assumed it might be his way of coping with all that he had seen and experienced in the Old Capital. It was like a part of him was broken, but Rath couldn’t even begin to repair the damage. He was a maker of potions, not a doctor of minds. Izzy wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, so he had been helpless to rescue him from whatever ailed him. He should have taken his silence as an omen. Izzy was always reliably vocal about any discomfort he might be feeling.
Izzy stood surrounded by deadmen. This was always a sight worth panicking over. But this time, it was worse because Izzy wasn’t fighting these deadmen. He appeared to be talking to them. A few of these bodies were fresh, dressed in Safford livery and simple armor. Clearly, Rath had missed something important.
Rath figured he would have only a single chance to talk sense into the boy before he sent his deadmen flunkies to attack him. It was now or never.
Rath flexed his hand, held his breath, and made his move. Deadmen shrieked in anger as Rath shoved them aside, flipping them off their feet with the help of the armor. It was a constant balancing act. He could either lift himself up or push something away, so he practically hopped toward the prince.
Before Izzy could respond to his appearance, Rath pushed him off of his feet. He pressed all of his weight forward, crushing the young man into the ground.
This would all be so much easier if Izzy wasn’t twice Rath’s size.
“Izzy,” he grunted, “what in the world are you doing?”
“Get off me,” Izzy said with uncharacteristic shortness. He glared up at Rath, and Rath got a good look at his eyes.
They were red.
He had failed. Physically, Izzy was in as great health as could be expected by someone who had not slept in days. But mentally, he was being tortured. Izzy’s mind was the one thing Rath had no control over. He didn’t know how to help him, and the realization of his own helplessness took the fight right out of him. Willian’s only desire was that his children would be spared what their mother suffered. Yet here was his son, with the exact same symptoms that had made his mother a menace to society.
Izzy saw Rath’s weakness and seized on it. He grabbed Rath’s collar and shoved him to the ground. Where they touched, Rath’s skin burned.
“What’s the plan, Izzy?” he asked. “What are you going to do with all of your new faithful followers?”
Izzy didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to win a war.”
Rath’s eyes widened with understanding. “You’re going to fight Safford? You’re going to fight people with these things?” He tried to push him away, but Izzy guessed his move and pinned his hands.
“It’s like a game of Capture,” he said, eerily calm. “Every soldier he loses will be a soldier I gain.”
“You’re sick, Izzy.” Izzy would never do something like this. He was a gentle man like his father. “These are your people you’re talking about. You can’t fight them with human bodies! This is wrong and you know it.”
Izzy hesitated for just a second. Rath twisted his wrists free and blew Izzy off of him. He flew to his feet and yanked out his knife. Izzy circled him like a hungry wolf, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
“What are you going to do? Stab me? How will that work when you protect me from yourself?”
Had Izzy always been this cocky?
“I can kill you, Izzy. I’ve killed before, and you are an easy target.”
Izzy’s eyes narrowed. “Is killing me worth your own life?”
“Let him go,” Mel had arrived, an arrow already prepped to fly. She aimed right for Izzy. The deadmen stood silently by, ready to attack at a moment’s notice.
A stranger’s cruel laugh left Izzy’s lips.
“Are you going to shoot me, Mel?” he asked. “If I die, Rath dies too. So who exactly are you protecting?”
“I’m protecting you,” Mel said. “I would rather kill you here than let you do this.”
Izzy snorted. “Well, isn’t that sweet.”
Mel would not be daunted. “The Don I know would want me to. He would rather lose his life than his soul.”
Izzy threw his head back and laughed. Rath and Mel exchanged a startled look.
“There’s no point,” he said. “You just don’t get it.” His shoulders heaved with emotion. “Zarra told us that evil deeds leave black marks on our soul, right? Well she was wrong. You know what happened when she died?” He spread his arms out. “This. She became just another monster. Good and evil is all a fantasy mankind made up because we’re scared. We’re scared that no matter how hard we try, it makes no difference. Everyone ends up exactly the same: lost, alone, and desperate.”
Mel’s eyes brimmed with tears, but her mouth remained set in a resolute line. Her aim did not falter.
Izzy continued. “There is no Gatekeeper, there are no Gates. There is only this.” Again, he gestured to the gathered deadmen. “When you die, your spirit goes nowhere. It stays here, and it festers. And when it finally can’t stand the nothingness any more, it steals a body and becomes these — these empty husks of humanity. Death is poin
tless. My parents were good people. They sacrificed everything in the name of goodness, and their deaths meant nothing. Even dead, they have no peace. The only thing that matters is survival.”
