Wrend wrested free of Leenda’s grip and ran toward the Master, but he couldn’t move fast enough. Maybe if he’d already had Ichor bound to his body, he might’ve caught Rashel—or been crushed under her. But in the confusion of the moment, he hadn't thought to use Ichor. But not next time. He wouldn't forget next time.
The Master slammed Rashel against the ground. Her body thumped in the dirt like a stone.
Sprinting, Wrend arrived at her body, and without slowing threw out his arms as he bent, his hands grasping for anything, and caught one of Rashel’s arms. Her weight jerked him almost like an anchor finding purchase, but with a grunt he continued on, dragging her across the ground and out from beneath the Master’s shadow. Her body was an awkward tangle of twisted limbs and a lolling head. For all he knew, she could be dead already.
He half expected the Master to strike him next, but continued on, pulling her away, his back toward the Master. People were shouting—Calla and Leenda and Teirn—but he couldn’t make out anything they said and didn’t look back at them. He just wanted to get his mother away from the Master. He dragged her ten feet, fifteen, twenty—knowing all the while that the Master would fall upon him at any moment. His hand slipped. He lost his grip on Rashel's arm and fell forward to the ground, catching himself before his face hit.
He scrambled to rise, looking back, and halted before reaching her again.
The Master hadn’t moved. He stood tall, his mouth wide open and his eyes huge as he stared at Wrend. Even his hands hung slack at his side.
Teirn's and Calla's and Leenda's shouting faded. Stillness came upon the area. The draegon didn’t move or make a sound. Neither did any of the thousands of paladins.
A tremble arose in Wrend’s body as he looked at the Master. Indignation and fear and uncertainty all barraged him, but from somewhere deep within—in the core of his soul or the deepest part of his memory—he found the strength to rise.
He stood and took a step over to Rashel, then past her, so that he stood between her and the Master. He lifted his chin and threw his shoulders back, well aware of the defiance the posture conveyed.
But what did he have to lose, at this point?
Chapter 72: The breaking point
When you understand what is right and what is wrong, the path to take becomes clear. There is no more uncertainty or confusion. No worrying over what choice to make. The reason is that when you understand what is right, and commit yourself to following the correct path, the decision is already made.
-Wrend
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the Master began to shake his head, his mouth still wide open.
“No one,” he said, “has ever stopped me from killing.”
“He defies you,” Calla said. “Kill him, with her.”
“He’s the only reasonable person here,” Leenda said. “Killing him would be the biggest possible mistake.”
The Master just stared at Wrend, his face unreadable. Wrend didn’t back down, though he wanted to look back and see if Rashel yet lived. It might not matter, though. His life was in the Master’s hands. He couldn’t fight him, and probably couldn’t run from him.
“Why?” the Master said. “Why do you resist me? I’ve worked so hard to mold you as I needed you to be—so you could be the most fruitful bough in my garden. Why do you defy me?”
Two true answers came to Wrend’s mind. One—that he could do a better job than the Master—would get him killed. So he chose to give the other.
“She’s my mother. Your favored wife. I love her. You love her. Why kill her in a fit of rage, when afterward we’ll both regret it? Why not show mercy to the ones you love? Why not show mercy to yourself? Surely you don’t want to lose her any more than I do.”
Tears welled in the Master’s eyes, and just as he’d shaken his head before, now he nodded—ever so slightly.
“I tire of the killing.”
The pain in his voice nearly broke Wrend’s heart. Even despite his anger, he wanted to run to the Master and embrace him, comfort him. But instead, the Master came forward, his hands reaching out tenderly and his face utterly soft.
“Is it too late? Is she dead?”
As the Master reached Rashel, he fell to his knees and Wrend stepped aside and turned, looked down at his mother. The Master leaned close to her, placing his ear near her mouth and running a hand down to her wrist. Bruises had risen on her face and almost every inch of visible skin. Wrend knelt next to the Master, numb, shrouded in a fog. He hardly understood how he could have convinced the Master to stop the slaughter. Yet somehow he had. And yet he lived.
