by J. C. Owens
“It worked. I was not sure, not knowing humans, but it worked.” He patted Brenaith’s face and released him. “You are free now.”
Hands grasped Brenaith, tugged him gently backward until he stood within the circle of elven guards, close to the High King, whose piercing gaze was fixed on Shaynith-una, watching him with a small, fixed smile.
“It is time,” the king said. “What we have waited for, planned for since beyond my time, beyond my father’s time. Now, we will see our people free of danger.”
The priests nodded, then the six of them stepped forward, surrounding Shaynith-una’s wracked form. One reached up, fastened a red pendant about the knight’s neck, the stone large and sullen-looking, massive, easily the size of an apple. It hung pressed against pale skin, the chain tight against his throat.
The priests began to speak in some language that seemed to make the very air of the room shift and move as energy swirled about them, gathering power.
Each one held a pot of glowing paint, and they began to draw runes upon the shadow knight’s body. The strange characters seemed to shift in the light, to pulse and twine as though they were alive in some mystic fashion.
Brenaith shifted, his breath coming more and more harshly. He could feel the magic in the room rise with each stroke of the brushes, each word the priests uttered. The temperature dropped, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile search for comfort.
He was free of the bloodbond. Free. But all he could see was Shaynith-una’s face, drawn with increasing pain as the priests droned on in their strange language.
The power that rose in the room was nothing kind, nothing clean and noble. It felt like darkness itself, like a cousin to the demon’s energy, rather than the opposite.
Brenaith tore his eyes from Shaynith-una to look at the elven High King. The glow around him, beautiful and powerful before, now had an ugly edge of it, a hint of darkness.
Brenaith took a step toward him, words of protest rising, but he was jerked back by the elven guards and held fast.
“You have to stop him,” he pleaded, looking up at those who held him. “Don’t you see? I am not elven, but even I see what is happening to him…”
The priests stepped back several paces.
Shaynith-una was covered in runes, every inch of his skin held marks, marks that seemed to move, to surge and glow, growing ever brighter with every moment that passed.
As one, the priests cried out a single word, and the blue light, so powerful that it seemed to suck the very air from the room, sizzled into being, a ball of energy shifting and forming in a giant orb around the shadow knight, leaving him small and insubstantial within its perimeter.
The runes upon his skin began to glow more brightly, and then to smolder, glowing red as fire. The first scream was sharp and shortened by a gasp for air. Shaynith-una arched, eyes wide with agony so potent that Brenaith could nearly feel it from across the room, as though some remnant of the bond made him able to sense echoes of the knight’s pain. His hair, loose and tumbling down his back, swung from side to side as he fought his shackles.
He screamed again, this time with such agony that Brenaith sagged to his knees. He had touched that body, stroked that hair. Now smoke rose from each mark carved into Shaynith-una’s flesh, the smell of it sickening in the confines of the room.
The elven High King took a step toward the ring, eyes glowing with sharp satisfaction.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Come and get your son, you bastard. Come and save him…”
A sound rose over the cries of agony, thin and faint at first, then it grew—a howl, as though all the hounds of hell were keening at once. Shadows gathered within the blue orb, shadows where none should be. They darkened, became formed and alive, twining close to Shaynith-una, leaning close then flickering away as the burning runes forced them back.
Brenaith clenched his fists. He hardly felt the tears that poured down his cheeks, but the sobs that wracked his chest bowed him forward. Some part of him, the gentle, empathic side that Tynan had teased about, could not endure this horror. He wanted the shadows to succeed, to save Shaynith-una. No being deserved this; no being should have to witness this.
There was a sudden, sharp sense of pressure, as though all the air had been sucked from the area, then… Wind howled through the room, a roar of fury creating a sound wave as powerful as the wind itself, driving all before it to their knees.
The blue light sparked and rippled, bulging first one way, then another, as though it fought to contain a massive power. Black energy swirled in the orb, obliterating the shadow knight from view as it embraced him. Malevolence pulsed from it, and Brenaith recognized that blackness all too well, making him shrink back beneath the wind and the sound as far as he could.
Lutan had come. Somehow, the force of the blue orb was holding the demon god, unbelievably trapping him.
The ground shook beneath Brenaith, dust and small bits of rock beginning to shake loose from the cavern ceiling far above. Cracks appeared in the floor and he rolled away as one began to open beside him, gaping wider by the second.
At last he fetched up against the nearest wall and huddled there, watching the chaos with disbelief. The elves were in no better straits than he, most of them down upon the ground or scrambling for refuge from the large rocks that were now shaking loose from above.
The roar of rage reached a crescendo of sound and destruction, and the earth itself seemed to quail from its presence. Brenaith put his arms over his head as more debris rained down upon him, sharp rocks cutting his flesh. He curled tighter, terrified, only to jerk in surprise as a vivid red light pierced the dust and gloom, outlining the ring, encompassing the blue orb. It was accompanied by an otherworldly sound, almost song, yet so high-pitched and perfectly beautiful that tears filled his eyes, though he could not have explained why.
The elven gods had come then. There was nothing else it could be, nothing else that could stand in Lutan’s presence trapped in the blue orb and match his power.