His voice became a plea.
“Safford will hurt my family, Mel. Lily and Dove and Lark and the boys. He’ll kill them just to spite me.” Izzy pulled at his hair in frustration. “I won’t let that happen. I will do whatever it takes to keep them from becoming monsters like these.”
“By becoming a monster yourself?” Mel asked. She let the arrow fly.
Rath was between them in a fraction of a moment. He caught the arrow just in time to prevent it from piercing his own chest. He had become quite good at catching flying arrows. He could be in a circus.
Mel stared at Rath with her mouth open in surprise and horror. Rath just looked helplessly back at her.
“If you stay quiet and still,” Izzy said, “they will not hurt you. I have promised them other bodies if they leave yours alone.”
Rath and Mel stared at each other, Rath still holding her arrow in front of his chest. Neither of them moved as Izzy’s deadmen swarmed around them, marching off in the direction of the outlands. They remained frozen until Izzy was out of sight.
“I’m sorry,” Rath said.
Mel shook her head. “This isn’t over yet.” She grabbed Rath’s wrist and dragged him with her toward the camp.
“I’m assuming this means you have a plan,” Rath said as he ducked under a low-hanging branch.
“We have to warn Shyronn that Don is coming.”
“How exactly are we going to do that?”
Mel bit her lip. “I really don’t know. Banash took Zarra’s boot.”
“She could be halfway around the world by now. And trust me, she usually is when you need her.”
Banash had always been flighty and unreliable. She wasn’t even an official member of the King’s Order; she scorned involvement with any government. She always did exactly as she pleased. This latest episode was the first time Rath had even seen her since before Aerona and Willian’s deaths. She had been noticeably absent when they died.
Back at the camp, Mel scoured the ground.
“What are you looking for?” Rath asked.
“A fife. Don had it over here a while ago.”
“What good will a fife do?”
“Ah ha!” Mel snatched the small flute from the ground and dusted it off on her pant leg. She held the fife to her mouth and played a note.
Nothing happened.
Rath deflated. But Mel would not be deterred. She blew again, harder this time. Banash Stepped into sight a few paces away.
“Izzy?” she asked.
“We need your help,” Mel said.
Rath felt the beginnings of hope pricking in his chest. Bizarre as it was to rely on Banash at the moment Izzy was a far greater threat. Something had changed in him. It was as if someone else entirely was living inside Izzy’s body, accessing his memories and his fears and using them to do its own bidding. Would killing him be the only way to save him from whatever it was that had seized his mind and body? Was Izzy even still alive? Yes. The fact that Rath was still breathing meant that Izzy was still in there somewhere, too.
However small, there was still a chance that they could save him.
It was a cold morning — cold enough to chill the sweat and make the leather armor the soldiers wore feel clammy and uncomfortable. Shyronn’s army was a rag-tag collection of farmers, the sons of outland Lords, and the soldiers who had pledged their loyalty to the Heir.
Shyronn felt no qualms turning against King Safford. His allegiance was to the people of Aldrin. He did not consider himself a traitor for turning against their ruler. Safford had never been a good king. For many winters, Shyronn had stood beside the incompetent Safford, following foolish orders and watching helplessly as people suffered for it. Safford had none of the passion that had branded Willian’s very being, none of the grace and poise of Aerona. He was a close-minded businessman, forever poring over his books and ledgers while people all around him died at the hands of his mismanagement.
And all the time, Shyronn had waited.
He had waited for Aerona and Willian’s son to come out of hiding. Shyronn had told the boy that this war was not about him, and in a very real sense, it wasn’t. But Izayik Delaren was the catalyst that made this revolution possible. He represented hope — something new and a return to something old. With his royal lineage and his outlands upbringing, he connected the tattered Aldrin like never before. The proof was in the number of warriors appearing daily to pledge their lives to the cause. No one blamed Safford for the deadmen, but they were all ready for a ruler better equipped to handle them.
Shyronn had always known that Izayik survived the revolt. He had known since the rebellion — since the moment he found Willian and Aerona’s bodies surrounded by the corpses of their attackers. He knew that if Willian had been allowed to die, then Rath must have been sent on an important mission. And what was more important to Willian than the life of his only child?
