by Jeff Wheeler
“I am Band-Imas,” the Arch-Rike said blackly, his face curling with disdain.
“Even in victory, you cannot utter the truth. Why is it you fear the truth so much?”
“What is truth?” the Arch-Rike replied, chuckling with malice. “Your efforts here are wasted, Tyrus. Even now I’m preparing to unleash the Plague inside Kenatos. The Boeotians will fall and it will spread to every kingdom. They will all die. Nothing will stop it this time.”
One of the Raekni hissed at Phae, sending a streamer of webbing at her. She jumped and rolled, landing closer to Shion. As she came to her feet, she looked hard at the Raekni’s eyes and blinked, snatching her memories too. The creature’s eyes went blank and then she began to scuttle around in a continuous circle.
“Stop that!” the Arch-Rike commanded. “Don’t look at her eyes! Depart!”
“You fear the truth,” Phae said, walking toward him, chin jutting as the Raekni began scuttling back into the trees. She felt a presence brush against her mind.
Sister?
It was the Dryad from the tree nearby.
Help us, Phae begged.
Will you free me from the Master?
I will, Phae thought with hard certainty. It is why I came here.
Suddenly the strand holding Shion up snapped and he came tumbling to the ground.
“No!” the Arch-Rike snarled in fury. He charged at Phae, gripping the Tay al-Ard in his hand. He groped to reach her, but she spun away. He missed her, but had already turned and lunged for her again.
“Shion!” Phae called, watching him thrash against his bonds, trying to free himself from the strands.
There was a ripping sound and Hettie tumbled out of her cocoon, landing a short distance from Phae. The girl’s face was smudged with bruises and flushed red from hanging upside down, but she launched herself at the Arch-Rike, dagger poised in her hand.
The Arch-Rike looked at her with disgust and dodged as her dagger spun end over end toward his head. Only, Hettie was not aiming at his head. The dagger severed another line, freeing Tyrus as well, who began thrashing through the loosened threads to free himself.
Phae watched the Arch-Rike’s hands catch fire, his face contorted with rage and hatred. His eyes were wild with madness, his mouth gnashing as he lunged at Phae again, trying to seize her. She ducked and dodged, twisting around to keep the Arch-Rike at bay.
Then Shion was there, colliding into the Arch-Rike like a battering ram. A spasm of glee shot through Phae as she watched them both smash into a tree. Then both were heaving and fighting, legs and arms a tangle of kicks and blocks.
“Hold him, Shion!” Tyrus yelled in desperation, his eyes blazing with triumph.
Suddenly the Arch-Rike vanished in a plume of smoke and Shion landed on the ground, startled. He lifted his head, looking around.
The Arch-Rike appeared again, his shadow-self materializing, away from them all, well out of arm’s reach. His face was twisted with displeasure. “You cannot bind me or trap me,” he snarled. “I invented the Uddhava! I have more ways of escape than you can ever imagine. I taught the first Paracelsus my ways. I trained the first Kishion in the art of murder. I am death. I am the Plague. You will not escape these woods.”
“Take him!” Tyrus ordered, charging himself. Phae scrambled to her feet, rushing at the fearsome man.
Everything went black. All light was suppressed. It was as if a thick vapor had suddenly appeared, so thick that the air was heavy with a metallic taste.
“I can see you all well enough.” The Arch-Rike’s voice ghosted through the vapor of darkness. “I can see you too, Phae.”
“Say nothing!” Tyrus shouted. “Aran, are you free?”
“Your eyes won’t harm me in this,” he said menacingly. “Hold my hand, girl. We will go far away. I am the true Seneschal. I will take your oaths.”
I’m here, a woman’s voice whispered to Phae’s mind. She could feel the Dryad’s presence behind her.
Phae began to tremble all over, feeling the blackness coil around her, threatening to smother her in darkness. She could not breathe. She could not call out to anyone. The Dryad stepped in front of her. Phae heard the swish of an arm, a blade, and she felt the Dryad stiffen.
