To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2)

by Jill Williamson

  “Are all of you mages?” Achan asked.

  “Sakin Magos are being more than mages,” Sir Nongo said. “We are being strong in our bodies and our minds. We are being invincible warriors.”

  Invincible? “When the four of you attacked me—alone, unarmed, and unaware—didn’t two of you go down like redpines?”

  Silvo kicked Achan’s thigh.

  Sir Nongo pushed Silvo back. “We are not having time for this.” His pale grey skin and grey hair made him look like a living corpse. “We have been silencing your mind games. You might have been succeeding once, but you will not be again.”

  Achan ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth. The lingering bitterness was more than the rancid aftertaste of bile. They had given him the âleh tonic. A chill seized him. Not even Prince Oren could help him until its effects wore off.

  Call on Arman, his uncle had said.

  But Achan knew so little of Arman. Cetheria, the goddess of protection, had been the goddess he’d served all his life, though she had done nothing for him. In fact, the one time he’d entered her temple, he’d heard another voice—Arman’s voice—claiming that Cetheria was a false god.

  Well, if Arman could talk to Achan, why couldn’t Achan talk to Arman? It seemed a bit bold to address any god outside his temple, though circumstances were dire. Perhaps if he—

  “We must be moving,” Sir Nongo said. “Silvo, be switching his cuffs to the front and hooking him to the cart.”

  Silvo kick-rolled Achan to his stomach, giving him a mouthful of moist sand. Achan spit the grittiness from his mouth. His right cuff came free and another sharp kick propelled Achan onto his back. Silvo drew his hands together in the front, but before he could hook the cuffs, Achan kneed him in the chin and used both feet to kick Silvo back. Silvo staggered.

  Achan jumped to his feet and slugged Silvo’s nose. Silvo grunted, shot a dark glare Achan’s way, and lunged.

  Achan darted aside and swung the iron cuffs into the back of Silvo’s greasy head as the young lord stumbled past. Achan spun toward the horses and met Sir Nongo’s black blade, pointed at his chest.

  He froze and lifted his hands, sucking in long gasps of air. The metal cuff dragged his right wrist downward. His left knuckles throbbed from Silvo’s nose.

  “Silvo,” Sir Nongo said. “Be putting out the fire. I will deal with the stray.”

  Silvo growled from behind Achan. He teetered past Sir Nongo, a trail of blood running down his neck from his oily hair. His nose didn’t seem affected by Achan’s fist.

  Sir Nongo waved his blade, directing Achan to the back of the cart. “Soon you will be meeting Gâzar.” The knight snagged the lose cuff, threaded it through a slat on the back of the cart, and secured it to Achan’s free wrist.

  Achan forced a brave response. “Arman will ransom me.”

  Sir Nongo stared down on Achan from heavy-lidded eyes. “Only Barthos is having power in Barth.” He walked to a white and black horse and mounted it.

  Achan studied the bodies in the cart but couldn’t see well enough to recognize them. Silvo’s brother, perhaps? Stormed? Trapped in the Veil?

  To his left, Silvo kicked dirt over the campfire, bringing a deeper darkness, drawing Achan’s eyes back to Sir Nongo, who now held a lit torch aloft. He rode ahead of the mule-drawn cart, pulling the other three horses on a tether behind him.

  Silvo climbed up to the wagon seat and steered the mule after Sir Nongo. The wagon wheels grated over the sharp rocks, tugging Achan’s wrists forward, then the rest of him.

  Achan stumbled along in the dark, his bare feet pained on the sharp rocks. His heart quaked in his chest. He called out again, to see if the âleh had worn off.

  Sir Gavin! Sir Caleb! Prince Oren! Inko! Sparrow!

  No answers came.

  Achan did not want to be sacrificed. He tipped his head back, as if to look up to Shamayim.

  Arman!

  14

  Vrell’s horse carried her north. Though her surroundings were black and Darkness called to her fears, she knew her horse was tethered behind Scout, who was directly behind Sir Gavin. She focused on Sir Caleb’s voice as he lectured on the long-time feud between Magos and Cherem. Vrell had a pretty good grasp of history, but when Sir Caleb mentioned the Sar’s custom of sacrificing his female children, she had to interject.

  “The Sar kills all female children?”

