She brought her shield back around, and his sword point was buried in the hard wood. She twisted immediately, wrenching the hilt from his grasp. The momentum freed the sword from the shield and cast it in a lazy arc toward the surrounding crowd.
Hector, now defenseless, backed away from the oncoming queen. She charged, sword first. Hector sidestepped again, now to the inside, but the passing blade tore his shirt and made a shallow cut in his stomach. She slammed her shield into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back into the crowd.
She stepped back and waited patiently while he was forced back into the fight, that evil grin still dominating her fair face. As the warrior women threw Hector bodily back into the circle, their queen gave him room to stand.
Hector winced at the pain in his side; it had been a shock, but after his wounds in the arena, it was easily manageable. Praying silently to Astor for help, he gratefully took his moment to breathe.
But it was only a moment.
Harratha lunged again, and this time, Hector stepped to the outside. He grabbed her wrist as she passed with his right hand, and he put all of his weight behind his left shoulder. Holding his forearm vertically, he slammed the meatiest part against the queen’s elbow. He heard a loud crack as the joint bent contrary to its nature.
Harratha let out an involuntary yell, but cut it short. Turning with the momentum of his blow and away from her broken arm, she struck Hector with her shield. The hit jarred him enough that he released her arm and stumbled away again. Throwing her shield off, Harratha took her sword in her left hand and advanced toward her enemy again.
Dazed, Hector staggered toward Fornein and Reina at the edge of the circle. By chance, he tripped over his own shield, still pierced by the queen’s spear, and fell beside the weapon.
“You wretch!” the queen cried at him, her strong arm hanging limp at her side. She pointed her sword at him with her left arm, still strong enough to kill him. “You will still die here!”
She was almost upon him. He grabbed the spearhaft and thrust it hastily upward, hoping to disarm her. But by the gods, he erred in judgment, and the weapon rose point-first; the spearhead found its mark, rending linen and flesh above the queen’s left breast. Blood seeped into the pale cloth as strength fled from her limbs.
The Emmetchae rushed to the side of their queen, catching her as she fell. Hector tried to back away from the scene, still on the ground; he felt great remorse in his heart for having slain the valiant queen.
Harratha reached out her hands, as if blind. “Reina?” she called out, “Come to me, Reina.”
The princess was immediately beside her mother. “What is it, my queen?” she asked, clasping the dying woman’s quivering hand.
“O Reina, my daughter,” Harratha carried on, a faint smile creasing her tired face, “I was strong. But now this wound destroys me, and everything is growing dark with shadows. You rule the Emmetchae now, daughter. Do not defy our agreement because of my death; the boy fought well.” She sank closer to the ground as her eyes lost focus, looking up into the clear morning sky. “Oh,” she groaned, “I wished so much to escape the day of my return.”
Then she breathed her last, and she died.
Silence reigned. Slowly, Hector crawled from his back to one knee, bowing his head in homage to the queen of beauty. Fornein and the Emmetchae followed suit, but when Hector looked up, he realized that they were not bowing to Harratha—they were bowing to Reina.
The new queen came to him and pulled him up by his shoulders. She hid her emotions well from her people, but standing beside her, Hector saw the unshed tears filling her eyes. Harratha may have been a hard woman, but her daughter loved her all the same.
Reina licked her slender lips as she took a deep breath. She might have agreed with Hector’s quest, but he knew that many of the Emmetchae did not; for her to fulfill her mother’s dying request would require absolute authority. He saw that anxiety in Reina’s face, but her people could not; he smiled, in a way that he hoped was reassuring.
She hardened her face and declared according to custom, “Lord Hector, the Emmetchae are yours to command.” A hint of a smile broke through before she stepped back to join her people; Hector thought he saw her appreciation.
Fornein stepped up beside him and nudged him. He realized that they were waiting on his word. Taking a few deep breaths of his own, he outlined his plan to the Emmetchan warriors.
