Fatal Heir

by L. C. Ireland

  Shyronn’s eyes narrowed as another form crested the top of the hill. It was a single man. Early morning mist almost obscured him entirely, but the shape of his pitchfork was unmistakable.

  All around him, Shyronn heard whispers of the Heir.

  He had warned Izayik to stay away.

  Why was he here? Why was he alone?

  Shyronn choked on his next breath as realization dawned on him. Izayik was not alone. From the mist, there appeared the forms of people, hundreds of them.

  This was not nature’s mist.

  Shyronn rounded on Kain.

  “Get them out of here!” He gestured to everyone in a helpless, all-inclusive wish that a thousand people could simply vanish into the air.

  Kain looked confused. He turned his old eyes back to the man on the crest of the hill.

  Izayik raised his pitchfork. The shadowy figures surrounding him took up a scream of anticipation.

  Kain understood.

  “DEADMEN!” Kain bellowed.

  Izayik’s undead army charged, flowing around him as if he were a rock in a stream. Eager as starving wolves, the deadmen killed. The soldiers fled in terror, pushing and shoving to get away from the oncoming monsters. Those who were not quick enough to flee fell victim to the haunting mists and soon to the deadmen themselves. As soon as their spirits vacated their bodies, they became more deadmen, changing so quickly it was impossible to outrun them.

  The deadmen did not care who was on which side. They saw only living bodies to obtain, and they killed with wild savagery. The damp morning grass would not catch fire no matter how desperately the men tried. Those who had carried their torches into battle tried in vain to launch an attack, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of Izayik’s army.

  Banash appeared so suddenly before Shyronn that the wind accompanying her Step was almost enough to throw the rebel Commander off his feet.

  Banash was always a little startling, with her imposing height, ridiculous hair, and unfocused blue eyes. Shyronn cursed in surprise. It was that blasted boot she’d found somewhere that let her travel so quickly. Where Banash was always getting — and then losing — the pieces of the Insurgent’s Armor was a mystery to Shyronn.

  “Deadmen” was all Shyronn said, gesturing in the direction of Izayik’s army. The mist was growing thicker and closer.

  Banash may be useless as a strategist or even for simple tasks like conversations, but she had always been a priceless commodity against the haunts. Shyronn hoped her skill with otherworldly beasts translated to deadmen on a massive scale as well.

  Banash nodded and held out her hands. She seemed to be looking over Shyronn’s shoulder. Her eyes never really focused on anything.

  “The sword,” Banash said.

  Shyronn’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He was the only one who really knew how to use it, how to stroke the vala into obedience as if he were wielding the sword with his soul. No one ever touched Shyronn’s sword. He cleaned it and maintained its integrity with his own hands. He slept with it in his bed, and it was always on his person.

  Banash must have missed the animosity of Shyronn’s glare. “The sword,” she repeated.

  “You want my sword?” Shyronn asked, angry color rising in his cheeks. Was now really the time to be having this conversation?

  “If you please, Shyronn,” Banash said, unruffled by Shyronn’s anger, “I would like my sword back.”

  “Wha—” Shyronn stumbled over his own words. Banash had never owned this sword.

  Unless…

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion, Shyronn held out the heavy sword for Banash to take. As soon as Banash’s fingers touched the metal, it began to glow with an otherworldly light. Shyronn sensed the vala buzzing with joy in recognition of its original owner.

  It couldn’t be…

  “Thank you,” Banash said and Stepped away.

  “Banash is the Insurgent,” Shyronn said aloud, marveling at how strange the sentence felt on his tongue. But that was impossible. That would make Banash over seven hundred winters old.

  Banash had Stepped Rath and Mel as close to Don as she dared to take them before vanishing again. Even with the power of Banash’s boot, they still hadn’t beat Don to the battlefield.