Shyronn had been there when the haunts appeared. He had heard Rath scream when they attacked him. Shyronn had scared them away with the Insurgent’s Sword, but it was too late to save Rath’s leg. Rath had glowed with a golden light, floating rather than walking. Wordlessly, he had retrieved the crying infant prince from the floor and floated away with golden blood dripping from his leg.
Shyronn had watched them escape with the beginnings of hope fluttering amid the heartsickness caused by the loss of his dearest friends.
And he had waited.
Seventeen winters Shyronn had waited for the true Heir, obediently following Safford’s every command while secretly building the numbers of the King’s Order. He wanted to be ready the moment Izayik — the real Izayik — was discovered.
Certainly, there had to be a better way to seize control of a kingdom than bloodshed. But Safford was an old-fashioned man. He liked to kill the people who threatened him, only adding more fodder for the deadmen he so desperately wished to pretend out of existence.
So here they were today, swords clashing in a fight to the death.
The battle began as soon as the first light of morning provided enough visibility for Safford to launch an offensive. He had been hoping to take Shyronn’s forces by surprise, but Shyronn’s troops were ready for him.
They had been ready for this fight for a long, long time.
Shyronn’s men fought for a cause. They fought for hope, for a dream, for a new way of life. Safford’s men fought out of fear, and thus they fell.
Shyronn felt the weight of his sword in his hands, felt the static-like sensation of the vala pulsing through the blessed steel. The sword was heavy enough that it required both of his hands. He didn’t mind it. The weight made him feel powerful
He stood, flanked by soldiers with big heavy shields. Archers, mostly farmers, stood behind the large metal shields, firing arrows at the onrushing soldiers. The professional soldiers on both sides all wore the same armor, which left the outlanders as the obvious target.
And, of course, Shyronn.
Shyronn knew he was hard to miss. Everyone around him could feel the pulse of the vala in his blade. A blind man could find him in this fight. He had been on the defensive since the battle began. Safford was desperate to kill him.
Shyronn felt the rumble caused by horse’s hooves in the ground beneath him.
“Horses incoming!” hollered Kain beside him. Kain was a wizened old man often overcome with a wheezing cough. He really had no business in the midst of this battle, but he had insisted, and Shyronn was too exhausted to regulate who was and who wasn’t allowed to fight.
Horseback soldiers were an unexpected problem. Horses were so rare that some provinces already considered them extinct. But Safford had recognized their value and spent precious funds and energy breeding them for the past many winters. Horses could sense when deadmen were near and were fast enough to outstrip them.
Their gut reaction to flee from the mist made them particularly useful traveling companions. And when paired with a skilled rider, they were powerful, deadly forces in battle.
Shyronn hated to kill horses as much as he hated to kill men, but what he hated more was to see his own men die.
“Fall back!” he commanded. The command was repeated by Kain, whose voice was big and booming when it wasn’t overtaken by a throttling cough. The men with their shields retreated.
There were about thirty horses, each covered in metal plates and bold livery. Atop them rode knights with every inch of flesh obscured in bulky metal armor reminiscent of the days of the Insurgent. They rode forward ten abreast, laying waste to anyone in their path. They looked like something right out of a historian’s sketchbook. Safford had clearly taken his inspiration from the past.
Shyronn’s men began to flee from the riders.
Shyronn, however, stood his ground.
He flexed his hands on the hilt of the sword. His skin tingled with the energy the blade had been storing. As the horses approached him, he lowered the sword to his left. If he focused, he could will the vala into sharp edges and lively crackles of potential. When the horses were near enough that Shyronn could see their pupils, he swiped the sword horizontally. Vala shot from the edges of the blade, showering sparks. Horses whinnied and screamed in pain as the vala pierced through their plated armor. Riders were thrown from their mounts as the horses staggered and fell.
It hadn’t been enough.
There were still too many. The remaining horses balked and danced anxiously around the bodies of their comrades, too weighed down by poorly constructed armor to jump over them.
And then the horses began to snort. Their eyes rolled in terror. They pranced side to side despite their rider’s commands. One horse reared back, throwing his rider and fled with an anxious bray.
“What in the in name of the seraphim?” Shyronn muttered. All around him, fighting had ceased. An uncomfortable silence had taken place of the shouts and grunts and clashing of weapons. Heads began to swivel toward the Eastern hills. A scout ran down the hill with his arms flailing. He was yelling something, but the chill wind stole his words.
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