  “Only his own,” Sir Caleb said. “Women are property in Cherem. A man may take two wives: an ishaw and a beten. A beten bears him children. An ishaw is poisoned so she may never bear children and serves as her husband’s slave. Should a man’s beten be unable to bear children, or should she bear only females, the man may banish her and choose another.”

  “That is despicable!” Vrell said.

  “Esper was an ishaw. I met her in Armonguard when her husband was looking to buy a bow for sport.”

  “Who is Esper?”

  “My wife.”

  Vrell sucked in a sharp breath. “I did not know you were married, Sir Caleb.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Vrell paused to consider this. “Where is Esper now?”

  “In Armonguard with Tyra. Tyra is Inko’s wife.”

  Inko’s wife? How sad to have your husband gone so long. Vrell wanted to hear how Esper came to be Sir Caleb’s wife and not the Cherem man’s ishaw. Then about Tyra and Inko.

  “Achan, what do you think of Cherem’s ways?” Sir Gavin asked.

  Vrell waited, imagining Achan would be as horrified as she, but he did not answer.

  “Achan?”

  No answer.

  “Light!” Sir Gavin called from the front of the line.

  Vrell’s horse stopped. Orange torchlight fizzed behind Vrell, illuminating Achan’s slumped form on Scout. He must be sleeping. She hoped his mind hadn’t drifted too far.

  Ahead of Achan, Sir Gavin loosed the rope tethering the horses and reined his horse about. He rode alongside Scout, reached out, and grabbed Achan by the scruff of the neck. “Achan? Speak to me, lad.”

  Vrell could see Achan’s left eye, open and glassy in the torch light. Her breath hitched. He seemed stunned or—dare she think it?—dead.

  Sir Gavin gripped Achan’s face in both hands. “Come out of this man, black spirit! In the name of Câan, the Son God of Arman.”

  Achan arched his back as if snow had gone down his shirt. A horrible screech flew from his lips, a sound Vrell knew he could never make.

  Her pulse raced and she prayed. Arman, please protect Achan from this affliction. Protect him from Darkness.

  Achan’s body began to dissolve, slowly shrinking in the saddle like a mound of watery black mud. Vrell screamed. The mud took shape, slowly forming a large bird with a rat’s face.

  A gowzal.

  The bird flapped its long, webbed wings, beating its foul stench over Vrell in bursts of air. Achan’s horse reared. Sir Gavin gripped the animal’s reins as the gowzal flew away.

  Vrell’s horse danced about and snorted. She held the reins tightly. “It is okay, boy.”

  “Eben’s breath!” Sir Caleb said from the back of the line. “Where is the prince?”

  Sir Gavin scanned the dark land. “They must have taken him while we slept.”

  “But we were being on watch, Gavin,” Inko said. “How could we have been missing such a thing?”

  Sir Gavin sniffed. “’Tis my fault for not speaking to him this morning. I should’ve been more cautious.”

  “It’s not been more than a few hours,” Sir Caleb said, “but they could be anywhere.”

  “I’ve called to him with no success.” Sir Gavin blew out a breath in a whistle. “Will you all try?”

  Vrell sought Achan’s face, the scars on his cheeks, his wide grin. “He does not answer.”

  “Nor me,” Inko said.

  “None of you can hear me either?” Sir Gavin asked.

  Inko’s voice had a sharp pitch. “You now are calling out?”

  “
Aye.”

  Sir Caleb steered his horse beside Sir Gavin’s. “The water this morning did have the slightest taste of mint.”

  Sir Gavin nodded once, almost bowing in shame. “We’ve been breached in more ways than one.”

  Vrell cast about for understanding. “Mint is bad?”

  “It’s strong enough to mask the bitterness of the âleh flower. Someone has silenced us.” Sir Caleb’s horse stomped its feet and the knight patted the horse’s neck. “Whoa, girl.”

  Vrell ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth. A hint of mint lingered, but nothing resembling the bitterness of âleh. When could this have happened? How long until it wore off?

  “Inko. Do you have any dried karpos?” Sir Gavin asked.

  Inko reached for his saddlebag. “I’d be foolish to not be having it.”

  “Good. We must seek out the wielder before he escapes. No spirit can manifest without the help of a man. Someone must have followed us to keep up Achan’s illusion.”

  Sir Caleb handed the torch to Inko, who was still digging in his saddlebag. Vrell met Sir Gavin’s stricken expression and dared not speak.

