Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles

by David L. Craddock

  “This has gone on far enough!” his mother’s impostor cried. “Wardsmen! Obey the Crown. Seize my son!”

  The Wardsmen spread across the platform took a hesitant step forward, then regarded Aidan’s glowing eyes warily. Shrieking in rage, the Annalyn-harbinger charged. Aidan drew light and snapped off a prayer. Two beams shot from the Eye of Heritage and lanced the platform at her feet. The Edmund-harbinger lunged at him from the side. Aidan raised Heritage to strike but his father got there first, swinging Valor up to crash against his impostor’s blade, forcing him back.

  Cries rang out from every direction. Many in the crowd shoved their way toward the gate. They needed to see what he saw, or Aidan would lose them.

  Anastasia. Can you reverse transfiguration?

  —I... could try, she sent back. I need light. Lots of it.

  Aidan opened every pore of his body, drinking in the Lady’s warmth. He had only been tied for a few hours, but gorging on the sweet warmth was like diving into the clearest, coolest lake after crossing the Plains of Dust. The Annalyn-harbinger drew light and prayed, throwing a ball of fire at him. Aidan raised Heritage, deflecting it, then shifted behind her and grabbed her around the throat.

  —Now! Anastasia cried.

  The light drained from his body and into the sword. The Eye flared red, then the energy poured forth, baking the harbinger in a red glow. The skin beneath Aidan’s fist shifted like loose fabric. Ripples spread over her body, her face, her legs. Sounds like snapping twigs filled the air. Her skin became moldy and cadaverous.

  —It’s done!

  Aidan reeled back and stumbled, falling to his knees. He felt light-headed and feverish, drained. The fever was not as debilitating as it had been after Sharem, but he felt far from spry and alert. He was so faint that the first few cries of alarm did not register. Then he saw trembling fingers pointing at the platform behind him. Aidan looked. His Sight had fallen away, but his mother’s impostor stood revealed. Fleshy bars covered her mouth and vacant eye sockets stared sightlessly. His father’s impostor stared at her in horror and compulsively reached up to pat at his face.

  “What in Dawn’s name...?” his father breathed.

  The courtyard exploded in pandemonium. Several of the Wardsmen turned on their fellows, rushing them with flat, dead eyes. Several men died before they could grasp what was happening, blood spilling from torn necks and bellies. Those who did get a hold of their wits could do no more than raise their blades and deflect blows, gaping in confusion and horror as the fleshy masks of their adversaries faded to reveal skulls spotted with dirt and rot. Shrieking, the crowd boiled over, spilling out into the mountain trail, shoving and trampling in their terror.

  And there, far in the back near the gate opening on to the mountain pass, was the massive head cook herself, striding toward the platform against the current of terrified witnesses. Vagrants threw themselves at her, their blades glinting in the Lady’s light. Helda never so much as glanced at them. She swung a stout log in cleaving strokes, batting them aside and roaring like an angry bear.

  The sight of Helda cutting a wide path toward him left Aidan amazed and deeply comforted. But he had only an instant to register Helda’s inexorable advance. Behind him, Tyrnen growled a prayer. Aidan whirled but the old man vanished, kicking up a gust of wind. Howling in rage, the exposed harbingers rushed them. Behind them, the executioner stalked in, clenching and unclenching hands as large as Helda’s biggest plates. Edmund tore Valor from its sheath and adopted a defensive stance. Raising Heritage, Aidan stepped beside him.

  Another gust of wind tugged at his clothes. Before he could turn, a hand gripped his neck. Nails dug into his skin, pinching hard enough to make him gasp.

  “You have ruined my plans for the last time,” Tyrnen whispered.

  Blackness swept over him.

  Chapter 37

  Night Terrors

  THE PINCHING SENSATION DISAPPEARED and Aidan whirled, spinning Heritage in a wide arc. The sword bit through the air— nothing else—and not the fresh air that announced the arrival of spring. He was in the center of the throne room. All the windows along the walls that normally flooded the room with the Lady’s light were blank, as if the panes of glass had been removed and replaced with slabs of wall painted black. The flicker of torches between the balconies lit the room with a dusky glow. Shadows stretched out from corners and the gaps between balconies like cobwebs. Behind him, the Crown of the North and its smaller companion throne sat empty.