That night, the Emmetchae marched south, and Hector returned with Fornein to Keldan territory.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-eighth of the month of Ennemen
Late in the eleventh hour
Two days later, Hector and Fornein entered a small clearing, accompanied by Folguen, Evan, Dobro, and Zadok. Salech had left them a day earlier, as a runner, delivering the news of Hector’s victory to Lord Eitromal. The sun was already tickling the horizon with its burning edge, and the travelers were searching for a place to make camp.
“This clearing looks like a good spot,” Evan said, “We could make a small fire without the danger of a blaze.”
Zadok pointed at a shimmering reflection nearby. “There’s even a pond, with some fresh water,” he agreed.
Folguen concurred, and the six men settled in to rest for the night. Dobro started a small fire. All six had been chilled to the bone, and they eagerly warmed themselves by the flames. The hiss and pop of the wood turning to ash was soothing, and soon, as the sun neared the horizon, their eyelids began to droop.
Suddenly, Fornein sat bolt upright, startling Hector. “What’s going—” the youth began, but Fornein clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the rest of the question.
Realizing that something was wrong, the Keldans came alert. They threw dirt over the fire and reached for their weapons, but a stern voice halted them.
“I ordered your lord to have that whelp killed,” Captain Martin grated, “not give him two more armies to use against us.”
The Leonite captain was the only man to enter the camp, but as Hector rose to his feet, he suspected there was at least one troop in the woods nearby. The Alkimite looked at Folguen. “What’s he talking about?” he asked suspiciously.
Folguen explained, “This man and his troop threatened to kill Lord Eitromal, and declare war on the Keldans, if we did not execute you.” The guard glared at Martin and added, “But I know nothing about his gaining armies. He has fought and defeated the Termessians and the Emmetchae, and he has compelled them to leave Keldan lands.”
Martin laughed. “Do you need me to spy on him for you, too? I’m already the one who has to kill him; you don’t even pay attention to what he does when you set him loose on the countryside?” He stepped closer, jabbing his finger at Hector, “He has lied to you, man. He spoke with the Termessians until he convinced them to organize against you, and he killed the warrior queen in a duel, forcing her people to do the same.” Folguen looked at Hector with concern. Martin continued with another laugh, “Don’t believe me? Ask him yourself!”
Folguen scowled more sharply at Hector, demanding an answer. The Alkimite apologized, “I had to be sure that Eitromal would hold up his end. He’s done nothing but lie to me since we arrived. I had to guarantee the safety of my friends.”
Slowly, Folguen turned to his three companions. Evan, Dobro, and Zadok each nodded. The former arena guard turned back to Hector and said with a smile, “It’s about time somebody stood up to that cretin.”
Martin snarled, “You inconsequential lout! You pathetic miscreant! Craven cur!” He reached for his sword, shouting, “How dare you defy me?”
Before he could take another step, Zadok lunged and ran him through. Immediately, three arrows pierced the Keldan warrior, two in his chest and one in his stomach. Zadok fell to his knees as the other Keldans leapt to their feet.
Battle cries broke the late evening calm. Hector took Martin’s sword and withdrew Zadok’s from the corpse. He handed Zadok’s weapon to Fornein.
A Leonite tore past the trees, weapon held high; Hector slashed his chest and Fornein stabbed him between the ribs. The man went down.
Sounds of combat surrounded them. Hector turned to look at Folguen; in the dim light, the Keldan met his eye. “Run, man!” the guard roared over the din, “Save your friends!”
Hector glanced back and saw that the way was clear; without Martin’s leadership, the Leonite troop was attacking aimlessly. Hector nodded at Folguen, knowing he could never truly convey his thanks to the man; then he grabbed Fornein by the arm and took off into the dusk.
They had run southerly through the trees at full tilt for nearly fifteen minutes when Fornein began to gasp and heave, unable to catch his breath. Hector stopped and reached to help the man, but Fornein pushed him away. “Go!” the old hermit said angrily, “I’ll catch up. You have to get to Eitromal before he hears of this, or he’ll kill them both.” Hector hesitated, unwilling to abandon the old man. But Fornein pointed to the southeast and shouted again, “Go!”
