by K. F. Breene
“What about those who could fight?”
“They now wear black shirts.”
“The Graygual,” Portolmous spat, looking out the window again.
“The Graygual are arming and organizing. They surround the trials, blocking all entrances and exits, including the one they created. We’ve stopped all ships coming in, and we’ve evacuated all foreigners who have no part to play in the upcoming battle. Those who refused to leave know they will no longer be protected.”
“The men and woman from the Westwood Isles—did they leave?”
“No sir. The leader, a Commander Sanders, laughed in my face when I told him he should go.”
“The Graygual guard the entrances to the trials,” Portolmous repeated, acid rising in his stomach.
“We have the entrances and exits into the trials covered from the inside,” Sonson said as he strode in. He glanced around the office. “Where’s mother?”
“She issued the evacuation of our people,” Portolmous answered, eyes glued to the window. The groups were starting to spread out. A gathering of Inkna walked through the gate.
“She is overseeing their leaving before she returns. I am initiating the battle in her stead. For now. What of the hopeful-Chosen?” Portolmous faced his brother.
For the first time Portolmous could remember, Sonson’s eyes were tight, his mouth a thin line. No humor permeated his thoughts. He felt the pressure, and he knew it was something they would be hard-pressed to beat.
“They are in the final trial. We have no visibility, but I estimate one more day and we should know.” Sonson glanced at the window, but did not walk closer. “It doesn’t look like we have a day, brother.”
Portolmous set his jaw. “She has to get through those trials. That is foretold. She has to, Sonson. It is non-negotiable.”
“We need someone who knows the Graygual to lead this, Porto,” Sonson persisted. “We’ve never faced an army this organized before. We are unprepared for this.”
“That is why she must get through the trials. She must earn her right to take the lead, Sonson. She has to earn it.”
“What of those accompanying her?” Sonson asked. “They’re greatly outnumbered, and today they will die if we leave them isolated.”
Portolmous clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s not our way to invite foreigners into our fold…”
“We’ve already fought with them, Portolmous. Denessa said they are excellent in battle,” Sonson growled. “Their Commander is a vicious but loyal warrior that can take three Graygual to his one. His men are all top notch, even the young ones. He’s got a doctor who’s not afraid to run into battle, and a man with Salange’s capabilities who has turned his talent into a warrior’s skill despite his affinity for peace and healing. The man knows what his attacker will do at the same time the attacker knows. We need them.”
“I agree with that assessment,” Shom said. “Their small force is extremely effective against the enemy. I would greatly like to meet their Captain…”
Portolmous pondered the ramifications of breaking one of the city’s oldest laws when shouting echoed down the corridor. Sonson brandished his sword and stepped out into the hall quickly, before returning a moment later with a knowing gleam to his eye. A harried guard rushed in after him. “I didn’t think I should kill them, but I couldn’t—”
The commander from the Westwood Isles barged into the room with an air of violent impatience. He glanced around before settling his eyes on Portolmous.
“You in charge?” The man spoke in his native language, somehow knowing Portolmous knew it.
A tall but thinner man with shoulder-length, white-blond hair followed the commander in. He could’ve been Portolmous’ twin for how alike they were, even though this man was a little younger. An older man with a mad grin came in next, along with an elegant man who reminded Portolmous of his mother. The rest took up position near the doorway but did not enter.
“I am in charge at present, yes,” Portolmous said in an even tone.
“You got yourself a shit-show going on out there. We need to combine forces to hold them until the Captain and Shanti get out of those damn trials with whatever title they need to get you to heel.”
Portolmous stiffened. “And what makes you think we need your help?”
Sonson’s lips pursed, no doubt frustrated with Portolmous’ question. But he couldn’t let foreigners walk into his world and start trying to dictate. Loss of control created confusion, and confusion created death.