The darkness vanished, drawn back into an obsidian gem fastened to a clasp on the Arch-Rike’s cloak. The clasp had opened and the cape tumbled to the ground. As it left his shoulders, the Arch-Rike’s countenance changed again. It was as if a peel had been removed—a flower bud opening in the spring dawn to reveal the truth. It was a man’s face, young in years but stern and serious, handsome and rugged with swirls of gray through the tufts of thick hair. His look and bearing, even the line of his jaw, was Aeduan, except his features were stronger, nobler. Though he was comely and tall, the face was pocked not by scars, but by a deep, deep anger—a blistering fury that was both savage and composed. One of his hands bore a knife, which he had just plunged into the Dryad’s heart, thinking she was Phae.
Their eyes met. Phae gripped his gaze, clung to it with all her force. There were so many memories in that gaze, a thousand lifetimes. It was vast beyond reckoning, but somehow her Dryad magic encircled it, billowing to the edges of infinity to snare them all. His eyes widened with panic.
And then the man was gone, pulled away by the Tay al-Ard before she could blink.
The Dryad turned to Phae. Not a mark was on the woman’s skin where the dagger had struck. She was visible for only a moment after the darkness had dispelled, and then she vanished. Tears of gratitude sprang to Phae’s eyes when she realized the knife wound from Shirikant had almost killed her. If the Dryad had not stepped in the way . . .
Tyrus reached and closed his hand on Phae’s shoulder. He hung his head a moment, and then struggled to speak. His face was ashen with worry. “Almost we failed,” he whispered hoarsely. “Who freed you from the webs, Phae?”
“I got myself loose. It all happened so fast.”
“We must flee,” Tyrus said. “Quickly, before the Arch-Rike arrives with others to destroy us here. We know what he truly looks like now. We know how not to be deceived.”
“But did you notice,” Annon went on, “how much he resembles Shion?”
Tyrus gave Annon a bemused look, and then turned to Phae. “I think we all noticed that.”
Shion stood still, his expression already hard with earnestness. “I’ve seen that face before,” he offered. “Where, I cannot remember. But when his mask fell, I knew I had seen him. And loved him.” He sighed. “The truth comes in spurts, it seems. This is the land where all the secrets will be revealed.” He hefted his knife and then slid it into his belt. “I long for it now.” He gave Phae a dark look, one full of brooding and intensity.
With daggers in hand, they slashed through the strands of the Raekni webs, marching firmly toward the direction of the Mother Tree. Phae joined in the effort, knowing that each thrust, each cut, brought them nearer to the heart of the Scourgelands. After confronting such vivid darkness, she no longer feared it. Yet Phae’s insides were twisting and wrenching with growing agony. Using her powers had only awakened the pain again. She hunched over, breathing quickly, trying to master herself. They were so close to the end. She could almost hear the faint echoes of unsung music.
Shion charged ahead, slashing viciously at the strands to carve open the path ahead. Prince Aran and her father stayed at her side, each with a hand on her arms to help keep her moving quickly. Her shoulder burned from the savage bite of the Raekni, but that was the least of her problems and not as debilitating as the seed moving inside of her.
“This is the end,” Shion said, emerging into the dense woods into an area free of the Raekni webs. Phae felt relief at first, but her father’s expression forbade her from rejoicing.
“What is it?” she asked him, clutching his arm and bending double.
“It’s later
than I thought,” he murmured. “We have to find the tree, even if it’s dark. Even by the light of fire.” He sighed, shifting his grip on her arm. “We don’t have much time left.”
“These are the last words I may write. The barricades are breached. I’ve concealed the most important records, the copies of the works of the Paracelsus order, within a hidden chamber known only to the Arch-Rike. These secret works may be all that will survive the carnage. Learn from us. Be wiser than we have been. I bid you, dear reader, farewell.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXX
Any sign of the rider?” Baylen asked as Paedrin floated down from the uppermost branches. From the vantage point, Paedrin had searched long and hard for a sign of the dark horseman, but he was not to be seen. A sick, gnawing feeling had entered Paedrin’s bones. He felt danger lurking in every shadow and wondered what sort of guardians had been stationed to protect the cleft of rock in the center of the Scourgelands.