The song, if song it could be called, rose higher, becoming painful in its intensity, all in the chamber clapping hands over their ears, the sound becoming a weapon of its own despite its beauty.
Then a sudden and complete silence fell over the chamber.
Brenaith’s ears rang with the sudden cessation, his own breathing loud to him.
Shocked, no one and nothing moved.
A pebble fell from the ceiling, missing Brenaith’s nose by a finger’s width, dust trickling down in its wake. He blinked, uncurling cautiously, stifling a cough as he peered through the murk.
The blue orb still shone, fainter now, as though it were damaged or drained, but existing for all that. Within it, Shaynith-una still hung from his bonds, motionless, limp, the runes gone, but their wounds open and raw. At his throat, the malevolent red stone now pulsed.
Brenaith struggled to his feet, staring at the pendant. Impossible though it seemed, the elves, with the aid of their gods perhaps, had captured Lutan and trapped him in the stone. It had worked.
Legs unsteady, Brenaith leaned against the wall, watching as the elves began to shakily rise from the floor, voices hushed and reverent as they realized the same thing.
Several of the priests stumbled to their feet, then one cried out and rushed to a prone form.
The High King lay unconscious, his left leg pinned beneath a large rock. Brenaith gagged and looked away. There was no way the leg could have survived the blow.
The darkness, the negative energy he had cultivated, had taken its price. What the king had fostered—the actions against his own blood—had come back upon him.
Several of the elves fled the room, obviously in search of aid, while several of the guards managed to heave the rock over.
Brenaith did not watch to see the result. He had seen enough blood to last several lifetimes. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon Shaynith-una, and he found himself moving toward him, his breath harsh in his throat, his ch
est tight with anxiety.
Did he live? Suddenly that seemed of prime importance, as though some part of him shook free of his fears. If he was dead, Brenaith was truly free. If he lived…
The priests stepped away from the anxious elves gathered about the king, and approached the orb, as though they had had the same thought as Brenaith. They stood, bathed in the blue light, and began to chant.
Brenaith stumbled forward, nameless anxiety rising…
The blue orb flashed and the head priest, the tallest one, reached through, dragging the pendant over the motionless Shaynith-una’s head, the red stone almost humming with fury. The other priests motioned, and the blue orb shrank abruptly, encircling the pendant alone.
“It is done.” There was wonder in the head priest’s tone.
One of the others glanced up at Shaynith-una, narrowing his eyes, then scowling. “The demon spawn, the sword yet lives. This should have killed him.”
One pulled a dagger from his belt and stepped toward the shadow knight. “That can be corrected…”
Brenaith caught his arm, holding it firm in a sudden burst of strength that negated their size differences.
They stared at him in shock, then anger. The priest wrenched his arm free and advanced toward the shadow knight again.
“Stop.” The female voice rang out, clear and commanding.
All in the room froze.
Elgeni stood within the doorway, eyes fixed upon the priests. “I want the room cleared.”
“My lady,” one of the priests ventured, “let me dispose of him. You will be free of his taint and you need not be involved.”
“I will decide that.” Her tone was implacable, calm. “There are things I must do to be free. Things that must be said and released first. I want you all gone.” Her gaze turned to her father, and concern rippled through the veneer. “You will see to the king, and I will come to him when I am done, free of this.”
The priests looked at each other, uncertain, then bowed to her.
“As you will, my lady, but not alone. The guards will…”
“The guards will leave. The human will stay. He already knows my shame and he may hear my confessions.”
The elves shot Brenaith doubting glances, but in the end, she was the princess. Her father was not conscious, not able to negate her will. One of the guards quietly handed Brenaith a sword. His fingers closed around the hilt, a familiar, welcome weight.
Their retreat was slow, as though they hoped she would see sense, but eventually, the king was taken out on a stretcher, healers having come to his aid, and all others filed out in their wake, casting many backward glances at Elgeni.
The thick door closed in their wake, but Brenaith had no doubt that the guards stood without, chafing at their expulsion. At the slightest indication, they would be back.
He stared at Elgeni in confusion as she walked up to him, laying a hand upon his cheek, sadness in her eyes now that they were alone. Her touch was warm, comforting, and he closed his eyes, fighting back sudden tears.
Her touch trailed away, and he took a deep breath, opening his damp eyes and watching as she approached the metal ring that imprisoned Shaynith-una. Her son, the physical representation of the rape she had endured.
She stood before the ring, gaze fixed upon the shadow knight, and Brenaith heard her shuddering breath.
“Come,” she waved him forward. “You must hold him as I release the shackles.”
He blinked, coming to her side, confusion rising.
She released the ankle restraints first, one by one, and Brenaith flinched as he saw the knight hanging by his wrists. Not that there was the slightest reaction from Shaynith-una. This close, viewing the horrific wounds, Brenaith could only be grateful.
The pain of only one of these burns would be beyond imagining. And he was covered in them. Was this Elgeni’s plan? To see him die with some mercy, when the other elves would have prolonged his pain, or perhaps made him suffer more?
