I will go back for her, he promised himself, recover her body and take her back to her world. She deserves a proper burial, to rest with her ancestors. It is the least I can do to honor her memory.
The plan gave him little comfort.
His hands rose to cover his eyes, shutting out all light, all sight, as if by not looking he could block his lover's image from his mind. It failed. It pained him deeper than he had thought possible that he had survived and she had not. His dazed mind gave him no surcease as the memories ran through it in a torrent.
If only she had not crossed over she would still be alive. My death was irrelevant. I expected it. But hers--she gave her life to save mine. It was a poor trade.
He swallowed, trying to breathe past the incredible lump in his throat. Remorse seized his heart, wrenching it with cruel hands. The agony reflected a deep and personal despair, a bitter and poisoned brew. The many flaws in his character struck with renewed force. He was physically sick with the knowledge that he'd left her behind. The need to escape before more of Xavier's warriors joined the attack had outweighed trying to carry her body. At the time, it was better to leave.
Yet lurking in the back of his mind was the nagging question: had he walked away and left her because he did not truly want her? He had made it clear he didn't want any ties to the mortal identity he was attempting to leave behind. Julienne had been a reminder of that past.
I could have dealt with that, came the storm of hissing words in his head. She should have lived. The culpability he suffered for not having stayed with her nearly matched the guilt, and the anger that consumed him when he realized he was responsible for her death. He knew it. He felt it. And he would never forgive himself. Ever.
I did not intend for her to die, he tried to tell himself for the thousandth time, but it was not enough. It would never be enough.
The sound of light footsteps broke into his rumination. The pictures in his mind dissolved, and he lowered his hands. A woman knelt beside him. While hardly young, she possessed an ascetic beauty, her face plain but not unappealing.
"You should have something," she said, offering a bowl of thick, meaty rabbit stew.
"I need nothing," he said. The smell of food curdled his guts. Instead, he licked parched lips. The only thing he lacked right now was a drink. It was the last thing he needed, and the first thing he thought about when he wanted to blot out the mental images. Tension tightened his shoulders, creeping up his neck to bang heavily on his skull. The worst was yet to come.
The woman laid a light hand on his arm. "If there's anything--"
As if scalded by her touch, he yanked his arm away. Seeing the hurt look on her face, he realized he'd done the wrong thing. She was only trying to help.
"No, nothing. I am fine," he said in a less harsh tone, trying to phrase his words in such a way as to cause the least offense.
Suppressing a deep sigh, he looked around the windowless lodge. The huge single room was partitioned into living quarters, one area designated for the preparation of food, another for general living and yet another for sleeping. A solidly constructed stone hearth held a brightly snapping fire. It filled the air with the wild scent of burning pine. Around the room, lamps--clay pots of oil with floating wicks--supplemented the firelight, brightening and warming.
The floor was earth, compacted hard and firm. Leather skins hung on the walls, keeping the cold at bay. Outside, the wind rose, howling at a merciless sky of rolling gray clouds throwing down ice-spiked raindrops.
Rutola lay on a pile of blankets. His hearth-mate Asa sponged his brow with water. The woman by Morgan's side was Maya, Asa's sister.
It had taken roughly a day's travel to reach the main camp, shortened by the help of Raider scouts patrolling the edges of Xavier's territories. Recognizing Rutola, the men had been quick to offer their horses to transport their wounded leader. Though eager to go on alone, Morgan had remained with the group for the safety extra men offered. Wounded, he was in a vulnerable position and open to attack.
The group had journeyed through hostile terrain, following a river whose course flowed east, cutting a deep course through a rocky land that gradually gave way to forested valleys. Pine, spruce and silver fir grew in abundance on the hillsides; river oak and willow grew by the river. The landscape was rugged, but also wild and beautiful as the vegetation began to change into the colors of early fall. Many small mammals were preparing to burrow into their winter nests. Already there was a severe chill in the air, and the leaden sky threatened storms as it wrapped the landscape in its luminous mists.