Wrend, unable to see Rashel because of the Master’s form over her, glanced around at the people he’d brought here. Leenda stared at him with a mixture of horror and admiration. Teirn watched with his eyes wide. Calla stood next to him, her arms folded across her chest, scowling.
“She’s alive,” the Master said. “Wrend, use your Thew to heal her. Bind it to her body and apply as much as you can, as fast as you can.”
Wrend obeyed, focusing on his discernment. Could he have saved her from the Master’s wrath? He bound Thew to her body, and pushed. It flowed out of him in a torrent. His body seemed to feel lighter, less full, yet he didn’t care. He had a huge supply from his many months of harvesting it—and besides, the speed at which he applied it caused the bruises covering her skin to lighten over several seconds. Her breathing became stronger, and the unconscious pain in her face eased.
He pushed and pushed, watching the transformation come over her, losing track of time, until the Master placed a hand on his back and spoke.
“That will do. She’ll be fine now.”
A half laugh escaped Wrend’s lips. She would be fine. He’d succeeded in saving her.
The Master scooped her up into his arms and stood. He hugged her close to him. For a moment, Wrend thought a tear might actually fall from the Master’s eyes.
“Mrendran,” the Master shouted, looking across the front ranks of the paladin army. “Mrendran, come here.”
A middle-aged demigod standing at the front of two hundred paladins came forward, jogging along the front rows of the paladins. In a dozen seconds, he stood at the Master’s feet. Wrend couldn’t remember having ever seen Mrendran before. The Master bent low and transferred Rashel into Mrendran’s arms.
“Take her,” he said. “Make her comfortable and safe until I get back. I have an enemy to attend to.”
Mrendran nodded. Cradling her in his arms, he moved toward the back of the army. Wrend watched his back until the Master drew his attention by placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. He fell to one knee and lowered his face to Wrend’s. All traces of tears had faded, and solemnity filled those eyes.
“I don’t know what to do about you,” he said. “You’re a blessing and a curse. You defy me and help me all at once.”
Wrend’s throat seized up. The Master was paranoid, controlled by fear and anger, killing without reason or exception if someone opposed him.
And that would be Wrend’s inheritance. If he lived to assume the Master’s position as god, his would be a kingdom ruled by bloodshed, where he would kill loved ones for minor infractions and force his enemies to bow or die. He would have to kill his sons and daughters. His throne would sit on a pedestal of skulls, the first of which would be his brother’s.
He wouldn’t have it. He didn’t want it. Better to die.
Thoughts of Wester bombarded Wrend. He saw the demigod there in the Chapel, pleading with him and Teirn to join the rebels in their cause to overthrow the Master. His face had been so sincere and his tone so pleading as he’d asked for help. And now Wrend understood why. He understood what Wester had said: “You say he brings tranquility to the land, but I say that a forced tranquility is no tranquility at all.”
Wrend finally understood.
The Master stood, his armor clanking. His gaze swept up over the group, from Wrend and Leenda to Teirn and Calla, and back to his other nearby sons and draegon, wh
o had watched the scene with detached sobriety.
“It’s time to parley with our enemies,” Athanaric said. “But there will be no negotiations. They’ll surrender under my terms, or they’ll perish resisting them.”
Those words, along with the memory of Wester, broke something in Wrend, as if a thread connecting him with the Master snapped.
The bracers around his wrists felt like shackles.
He’d thought it noble and right to follow the Master, but now he saw Naresh’s correctness. Just because Athanaric was god didn’t make him right. A greater governing power—though Wrend didn’t know what that might be—designated what was right.
No, that was wrong, there was no greater governing power than the Master, yet the Master was subject to a greater governing rule. Wrend knew it for the truth. It resonated in his soul.
In order to be loyal to himself, to the universal truth, he would have to be disloyal to the Master.
In his mind, the scales tipped.
