Wrend halted his barrage of fists to look up, to make sure he didn’t get trampled.
The pause gave Teirn enough respite that he thrust his open palms against Wrend’s chest with a strength compounded by Thew. Wrend’s chest compressed. Air rushed from his lungs. He lifted up and away from Teirn, flying back through the air. Teirn stood, his face contorted in rage, and turned toward the cave as Wrend landed in the water, past the horse.
Again, the water cushioned his fall, but here the water was deeper, and he sunk up past his head. He kept thinking he would hit the bottom at any moment, but sunk and sunk. Water rushed into his ears and nose as he became immersed.
He flailed his arms and legs, and his heels hit the dirt. He righted himself and stood, gasping for air as he came out of the water that went up past his belly. He wiped the liquid from his stinging eyes and tightened his arms and legs against shivering forced by the frigid water.
Teirn had leapt over the rocks and joined his paladins in the cavern entrance. The cliff hung far enough over the cave, protected it from light so well, that as paladins stepped into the darkness it swallowed them instantly. Teirn glanced back at Wrend with a somber face as he disappeared into the blackness.
Wrend focused on his discernment. He should’ve used his Ichor all along, but hadn’t even thought of it—it was still too new to him and things had happened so quickly, he hadn’t even thought of it until Teirn’s blow. He bound and applied Thew to his legs and started forward through the water, running as hard as he could. He waded around the dead horse and through the red water to the edge of the rocks. He leapt up and over them and followed the paladins toward the darkness. The last of them entered just ahead of him, and as he stepped through that wall of blackness, it was like stepping into another world.
It would only take a few moments for him to regret entering the cave at all.
Chapter 61: An unexpected complication
I demand complete obedience and fidelity from my wives. Their standards of conduct are far stricter than even my demigods’. There has only ever been one exception to this rule.
-Athanaric
Darkness enveloped Wrend. Two steps into the cave, he stopped out of fear of running into someone or something. For several seconds he could see nothing. He could only hear.
From the hollowness of the echoes, he could tell he’d stepped into a gigantic cavern. Swords rang and boots scuffled, but those sounds didn’t affect him so much. He was used to those—he’d heard them in training. It was the screaming and the crying that wrung his heart, the squish of swords entering flesh or the thump of bodies hitting the ground. Women cried out only to have their voices silenced. Men shouted in anger and despair. Babies and children wailed in the distant background.
His vision began to adjust, and vague shapes moved in the darkness around him. Someone jostled him. On an impulse, he experimented by binding Thew to his eyes, and applied. Almost immediately, as if someone had lit torches, details leapt out at him, and he could see.
The cavern had a fifty-foot ceiling and stretched back more than a hundred yards. Ledges and trails lined the sides. In the back, cave openings led deeper into the mountain. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Random objects, such as blankets, pots, and jars, cluttered the dirt floor, lying among dozens—maybe scores—of bodies.
Some lay face down, others on their sides, with their torsos twisted. Some lay in multiple pieces. Others with guts spilled out around them. Blood stained the ground in smears, or pooled around corpses. The faces of the fallen had frozen in the last moments of pain and fright. Here and there, a paladin lay with its head gone and crystals of nitrate scattered around them. One sat on the ground, missing its legs, its belly open, trying to scoop up nitrate to shove back inside its stomach.
The paladins moved everywhere, but especially crowded near the back of the cavern, toward the exits. Most of the noise came from there, the focus of the slaughter.
Teirn struggled among the paladins, trying to pry his way past them as if eager for the kill. What had come over him? It was like he was a different person than Wrend had ever known.
Yet Wrend needed the same fervor. The Master had decreed that this happen. These people had rebelled and brought this judgment down upon themselves. The laws and rules Wrend had grown up with justified their deaths. As he stood there, stomach churning, he understood on an intellectual level the reason behind the scene.
But his heart quailed.
This was the cost of maintaining peace in the land? The Master had to do this to keep control? This was right?