Hector nodded, and into the dark forest he went.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The twenty-ninth of the month of Ennemen
Early in the first hour
As the sun rose on the Keldan village the next morning, Hector hugged the treeline. The obelisk stood tall and daunting; it had come to symbolize the Keldans’ tyranny in Hector’s mind, far more than it represented the task given to him by Aneirin. Reaching that tower of stones was still his goal, but in earnest, he hoped to topple it, not learn from it.
Keldan lands were quiet. There was only one guard stationed outside Eitromal’s court. Hector had seen no other soldiers or citizens as he crept through the woods. Birds chirped their good mornings and the smell of dew and damp loam wafted up from the earth.
Taking advantage of the guard’s isolation, Hector sneaked up in his blind spot, directly behind the great hall. He stepped gingerly along the wall, keeping low to avoid casting his shadow across the thin windows. As he reached the front corner of the structure, he peeked around its edge.
The guard was awake, but barely. He had probably been the only man there all night, and he seemed propped up by his own spear. Hector sidled up behind him and tried to knock him out stealthily. He clamped one hand over the man’s mouth and wrapped his other forearm across his neck, squeezing as hard as he could.
The man instantly came awake, flailing and trying to call out for help. His screams were heavily muffled, so that they sounded only like alarmed mumbling, and soon, his exhaustion took its toll. He fell limp, and Hector laid the unconscious man down as gently as he could. Turning, he slipped into the great hall.
The building’s decorations were not as artful as Hector remembered. In fact, it seemed that Eitromal had torn down his many tapestries and overturned his furniture in a rage. The whole place was a mess of splintered wood and torn fabrics. No torches were lit; the only light in the room streaked in through the narrow windows along the sides of the hall.
Eitromal himself, wiry and haggard, sat slumped on his throne, his shoulders slouched and his face buried in his hands. Everything about the lord seemed frail, a sharp contrast to when Hector had seen him last.
In spite of Hector’s best efforts, a sudden gust of wind slammed shut the door to the hall. Eitromal glanced up, a spark of anger in his eye. “I gave orders not to be—” He cut himself off as he recognized his visitor.
Hector decided to embrace being discovered. He cast off his furtive demeanor and stood tall, striding into the midst of the disarray. Seeing Eitromal’s alarm, he inquired casually, “Were you expecting someone else?”
Eitromal’s jaw quivered, and his eyes narrowed. But then the fire in his spirit waned, and he dropped his eyes back to the floor. “Do you know what you have cost me?” he asked.
Hector felt a surge of anger, but he suppressed his retort. Eitromal had taken far more from Hector than the reverse, but the Alkimite knew he could do no good now by arguing with the lord. Instead, he offered, “If you’re worried about the captain of the Chimaera Regiment, he’s dead.”
Eitromal looked up in surprise, but he tried to hide it with anger. “I’m not afraid of one captain, boy!” he answered, “But without your head on a plate, I do fear the whole army.” He shook his head slowly, lamenting, “I had but one task, and I could not complete it.”
Hector stepped closer. “Your task was unjust,” he said, “Join me, and fight the Regiment. There is still time.”
The door to the hall burst open, and Veither charged in, followed by two of his men. Their breathing was ragged and their clothes were torn. Veither, who surely saw the guard unconscious outside, was not surprised to see Hector alone with Eitromal. Even so, the sight gave him a moment’s hesitation—then he pressed past the Alkimite and reported, “My lord, there are invaders at the edge of the forest—a great army. They attacked us on sight; only these two men remain. They are only a day’s march away.”
Eitromal turned to Hector. “You see, boy? My time has passed.” He stood and stepped off his dais toward Hector, staying just out of arm’s reach. “But perhaps,” he said, drawing his sword, “they will still spare me if I give them your head!”
He swung wildly, aiming for his enemy’s neck. After Hector’s duel with the Emmetchan queen, Eitromal seemed trapped in honey. His movements were almost sluggish. The Alkimite easily stepped back from the first stroke, then the second. He did not draw the sword he had taken from Captain Martin.
The attacks continued, but Hector decided to cut them short. He sidestepped past another swing and grabbed Eitromal’s wrist. He twisted it sharply. The Keldan lord yelped and loosened his grasp; Hector shifted his grip and took the man’s sword, then released him.