  —What’s happened? Charles asked, sounding uncertain.

  Aidan was not quite sure how to answer. His thoughts were hazy, as if he had been woken suddenly from a deep sleep.

  —Night Terror, Ambrose said tensely. He’s pulled you in.

  Aidan felt panic creep in. He raised Heritage and asked his family to illuminate the Eye. The jewel flickered, bathing the room in deep red light for an instant. Then it faded.

  —We cannot see, Aidan, Anastasia said. The Eye is blind.

  Fear washed over him, prickling his skin. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths and think the problem through. I can’t see normally, he thought, then felt a rush of triumph as an idea came to him. Tightening his grip on Heritage, he summoned the Sight. Black on white greeted him as the Ordine’kel swept through him, mating with Ordine’cin to flood every fiber of his being. Every mark on the floor, every contour of the walls, stood out as if an artist had sketched the room using charcoal.

  —Excellent thinking, boy, Charles said, sounding proud.

  Behind him, Aidan heard a gasp. He turned smoothly, his terror buried under the calm discipline of Ordine’kel. A form huddled between the thrones.

  —What’s wrong? his grandfather asked.

  “Someone else is here,” he whispered.

  He took a few cautious steps forward, Heritage raised and ready to turn away blows using precise parries that Aidan did not, would not understand. The man wore the mail and colors of a Wardsman. He looked up, and Aidan saw scraggly beard that barely covered cuts and bruises.

  —Who is it? Charles said.

  “Father,” Aidan said, releasing Sight and kneeling in front of Edmund.

  Edmund looked up at him, teeth gritted in pain. “What happened?”

  “Tyrnen pulled us into a...” Aidan frowned, wondering how to explain. “It’s like a dream, this place, except what happens is real. If we die here...”

  His father nodded. His teeth began to chatter. Aidan removed his cloak and wrapped it around his father’s shoulders. “Are you all right? Father?”

  The general’s eyes rose to take in the dancing shadows that began to slide down the high walls behind Aidan. The wispy shapes crawled toward any torches in their path, wriggling around flames as they descended.

  Edmund had spun without thinking the moment he had felt the pincer-like grip on his neck, thrusting Valor out. He drove the blade into a tree bare of leaves, rattling its branches and calling down a shower of snow and ice. He yanked his blade free and took in his surroundings. Snow covered the ground and fell thickly from gray clouds. Bare trees covered in snow and ice stretched around him in every direction.

  He started to sheathe Valor then thought better of it. He crept forward, eyes flitting front trunk to trunk. The unbroken snow glittered under the Lady’s glare as he moved along. That pulled him up short. The Lady had been settling over the far horizon as he had entered the courtyard minutes before. Had Tyrnen used some trick to send him to the far reaches of Crotaria where the Lady had not yet turned the sky over to the Lord of Midnight? Perhaps that was it.

  He resumed his slow, cautious pace. Minutes later he emerged from the grove to find a small cabin sitting near the frozen bowl of a lake. He was at Lake Carrean. Terrible memories came rushing back, burying years of fonder ones.

  “Kahltan damn you, old man,” he growled. He glanced near the cabin. Annalyn’s body was gone, or perhaps hidden under the snow. He told himself that he could not dig for it right now, not with the
ir son in danger. Annalyn always wanted him to tend to their boy first, him second, herself last. Emotion welled up in his throat. He swallowed it and stalked toward the cabin. If Tyrnen was inside, he had better be prepared for a fight.

  Movement at the edge of his vision. He went to the shore and scanned the horizon, but saw nothing amiss. Then he detected motion again, this time at his feet. Looking down, Edmund gasped and fell to his knees. The bloated face of his wife stared back at him from beneath the surface of the frozen lake. Her hands pressed against the ice as if trying to lift it away. Her eyes were wide with sadness; questions and accusations swam out of her glassy eyes and stabbed him in the heart.

  Edmund pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll get you out of there,” he mumbled. Gripping Valor like a dagger, he stabbed the blade into the ice. The jolt from the impact almost brought him to his knees. He stabbed again and again, chipping at the ice but making no real progress. He was so involved in his labor that he didn’t notice the shadow sliding along the ground beneath him, swallowing up his own silhouette.

