Severed Destinies

by David Kimberley

  Daen’s sword sliced the air and Ilkar nearly mistimed his parry as he struggled to believe what he was seeing. A second and third attack followed, which Ilkar managed to avoid, but Daen reached out and caught him by the throat. As the larger man tightened his grip, Ilkar felt as though talons were ripping into his flesh. Mustering all his strength, the corporal stabbed his sword upwards and the blade impaled Daen under the chin, pushing upwards through brain and bone until the tip emerged from the top of his skull.

  The soldier staggered back, releasing Ilkar but wrenching the sword from his hand. Ilkar grimaced as blood and the bizarre black smoke oozed from the entry and exit wounds in Daen’s head. Much to his horror, Daen then dropped his own sword and began tugging at the hilt of Ilkar’s. With a sickening crunch, he pulled the weapon free and threw it down. As blood began pouring from his chin, the soldier let out another unholy cry which did not stop even when the blood and smoke seeped from his open mouth.

  “Ardan protect us,” muttered Ilkar, reaching down for his second dagger.

  Daen’s body convulsed violently and he suddenly sprang forward. He had not even bent his knees to make the leap. He landed on Ilkar, smashing the corporal against the wooden floor. Despite having his breath knocked from his lungs and being temporarily blinded as Daen’s blood poured into his eyes, Ilkar wildly stabbed out with his dagger. The unnatural shriek echoed loudly in his ears but the pressure on him eased slightly so the corporal kicked out and managed to push Daen back.

  As he leapt up, ignoring the fact that his ribs had most likely been broken, Ilkar wiped the blood from his eyes and saw Daen continuing to convulse. The dagger had stabbed deep into one of his eye sockets.

  Without hesitation, Ilkar ran across to where both of their swords lay and picked them up. Daen emitted a snarl from deep within and the corporal saw black lines appearing under the soldier’s skin, as if his veins and arteries were darkening. Black smoke continued to drift up from the wounds and was gathering in a small cloud on the ceiling.

  Daen charged forward, sheer rage etched on his almost unrecognizable face. Ilkar leapt to the side and hacked both blades into the soldier’s neck, decapitating him. Black smoke billowed from the headless body and Ilkar was further unnerved when the same noise continued to emanate from it.

  As the corporal ran to the doorway, he took one last look back into the room and saw the body still standing as the smoke rose from it. Then, simultaneously, the smoke dissipated, the horrific noise ceased and Daen’s body toppled to the floor.

  Ilkar fled the gruesome scene and ran as fast as his aching muscles would allow, heading to the front of the house and hoping that he was not too late. The sound of battle could be heard and, as the front door came into view, his heart sank. One soldier lay dead in the hallway and Ilkar arrived just in time to see a second slain by two of the Turambar men. Afaron stood with his back to the front door, locked in combat with Saroth. The king was dripping blood from several wounds.

  Ilkar charged forward, swords slicing towards Saroth’s exposed back, but, just as they looked to bite into the assassin’s flesh, he nimbly leapt aside.

  Behind Afaron, the two Turambar men were advancing and the sound of metal upon metal from the sitting room had ceased. It was at that point Ilkar noticed the strange symbol etched into the surface of the front door. Someone was throwing their weight against the other side of it and calls could be heard outside from the confused Rotian soldiers.

  Saroth stabbed out at Afaron, who barely managed to push the long knife away. The curved sword arched towards Ilkar, who brought his two blades up to block.

  “Sire, get to the back door,” shouted the corporal.

  Afaron moved towards him but Saroth flicked his wrist. The knife cut through the air and embedded itself firmly in the side of the king’s knee, causing him to cry out and stumble. As Afaron landed heavily on the floor, Saroth held his free hand up to the approaching Turambar men.

  “Hold,” he commanded them. Then, he turned to face Ilkar. “You do not have to die here today. You are a skilled swordsman and your talents would be put to better use if you allied with us.”

  “Turn against my own people?” Ilkar spat. “Never.”

  “Your kingdom is already lost. Allow me to finish what I came here to do then surrender yourself to me.”

