To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  Vrell gritted her teeth and swung. Achan dodged and Vrell lunged past. He slid an arm around her neck and brought his blade to her throat. “Hmm. Maybe Slowfox.”

  She jammed her elbow into Achan’s ribs.

  He released her, chuckling. “Ticklefox?”

  She lifted her weapon again. “Arrogance does not suit you, Your Highness.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Nor does the title Your Highness.” He swung at her waist.

  Stubborn man. Vrell lifted to parry, but his blade whacked her hip. She stumbled sideways, kicking up sand, thankful for the cushion of her disguise. It would not stop Achan’s blade for long. “Maybe we should not drill without armor.”

  “We don’t have any armor, and you want to learn to protect yourself. Besides, I’m not even swinging hard.”

  He went easy on her for a while. It bolstered her courage to hear Firefox hit his blade, but the exercise tired her quickly. Thankfully, he stopped often to explain things.

  “If you parry with the edge, you dull your blade further. Parry with the flat… Don’t try to defend from back guard. It leaves you vulnerable… Back up, Sparrow. No one in his right mind would begin with swords crossed… You swing too slow. Try for a combination of strong, quick thrusts. Your goal is to weaken my guard, to break it so you can strike.”

  Finally Vrell could take no more. She fell onto her rear in the sand, gasping for air, limbs aching. “I am pathetic.” She took a short breath. “None of this will make a bit of difference.” Another breath. “I am simply not strong enough.”

  Achan sat beside her and leaned back on his elbows, panting. “Remind me your age.”

  “I will be fifteen years this fall.” Eighteen, actually, but who would believe her to be a seventeen-year-old man?

  Achan took a deep breath. “So you’re small for your age. Sir Caleb said he’d teach you some tricks. I’m no expert. You recall how Sir Kenton nearly killed me?”

  She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Achan, you are incredibly brave. You struck down at least ten Poroo.”

  “So? Poroo are terrible warriors. That’s why they attack from the trees.”

  “Still, I would have run from the battles you faced. Sir Kenton has been a knight many years—and he betrayed your father. You have been sword-fighting how long? Three months? I could not have done all you have. I would never have tried.”

  Achan stared into the red flame, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. Always so hard on himself. Blaming himself.

  Despite Vrell’s best efforts, the cut on Achan’s cheek had healed in a long, red slash. And his other cheek looked even worse after the fight with the black knights.

  Achan dug a hole in the sand with the heel of his boot. “We each have our skills, I suppose. Just know, Sparrow, you’re as much a hero with your bag of weeds as any of us are with a sword.”

  Vrell lifted her sword. “Fireweed?”

  Achan chuckled. “I think Weed says it best.”

  Vrell and Achan put away their weapons and crawled into their bedrolls. Sir Gavin put out the torchlight, and Vrell replayed Achan’s words again and again in her mind.

  He thought she was a hero.

  13

  Achan held his shield over his head to protect it from the rocks the Poroo pitched from the treetops. The melon-sized stones clunked against the wood with such force that his forearm continually bashed against the top of his head.

  A Poroo warrior charged from the side, spear held high. Achan lowered his shield in time to deflect the spear, but a rock struck his unprotected head and he crumpled. The Poroo poured out of the trees upon him, massing, swarming.

  A screech woke Achan. He pressed his hands against moist sand and pushed himself to a sitting position, relieved the Poroo had only been in a nightmare. He patted the sand. Where was his bedroll? He blinked into the surrounding void, straining to see any sign of movement.

  “Sir Gavin?”

  The darkness returned only silence.

  “Who’s on watch? Inko? Sparrow?”

  Achan’s voice seemed so loud. Could he still be dreaming? He raised his voice. “Hello? Sir Caleb?” The sound sent a throb through his skull. Wincing, he lifted a hand and found a tender lump on the back of his head.

  His stomach lurched. Had someone attacked while he’d been sleeping? Poroo?

  He got to his knees and reached out to his right, then left, patting the moist ground, hoping to get his bearings, hoping he’d simply rolled off the bedroll in his sleep. Wet sand wedged under his fingernails. No bedroll.

  Nothing but sand.