  —Something doesn’t feel right, Charles whispered.

  What do you—? Aidan began. Something cold, like a rag dipped in ice water, touched his foot, seeping through his boot. He grabbed his father and dove to the side. They landed in a mass of tangled arms and legs. Sitting up, Aidan pulled Edmund to his feet. “Father, are you—”

  The cadaverous face of the harbinger stared back at him. Aidan kicked free of the creature’s grasp, rolled to his feet, fell into a run—and slammed face-first into a column of stone. Pain exploded across his face and his eyes filled with tears. Aidan ignored them. The torches had been snuffed out, leaving him in darkness.

  “Your end is near , boy.”

  The words were close. Aidan felt his way around the column and stumbled forward, fingers fumbling for his sword. They brushed an empty sheath. Heritage was gone, he realized, probably near the thrones where he’d dropped it when he’d thrown himself and the Edmund-harbinger out of harm’s way. He turned around— at least he hoped he had turned completely around—and hunched over, groping his way back to the throne. Hoarse laughter from afar reached his ears and abruptly rolled closer, rising in pitch.

  Aidan threw himself forward and collided with one of the thrones. The chair crashed to the ground, and Aidan tumbled along with it. He groped about and decided he had found the sword when his finger nicked the edge of something sharp. Patting the blade, he seized the hilt and blinked, calling forth Sight. Whiteness descended over his vision like a curtain. He saw the harbinger halfway across the room, its true face open in a silent scream. It stood calmly, a sword in its hands, its shoulders shaking with... laughter?

  A mass of darkness crashed into him like a wave of liquid ice. Laughter filled his ears, drowning out his scream. The whisper filled him, pouring down his throat, seizing his legs, pinning his arms. He wanted to retch but could not. His chest was unable to rise or fall, and the inability to draw breath sent waves of panic through him, freezing rational thought. Sight slipped away, plunging the room back into darkness. The creature’s murmuring increased, growing frenzied at the taste of his flesh, of his fear.

  Valor flashed as Edmund weaved around the executioner. Cuts and stab wounds crisscrossed the big man’s chest, belly, arms, legs, back—but he never seemed to slow, ignoring the wounds as if they were the probing teeth of the smallest, peskiest insects.

  Edmund grimaced as he continued to move. This was his first battle since surviving Tyrnen’s ambush, and he felt like a man twice his age. The executioner’s surprising agility didn’t help matters. The size of the man was in stark contrast to his dexterity. Edmund rolled and slid around the behemoth’s club-like fists, thrusting and cutting with movements as precise as his footing in the ankle-deep snow allowed.

  The giant lunged and Edmund saw his chance. He started to dive forward, intending to hamstring his opponent, but his left leg—the one bludgeoned by several of the vagrants that had ambushed him near this very spot—gave out. He collapsed, but did not give in to the disadvantage. Instead he threw his weight to one side, falling into a roll. The giant’s foot clipped him, sending him tumbling. He rose smoothly, shifting weight to his good leg and taking a moment to find his balance.

  A moment was all his opponent gave him. The big man had sensed his advantage and charged, swinging those tree-trunk limbs. Edmund gave ground, slashing and cutting and thrusting, barely avoiding the other man’s reach. His foot caught in the snow again and he fell backwards. His warrior’s mind ran through options as his body fell. He could roll and regain his feet, or he could lie prone, feigning weakness. Wouldn’t be much feigning involved, he told himself, deciding on option two. He let himself crash onto his back, hoping the executioner took the bait.

  The Lady’s own luck was with him. The big man moved in, lacing his hands and driving them down like a sledgehammer. Edmund rolled to one side, threw all his weight on his good leg, and sprang up to drive Valor through the man’s skull. He grunted as the blade chipped off but recovered quickly, stabbing between the man’s shoulder blades. The executioner threw his head back and howled. Edmund scrabbled back, his breath puffing out in the cold air as he prepared to wade in. What happened next left him frozen to the spot.