  By the time Mel and Rath reached the scene of the battle, it was already in full swing. The two separate enemies, Safford’s army and Shyronn’s rebels, had pushed their differences aside when a greater threat descended on them. They were doing the best they could to keep the deadmen back, but it was a losing battle. Many of the soldiers were fleeing into the surrounding trees as the deadmen swelled in numbers with each fatality.

  The battle was the worst thing Mel had ever seen. It was like witnessing her parents’ deaths a thousand times over. She watched with hopelessness from the crest of the hill, too weak to take up a weapon and fight, too overwhelmed to think. All she wanted to do was cover her ears and drown out the screams.

  It amazed her just how much could change in so little time. She had lost both of her parents in the space of a few short minutes. Now, in the time it took for the sun to rise in the sky, she had lost Don and Zarra as well.

  Oh, Zarra.

  Mel never had enough time to mourn the dead before the urgency of existence forced her to move on. She was too scared and too tired to turn around and face her ghosts. Her regrets couldn’t catch her if she just kept outrunning them.

  Mel had hated Don when she first met him. He was crippled to uselessness and dumb as a rock to boot. She had despised the way he strutted around like a rooster, preening in the doting attention of his adoring sisters, complaining constantly as if his comfort was the only thing in the world that mattered. She was desperately jealous of his large family, his many friends, and his naïve upbringing. She had almost shoved him out of his bed from pure spite the day he admitted to having seen just a single deadman before in his life.

  Mel was the opposite. She had a lonely upbringing that was riddled with so much fear that she was numb to it. Her earliest memories were of being jolted awake in the night by her mother while her father lit the torches. Her mother would sing to distract her from the sound of the deadmen’s moans and lead her quickly away. And she would wait, shoved out of sight, as her parents battled monsters that had once been people. When she was seven winters old, she at last grew tired of hiding and took up her own torch.

  Despite Don’s many flaws, there was a certain simplicity to him that charmed Mel. He represented to her the way people could have been had the deadmen never risen from their graves. All of the little petty things that worried him so much baffled and amazed her.

  Eventually, she had noticed the subtleties of Don’s character beneath his swollen ego. She noticed the way he offered to knead the bread dough because he knew his mum’s hands ached. Or the way he patiently taught his younger brothers to weave baskets when it would have been much faster work to do it himself. He doted on his youngest siblings like they were his own spoiled children. Mel often caught him sneaking food from his plate to theirs when the winter months had worn down the stores. Though a day did not pass without him teasing his sisters, he was fiercely protective of them and sought their advice when he was troubled. Slowly, she learned that though he was quite self-centered, he was not shallow. His world was small, but it mattered greatly to him.

  And when he was finally well enough to return to the fields, Don worked with the tireless determination of an ox in its prime. He was the first one up and the last one down. He bragged loudly of his accomplishments to the other boys and then fell asleep with bleeding hands and a smile on his face.

  Don loved people. He always wanted to be around them. Mel, who preferred to be alone, found this absolutely irritating. But then she noticed the way his eyes glazed over when he stared into the shadows. His brow would furrow. He would shudder and pull a sibling close as if he needed to be reminded who was alive and who wasn’t. He never wanted to be alone.

  How could a
man who loved others so ferociously stand idly by as they were slaughtered?

  That was exactly what he was doing right now. He stood several paces away, watching the chaos below with an absolutely blank expression. Surrounding him was a personal guard of deadmen, including what had once been General Canron. It occurred to Mel that Don often resulted to killing when obstacles arose. The Imposter, the Deadman Queen, General Canron, and now the whole army that dared to defy him. Had this murderous potential always been inside him?

  Don had changed on their journey. The burden of his expanding worldview had hardened him like sand heated to glass. And just like glass, he had shattered under pressure. He looked like Don, but he was all malice and frustration.

  As if reading her mind, Rath said, “He’s possessed. There are corrupted spirits inside him, controlling him. They’re taking his fear and his helplessness and turning it into rage.” Rath rubbed his face. She had never seen him look so tired. “I don’t know how to help him. He’s in there somewhere, maybe fighting for his life, but I can’t — I can’t help him inside.”