Rutola had collapsed halfway through the journey, overcome by his grievous chest injury. Xavier had dealt him a mortal blow, and it was only a matter of time before he succumbed. Rutola's own familial clan had once been very powerful, and had stood against the rise of the Dragon's legion. Though an immortal, Rutola shunned the arts. He was a man of direct action, not spells and counter-spelling. His own father had held a position as one of the original thirteen members of the council of justices. And when the council had agreed to an alliance with Xavier in the name of preserving an almost non-existent peace, Rutola had abandoned his clan in disgust. Appeasing Xavier, giving him time to rebuild his legion's strength was a mistake, he argued. It was better to join the rogue tribes than to be a part of the poor politics the council saw fit to indulge in. None of it helped Sclyd's people.
Though one who did not age as humans did, Rutola was not invulnerable to injury. This made him a careful man. He made no move without great consideration, thinking out all angles and how it would best benefit his people. Unlike others born to live a life that spanned ages instead of mere years, he had a great respect not only for humans, but life in general. He understood that a strong mortal populace could strengthen an immortal's bloodlines, preserving the ancient legacies instead of destroying them.
Maya frowned and set the stew aside, in case he should change his mind. She cast a worried glance toward her sister's husband, saying in a low voice, "Rutola will not survive the night without the hand of a healer." Her liquid brown eyes held a plea, and her mouth trembled with her barely contained emotion. "I know you are Lethe, a bringer of death, but I beg you for the life of her husband."
Morgan's attention settled on the dying man. A bringer of death. The words echoed in his mind.
I owe Rutola a debt of honor, he thought. It must be paid in blood.
"You have no need to beg," he said, sternly disciplining himself to put aside his own hurts. He had been beaten to pieces by the sorcerer's soldiers, but his injuries were nothing he could not recover from. "I owe him a debt and it shall be paid."
He clearly read the gratitude in her face when she heard this.
Crawling to his feet, he moved to Rutola's side and sat down, ignoring the weariness that went as deep as his bones. He was immediately struck by the ravages of pain in the man's face. Remembering what had been done to Rutola, he felt a chill colder than ice creep up his backbone. The torture Rutola had been subjected to was once his own favorite method.
"A slow strangling, the loss of breath…" he remembered Xavier saying as he shoved the blade of a sword between Rutola's ribs. "Asphyxiation as you slowly drown in your own blood."
Closing his eyes, struggling to mask his emotions, Morgan put aside the ugly memory and took refuge in preparing for the coming ritual.
"Tell no one what I have done this day," he warned the women. Both nodded agreement, pressing fingers to their lips to indicate silence.
Hearing him, Rutola opened red-rimmed eyes. He raised his head. His skin was hot, burning with fever. His dirty blond hair hung in limp strands, plastered to his forehead by perspiration.
"It's hard to die when a man has no gods to pray to," he gasped raggedly. Exhausted by the effort, he lay back down, limp, struggling to catch his breath. He was slipping away, almost insensible but holding on to awareness with what seemed to be his last wisps of strength.
"You know there are no believab
le gods," Morgan told him, spurred by the memories he could not banish and the hatred in his heart.
He lifted the pad of soft rabbit fur covering Rutola's chest. Deep bruises and smaller cuts covered his abdomen, but these were minor compared to the savage punishment Xavier had applied. Rutola was slowly smothering, wheezing as he fought to draw breath.
Just as there are no forgivable sins, Morgan added to himself.
Rutola choked, the beginning of a wracking cough that shook his entire frame. Blood mixed with saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth. When he could speak again, he asked, "Are you making…deals…today, Lethe?"
Thin lips characteristically stern, his face betrayed his suspicion. Morgan saw the shadow that crossed his face. The fiercely held control to which Rutola owed his life was slipping.
"No deals. I do not want another soul on my hands." He turned to the hovering woman. "Get hot ash from the fire."