  Roaring, the executioner ripped away his hood. His head was covered in bright red scales, each as tough and thick as plates of steel. His eyes were yellow slits. Scaly lips peeled away in a snarl to reveal sharp, pointed fangs. Crimson stained each jagged yellow tooth.

  It roared again and advanced, corded arms flexing as it pounded forward.

  Aidan couldn’t move, helpless against the heavy force that pinned his body to the wall. His outstretched hand was all that remained viewable, the rest lost beneath layers of shadow. He wanted to close his eyes and let the darkness have him, let his burning lungs expire so he could drift away...

  —Do not give up!

  The cry within his head brought him back to full alertness. He still couldn’t breathe, and without air, what chance did he have?

  His fingers fluttered, and steel grazed their tips.

  The sword!

  His hands. His fingers still gripped the hilt. He blinked, returning Sight, but could not move his body to strike.

  Fire! he sent desperately.

  A thin jet of flame shot out of the ruby, lighting the room in a brilliant scarlet glow. The congealed mass of whispers screamed as the fire cut through the bulk like a hot knife, and the whisper shrieked again and fell away, peeling like strips of paper that shriveled into nothingness. Pulling himself to his feet, he gasped in enormous gulps of air. It tasted sweeter than any pie or cake he had ever filched from Helda’s kitchens.

  —You are still in danger, Aidan, his grandfather reminded him.

  Aidan froze. The harbinger.

  As if his thought had summoned the creature, he turned and caught the flat of its sword full in the face.

  Edmund fought for breath as he worked against the creature’s relentless attacks. Cutting its face did no good. Valor had drawn no blood, only sparks. He stuck to body attacks after that failed attempt, carving the humanoid body with slashes and stabs. Not that the creature seemed to notice. He slid forward, feigning a dive and bracing his legs to launch himself at the beast’s legs. Stupid! he cursed just as he began to push off. Abruptly his bad leg shuddered, and what began as an upward spring became a clumsy stumble as pain shot through him.

  A fist slammed into his chest like a battering ram. The world became a whirlwind of white and blue before he crashed in the center of the hard, ice-covered pond. Edmund sat up, the world around him still spiraling. He heard the heavy steps of the creature coming for him, but he did not look up. He was fixated on a spider web pattern that had formed where he landed. He smiled, then watched the beast approach. One fist was clenched and held in the other, and both were upraised like a hammer waiting to fall.

  Edmund rolled as the beast leaped and brought his hands crashing down. Its fists
smashed through the surface as if it were glass. It teetered, but kept its footing. Screaming in pain and fury, Edmund slid forward and threw his bulk against the creature. It toppled into the icy depths, hands shooting up to grip at the edge of the covering sheet. Struggling against dizziness and nausea, Edmund ignored the rapidly spreading web of cracks and hacked and stabbed at the beast’s hands, chest, shoulders—any flesh he could see. Finally its fingers slipped from the edge. Then it sank, disappearing in the blue depths.

  Fatigue careened into him. Fumbling, Edmund sheathed Valor as he began crawling back to the shore. His pain, the giant creature—everything but his original mission, to pull Annalyn from the frozen depths, was forgotten. When he reached her, his breath caught. She was smiling. Her hands smashed through the icy surface and dragged him down.

  Aidan no longer wielded Heritage. He was Heritage. The pure whiteness of Sight painted an onyx outline around his enemy, the sword a blur in his hands. Ambrose whispered words in his ear, guiding his every movement, helping him stay two steps ahead. The harbinger came at him in relentless assaults, its sword spinning and slicing. Heritage met it again and again. Sight cast away the creature’s disguise, bringing its true form to bear. Its eyeless holes remained narrowed during their struggle. Its mouth was set in a similar position, though occasionally a cockroach would scuttle through the fleshy bars that stretched over the maw.

  Ordine’kel carried Aidan forward, giving him the understanding behind each stab, slice and parry. Their counters and strikes flowed seamlessly, each intercepting and playing off from the other, forming a chain of delicacy and death. Aidan stiffened his arm to catch a downward swing from his opponent, spinning the sword out of his way. He had thought to push the opposing weapon to the ground, but to his surprise the harbinger pressed his way into the spin, forcing Aidan to press Heritage against the blade to hold the creature at bay.