If the commander was fazed, he gave no sign. “I’ll tell you why you need our help. You have no idea what these bastards are capable of. We were hunted by one of their best, and he was no picnic. I’ve battled some of the best warriors in my time, but their high ranking officers are made to fight. Not trained, made. I cut a man’s hand off, and he still kept at me. Didn’t even scream out. Now, you move like a good fighter. And that orange-headed man over there could definitely give me a run for my money, but you need Daniels.” The man pointed at the elegant, graying man behind him. “He’s been studying these Graygual, and he’s made a map of their movements around the island. Not only that though, you need this man, as painful as it is to admit it.”
“And why do I need him?” Portolmous asked uncertainly as he looked at the man’s slightly protruding belly, lack of warrior’s movement, and strange look to his eye. He didn’t seem entirely sound of mind.
“Well, you have that mind-power, don’t you?” The commander stared at Portolmous with an expectant look. Suddenly, the man’s mind disappeared. All their minds disappeared! As if they were unconscious, every Westwood Isle mind blinked out of existence.
“How…?” Portolmous let the word drift away.
In a perfect accent no foreigner had ever displayed, including the violet-eyed woman, the man said in Portolmous’ tongue, “It is my own power that is the only remaining, isolated Therma, is it not? Everyone has found a mate but me.”
“You can prevent the use of Therma?” Sonson asked with hungry eyes. “You can isolate it—just pick out those you want to prevent from using it?”
“It’s rude, speaking in a language no one else understands,” the commander said with hard eyes.
“Yes, I can cut out the Inkna faction,” the older man said in the Mountain Region’s tongue. “They are not great warriors—without their mind, they are useless.”
“What is your range?” Portolmous asked.
Before he could answer, the Shadow Lord walked into the room wearing battle leathers. A sword rested at her hip, throwing knives in her custom-made harness around her middle, and a bow at her back. An aging woman with refined taste and grace, she was known for her vicious and cunning fighting prowess. She still trained to keep fit, and because she loved the physicality of it, but it had been a long time since she’d fought in a real battle.
Portolmous cleared the way so she could take her seat at the large desk. “We must get ready,” she said, sitting down and focusing on the commander. “I hear you would like to offer your aid. We accept.”
The commander nodded, spread his legs in a solid stance, and clasped his arms behind his back. “It took a woman to talk sense. What has my world come to…?”
Sonson laughed and the Shadow Lord smiled gracefully. Portolmous glanced back out the window. “We don’t have long.”
“No.” The Shadow Lord held out her hand for Daniels’ map. “They are ahead of us, and their main focus is the hopeful-Chosen.”
“How do you know?” the Commander asked.
The Shadow Lord gave the Commander an assessing stare. “And your name is?”
“Sanders, ma’am. Commander Sanders.”
“I know because they are blocking all exits out of the trials, with most of their focus on the landing point. When the hopeful-Chosen comes down off the hill to collect their title, they will have two armies waiting for them. One will be ours, and the other will be the Graygual.”
“Their title?” the bl
ond man asked.
Portolmous’ mother’s assessing stare landed on him next. “Ah. Salange must be pleased to find another. Remarkable—you could almost be a second son. You are?”
“My name is Rohnan Fu Hoi,” he said diplomatically. “I am Chance to the Chulan, also known as Shanti Cu Hoi and leader of the Shumas.”
“Yes, the Chulan. A language out of legend and a name to accompany it. Half of me is excited to see the doctrines come to life, while the other half wishes this was after my time. However.” She looked over the map. Daniels stepped up with a straight back and an air of importance. He didn’t speak, just waited for questions. “Their title, yes,” the Shadow Lord said, tapping a place on the map. She glanced up at Rohnan. “The hopeful-Chosen is two individuals who have been Joined into one with their Therma. The Captain of these men, and your… sister, is that correct?”
“Sister in name, not in blood,” Rohnan answered.
“Same thing, I think. At least to you.” The Shadow Lord looked at Daniels. “This map is well-drawn. Sonson—”
Sonson stepped up, looking down on the parchment spreading across the desk. He traced an area that resembled the outskirts of the trials before pointing to the Red-Zone water supply. “Have they started dying yet?”