Calla stepped forward toward the Master. “I’m coming with you. Right now, you need someone with you.”
Athanaric nodded, his eyes blank, his face void of expression.
Calla turned and motioned for Teirn to come to her.
“And Teirn will come with us. He needs to learn this lesson.”
For the briefest moment, her eyes met Wrend’s. They narrowed and became sharp. She would do anything to help Teirn inherit the Master’s throne.
Well, Teirn could have the throne. Wrend didn’t want it.
He felt light at the realization, even despite the difficulty that lay ahead of him. A hope that he hadn’t felt in weeks descended over him.
He’d made his choice.
“Of course,” the Master said. “You both will come with me.” He swept his gaze from Teirn to Wrend. “You both need to learn this lesson, or else only one of you would be here now.”
A warm hand slipped into Wrend’s, and he looked down at Leenda, surprised at her touch.
“I’ll stay by your side,” she whispered.
“You’ll get yourself killed,” he said.
She met his gaze with unflinching hesitation.
“I’ve come this far, and I’m not leaving you again. You’re my mate. I’ll do whatever it takes to be with you. Though it cost me my life.”
“It might just,” he said.
He tightened his grip on her hand. Her steadiness reassured him, gave him strength. He hardly knew her, but it felt right, and it gave him comfort.
The Master gave her a stony look and shook his head.
“I’ll deal with you shortly. When this is over. But if you cause any trouble in the meantime, I’ll take care of you immediately.”
She lifted her chin and gave him a sturdy look, as if she stood just as tall as him, instead of a fourth of his height. She opened her mouth to speak, but Wrend interrupted her by taking a step forward, to stand in front of her.
“She’s with me. And she’ll be staying with me.”
Blood rushed through his skull at this defiance. But it felt so right. He didn’t need to cow before the Master.
She gasped. Calla pshawed. Teirn stared with wide eyes.
He felt emboldened not only by his recent victory over the Master—for surely that was what he’d achieved by saving Rashel’s life—but also by Leenda’s presence, especially when she squeezed his hand. He didn’t care if he was a draegon or not, or if she was his mate or not. He didn’t even care if she was insane—which, maybe, she was; but if she was, than so was he. Her courage and determination inspired him. He needed to be like her. And he would be.
The Master’s eyes bore down. His lips pursed. The hot wind blowing from the buttes in the background stirred up dust around the draegon zombie. In the distance, directly between the plateaus, a contingent of Hasuken waited with green banners.
The Master nodded. “Very well. Let’s be off.”
He turned and bounded toward the draegon. In several leaps he threw his leg over the saddle and settled down. He grabbed the reigns and pulled them up, so that the draegon stood on its hind legs and lifted him high into the air.
“Come,” he told them, motioning. “We have a country to save from itself.”
Chapter 73: Inexorable path of violence
I have never actually participated in any negations where both parties sincerely wished to arrive at a compromise. That may be my fault.
-Athanaric
Wrend mounted his horse and Leenda sat behind him, her arms around him and her body pressed against his back. Her closeness made him bold, gave him hope. Calla and Teirn each mounted their horses, and they all rode along behind the Master.
Wrend formed a vague plan: during parley he would ally himself with the Hasuken delegation. He had no idea if he could successfully make the switch without the Master killing him—or if the Hasuken would even accept him. Even if they did, maybe he would perish soon enough, since the army of paladins would probably destroy the Hasuken force.
He rode with Leenda behind the three demigods, who stayed just behind the draegon. For most of the half-mile trot along the hard-packed dirt road, up through the stone ruins of an ancient city, Teirn and Calla took up the rear. But as they approached the crumbling wall that separated them from the Hasuken delegation, Teirn brought his mount alongside Wrend’s.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered.
Leenda glared at Teirn. “Shut it.”
“Leenda,” Wrend said, “it’s a valid question.”
“A valid question?”