Crouching next to Baylen, Paedrin rubbed his chin, chafing the stubble and staring at the bulwark of stone and the ramp carved into rock to provide the single pathway up the side. He did not need to use the ramp, being a Vaettir, but his instincts warned him that it would be the most useful decision to walk up it himself, since a Tay al-Ard could only transport him back to a place where he had physically been. Seeing the ramp would not be enough.
From the base of the promontory, he could see the skeletal remains of an ancient keep, black with lichen and dark moss—crumbling to dust.
“No. I can’t even hear the sound of the hooves. There is a storm closing in from the north. It may rain before nightfall.”
Baylen stared hard at the stone ramp leading up to the deserted fortress. “The Arch-Rike wouldn’t have left it unguarded.”
“Obviously. With that single approach, it won’t be difficult to defend.”
“How far to the ramp? It’s open ground, so I don’t like it.”
“Not far. But with the trees pulled down, there isn’t any cover.” Paedrin sighed. “We’re heading into the jaws of a trap. I hate this.”
“Spring the trap then? See what happens?”
“What if it’s a bear trap?”
“We came this far, Paedrin. I feel . . . foreboding. No man has walked this land in centuries.”
Paedrin heard the crunch of twigs in the woods coming from behind them. He gave a curt gesture to Baylen to silence him and shut his eyes, sensing the presence of three riders approaching them from a flanking position. The jangle of harness and tack followed, and Paedrin could feel dark eyes flash malevolently. He was acutely aware that if he had looked on them with his natural eyes, he’d be dead.
“Run,” Paedrin said, rising and holding out the Sword of Winds. “I’ll hold them here and join you on the ramp. Go!”
The giant Cruithne tore free from the brush and bounded into the torn earth, rushing across the small clearing toward the stone ramp.
Paedrin’s heart was in his throat as the three horsemen charged through the brush. Two of them closed on the Bhikhu and one circumvented, heading after Baylen. Paedrin heard the clink of chains and sensed dark weapons coiling to strike . . . great spiked flails whipping around as the horsemen charged him.
Paedrin took to flight and arced away from the horsemen, swooping away from the riders. His heart hammered with fear, as wave after wave of unease and terror flooded his mind. He could sense the magic from the beings, and he only had his courage to draw on. He knew he had to open his eyes or risk smashing into the tree branches, so he opened them into slits and changed course to strike the horse of the rider charging after Baylen. His blade slashed at its withers and it screamed in pain. The spiked ball came at his face and he thought for an instant it would smash his nose, but Paedrin managed to twist sideways and felt the sharp tips just breeze past his mouth. He took a long loop inside the clearing to build up speed and came at the next horseman. With that one, he came head-on, sword aiming for the horse’s nose, and the beast shied from him, exposing its neck. Paedrin knew a crushing blow would be waiting for him, so he did not follow through with a lunge but banked in the other direction. The horses gained speed, bearing down on Baylen as he chuffed toward the ramp.
Paedrin went skyward next, feeling the first traces of mist on his face. He opened his eyes and found the clouds bearing down hard. Distant pops of thunder came from far away. He tucked and then re-directed the Sword back down at his foes, aiming for the back of one of the riders. He heard a hissing sound and an arrow suddenly lanced by him, missing. One of the riders held a blackwood bow and reached his crooked arm to string another.
Paedrin frowned with concentration. Closing his eyes again increased the speed as he plunged the Sword through the rider’s back, impaling him, knocking him from the saddle. He had buried the sword to the hilt in the rider’s back and the rider twisted sideways as he fell from the saddle. Paedrin released the blade to avoid being trapped in the fall. He felt the magic release him and landed in a low stance, one arm extended for balance, striking a pose.