Eitromal fell backward, grimacing. He glared at Veither. “Kill him!” the lord snapped.
Veither stepped forward, reaching for his blade, but Hector was quick. He held the Keldan chieftain’s sword up, resting its point on Veither’s collarbone. “I’m not running, Veither,” Hector menaced, “This isn’t your chase.”
The hunter swallowed hard, then bowed his head and stepped back. Eitromal was furious. “What are you doing?” he roared, “Just kill him!”
Hector said, “I have done all that you have asked. I have slain many men in your arena—the very same arena where my companion, Lord Brynjar, died for your amusement. By the strength of my arm, I convinced the Termessians and the Emmetchae to leave your borders in peace.” He knelt beside the wretched man. “I have saved your people, just as you asked. Is this how you thank me?”
Eitromal sneered. He spat, “Your death would have saved my people! Now the Chimaera Regiment will surely kill us all.”
Hector shook his head. “The Chimaera Regiment will not bear allies,” he answered, “In time, you would be enslaved, and your people would cease to exist. Do you walk willingly to your death because you fear dying in battle? What cowardice is this?”
Eitromal’s expression twisted into a deeper scowl of hatred. “We cannot stand against him,” he replied, “I would rather have a chance of survival than face certain death.”
Hector laughed in condescension. “All men face certain death, Eitromal,” he said, dropping all pretense of respect, “for all men die. The only questions that remain are how and when.” His eyes were full of pity as he watched the wiry man cower before him. “Do you really wish to die at the whim of another?”
Eitromal did not answer, but his face quivered and hot tears of anger rolled down his sunken cheeks. Hector stood, shaking his head sadly. “If you would kill me to preserve your people for Derek’s chains,” he said, and he dropped Eitromal’s sword to the floor with a clang, “there is your weapon.”
Eitromal hesitated, suspecting a trick. When Hector backed away and drew his own sword, the Keldan snatched up the blade and scrambled to his feet. He held the weapon out in a combat stance, but his hands quaked. He looked across his hall to Hector, who stood tall and still, his own
arm solid as a stone.
At last, his nerve failed him. He dropped the sword and took flight, darting past Hector toward his escape. The Alkimite let him go; slowly, he sheathed his blade.
Suddenly, as he passed through the door, Eitromal squealed in agony. He stumbled back into the hall, grasping at his stomach. Blood poured from a deep gash there. He collapsed on the floor, face-down, and Hector saw that he had been completely run through. Fearing that the Regiment had already arrived, Hector drew his sword and prepared himself.
But a sense of relief, mixed with horror, washed over him: the assailant was only Fornein, just arrived from the long night on the run.
Hector was about to admonish the old hermit for his actions when Fornein accused him, “You were letting that foul wretch go, after everything he’s done?” He spat on Eitromal’s corpse, now staining the floor with his blood, and continued, “He imprisoned those you love! He ordered the death of your friend! He did everything in his power to see you dead!”
Hector answered, “You do not blame a snake for being a snake. If you can cut out its fangs, it is no harm to anyone.”
“He’s not the snake!” Fornein retorted savagely, “He’s the poison! This tribe once ruled this whole forest, with power and grace! His actions alone led to its downfall! He built the arena and slaughtered slaves for his delight! He took whatever woman he fancied and threw any who refused into the arena! He was the worst of men!”
Hector did not disagree, but he knew that Carys, queen of the gods, called for mercy even toward hated enemies; he recalled Bronwyn’s admonition, Remember that a true hero shows mercy. He started, “Fornein—”
The old man interrupted, yelling, “He killed my family!”
Hector stopped cold, stunned. He did not know how to answer.
Fornein explained, “I was a Keldan, once. I was the Storyteller for the tribe. My wife was beautiful, and I loved her dearly. But Eitromal wanted her, and when she turned him down, out of her devotion to the gods and her love for me, he cast her into the arena—together with our four sons and two daughters.” His voice broke as sorrow filled his words and flowed from his eyes. “He killed them all, and he made me watch.”
The Chimaera Regiment Page 19