  Ilkar laughed, but it was without humour. “There are hundreds of Rotian soldiers outside. How exactly do you plan on walking out of here alive?”

  Saroth glanced down at Afaron, who was trying to get to his feet. “You are brave, I admit. I admire the courage that has been shown by your people.” He looked back to Ilkar. “How did you survive the wounds I inflicted upon you at the fortress?”

  Ilkar’s surprise was obvious. “You remember me?”

  “I remember the faces of everyone I encounter.”

  “Enough,” cried Afaron, standing but leaning against the wall for support. “If you kill me, you seal your own fate. You are a cowardly race, who use our own men against us. We will crush your attempt to take this kingdom and we will show you no mercy, just as you did those in the north.”

  Ilkar saw a window of opportunity and lunged forward, stabbing both blades at Saroth’s abdomen. The foreigner was not surprised and dodged one sword, parrying the other away. He then lashed out with his free hand, striking Ilkar across the face with such speed and force that the corporal’s vision swam and he fell to the floor.

  Afaron gritted his teeth and dived forward, swinging his sword in an attempt to sever Saroth’s head from his shoulders. However, the assassin brought his own sword up and, as it deflected Afaron’s attack, Saroth reached down and wrenched the knife from the king’s knee. Afaron’s leg buckled.

  “Sire…” Ilkar’s dazed voice trailed off as he struggled to remain conscious.

  Saroth stepped back from the king, watching with silent respect as the ruler of the Rotian people managed to rise again. Afaron lifted his head defiantly, raised his sword and charged him. Saroth’s curved blade flashed, knocking the king’s sword aside. The assassin then plunged the knife into Afaron’s throat.

  Ilkar gave a weak cry at the sight.

  Saroth saw the corporal stand but remained holding the knife until Afaron fell backwards off it. “Kill him.”

  The Turambar men advanced once more and Ilkar saw a third enter the hallway from the sitting room, his sword dripping fresh blood. He looked down at Afaron and saw the life seeping from the king. Knowing he could do nothing more, the corporal turned and fled back towards the bedrooms.

  Saroth knelt down alongside Afaron and watched as the Rotian king died. “Rest now and know that your passing heralds a new era for the kingdom,” he said softly.

  The sound of a window breaking echoed from the back of the house and Saroth smiled at the thought that the soldier from Turambar had once more managed to survive their encounter. This time, he would take the news back of the king’s demise. This was the beginning of the end for the Rotians.

  Chapter 31

  Kithia walked confidently up the path leading to the front door of Jolas’ house. However, her stomach was turning with anxiousness at the thought of seeing Rynn again. They had not seen each other since the acolyte had stormed into the gardens of Karrid’s estate and spoken so harshly to her. That was two days previous and she now hoped that he had rested, as well as had time to reflect on his actions.

  “Must you walk so fast.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Kithia smiled at her brother as he tried to keep up. Behind him came Khir, who shared her amusement at Gorric’s discomfort. Her expression faded momentarily as she glanced to Arlath, who had insisted on accompanying them to see Rynn. The recruit was deep in thought and had been brooding ever since finding himself the target of Rynn’s unpredictable power.

  She entered the house and was immediately met by one of the staff, who invited them to wait in one of the adjacent rooms whilst she informed Jolas of their arrival. As they awaited the councilor, Kithia sco
wled as Gorric impatiently tapped his foot.

  “You didn’t have to come,” she snapped. “If you would rather be somewhere else then just leave.”

  Gorric shook his head. “Devanor has given us leave to come here and I would like to know what is happening.”

  “As would we all,” muttered Arlath, his blue eyes watching Kithia closely.

  “Rynn is not dangerous,” she stated, wondering if she had sounded uncertain. “He is confused, angry and exhausted. He needs us.”

  “You still defend him, even after what happened,” said Arlath, disbelief in his voice.

  “You did not spend all that time travelling with him.” She looked to Gorric for support, then Khir. “He is my friend.”