  His heart pounded faster. “Sir Gavin?”

  A piercing squawk answered from Achan’s left. He cringed, eyes darting around the dark, searching for any change in the inky-black hue. One of the demon birds was close. He quickly fortified his mind, then reached out.

  Sir Gavin?

  His temple twitched, but no name accompanied the knock. He took care not to attack in case this was a test.

  Sir Caleb?

  Achan sought out Inko’s mind next. Why did no one answer? Had they been taken? Killed?

  Sparrow?

  Whoever was trying to penetrate his mind increased their efforts. Achan’s temples throbbed more than the welt on the back of his head. The pressure increased tenfold, brutal, forceful. Achan clutched his face and bent forward until his forehead met the grainy sand. He screamed.

  An oily voice magnified in his mind. Get up.

  Unable to disagree with the voice, Achan gritted his teeth and stood. In his head, he multiplied himself ten times and surrounded the fortress of his mind, forcing the oily voice, and its control, out. The pain subsided. He called for Sir Gavin again, then Sir Caleb, then Sparrow.

  No one answered.

  A green light shot into the air and hovered above his head, illuminating the sandy terrain in an eerie glow.

  Achan released a long breath laced with a moan.

  Black knights.

  He squatted, groped for his sword. Pig snout! Where was it?

  Four men slid into the green glow, dressed in black armor with hard black masks. The one on the end held his hand aloft, pointing at the green orb above Achan’s head. Achan studied them, pausing on the third knight in the line. Lofty bean pole posture and graceful stride brought a familiar fury.

  Silvo Hamartano?

  The third knight lifted his hand and a green ball of light shot out from his palm, up above his head, lighting more of the sandbar and the greasy black hair at the top of his mask.

  It was Silvo.

  Achan punched one fist into his other hand. The bezel and crest on Prince Oren’s ring pressed inside his palm. He rubbed his thumb over his engraving, sought his uncle’s face, and called out. Prince Oren?

  His uncle’s voice shot into him with a staggering force. Achan? What is it?

  I’m surrounded by black knights. They’re going to attack me. I’m alone. I don’t know where Sir Gavin and the others are.

  Relax and let me see.

  Achan breathed deeply. He couldn’t feel when his uncle looked out from his eyes.

  We shall fight them together. Sir Gavin told me you can storm.

  Two more balls of green light shot skyward.

  Um…I’ve only done it once. Accidentally.

  Keep your sword ready. They will attack physically while the leader attacks your mind. Do you know where the leader is?

  My sword is gone. I have no weapon.

  Stay calm, Nephew. Look for the leader.

  Achan scanned the dark sandbar. The four black knights had encircled him ten paces away. I only see the four, but I think the leader spoke to me. Does that mean he’s close?

  It may or may not. Perhaps he is one of the four apparitions.

  Uncle, I don’t think these are apparitions. One is Silvo Hamartano, I’m certain. Achan kept his eyes on the thin figure.

  Then it will be easier to defeat them. I will take the two to your left. You take
the other two. One at a time, seek out a mind and storm.

  Easy for Prince Oren to give the order, but these men weren’t trying to enter Achan’s mind. They simply stood there, appearing weaponless, conjuring green orbs. How did one storm? He’d only managed before because he’d sensed Sparrow trying to get into his mind.

  Achan concentrated on the knight he thought to be Silvo Hamartano. A familiar, lofty voice chanted words he couldn’t understand.

  Râbab rebabah râbah yârad. Rûwach âphâr mayim êsh, machmâd pârar.

  Achan blinked. A dark line obscured part of his vision. He stared at a dazed pale man wearing a doeskin jerkin.

  Wait. That was his body. Pig snout! He’d entered Silvo’s mind, the black mask obscuring his vision. Why couldn’t he stay in his own boots? Had he concentrated too hard?

  Silvo’s breath hissed, creating warm moisture between his face and the wooden mask. He continued to chant, oblivious Achan had entered his mind. Râbab rebabah râbah yârad.

  The black knight on Silvo’s right crumpled to the ground.

  “Zinder? Zinder!” The wooden mask muffled the panic in Silvo’s voice. “Marken? Zinder has fallen!”