  Stones clicked in the distance, like footsteps.

  Sir Caleb spurred his horse and galloped away. Sir Gavin rode after him.

  “It’s looking like they have been finding him.”

  Vrell stared into the darkness where the knights had ridden, listening to the horses’ hooves receding. “Achan?”

  “The wielder.” Inko sniffed a leather pouch. “After all Gavin has been going through to be finding him, to be losing him to a mage and a gowzal is most distressing. May Arman be having mercy on our numerous imperfections.”

  Vrell prayed Arman would protect Achan, wherever he was. She hoped Inko had enough karpos for all of them. Jax had taught her it was the only thing that could counteract âleh.

  Moments later Sir Caleb returned, holding a thrashing body across his lap. Sir Gavin rode up behind him and dismounted. He grabbed the figure by the back of the shirt and dragged him to the ground.

  A pale-skinned boy, no more than thirteen, kicked and swung his skinny arms about. “Let go!”

  Sir Gavin pushed the boy’s face to the ground and pressed one knee into his back. “Where is he?”

  “I know not who you mean.” His voice cracked, caught between boy and man. “I’m bound for Melas to see my sister.”

  “Then where is your pack?”

  “I have no pack, sir.”

  In one motion, Sir Gavin flipped the boy over in the watery sand. “I don’t want to hurt you, lad. Don’t tempt me.”

  Sir Caleb dismounted and took the torch from Inko. Light spilled over the boy, revealing pale, freckled skin and bright orange hair.

  Vrell gasped. “I know him.”

  Sir Gavin’s mustache curled down. “Well?”

  “He is Locto Eli,” Vrell said. “Lord Eli’s little brother and squire.”

  “Are you?” Sir Gavin clamped a hand around the boy’s chin. “Locto, we left your brother back in Mirrorstone. He didn’t mention having a sister in Melas.”

  The boy hissed, the sound forming strange words. “Gowzal, yârad. Pârar no ôyeb.”

  Sir Gavin clenched the boy’s tunic at the base of his throat. “Don’t try your witchcraft on me, lad.”

  “Gowzal, yârad. Pârar no ôyeb! Gowzal, yârad—”

  “Sh’ma Er’Rets, Arman hu elohim, Arman hu echâd.” Sir Gavin’s voice started low and grew to a yell.

  Warmth bathed Vrell as if a summer breeze was blowing through Darkness. Locto’s eyes went wide. His body trembled. Had he felt the warmth too? Arman’s presence?

  “That’s the true old language,” Sir Gavin said. “What you speak has been perverted far from what Arman originally spoke to the kings of Er’Rets. You worship a false god and call on black spirits. To what end? To be used, that’s what. As a tool of Gâzar.”

  “That’s not true,” Locto squeaked.

  “You worship demons, boy. You let them toy with you. You, a creature created to serve Arman. You defile yourself.”

  Locto shook his head. “Barthos is not a demon. He’s a powerful god. I’ve seen him. I’ve seen his miracles.”

  “You’ve seen what Gâzar wanted you to see. What your feeble mind couldn’t discern was false. If you’ve seen the One God and are not the chosen king or a dead man, then you’ve not truly seen the One God. Get up.”

  Locto struggled to sit, his face flushing. “Take that back! I follow Barthos, not Gâzar.”

  Sir Gavin picked the boy up by the back of his shirt and stood him on his feet. “We’ll take you home and introduce you to our One God, Arman Echâd. Then you’ll see a real miracle when Arman destroys your idol in front of you.”

  * * *

  Every muscle in Achan’s body screamed. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His lips had cracked, and no amount of licking brought comfort. He sat on a smooth rock—wrists still chained in front—and massaged his swollen foot, cut from the rocks he’d stumbled over for hours…days? A long time. His stomach pressed against his ribs, aching in its empty state. They’d given him only âleh tonic to drink and crusty bread.

  Twice they’d stopped to sleep, so Achan figured two days had passed. He still couldn’t bloodvoice. Arman had not restored it, despite Achan’s pleas for a miracle. Perhaps Arman couldn’t hear him through the âleh tonic, either.

  His mind drifted like a twig in a fast current, dwelling on all he’d experienced in the past months. For what? To die in Darkness, sacrificed to a false god? And how exactly did that work? Would the Barthians kill him? Would they wait for their god to show up? And if Barthos didn’t come, would they take matters into their own hands?