The rider stood, still bearing the blade inside his body. No blood came from the wound. In one hand, he gripped the chained weapon, swinging it around toward Paedrin’s head. The Bhikhu ducked even lower and did a quick forward roll, then tried to sweep the rider’s legs from under him. But it was like striking a rooted tree. He felt the jarring impact, the immovable presence, and realized with dread he was facing a being that was not mortal. The chain came around again, and he barely managed to dodge it. The rider faced him, the blade sticking from his chest, and Paedrin felt his stomach lurch with the loss of his blade.
The other horse and rider still bore down on Baylen, and Paedrin saw there was no chance the Cruithne could reach the ramp in time, not against a charging beast.
The distraction nearly cost Paedrin his life. He arched backward, felt the sting of one of the ball’s spurs cut his chin and realized it had nearly knocked his head off. He flipped over and backward, landing on his feet again, his face burning with pain.
Paedrin charged the dark rider, inhaling, and felt himself soar up above his enemy. His momentum would have carried him far over, but he puffed out his breath and came straight down on him, landing on the shoulders. Paedrin slid down his back, found the hilt and pulled the blade free. He was backhanded by a gauntleted fist and an explosion of light danced in his eyes as he realized his cheekbone had been broken. Pain rocked him backward, but he had no time to think. Invoking the weapon’s magic, he sailed up and away, arcing toward the final charging horseman from behind.
Baylen had turned to face the attacker, squatting low and holding one of his broadswords in two hands to slash the beast’s legs out from under it—or get crushed himself. Paedrin infused the Sword with his need, increasing speed, and watched as Baylen executed his bold maneuver, lunging away from the steed while slashing at its forelegs with his sword. The rider had anticipated his intent and leapt free of the saddle as the horse was cut down. As Baylen rolled to his feet, the spiked ball struck him full in the chest, throwing him from his feet at least a dozen paces, where he landed on his back.
Paedrin swore under his breath and sailed past the horseman, banking slightly to pass him, and landed where Baylen had fallen. The Cruithne’s face contorted with pain. The front of his chest armor was caved in where the ball had struck him and red stains appeared around the gashes.
“Up,” Paedrin urged, grabbing Baylen’s hand, and helped pull him to his feet. “Hide in the ruins up there. I’ll find you.”
“Better than standing and fighting these things,” Baylen said, huffing and grimacing with pain. He massaged his massive chest and winced anew.
“Run,” Paedrin said, dragging him toward the ramp. The three enemies advanced relentlessly, one of their steeds thrashing in agony on the turf. An arrow was loosed and Paedrin knocked it aside with his blade.
“It’s the only way up or down,” Baylen said, nodding toward the ramp.
“I can get us down again another way. Getting up is the hard part. Go!”
As Baylen worked his way up the steep slope of the ramp, Paedrin left him and flew up to the top of the rock cleft. The promontory was a maze of tumbled stone walls and fallen buttresses. There were no surviving structures in place. Paedrin hurried in a full arcing circle around the entire structure, trying to quickly size up the dimensions of the ruins. It was as large as the Arch-Rike’s palace in Kenatos, except there was no city on an island beneath it. Every wall had crumbled to ruin, every bailey and rampant had been tossed down. At the center of the promontory, a dozen or so buttresses still stood, holding up a portion of a roof that had not caved in yet. Streamers of mist from the descending clouds began to smother the cleft, and Paedrin knew the visibility would be hampered shortly. He did not feel safe touching down on the ground yet, not without a chance to search for enemies, so he alighted on the top of the buttresses, on the apex where the stones joined to lend their strength to the roof. He touched it with featherlight weight, testing to see if it would give way, but the stone had survived despite the winds and storms of previous generations and it held him up well.
Mist crept in streamers along the stones, feeding down into the lengths below. How strange it was that mist should appear so suddenly, obscuring things when the day earlier had been . . .
His eyes widened when he realized the mist had been summoned. It had been summoned to blot out the sun, summoned to protect the hide of the Fear Liath. In crushing anguish, he realized that this was the final lair, this was the place most heavily protected. Perhaps not by one Fear Liath but several, and he was violating the sanctuary with his presence. A chill swept down to his toes and he felt the violent urge to fly away and leave Baylen to defend himself. They needed to get off the promontory immediately. The peril increased with each moment.