  Prince Oren had defeated one man.

  “Râbab yârad!” a voice yelled from Silvo’s left.

  “Fine!” Silvo continued to chant the words in his mind. Râbab yârad. Râbab yârad. Râbab yârad. Râbab yârad.

  A shadow stretched out in front of Silvo. He glanced back to see four figures—identical to him—closing in. To Silvo’s left, another four approached the black knight there. The three remaining apprentices were acting as wielders, calling forth apparitions of themselves.

  “Yes,” Silvo whispered, looking back to Achan’s dumfounded, empty body. “Fight these, stray.”

  Achan popped back into his own mind. He staggered, surprised to find his muscles weakened. The twelve apparitions glided past their wielders, advancing toward him. He couldn’t stand here and be killed. He sprinted toward the fallen man.

  “No!” Silvo yelled.

  “Concentrate,” another knight said.

  Achan slid to his knees beside the body. He patted the man’s waist, found a sword, and wrenched it from its scabbard. He spun around barely in time to meet a fierce cut from a black blade. He backpedaled and took stock of his opponents. They moved toward him slowly, as if they had overeaten and were too full to move faster. Behind them, the three wielders stood like statues, arms outstretched as if worshipping the green orbs.

  A man’s voice cried out and one of the wielders crumpled. Four apparitions vanished.

  Achan calmed, glad Prince Oren—a capable warrior—fought with him. Eight apparitions now. Better. Still, it might be best to flee. Slow as they moved, he could likely escape.

  He sprinted into the dark void, praying the sand remained level and dry. Two clouds of glowing green smoke whirled before him and solidified into two black knights. Achan skidded to a stop, head twisting as he tried to keep all eight apparitions in sight. He lifted the sword to the closest one, hoping he could stall it long enough to drive off the second.

  The apparition swung. Achan parried, but the opposing blade sailed through his sword and body. He screamed, startled, and barely remembered to turn and meet the second apparition’s blade. This one struck, rattling Achan’s arms.

  Why were some solid and some not?

  Nephew? Prince Oren called.

  The other apparitions had reached Achan now. He parried another blow and ducked, wishing there were rocks to throw. I’m here.

  What happened?

  Uh…I failed. Again.

  How do you mean? Speak clearly, boy. This is no time for sarcasm.

  I don’t know how to storm. I ended up in Silvo’s head. I can’t understand the difference between watching and messaging and storming. A sword clipped his shoulder. He growled, rammed the offending knight with his other shoulder, and went down, tumbling on the wet sand.

  Get back on your feet, boy. You’re too easy a target on the ground.

  Too late. The apparitions swarmed, kicking and nipping his flesh with their black blades.

  Achan cradled his head, squeezing every muscle and groaning against the lacerations and strikes biting his flesh.

  Call on Arman, Prince Oren said. Only he can help you now.

  Arman? A boot struck lower back. He choked on a scream as the shocking pain flared his old arrow wound. What could he say to Arman? I’m a fool who cannot use the gift you gave me? Please defeat these evil apparitions?

  A kick to the side of Achan’s head ended his need to figure it out.

  * * *

  Achan jerked awake underwater. He sucked in a sharp breath, and tepid water filled his nose and throat. He gagged and tried to hold his breath but there was little in him. Thankfully, someone pulled his hair, yanking his head above the water line.

  He coughed and sputtered and opened his stinging eyes. Dark, firelight, before a stream. But the rotten smell left no doubt: he was still in Darkness.

  He knelt on sharp, rocky soil before a wooden tub, wearing only his linen undershorts. Water dripped down his face and neck and made winding streaks down his chest. His wrists were shackled behind his back, the metal cool on his skin. He groaned through another cleansing cough. A familiar trace of bitterness coated his tongue. leh?

  He called out to test his fears. Prince Oren?

  Whoever held his hair released it. Achan swayed, head throbbing, chest burning. He sat on his heels and turned. Two black knights stood behind him. Their wooden masks were flat with two straight slits, one long one for the eyes and a smaller one for the mouth. Achan craned his neck the other way. A campfire burned a few paces back. Beyond that, four horses were tethered beside a cart with a mule hooked to the front. Two bodies lay on their backs in the cart. The moisture on the spindly, black trees glowed in the distance, outlining a forest.

