by Ann Hunter
The guards nodded in unison.
Aowyn had not seen Xander in three weeks. After her vision of the blood dawn, she feared for Xander’s life. Maeb could do little to comfort her nightmares. Aowyn only wept in to Maeb’s shoulder and begged her to tell her where to find Sylas Mortas. Perhaps if she could talk to him, he would tell her where Xander was and why this sudden, dire madness. Yet no one would give her the answers she sought, and with each passing day she felt as though a piece of her died inside. Even the baby kicked less.
Xander wove his way through the Twelve Kingdoms, increasing his army with the fall of each hold. A third of the kingdoms were at his disposal after only a month. In the battle at Three Ogre Fief, his army doubled. With the demise of each hold’s ruler, however, Idegwaed’s chinks became more abundant. Little imperfections had grown into teeth. She was saw-like and even more fearsome to behold. With every battle, Xander grew more powerful. Yet he felt bits of him vanishing, not unlike his precious falchion. It wasn’t immediate. It was little things. The more he noticed them, the harder he fought and tried to hide them. Trying to convince his army, who only fought beside him for fear of him, that they were undefeatable. The harder he fought, the more noticeable such weaknesses became. He started feeling hollow. When they took the sixth kingdom, his men sensed something was amiss. No one could put their finger on it, but it put the warriors off, and men went missing from the ranks.
***
Aowyn clutched her belly and winced.
“Aowyn…”
She cursed the gods when they called on her now. Pain. So much pain.
“He must be stopped,” they insisted.
A vision came to her of Xander and Rhun galloping into a large city. He wielded his terrible sword, beheading women and children alike. He grabbed a torch and urged Rhun toward a cathedral. Rhun reared, his hooves drilling against the heavy wooden doors until they burst open. Xander cantered inside and lit banners and beams, then flung the torch deeper into the cathedral. They careened outside. Houses burned. Children wept over their parents. Bodies piled in the street. Orange, smoky haze plumed from the cathedral.
“Xander must pay for his sins,” the gods noted.
“No!” Aowyn cried. “Please. Don’t take my Xander.”
“A curse on your house then, Aowyn, and all you bear in it.”
“No,” she pled, “spare my child.” She curled into a ball, barely able to withstand the agony within her. “Take me instead.”
“You?” The gods considered it. “A cursed life will he lead, until the day he dies, but we will take you for the sins of Xander.”
Aowyn’s eyes were wide open as she screamed for Maeb.
Maeb held her tight, stroking her hair.
Aowyn gripped her belly. “The baby’s coming.”
Maeb kissed Aowyn’s hair. “It is too soon.”
Aowyn let out another cry. Blood trickled on to the bed sheets. “Now!”
Xander found himself drunk and abandoned at Council’s Realm. He was dragged before High King Balthazaar, who towered over him on horseback. More men than Xander had ever seen were gathered on the horizon. Their shields of blue and white unmistakably marked them under the command of the king. Balthazaar’s horse pawed the ground as ten men surrounded Xander. Somehow one of them had gained possession of fanged and hungry Idegwaed and held her against the vein in Xander’s neck. He really could not remember much in his drunken stupor. Last night’s escapades had left him weak, off guard, and at the king’s mercy. He felt drugged. As he squinted against the sunlight, he was certain he saw no less than four Balthazaars, all swirling and dancing around each other in a blur of blue and gold robes. Xander winced as all of the kings spoke at once in separate voices, something about treachery, lucky to be alive, and being found wanton.
The twenty, or was it fifty, men got him to his feet, holding him captive, bound with his arms behind his back. Idegwaed’s broken glint blinded him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate on what was being said. He picked out one of Balthazaar’s voices and hoped it was the right one.
“I underestimated you, Barwn Blackthorn. Too long have I left you unchecked. I have failed my people by allowing them to fall by your hand, and for that I must pay. I understand that now. It is by the grace of the God of Mercy, whose cathedral I built and you destroyed, that I allow you to keep what has been forcibly taken from me, but you will come no further than Council’s Realm. It is the free city of the Twelve Kingdoms and should remain so. For this purpose have I brought my army, to ensure that you do not try to resist this treaty. Killing you for your treason is a mercy you do not deserve. You may keep this new blood realm, but it comes with its own price. You are responsible for the recompense of all those poor souls, and any I find unlawfully in my lands after a reasonable time of refuge will be driven back. There is no place for your kind in my world.”