  Flashes of gold light startled them both. Even Don flinched and leaned toward the battle.

  Banash Stepped into the thickest mist, which rushed away from her sudden presence. She held the big sword Shyronn usually carried, which glowed in her hands. As she swung the sword, light danced through the mist, striking the deadmen down. That large, heavy sword moved with the lightness of a falling leaf in Banash’s hands, as if it were an extension of herself. Banash moved like a dancer, bent low with long, fluid motions like she was painting on a giant canvas. Her braid whipped around her as she spun, sending beams of light in all directions.

  “She’s using vala to push the spirits out of their stolen bodies,” Rath explained. “She used to do this when we fought haunts. But I’ve never seen her fight quite like this.”

  Rath almost lost his balance with sudden excitement. He grabbed Mel’s arm to keep himself from toppling over.

  “Look!” he cried, pointing down at Banash.

  Several somethings were shooting toward Banash, glowing gold and knocking deadmen aside. They swirled in the air around her, waiting for a chance to attach themselves to her body.

  Rath held open his coat. The armor he wore around his waist glowed with the same golden light. Rath was dropped on his bottom when the armor detached itself from his waist. He watched, awe-struck, as it soared away from him and attached itself to Banash.

  “She’s summoning the Insurgent’s Armor.” Rath’s voice had a disbelieving quality. “But how…?”

  Don howled. It was an animal sound of frustration. More deadmen flocked toward Banash.

  “She’ll kill herself if she keeps fighting like that,” Mel said.

  Banash was fighting with everything she had. If they were close enough, Mel imagined she would see sweat pouring down her face. She could not fight like this for much longer.

  Don roared again. He was acting more like an animal now than a man. The deadmen around him began to change, twisting backward in time just like the deadmen they had faced in the castle. Defeating the Deadman Queen hadn’t solved anything. He had only transferred her power and her insanity to himself. Mel’s heart hurt to watch him.

  The deadmen were becoming more aggressive and more humanlike in their movement. Banash was thrown from her feet.

  “We have to stop him,” Rath said.

  Mel felt the comforting calm of a resolution. She snapped her staff out to its full length and rubbed lighting powder between her fingertips until it ignited, lighting the ends of the staff. She didn’t dare use her arrows after nearly killing Rath with them earlier.

  Since Rath had lost his mobility, it was up to Mel. She swallowed the lump in her throat, held her staff at the ready, and forced her way through the deadmen.

  Someone who did not know Don had made a cast of his face. They had taken his features and put a different character behind them. Don had to be somewhere in there. Rath seemed certain of that. Mel borrowed his confidence.

  “Don!” She shouted, hoping to startle him. She lunged forward. But just as before, Rath appeared between them. Frustrated, she dodged around him and tried again. And again. And again. And again.

  Rath grunted as her staff collided with his leg.

  “Get out of the way!” she shrieked.

  “I can’t!”

  Don laughed.

  “You’re going to have to kill me to get to him,” Rath said.

  Mel froze. No. She couldn’t do this. There had to be another way. Killing Rath and Don couldn’t be the answer. Helplessly, she turned back toward the battle. Rath had said something about using vala to push a soul out of a body. Would that work with Don? Could that save him? Or would such a concentration of vala kill him?

  “Admiring my handiwork?” It was Don’s voice, but it certainly wasn’t him speaking. The Don she knew would never take pleasure in such destruction.

  Mel set her jaw and turned back to face him. Staring into Don’s red eyes, Mel dropped her staff onto the damp grass. It smoked and went out.

  “I’m not going to try to fight you anymore, Don,” she said.

  She stepped close enough to him that she could feel the vala prickle over her skin in response to his sys. This was a new sensation, one she had only begun to feel after Banash saved her. Mel wondered if there was ever a time when vala and sys didn’t matter — when there was a balance between life and death. She wondered if there ever would be balance again. The thought made her sad.