“Yes, it seems so. Started early this morning, and killed a fourth of the camp, including a few high officers, before they honed in on the water supply. Smart thinking, Commander.” Her sharp stare hit Sanders.
“It was our poison-master, actually. I’m just along for the ride,” Sanders answered. A vein pulsed in his neck. It didn’t take a friend to know he was eager to get out of the office and get into position.
“Well, it certainly helped. Still, we are outnumbered. If the hopeful-Chosen doesn’t come down off that hill with an offering of which we’ve never seen the like, we’ll be crushed.”
“Whether they have an offering or not, they will help,” Sonson said with gravity. “I’ve seen what they can do together. I’ve felt their power and there is nothing like it. The doctrines cannot possibly prepare you to feel what rolls off them in waves even when they are idle. They are a force of nature, and the Graygual will not expect it.”
“Yes, they will,” Rohnan said in his smooth voice. “From what I have heard, whoever runs these Graygual sent in a force. That force did not return. Their leader will use that knowledge. He already knows Shanti’s ability, and guessing the Captain’s is not hard. He will be ready.”
“Their leader is on this island. Have none of your people thought to go looking for him?” Sanders asked with a growl.
“We have,” Sonson replied, a fierce gleam in his eyes. “Everyone that went looking, even our stealthiest, did not return. We know the area where he resides, but we’d have to send in a force to make it in and then drag him back out again—assuming we can figure out who it is. By the time that could be arranged they had too many, and all were high officers. He’s shielded himself. He is highly intelligent, well-trained in tactics, and he is about to challenge us in the open.”
“Who is he?” Sanders pushed.
“Either one of their highest Captains, or Xandre himself,” Rohnan answered with a hollow voice. “It can be no one else. Not with the Chosen right here, in a place with no escape. We are in a battle for her life.”
“For our lives,” someone muttered at the door.
“For our lives, correct,” the Shadow Lord returned. She stood and looked at Sonson. “Time to get everyone in action. We are the last, is that right?”
“By now, yes.” Sonson took two steps toward the door. “I have a team waiting to clear that courtyard, with your help. We have horses ready to take us to the field.”
“Have you ever found a mate for your Gift?” Rohnan asked quietly.
The Shadow Lord glanced up. Her steel grey eyes lingered on Rohnan before she motioned for Daniels to take the map, then moved around the desk. “Yes. He gave me two headstrong boys, but he died young. I took over his mantle. We could never Join, though. He was my power’s mate, but he was not my power’s perfect partner.”
“And have you produced any others on this island with a full dose of power?” Rohnan asked as the Shadow Lord walked toward the door.
“No, but I knew one was coming. I knew my Therma was rare, but not unheard of. I never, in my wildest dreams, expected three with a full dose of power to show up. And now we must battle one of them.”
“It won’t be much of a battle with that Inkna. His kind don’t fight like warriors, even with their minds,” the older man said, smiling at the sky.
“What are our chances?” Sanders asked the older man as everyone filed out of the room and marched down the hall.
“If Shanti and Cayan join the battle,” the older man answered, “We will have heavy losses, but we will still have a future. If not, we will all die or be taken.”
“Sorry I asked,” Sanders snarled.
Sonson huffed a laugh despite the situation. Portolmous felt a weight settle in his gut. Their whole way of life depended on the hopeful-Chosen. Getting down off the hill would be easy for them if they withstood the lure of the lights, but they needed that offering. The question was: what could they find that could possibly fulfill the criteria?
Chapter Seventeen
Shanti glanced up at the sun. It was midday and dry. There were plenty of clouds coming, though. Thick, heavy clouds promising rain rolled in from the horizon.
“I just want to get to a place with a roof, a hot bath and a warm blanket,” Shanti said, following behind Cayan as they emerged from the dense wood. “And a massage. I could really use a massage. My legs are tight, my wounds itch, and I ache all over.”