My kind, thought Xander with a stab of conscience.
“Lord only knows why you have crossed your king thusly.”
“My son,” Xander answered dryly.
“I’m sorry?”
Xander opened his eyes, rolling his tongue in an attempt to dismiss the feel of cotton in his mouth. He coughed to clear his throat. “My wife bears a son. He is to be a prince of the realm by birthright.”
Balthazaar shifted uneasily in his saddle. His horse snorted and chomped at the bit. After a moment, a contract and quill were being shoved under Xander’s nose.
“What’s this?” Xander asked.
“The land you have taken maledictions you. I know you are destitute and have no monetary means to rule. Sign this, and your life will be spared… for now. Consider it a gift to your son.”
The lands were his if he signed. Die, if he refused; live if he accepted. Either way, he was a condemned man. Balthazaar was right. Xander never had the means to fund the lands, only the power to take them.
Xander forced his name across the scroll before he could regret it all. The price was too steep. He only wanted to return home and forget this had all happened.
Balthazaar gave a curt nod when it was all said and done. The world went black to Xander.
When he came to, he found himself bound and gagged, slumped in Rhun’s saddle. The horse plodded along calmly as if knowing with certainty where to go. Xander glanced at the sky. The sun was slightly behind them, but not by much. They were headed southeast to Blackthorn. Xander groaned as Rhun jarred against a bank. The guards must have knocked him out. His head was splitting, and he tasted dried blood on the rag in his mouth. He reached to pull it out and looked to his side. Idegwaed swung in her sheath. Xander bent over carefully to retrieve her and slid the rope around his wrists against the blade’s jagged edge. He held her up in one hand. She had once been polished, smooth, and a prize to be won, but was now rugged and terrifying, and ugly. Xander felt this same ugliness within himself. How many lives had paid for this blade, now swollen with tiny cracks and veins? He clenched his teeth and swallowed back a sick taste. He sheathed Idegwaed hard and kicked Rhun into a gallop.
A few of the men Xander had sent on his earliest conquest remained at the keep. It was only enough to guard the household. He swung over Rhun’s wide back and passed the reins to one of those men. Another ran out to him and took him by the arm.
“What is going on?” Xander demanded, prying away his elbow.
“Please, my lord, come with me. It’s urgent.”
Xander marched behind. “Is it Aowyn? Is she alright?”
The guard said nothing, but led him upstairs where Maeb was exiting Xander’s chambers. Her face was ashen and haggard. She looked at Xander bitterly. “Do locht2.”
Xander pushed past her into the room. Even from where he stood, he could see Aowyn was deathly pale. He rushed to her side and took her icy hand in his. Her hair was dull and matted. Even the sun kisses across the bridge of her nose were faded. He pressed his lips to her fingers, willing warmth back into her. Her eyes opened to him. She moved her mouth t
o speak, but no words came.
Xander could scarcely stand to look upon her glazed expression. “Oh, Wynnie…”
“Her birthing time came days ago,” Maeb said softly from behind him. “He will not come.”
Xander held Aowyn’s hand tightly. Was there a way to save them? “Bring me a dagger, Maeb.”
Maeb returned quickly and pressed the dagger in to Xander’s hand. He looked at the blade, hands shaking. I must do what Maeb has not.
He rose slowly, jaw trembling. He gently pushed back the covers to reveal Aowyn’s naked body, frail and gaunt. “I’m sorry, Wyn.”
Carefully he pierced her belly with the blade and tore through flesh. Aowyn’s back arched, and her face lit up like white fire, eyes fully open and aware. Her throat gurgled, and a cry split the air, but it was not hers.
Maeb unwound the babe from a mess of cord and fluids.
The dagger fell from Xander’s hand, and he dropped to Aowyn’s side. She stared into space, her lips pursed and pulsing. Xander stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, Wynnie. I’m so sorry!”