Asa hurried to scrape warm ashes into a clean clay bowl. She set the bowl within easy reach of his hand. Her eyes held unspoken relief.
Rutola spoke again, grunting in broken words. "Then why…save…my life?"
"There are more battles yet to be fought. Your people will need a leader when Xavier sends his Jansi to punish them for what we have done."
The Raider released a restless sigh. "Then you…would…hold me…to…no servitude?" His weary voice faded again. Deep lines were etched around his mouth and across his brow. The pain was winning.
"I hold you to nothing."
Pinching the ash between thumb and forefinger, Morgan cast a bit toward the four directions of north, south, east and west, saying, "I invoke and conjure the spirits of light to aid me in this healing. Spread thy gentle hands of protection over this man, guard him from the spirits of wrath. All most powerful, one and all, I invoke the light, for healing, for strength, for hope, for life."
This done, he used more ash to create a pentagram on Rutola's chest, placing the star around the puncture. Drawing his dagger, he made a small cut in his index finger, using his blood to mark several symbols around and within the pentagram.
"As I do cast this healing toward mine ally, make him well." Cutting into his palm, he tipped his hand and let the crimson stream dribble over Rutola's wound, infusing his own strengthening blood into the depleted, weakening body of the Raider. "With this cut, thy will be done to ease the pains of his flesh and bind him from further harm."
His blood acquired a strange animation, drawing itself into a worm-like shape. Like a snake slithering into its hole, it entered the deep puncture. The shape of it could be seen under the skin as it encircled the wound and began to mend the flesh, passing like stitches over the puncture and closing it.
As if he were being attacked from inside, Rutola's mouth flew open and his jaws gaped, releasing a blood-curdling scream. He writhed, groping, his head jerking side-to-side in a convulsive movement as his whole body arched.
"It's cold!" he gasped, writhing in discomfort. "It feels as if icy fingers are grasping my insides." Finally, his strength was all but gone. His body went limp, and he lay in a huddled mass, so spent he could not move.
After a few moments, his breathing came easier, less labored. Color infused his pale skin, and his pulse assumed a normal, stable beat. His eyelids fluttered, but he did not open his eyes, instead falling into a restful sleep.
Morgan brushed away the pentagram, breaking its magical properties. "I scatter this energy, return it to the source of light. Go in peace, return to your sphere and harm none as you depart."
He pressed his fingers to the cut in his palm to stop the flow of blood. When he drew his fingers away, though, the slice still lingered. On his forearm, he could see the marks of the bronze nails that had been driven through when Xavier's men tried to crucify him. His hand was still numb, fingers barely able to flex. His system was still in massive shock, and he was not physically healing as he ought to. He should be concentrating his energies on regeneration, but in the back of his mind he knew there was no time.
His vision dimmed, and his mind reeled when he stood up. He staggered a little, might have fallen had he not put out a hand to the wall to steady himself. He had never known weakness like this. He felt overwhelmed and assailed, both inside and outside his body. His head spun alarmingly, and the fire's light was beginning to hurt his eyes.
Maya made a strange ceremonial gesture with her hands.
"He has been touched by death," she whispered, her face aglow and reverent, "and given life." She reached out and gently guided him across the room, urging him to sit down on a pile of soft animal furs. Asa lay down in her own sleeping place, relieved.
"You must rest," Maya whispered, so as not to disturb the peaceful lull settling over the lodge. She took a place beside him. "Save your strength."
He reluctantly pushed himself up, voice rigid. "As long as I am here, none of you are safe."
"We were never safe when you weren't here," she said sensibly, looking stubborn at the mouth. "Just two seasons ago my husband was killed and my daughter taken to serve. Rutola, too, lost a son." Hatred flashed across her face.
He made a startled movement and stared at her for a moment, surprised, feeling a further tightening in his shoulders. "Is that why Rutola came looking for me?"
"He knows his people will never be safe until the legion is taken down," Maya affirmed. "He knew if you came back, the war would start again."