She released one wrist, and the body slumped down, dangling obscenely by one arm. Brenaith caught him around the hips, then fell beneath the greater weight as the final restraint was removed.
Elgeni came to help, and between them, they rolled Shaynith-una to his back. The pain of the movement seemed to bring him to some semblance of reality, and his eyes flickered and finally opened, the red frighteningly pale, almost pinkish. Awareness flickered in their depths, resignation clear and foremost. There was no fear, no pleading for mercy, now that he was aware there was no aid coming for him. He would know his father was gone, would know what had happened.
His gaze floated over his mother, then fastened on Brenaith. There was a measure of trust there, even when his eyes dropped to the sword. Perhaps even a hint of relief, as though he was grateful that Brenaith would be the one to release his body from torment.
Elgeni’s pale, elegant hand reached out and touched Shaynith-una’s face, trembling, attempting to avoid the wounds that marred his features.
“I am sending you through a portal, my son. Back home. That is all I can do for you.” Her voice held aching regret, and Brenaith’s head snapped up and he stared at her incredulously.
“He is dying. You would send him through, unknowing what waits on the other side? That is cruel beyond belief.”
Her eyes never left Shaynith-una’s. “I cannot bear to watch you die, cannot feel it happen. I cannot.”
Brenaith swore under his breath, disbelieving of the sheer selfishness he was witnessing. She could not bear? What about her son? So she would send him to die alone, so that she would not have to witness it? He gritted his teeth.
With wave of her hands, a portal appeared in the room, humming.
She looked at Brenaith. “Here is your way home. Take him through, and then you are free.”
He could not believe what he was witnessing. Then he looked into her eyes and knew. There was the damage from her incarceration, the madness that hid behind cold serenity. There was only a surface veneer of rationality, and here, now, it was thin and fragile. She was right. She would not survive seeing him die. It would be the final blow to her sanity.
Still, he found it difficult to forgive her for the atrocity. His gaze fell to the sword he carried. So it would come to this. His responsibility.
Bitterness surged, gave him strength. He sheathed the sword through his belt, then bent to gather Shaynith-una in his arms. The large body felt strangely light, as though it had lost all mass, as though he was diminishing even as they watched.
The long hair, matted with blood and dust, draped over his arm, and the red eyes slowly closed, Shaynith-una’s head dropping back to hang almost lifelessly.
“Thank you,” Elgeni whispered, but he did not look at her, just grimly stepped forward into the portal, going home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They emerged at the base of Dasoam.
Of all the damned places, it had to be here.
Instead of freedom, he would be a demon toy once more.
The snow swirled about them, lending a surreal aspect to the fortress, hiding the horrors of the outer wall.
Brenaith hesitated, looking over his shoulder, to the south, where his home lay. He could leave Shaynith-una here. Surely the other demons would sense him, perhaps even save him. Brenaith could flee in the storm…
He grimaced.
He had no supplies, nothing to endure the terrible cold of this region.
The creature in his arms began to shiver, and he reflexively held him more tightly, trying to shield his battered body with his own.
By his own conscience, he could not leave the shadow knight here to die. It was the very reason he had brought him through the portal. His damned ever-powerful sense of mercy and justice.
He cursed under his breath at his own stupidity, but began to trudge toward the gates. At least they would not kill him, thinking him still bound to their precious knight, son of their god. That was the only hope he had.
As they approached, t
he wind died for a moment, and he paused, stunned.
The gates gaped wide, broken, shattered, although what could have destroyed their mass was beyond comprehension.
He hesitated but a moment. Whatever had happened, he had to get out of this weather, or he would die with Shaynith-una, despite the irony of the broken bond.
Squinting against the driving snow, he passed through the gates, stepping over mixed rubble of wood, stone, and twisted metal.
Grunting, he hefted Shaynith-una’s limp form a little higher and doggedly climbed the roadway, step by laborious step. Twice he stopped and sat down, panting, checking to see if his burden still lived.
If there was one advantage to the cold, it seemed that the knight’s wounds had stopped bleeding, stopped seeping and oozing. Still, there was no sign of consciousness, and he held little hope that Shaynith-una would revive.
But he would not die alone, that was all he could offer.
He reached the main gates, and they too hung open and broken. He approached more cautiously, but the wind drove him forward, almost sentient in its push to force his steps onward. He stepped within.
Nothing moved but wind-driven debris. Elgeni’s words came back to him. Perhaps she had been right. Perhaps Lutan’s fall had given the elven gods power enough to drive the demons back to where they had come from. Whatever had happened, divine or not, it had not gone well for the demons, that much seemed certain. No one challenged him as he mounted the steps to the entrance.
It too hung askew, and he passed into the fortress swiftly, heaving a sigh of relief as the wind was blocked at last.
The hallway, once so ornate, was deserted. There was less obvious damage here, but Brenaith did not hesitate. He kept on, to the grand hall, where he had attended dinners at his master’s feet. Here were great fireplaces, and that more than anything else was what they needed for survival.
His footsteps echoed in the vastness, an eerie companion as he finally reached his goal. For once, luck was on his side. Wood lay scattered near the grate, but the supplies still resided in the tinderbox to the side.