  Don watched her curiously. He clearly felt no danger. The deadmen around him were calm and silent. Rath was no longer forced between them.

  “I know I can’t restore your faith,” she said. Her voice was steady, though her heart fluttered like the wings of a trapped bird. “I can’t make you believe that anything matters. But I can show you how much it matters to me.”

  Don looked bored.

  “I think you’re wrong, Don.” Mel was careful to speak plainly without putting any challenge behind her tone that might rile him up. “I think the only way this world makes any sense is if there is something beyond it. I have to keep believing that someday I’ll see my parents again. Just like I have to keep believing that somewhere in there,” she gestured to him, “is the man that I love.”

  Her throat tightened. It was hard to say this to Don when he glared at her with a stranger’s disgust.

  “I love you, Don. So much. I wish that my love alone was enough to save you.” She tried to focus her thoughts on memories of Don — the real Don. The way the corners of his mouth curled when he smiled. The way his face turned pink when he was stressed. The way he limped slightly when he was tired. She remembered everything that was true and human about him.

  She remembered how he cried when the chickens were butchered. He kept a feather from each of them stuffed in his pillow. She remembered his awe when he first saw Lord Brenden’s horses, the way his face lit up every time he mentioned them. She remembered how he held his littlest sister’s hand and helped her walk circles around his bed though he couldn’t walk himself. She remembered how he bonded with the young Prince Aleksander. He cared about his enemy’s grandson enough to risk his own life just to get him home.

  Mel prayed. She prayed to the Gatekeeper, to the world beyond the Gates, to the sky, to the stars, to anything she had ever hoped to believe in.

  Please save him. Please let this all mean something.

  Then she took one last terrified breath and seized the front of Don’s shirt. She pulled him close, and his chin touched her forehead.

  Her world cracked apart like broken glass.

  Shock buzzed through my body and rattled my mind. The screams of the Voices were cut short so suddenly that I wondered if I had lost my hearing. I stumbled from the weight of another person in my arms. I caught her head in my palm and supported her back with my other hand to keep her from falling to the ground.

  I didn’t recognize this person. I didn’t recognize thi
s place, couldn’t identify the sources of the sounds all around me. If someone called me by my name, I wouldn’t have known to respond.

  I stared down at the woman, uncomprehending. She was vaguely familiar to me. Her hair was brown and tangled and dirty. Her sharp cheekbones were speckled with dark freckles. Her bottom lip was plumper than her upper lip, so she appeared to be pouting. I had seen all of these features before. I even knew that, beneath her lashes, her eyes were green. She felt comfortable in my arms, as if I had held her before.

  I heard a low animal sound of remorse — a broken, ugly sob. It was coming from me. And just like that, my senses snapped into place, and I realized everything that I had done.

  “No,” I gasped. In my horror, I dropped Mel. I scrambled to catch her again but only succeeded in falling to my knees beside her. She lay completely still, like a doll. She was never so calm and vacant, even when she slept.

  “No no no no no.” Every broken syllable was a helpless plea to turn back time. Give me one more chance to do this right. Please let this all be a terrible nightmare.

  I flinched when Rath touched my shoulder. His face was pinched with stifled emotion. He pointed to the valley beneath us.

  “Save them,” he said.

  I followed the direction he indicated with my eyes. The air whooshed out of me. I saw mist and death and chaos. I saw the damage the deadmen had caused. I heard the air split with terrified screams as Banash fought for her life among them.

  “Stop,” I whispered.

  I cupped Mel’s cheeks in shaking hands. Her skin was still warm. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against hers. Desperately, I wanted to trade my life for hers. She had done nothing wrong. She had always been brave and honest and good. She should be alive, not me.

  All around me, I heard the voices of the spirits crowding for new bodies. I heard the deadmen shriek with glee as they hunted my people. This army I had gathered would kill and kill, and the spirits crowding around me would take their bodies. They would become more deadmen, and more, and more, until there was nothing left alive. I had been tricked, used by the Voices to further the apocalypse they desired.