A commotion arose among the paladins at the back of the cavern. A cheer echoed from the rock walls, and swords and pikes bobbed up and down in celebration of something Wrend couldn’t see.
In a moment, the crowd parted and a bubble of soldiers emerged, pushing and shoving other paladins out of the way—as if Wrend’s and Teirn’s paladins disagreed on what to do. When they saw Wrend, they pointed at and came toward him. Most fell away, returning to the main crowd, and soon only two paladins remained coming toward him, holding a man by the arms and prodding him along.
The leader, wearing all black except for a green vest.
Across the distance, the man met Wrend’s gaze. He had a strong jaw and hard eyes that showed no fear. Only resolve.
Wrend gripped the hilt of his sword, which was still in its scabbard. The Master had commanded him to kill the leader and bring his head back. He had to do this. He couldn’t let anyone else do it. Not the paladins. Not Teirn.
Yet he couldn’t move. His muscles seemed to have seized up. He couldn’t draw his sword or step forward. The man struggled against his captors, trying to pull his arms free, but held his head high as the paladins shoved him across the cavern. The other paladins began to flow into a tunnel beyond, as if they’d broken down a door. Teirn, moving against the flow, emerged from the crowd, sword brandished. He spotted the two paladins and their prisoner, and rushed toward them.
“No!” he shouted. “He’s mine.”
Panic spurred Wrend.
The paladins were closer to Wrend than Teirn, so Wrend drew his sword and bound Thew to his legs. The apostate struggled harder, roaring as he pulled one arm free and rotated his body around a paladin, yanking his other arm loose in the process. But before he could plant his feet to flee, a paladin lunged at him, wrapping its arms around him and tackling him to the ground. The second piled on top.
“Teirn!” Wrend shouted. He reached the pile of paladins and renegade, and leapt to the far side, to stand between Teirn and his prey. “This man is mine to kill.”
Teirn dove at Wrend, raising his sword in both hands to swing it down. Wrend lifted his own weapon to deflect the blow, and its force vibrated up through his arms as if they would shatter. He staggered aside and would’ve fallen if he hadn’t reached out to steady himself on the ground. As he straightened, he knew from Teirn’s roar that another blow was coming. Instinctively, he lifted his sword and brought his second hand to the hilt. Teirn’s blade made contact and slid down his sword, grating until it struck the cross guard and stopped.
They stood with swords locked. Though Teirn’s eyes radiated a bizarre mixture of hatred and regret, the rest of his face looked serene, as if he’d come to peace with something. He bore down with all his weight. Wrend pushed back, but with insufficient strength, and Teirn forced him to the ground.
He focused on his discernment, bound Thew to his arms and legs, and applied. He surged up and forward, throwing Teirn back. Teirn staggered for several steps, nearly falling backward over the paladins who still struggled with the apostate leader. Wrend steadied himself, prepared his sword, and kept the Thew applied. As Teirn regained his footing and began to surge back at Wrend, a shrill woman’s voice filled the cavern.
“Teirn, no!”
Wrend knew the voice, but didn’t dare look away from the attack. But Teirn knew it, too, and faltered. His stride stuttered, and his head turned. Wrend followed his gaze.
> The paladins still funneled through the exits in the back, but two of them had just emerged from the main body of soldiers and came toward the brothers. Between them, they held a woman so that her back bent forward and her hair spilled down over her face. But Wrend knew her. He recognized the brown hair, the slight figure. He would know it anywhere.
It was his mother, Rashel.
Chapter 62: The right choice
It’s always a relief when you can shrug responsibility off, and just live life the way you want.
-Krack
Leenda sat on a rock, her face in her hands as she tried to stop her tears. It probably wasn’t possible, with all the chemicals rushing through her. But this wasn’t her. She wasn’t this emotional.
Krack sat above her, back on his haunches with his wings tucked tight against his back. He hadn’t moved in five minutes.