  But only two black knights. Prince Oren had done well disabling his targets. But how would Achan get away? If they had silenced his bloodvoice…

  Achan sniffed. “Where’s your leader?” His voice sounded weak.

  “He is advising us from afar,” a man said. Not Silvo. His accent sounded like Inko’s.

  “What do you want with me?” Achan gasped in another long breath. “Where are my companions?”

  “Lord Falkson wishes to sacrifice you to Barthos in a ceremony to honor our god and master.” Silvo. The slender olive-skinned Jaelportian removed his mask and glared down on Achan, his eyes as oily and black as his hair.

  Achan’s mind reeled. “Lord Falkson is your master?”

  “All of Barth will attend the ceremony. The slaying of Arman’s king will be a day celebrated for centuries to come.”

  Slaying? Achan stalled, seeking a way to escape. “Come now, Silvo. You don’t believe I’m anyone’s king, do you?”

  “Unfortunately, I do. You’ve changed jobs more than my sisters change gowns. First a stray, then a squire, then a servant, then a soldier. It should have taken much longer to work your way up the political ladder, but at least this way I’ll see you killed faster.”

  If Achan could get to a horse… No boots and almost no clothes, but at least he’d be free. “Was Jaira also trying to kill me?”

  “I no longer care what my sister does. I have aligned my future with Barth. Men have power in Barth, you see. Women rule in Jaelport. They always have. A Jaelportian man must leave Cela Duchy to find true freedom. This I have done.”

  “How’s that work, exactly? Do women blow powder in your face every time you disagree?”

  Silvo snorted. “You have no idea what my mother and sisters are capable of. I will never go back. My brother and I prefer to serve a more powerful and just master.”

  “Brother?”

  Silvo’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do to him?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother, Sir Marken, you fool.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You hurt him
. And Zinder. What did you do?”

  Achan opened his mouth but didn’t speak. He didn’t know enough about storming to explain Prince Oren’s actions.

  Silvo grabbed Achan’s head and pushed him toward the water. Achan twisted so his shoulder struck the top of the wooden tub. Silvo had better leverage and forced Achan down. Achan’s arm scraped over the tub’s rough edge. He managed a deep breath before his head plunged beneath the water again.

  Blood rushed to Achan’s head. His face burned with pressure. He held his breath as long as he could, then jerked up, hoping Silvo would think him choking and pull him out. He sucked in a mouthful of water by accident. He tried to swallow, but the liquid ran up his nose instead. It burned and caused him to gasp in more water. He tried to lift his head, but two sets of hands held him under. He shook and fought, all the while gulping water.

  The hands released him. He pulled his head up and gasped, but air didn’t enter his lungs. He coughed and slumped onto his side. His stomach heaved, and a mixture of water and bile streamed past his lips.

  Silvo kicked him in the back. “That’s disgusting, stray.”

  Achan panted and wheezed, ignoring the smarting pain from Silvo’s boot. Between breaths, he managed, “I’m…not a…stray.”

  Silvo clutched Achan’s hair. He lifted him up and dropped him on his knees. “What did you do to our men?”

  Achan shifted his knee off a sharp rock. “I didn’t do anything.” He coughed up more water and spit it at Silvo’s feet.

  Silvo punched him. Fire shot through Achan’s left cheek. He fell back and caught his weight on his right elbow, barely managing to stay off the ground.

  “Did that hurt?” Silvo leaned over and dragged his fingernail over the wound on Achan’s left cheek, ripping away the scab. “I like your new marks.”

  Achan grunted against the pain and slumped back to escape the pressure of Silvo’s finger, falling on his bound hands. He tuned his open wound to the ground where Silvo couldn’t reach. Silvo straddled him, grabbed his chin.

  “Enough,” a muffled voice said.

  Silvo released him and stood. The second black knight removed his mask. His grey hair puffed out like a mushroom. Achan’s brows furrowed. He recognized Sir Nongo as the towering black knight who’d attacked him—who’d nearly killed him—on the journey to Mahanaim.