She turned her head. Her gaze came in to focus. For a moment, Xander saw his Aowyn, not the ghost of her. She smiled. Her chest sank with a peaceful sigh. The care of the world faded from her countenance. Xander buried his face against Aowyn’s lifeless fist and choked back a sob. He shook his head. No. No, this couldn’t be happening! This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t part of the bargain.
Through his misery, he became aware of Maeb shushing a squalling clamor in the background. She nudged Xander’s shoulder, proffering a ball of whimpers. “Do mhac3, Eoghan.”
“Eoghan,” Xander echoed hollowly. He took him, staring into the face of a prince. Carrot-colored fuzz graced the baby’s head. Golden eyes considered Xander from behind a misshapen nose that wrinkled close to his face. A twisted spine writhed against Xander’s hands. Xander looked between Eoghan and Aowyn. Maeb was singing a soft, mournful song in her tongue as she cleaned Aowyn’s body and closed her glassy eyes. Xander looked back at Eoghan and tried to feel some sort of love for this purple-faced being. He swallowed as his emptiness was replaced by compelling loathing. Eoghan squirmed and kicked free of the swaddle, revealing a blue, clubbed foot covered in orange fuzz.
Xander grabbed Maeb, shoved Eoghan back into her arms, and stormed from the room.
Five years had passed since Xander had sent Aowyn’s remains across the sea to Aodhagáin, so that she might be buried with her ancestors.
In that span, strange creatures began stalking the countryside. Howls rode the air from Litchwood Forest at the edge of Blackthorn. Howls that Xander did not recognize. There were nights he would stand at the window, a flask of Blacksteed ale in hand, and watch massive, black forms prowl the skirts of the keep’s land. Green eyes glinted and blinked in the moonlight. Maeb called them barghest. Somewhere between a bear and direwolf was this monster. They were never far off. Xander would never have rest. If it was not brigands after his land for all those years, it was now barghest. Their cry, meant for him, made the hackles on his neck stand at attention. Other creatures were taking up residence as well. There was word on the air that giants roamed the land, and white stallions with long, golden horns. No one knew where they were coming from, but Xander had an inkling.
He took a deep swig from his flask and then flung it into the fireplace. With a clap, the fire roared, fueled by the alcohol in the now molten container. Xander looked over his shoulder. Idegwaed hung above the mantle. Shadows danced against her ragged blade. Xander squinted. His mouth drew in a tight, grim frown. Idegwaed.
The blade had brought him all the land and subjects he desired, as promised, but it brought all the worldly troubles with it. He had not needed to fight for Blackthorn since the day he hung Idegwaed, for all now feared to cross the very blade that had brought them under Xander’s rule. Except the barghest. Xander felt they would not keep to the woods much longer. Why, though? What would such monsters want with a crumbling keep? Xander ran a hand through his wavy, black hair. Why were any of these creatures drawn to Blackthorn?
He moved slowly to Idegwaed. She appeared milky liquid in the flickering shadows. Ethereal. Alive. He reached toward her. He could drive the barghest out. He had been unstoppable before, surely he could be so again.
Dawn edged in behind him. He paused in this moment, on the edge of daylight and darkness. The door of the room creaked open, and an excited breath came from outside.
Eoghan.
Xander’s arm fell. He gazed in the direction of the boy. The gleam of firelight skipped off of his bright eyes. Xander looked back at Idegwaed. She had brought him power, but that power had damned his son.
The boy scampered in on his knuckles, dragging his clubbed foot. He gave Xander a wide berth and a wary eye. He scooted to the table in the corner to snatch a boiled cream treat, leftover from his father’s untouched supper. He watched Xander as he gobbled up several cold sausages. Eoghan’s eyes burned into Xander’s back. The boy had an insatiable appetite. He was ugly to the point where Xander felt that he should be shut away. Sickly and weak he was not. Where most babes grow out of some shortcomings at birth, the years had not improved or been kind to Eoghan. His crumbled nose had grown black and dead. The twisted spine stretched beyond his bottom. He never allowed Maeb to trim his nails. Whenever he got away with something, he behaved as though it were a giant joke. Maeb tried to keep him in line, but she was no match for his savage strength. He was smart, too. Xander saw it clearly. The boy knew how to throw his weight around and when to use someone else’s moment of weakness to his advantage. He could act dull and helpless, but there was no mistaking the intelligence in his eyes.