“So what do we do?” she said.
She didn’t look up. She wouldn’t use guilt against him to convince him to face Athanaric. Besides, he couldn’t face Athanaric. He was still too shaken up, and in a moment of crisis his fear might paralyze him, cause him to blunder.
“It seems,” he said in draegonspeak, “that we’re at an impasse. I’m not willing—and maybe not even able—to do what a noble draegon should do.”
His sarcasm stung her, but she said nothing. She deserved it. All this time she’d thought she was superior to humans simply because she had a draegon soul. But now she saw that superiority was an individual affair, dependent upon how each individual chose to exercise its abilities. Some humans demonstrated superiority over draegons, and vice versa.
“I think I’m done with this,” he said. “I’m going to return to my lair in the mountains.”
“That’s perfectly fair.” She couldn’t fight him anymore. “You’ve already done more than I could’ve reasonably expected.”
He paused for a long time. She still didn’t look up at him.
“I could take you somewhere, first,” he said. “Leave you at a village where you can get food. Or near the caravan.”
What could she do, now? She couldn’t face Athanaric alone, and couldn’t get close to Wrend. Even if she could, she still had no guarantee she could convince him to come with her. Should she abandon her quest and focus on her relationship with her son? Could she, after she’d already sacrificed so much to try and regain her mate?
“Do you want me to come with you up to the lair?”
He huffed and tossed his head from side to side. “No.”
He started to speak further, but clamped his mouth shut. She appreciated that.
“Then take me toward the caravan. You can leave me a ways off, and I’ll walk the rest of the way there.”
“They’ll capture you. You don’t want to wait until things have settled a bit?”
She shrugged. “I’ve probably been going about this all wrong—trying to be sneaky. The best way may be to just talk with Athanaric and Wrend. Lay out my case for them.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Nothing else has worked. Nothing else may ever work.”
Krack considered her for several moments, and nodded as he lowered his head and body to the ground. “Very well, then. Climb on. I’ll take you there.”
Sighing, she obeyed him. In moments he spread his wings wide, and they lifted into the air.
Chapter 63: The killing cave
Any deception you have in your heart will eventually manifest itself in what you do. Therefore, it is always best to live in complete honesty.
-Rashel
For a moment, Wrend forgot his feud with Teirn—who seemed to forget, too, for he lowered his sword. His jaw dropped, and he gave Wrend a baffled look. Rashel was not Teirn’s mother, but Wrend knew he still loved her; as all mothers in the Seraglio, she’d cared for him and helped raise him.
The paladins lifted the cultist leader to his feet. He struggled against them, grunting as he tried to pull his arms free.
As the other paladins brought Rashel forward, she stumbled once, nearly falling to her knees. With her back still bent, she looked up. Tears streaked her face, and again she shouted.
“Boys, stop this!”
Both Wrend and Teirn stepped toward her.
“What are you doing here?” Teirn said.
“Let her go,” Wrend told the paladins.
They released her arms. She stumbled forward and began to collapse, but Wrend caught her with his free hand as she threw her arms around his shoulders. She was light, easy to hold up.
“Are you injured?” Wrend said.
She lifted her face to his. They were only inches apart. Her lips quivered and her eyes glistened with unspent tears.
“They’re killing everyone,” she said. “The paladins are killing the women and the children in the other cave.”
Now that she said it, Wrend noticed the screams flowing out of the rear of the cave, lifting over the clamor of paladins still trying to get into the back tunnels. Although the Thew had long since slipped from his eyes, he could still see well enough; his vision had adjusted to the dimness, and several lanterns burned throughout the cavern.
“This has to be done,” Teirn said.
He grabbed one of her arms and lifted her, helping her stand fully on her own.
“Rashel,” the rebel leader said. He stopped fighting, and his face pled with her. He stood captive a dozen feet away from Wrend and Teirn. “Run! Get out of here.”