Cayan said nothing. There was an urgency in his step that gave her a nervous tingle. Like when she felt presences in the wood, he seemed to feel the need to get back as fast as possible. She agreed, and used just as much haste. She’d walked into the snake pit often in her life—she refused to let fear rule her. Not before the worst presented itself, anyway.
They’d each seen those lights once more, and had used the other as a lifeline to pull themselves out. This last trial hadn’t been easy by any stretch, but it also hadn’t been the nightmare she’d expected.
“The Shadow people probably test themselves with those lights,” Shanti mused, noticing the trees thinning as they walked down a gradual incline. “It took great strength of will to resist that temptation.”
The heavy fall of Cayan’s feet mingled with the chirping of the birds in the trees. He didn’t respond.
“The terrain too, I imagine. Even getting across that bridge took a lot of courage. And being stalked in the night by something you couldn’t see or feel—yeah, I can see how a prospective leader would go through that trial.”
An insect jumped out of their path, and flew away. The cub moved around in her pack before settling again.
“Cayan, talk to me,” she tried.
“I just feel like something is coming, Shanti. I feel like we can’t go fast enough. I can’t explain why, or how I could possibly know, but my gut says this is it. The Graygual will make a grab for you, and the Shadow and my people will be the only thing preventing your capture. I’m worried about losing you.”
The nervous tingle exploded from her stomach and raced down her arms to her fingertips. She itched to grab her sword and felt the press of the knives against her leg. She smelled the crisp air of the day, welcoming her to yet another battle.
This time, she was not afraid. This time she would not run—she would fight Xandre’s minions to the death. Theirs or hers.
She took a deep breath and let the adrenaline seep out of her body. It was too soon to get ready. It was too early to hear the call of battle. She’d be worn out before she’d begun.
She’d enjoy these last moments of freedom.
* * *
Sanders stepped off the stairs with Burson and allowed Portolmous and Sonson to walk forward, toward the door. A team of men and women wearing red
dish-orange cured leather from head to toe were waiting for them. A sword hilt peeked out behind the shoulders of some while others wore bows. All had knives strapped somewhere on their bodies. Two wore silver whistles around their neck.
“Shadow Lord,” many said, offering her a slight bow.
“Merge together,” the Shadow Lord said, stepping in amongst them in her black. Sonson peeled off a loose layer of cloth to reveal a blue leather suit. Portolmous did the same.
“Awfully colorful for battle,” Sanders muttered.
The hairs on Sanders arms and neck stood on end as the eyes of the Shadow people glowed. They were using mind-power. Sanders nodded in approval; they needed as many mind-workers as possible.
“We do not need to kill—save whatever energy you can,” the Shadow Lord said as everyone prepared to leave the building. “We need to keep them down and prevent them from joining the battle. Reduce them to their knees, and cut them while they are down. Then, we join the others to secure our land.”
“Yes, Shadow Lord,” many said while others stood in silence, tall and straight, with fierce eyes and confident bearings.
The doors burst open and the Shadow went out, organized and graceful. Sanders rushed forward, joined immediately by his men. They couldn’t use their minds, but they could use their swords just fine.
Sanders felt the cobblestone of the city greet his foot as he heard the first scream, followed by a chorus of many more. Jogging, sword in hand, he sped up as the Shadow in front of him started to run. Long, even strides took them around the building and into the square.
A wall of black greeted them. The Graygual stood in front with crinkled uniforms and dirty faces, all clearly lower ranks. They had been sent to die—to slow the Shadow down while the Inkna in the back engaged.
But the Shadow had Burson.
Howling erupted from the crowd of black uniforms, many grabbing their heads and dropping to the ground.
Sanders barreled into the line of Graygual, knocking three down and cleaving them where they lay. He worked through the agony-ridden men, sticking and hacking, not worried about killing as much as keeping them from joining a larger conflict. He jabbed his sword through a chest, hacked at a neck, and waded through even as the Shadow worked ahead of him, using both their minds and swords. Even the Shadow Lord was using her weapon, brutal in her strikes and confident in her ability.