There was a long silence, during which he gritted his teeth, keeping silent only through force of will.
"The war has never been over," he said. "Just delayed."
Maya nodded. She looked deeply into his eyes as though seeing all the universe, then raised a questioning eyebrow. A faint smile crossed her lips.
"I know what you are thinking," he finally said, feeling the weariness of twelve long centuries that had been foisted upon him. "You ask yourself why, if I have these powers, did I not use them to the fullest."
"Yes." She gave no hint of judgment or condescension.
The answer was a simple one, but one he would never admit aloud. Because he had been blind to his destiny--and because he was afraid to face what he really was.
"I will leave at first light," he said, changing the subject.
She frowned. "Going where?"
"To the Northlands." He paused, as if wondering if he should speak the word. "Home."
Maya leaned forward and stroked stray wisps of hair off his forehead. "Stay here with us, join the tribe. I know Rutola will convince the others to welcome you."
There was an unspoken intimacy in her touch that said she would welcome his presence.
Morgan drew gently away from her. It would be easy to stay with the tribe and make a place among these people, forgetting the recent past by immersing himself in what was probably to be a violent and bloody future.
But, no, he did not want to forget or let go of the past. Not yet. The grieving process was only just beginning. Maya did not know of Julienne, of his loss. She was only doing what came naturally in this ravaged land. A woman's best chance of survival lay in choosing a strong man to protect her and the young of her hearth. She was letting him know through subtle touch and gestures that she would welcome him as a lover.
Though he did not find her unattractive, and could easily lose himself in the lush curves of her figure, it was too soon to consider taking a new woman. And while Rutola didn't rule the outcast people, they rarely refused him anything as elder leader. Where he was concerned, however, they might.
"I am still an outlaw, even among the tribes," he reminded her gently. "Xavier will mete out a harsher punishment if I am found here."
"No harsher than anything else we've known," Maya argued bitterly. "And may yet know."
A sense of foreboding washed over him. There was nothing he could say. He had only the single, grim purpose on his mind. He would forego the rest he desperately needed because he knew where his next steps must take him. There was someplace he had to go, wh
ere it waited for him, straining for freedom against a bond of stone. The time had come for revenge, a settling of the eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
He had murdered Nisidia.
Xavier had taken Julienne.
Morgan knew that in waging a personal war against the sorcerer, he would have no support from the witches' council this time. It would be a stand he would have to make alone. The way to strike back against Xavier was to begin taking out the backbone of the Dragon's legion, the Jansi. What did he have to lose? His life? That was useless. He might as well make it worthwhile, see how many of them he could slay before they killed him. Truth be known, he was aching to give chance and the fates another push.
Chapter Four
In his secluded chambers, Xavier reclined on a divan heaped with soft pillows. He lay in gentle repose, hands resting across his stomach. There was an aura of serenity inside him, a tranquility that he had not experienced for a very long time.
The silence around him was charged with electricity. Heavily bandaged, his mutilated face was still, his expression almost calm. Breathing slowly and with deliberation, he could feel the vital strength of the soul-energy coursing through his body. The defiant force of life itself was harnessed and made more powerful inside him. He had fed the Dragon's hunger, and in return had been fed a new strength for himself.
It was a fair trade. While not fully recovered from his close brush with death, he had again successfully evaded the Reaper's touch, sacrificing many lives so his would endure intact. He was determined to outlast his own father's two-thousand-year reign and seek eternal power within the physical and sentient world.
It is my destiny that no one shall succeed me.
From his early youth, he had studied, contemplated and actively sought godhood, not simply for himself but for a realm whose destiny he identified as his own. As he was in defeat, so was Sclyd. But he vowed he would rebuild both himself and this dimension, even if he had to destroy the mortal world to achieve it. Even now, he was laying his plans, maneuvering the many pieces into place with the expertise of a chess master. It was, he believed, only a matter of time.
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