He couldn’t have done anything worse, for that drew Teirn’s attention. A stoic mask of resolution dropped over his face. He turned and raised his sword, point forward, and lunged.
Panic moved Wrend. This was his task. He had to do this. He applied Thew to his legs and arms and leapt faster than Teirn, deflecting Teirn’s sword with his, and shouldering Teirn aside.
But Teirn’s blow was fast and hard enough that Wrend couldn’t completely stop it. With a metallic thunk and rasping sigh, it punctured the armor and chest of a paladin. The soldier reeled from the blow, pulling the leader down with him.
Teirn tried to yank the sword free, but the way the paladin fell twisted the sword out of his hands, and he had to let it go in order to keep his feet. With a roar, he clasped his hands and swung, hitting Wrend in the jaw.
Wrend spun away, stumbling to the ground face down. His sword clattered away, and as he tried to get up on his hands and knees Teirn jumped on his back. It felt like his spine would snap as he collapsed flat on the dirt floor, his face jamming into the ground. Teirn punched him in the back of the head, then in the back of his neck. The pain made him cry out. His vision began to swim.
“You monster!” Teirn said. “You little traitor.”
Wrend fought to throw Teirn off of him, but he couldn’t quite concentrate on his discernment—everything blurred in fog and pain—and couldn’t get his hands or feet under him. He could hardly move, from Teirn’s weight on his back. He couldn’t twist his body or lift his head.
Blow after blow crushed his face in the dirt. Its smell filled his nose. Bright lights swirled in his vision, and the thudding in the back of his head grew duller and duller. Two weeks before, he and Teirn had been best friends their entire lives, and now Wrend would die at the hands of his brother.
But there was another thud—this one not in his head—and the blows stopped. The weight slid off of Wrend, and Teirn collapsed to the ground next to him, eyes closed and jaw slack.
Rashel knelt next to Wrend and placed a hand on his back.
He lifted his head and turned it toward her. She dropped a large stone on the ground next to her knees.
“Are you okay?” she said.
He could barely make his mouth move. “You killed Teirn?”
“I hope not,” she said. “I just wanted him to stop.” Grunting, she helped Wrend roll over and sit up. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I just bashed the back of his head.”
“He’s unconscious?” Wrend said.
She leaned away from Wren
d to examine Teirn, touching his face and moving her ear close to his mouth. After a moment, she returned her attention to Wrend.
“Yes, unconscious.”
Strength surged in Wrend. Despite the thundering in his skull and how the edges of his vision blurred, he knew he needed to kill the leader before Teirn regained consciousness.
“What are you doing?” Rashel said.
She tried to hold him down. Panic tainted her voice.
He shoved her away and rolled to his hands and knees. His head swam and he blinked several times. Just to his side, Teirn stirred, and his eyes seemed to flutter.
“Wrend, what are you doing?” his mother repeated.
He ignored her and with a growl stumbled to his feet—then staggered to the side. The throbbing in his head increased. He nearly tripped over Teirn’s body. His sword lay a few feet away, past Rashel. He stepped toward it. But she snatched the weapon up and stood.
“Give me that,” he said. “I have to kill him.”
“You can’t kill your brother,” Rashel said.
With a horrified expression, she stepped back and held the sword away. She was so small that it seemed comical the way she clutched the hilt between her breasts, sword point down nearly to her toes.
Wrend didn’t even want to explain that she’d gotten it wrong. He didn’t have time. Teirn grunted. His hand twitched. Wrend turned back toward the paladins and the leader. Now three of the undead held the apostate: one on each arm and a third with a sword at his back. The fourth sat on the ground, his hands over the gash in his chest. Rocks of salt spilled out between his fingers and the cut in his leather armor. A sword lay at his feet.
Wrend lunged for it.
The leader redoubled his struggles, yelling for Rashel to save herself. He kicked as Wrend bent to take up the sword, but missed by a foot. The hilt was cold in Wrend’s palm. Dust covered the blade.
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