Ignoring the slightly alarming sensation that he didn't know how to handle Leenda's spunk, Wrend turned back to Teirn and shrugged. He had no answer to the question—not one that he could give Teirn.
“Just trust me. All will be well, soon.”
He dared not say more, knowing that the Master had excellent hearing.
Teirn gave him a skeptical look, and as their eyes locked a heavy weight fell over Wrend’s shoulders. Betraying the Master would end the proving. Wrend would trade his brother—and everything else—for an ideal.
Was it worth it?
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Teirn said.
Wrend shrugged again and placed one hand on Leenda’s hand at his waist, and leaned over to put his other hand on Teirn’s shoulder. Confusion and fear dominated Teirn’s eyes, but couldn’t drown out the concern. It might, Wrend realized, be the last time he and Teirn spoke on friendly terms.
“No matter what happens,” Wrend said, “you’re my friend and brother.”
It felt important to make that clear.
Teirn swallowed hard, nodded with tight lips and serious eyes, and fell back to ride with Calla.
Leenda leaned in close and whispered. “You’re too nice.”
Wrend shrugged. She had no idea what had passed between he and Teirn—recently, and through the years. Perhaps, someday, he and Teirn would find a way to live in peace. The thought almost made him reconsider his course of actions.
They ascended an incline toward the wall. The Hasuken waited some distance back, on the opposite side. Among the Hasuken delegation, Naresh sat with another man at the front, atop a black stallion with its mane braided down its neck. The ten men behind him sat atop horses, each carrying a pike with a triangular green banner hanging from the tips. Their mounts nickered and sidestepped as the draegon approached the wall.
When the Master reached a gap in the wall, the Hasuken next to Naresh motioned for him to halt. He had a hooked nose and sat atop his black steed with such a haughty air he looked like an eagle perched atop a tree, staring down on vultures tearing at carrion. He wore full armor, with a great plume of green feathers hanging down his back, from the top of his helm.
“That’s far enough. If you’d like to come closer, dismount that abomination and approach on foot.”
The Master pulled on Cuchorack’s reigns and dismounted. Leenda tensed behind Wrend and shook her head.
“It is an
abomination,” she said. “You should’ve seen yourself in your prime. You were a mighty thing.”
With the Master dismounted, the draegon zombie lay on the road, forelegs crossed, head lifted to observe. It had dead eyes. Patches of fur had fallen from its neck. It focused on the Master, seeming to hardly notice anyone else around it.
Could he really have inhabited that body, been a draegon? It felt unreal. And what did it mean, now that he had a human body?
The Master gestured for his entourage to follow him. He led them through a broken section of the wall, to the group of Hasuken. He towered over his enemies by ten feet. In one hand he held a staff perpendicular to the ground without placing any weight on it. It was at least as tall as him; considering the length of his arm, the staff would give him a reach of twenty feet or more. He also wore a sword at his side, and that was at least as tall as Wrend. The three demigods stood behind him, and Wrend brought his horse wide to their left, while Teirn and Calla moved to their right.
A mile in the distance, down a gradual ridge, the Hasuken army waited. The foot soldiers comprised a bulk of the army, but a significant number of cavalry brandished lances and banners. Forty thousand total. Even if they fought well, they couldn’t overcome the paladins.
Naresh’s eyes fell on Wrend, and the old man raised an eyebrow in question. Wrend understood the query: Naresh wanted to know if Wrend had come to his senses, if he’d determined to do what was right.
Wrend’s heart began to pound, and he nodded once, subtly.
“I’ve come,” the Master said, “to claim rule over Hasuke. The only terms I will accept are those of your surrender.”
The eagle-faced man shook his head. “We reject your demand.”
“It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. Your nation suffers without a god, and I offer my protection and leadership.”
“Then why do you come with an army?”
“There are always some who don’t know what’s best for them.”
Wrend cringed. Though the eagle-faced man bore himself with pride and spoke with surety, his confidence couldn’t compete with the Master’s utter conviction that he knew what was best, and had the authority to force that on others.
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