  His thoughts rippled. Was his mind drifting out of reality?

  Movement caught his eye and he glanced up. A crowd had formed around the rock he sat on. Scores of men and women with grey skin and hair. Every set of dark eyes fixed on his.

  He stood, heart seizing in his chest. “What’s this?” Where had these people come from? He shook his head to clear it.

  The crowd parted. Silvo and Sir Nongo approached. Silvo grabbed Achan’s arms, spun him around, and kicked out his knees, pushing Achan over the rock on his stomach.

  Sir Nongo drew his black sword. “For Barthos!” He raised the blade above Achan’s neck—

  The image shifted. Now Achan hung from a tree, his cuffs looped over a branch.

  A man in a blood-splattered apron stood before him, sharpening a long knife on a whetstone. “I’ve skinned my share of animals but ain’t never skinned a man. S’pose it works the same.” He lifted the knife to Achan’s waist—

  Again a shift. Achan was now strapped to a wooden altar, looking up at a golden statue of Barthos, a creature with the body of a man and the head of a rabid wolf.

  The temple was sweltering, filled with burning braziers and hundreds of people chanting, “Barthos. Barthos. Barthos.”

  A black knight wearing a wooden mask stood at the foot of the statue. He grabbed Achan’s hair in his fist and held a dagger to his throat. “Râbab yârad.”

  Nausea welled in Achan’s gut. “Don’t. Please. Arman!”

  The chanting vanished abruptly. Achan again sat on his rock by the wagon. The campfire crackled to his left. Silvo and Sir Nongo sat beside it. A horse neighed. All else was silent, except for Achan’s heavy breathing.

  Darkness. Playing on his fears.

  Maybe he could sing one of Minstrel Harp’s songs. Achan sang aloud, for it seemed the only way to focus.

  “Hail the piper, fiddle, fife,

  The night is young and full of life.

  The Corner teems with ale and song.

  And we shall dance the whole night long.”

  “Quiet!” Sir Nongo scowled in Achan’s direction.

  Achan went straight into the next verse.

  “Hear the pretty maiden sing,

  Hair and ribbons all flowing.

  She can take my hea
rt away,

  By her side I long to stay.”

  A stone struck Achan’s knee. He jumped.

  “Shut up, stray,” Silvo yelled.

  Achan lowered his voice.

  “Never love a knight, he cares only for his sword.

  Never love a sailor, he spends all his life aboard.

  Never love a merchant, he’s too busy counting wares.

  Never love a prince, for himself, only, he cares.

  Never love a bard, for he’ll put you in a song.

  And if he doesn’t you will know—ow!”

  A rock the size of Achan’s fist struck his foot. Surely the black knights thought him mad by now. He wished he were with Gren at the Corner. He could almost smell her, the mix of orange blossom and the subtle bitterness from the fulling water she used to clean wool. Was she still imprisoned?

  Tired of singing, Achan returned to nagging Arman. Why do you torture me? You say all other gods are false. You tell me I’m your chosen king. Then you play games with my life. Does this amuse you?

  Heat flashed through Achan’s body as if he’d stepped into a bathhouse. He tensed, recognizing the heat as the signal that Arman was about to speak.

  TRUST IN ME AND I WILL DIRECT YOUR PATH.

  The heat swelled and subsided in the length of one long breath. When nothing else came he laughed bitterly. “That’s it? Trust in you? How am I supposed to do that while lunatics drag me behind a cart? Sit and wait, I suppose. Well, I was already doing that, so thanks for finally speaking up, but you’re not much help.”

  “Do you always talk to yourself?” Silvo’s voice came from the campfire.

  Achan shifted on his rock. “He started it.”

  “Who?”

  “Arman. He keeps telling me things, like an old sage. He’s so abstract I can’t understand what he’s saying half the time.”

  “You think the father god talks to you?”

  “No, I said He told me things. If He’d talk to me, a back and forth conversation, we might get somewhere. But no. He spouts cryptic proverbs. Whenever He feels like it, of course. I’ve been praying for two days and finally He speaks. But is it an answer? No. ‘Trust in me,’ He says. Trust. For Cetheria’s hand! I’m about to be killed and He says to trust him.”