He grunted and whimpered as he ate Xander’s food, possessive as though he had never been fed. Xander stared into the fire. His shoulders rose to his ears in disgust. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened. A roar rose in his throat.
“Maeb!”
The nursemaid hurried in.
“Get him out of my sight.” Xander pounded the fireplace mortar, glancing sideways at the animal that was his son.
Maeb scurried to the boy and scolded him softly in his mother’s tongue.
Eoghan bared his teeth and growled.
“Naughty boy. Come now, Eoghan.” Maeb tried to reach him. Eoghan ducked away, ham bone in teeth, spilling what little food was left with a clatter.
Maeb chased him, hand splayed to catch him, but the boy was too quick.
Xander spun on his heel with an angry holler, snatching Eoghan by the scruff of his neck. He lifted the boy and glared eye to eye with him. Eoghan blinked, chin trembling. He proffered the ham bone to his father.
Xander grabbed it and flung Eoghan to the floor then hurled the bone into the fire.
Eoghan crab-walked across the floor, his eyes never leaving Xander.
“Honestly I do not know why I keep you, Maeb,” Xander spat.
Maeb wiped her tears away. She knelt beside Eoghan and stroked his hair.
“If you cannot control him…”
Maeb kissed Eoghan’s temple, caressing his ruddy cheek.
“I should just shut him away,” Xander said quietly.
“Aowyn would never forgive you,” Maeb choked bitterly.
Xander could barely swallow. His eyes rose to Idegwaed. “She never will.”
Xander’s hand shot to Idegwaed’s hilt. He took her from the mantle and rounded violently. “I should have sent you with her. Aowyn is gone, Maeb… and so shall you be come morning.”
Eoghan rolled and scuttled from the room with wide eyes. Maeb stared up at her master helplessly. “What are you going to do?”
Xander raised the blade and felt the blood cry of old rising inside of him. “I’m going to end this.”
Rhun plodded wearily through the swamp of Morgorth until he refused to go further. Xander dismounted and swung the reins over the stallion’s head. Rhun resisted being led at first, but gave in and followed. Xander hoped he could still find Sylas in this
dark and vile place. What if the shack was abandoned? What if Sylas had been killed by some new creature Xander had brought upon the land?
A dull pain in his hip reminded him of the power Sylas wielded and promised death was not likely for the warlock. The crackle of campfire and the sway of lichen ahead put aside any doubts Xander had remaining. He ground-tied Rhun near a log and a patch of green and made his way into camp.
“I summon thee, Sylas Mortas!”
Sylas appeared a moment later in the doorway of his little shack. A slow, thin smile snaked across his face. “I was beginning to wonder when you would return. Are you satisfied with yourself?”
Xander drew Idegwaed and cast her into the ground. She stuck a few feet away, wobbling slightly.
“No deal.” Xander crossed his arms.
Sylas’s black, almond eyes narrowed. The gills on his neck opened and closed slowly. “I’m afraid it’s too late for refunds.”
Xander remained firm. “I said, ‘No deal.’ Your blade has brought me nothing but heartache and strife. It has cursed my son and killed my wife.”
Sylas raised a long, spindly finger that ended in a yellow, dirty, bent nail. “Correction. You brought it upon yourself the moment you left my swamp with my sword.”
Sylas moved forward. Xander sidestepped. “Take it back.”
Sylas shrugged, moving closer. “I cannot.”
Xander moved away again into a shadow. He nearly fell into a hole that he had not seen before. He teetered precariously. His arms windmilled. The heels of his boots dug into soft loam and teeth leapt toward him from the darkness, gnashing hungrily.
Xander glanced over his shoulder. He could vaguely make out the form of a creature below with the body of a man and the head of a lion. He slipped as more ground gave out from below. A slimy hand gripped his collar and hurled him toward the earth with a high laugh.
Xander raised his head and spit dirt as a voice behind him voice crooned, “Is Daddy’s pet hungry? Yes, he is. Daddy will feed you soon. He will.”