  Arlath sighed. “That is true, but I care about you, Kithia. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Gorric shifted uncomfortably. “My sister has always been able to look after herself. However, I have to agree with Arlath in that Rynn may not be able to control what is happening to him so we need to be cautious.”

  “Perhaps we should speak to him before we begin condemning him,” Khir said, glaring at the other two men. “This power he wields has only been seen twice so far, once when he healed Ilkar and then when he…pushed you away, Arlath.”

  Kithia nodded her agreement. “I want to speak with Rynn alone first of all.” She saw Arlath’s body tense. “No arguments.”

  At that moment, Jolas entered the room. Despite the smile on his face, he was clearly troubled. “You may be the only people who can help me,” he said.

  “Apologies, councilor,” frowned Gorric. “Help you with what?”

  “Something happened to Rynn yesterday and we are unable to determine the cause.” Seeing the blank faces, Jolas continued. “My staff heard Rynn cry out and they found him unconscious in his room. He has still not awoken yet.”

  Kithia gave Gorric and Khir a concerned glance. “This has happened before, back in Turambar. He read the scroll that he and Varayan had found at the temple.”

  “Was there ash in his room?” Khir asked Jolas.

  The councilor nodded slowly. “The staff mentioned a burning smell when they entered and there was a small amount of ash spread across the floor.”

  “Varayan told us back at the fortress that there was a second scroll,” Khir reminded them. “With everything that happened there, I had forgotten about it. He must have read it.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Arlath.

  “I don’t know,” replied Kithia. “However, this power only appeared after he had read the first scroll. Varayan was the only other person with him when he found them but I assume he will not be telling us much.”

  “It is a miracle that Varayan has managed to survive this long,” Jolas stated. “His wounds are too severe to recover from though. He will pass very soon I fear.”

  “When Rynn read the first scroll, he was not unconscious long,” said Kithia, thinking back to when she saw the acolyte lying prone on the floor of the barracks at Turambar. “I would like to see him and stay with him until he awakens.”

  “How do you know that this second scroll has not done serious damage to his mind?”

  Kithia looked at Arlath and shrugged. “I don’t have any answers. You understand that I need to be there for him this time?”

  Arlath felt all eyes turn on him. “Of course. Will you at least allow me to stay here while you see him?”

  Kithia stepped close to him and, leaning forward, kissed his cheek. She had grown more than fond of Arlath during the time they had spent together and her hopes were that their relationship would continue to flourish. She had enjoyed watching his frustration as she kept him at arm’s length and, as his advances were becoming more frequent, she had found amusement in offering him the reward he sought only to snatch it away at the last moment. Now though, she looked into his crystal blue eyes and longed for the next time they were alone together.

  Gorric cleared his throat, hoping to break the sudden silence. “We will accompany you upstairs.”

  “No,” Kithia said softly. “I still want to see him alone first. You can keep Arlath company for the time being.”

  “I’ll show you where his room is,” offered Jolas, leading her away from the three recruits. As they climbed the stairs, the councilor gripped her arm and leant in close. “I heard what you were saying before I entered the room downstairs. If Rynn displays further random talents, it will not be long before others learn of what is happening. There are people in Vylandor who believe magic to be evil.”

  “Most Rotians do not even believe in it,” Kithia remarked. “If Rynn were to master the power to heal, as he did with Ilkar, then he would be sought after no doubt by many in the city. I can understand that it may be perceived as evil though.”

  “Until we know more, I plan to keep this only between us. Gorric, Khir and Arlath must not talk about this with anybody else. What did you tell Karrid and his daughter?”

  “That Arlath was rushing across heroically after hearing Rynn and I argue but that he tripped in the garden and hit his head.” She smirked at Jolas. “I haven’t told Arlath that yet.”

  “Best not to. His pride has already taken enough punishment.”

  They continued up onto the landing and Jolas pointed across at two doors. “Rynn’s is the first and Varayan is in the second. If you need anything, just call.”

  As Jolas headed back down the staircase, Kithia approached the first door. She hesitated momentarily then opened it quietly and stepped inside. Much to her surprise, Rynn was nowhere to be seen. The vacant bed both filled her with joy and apprehension.

  She backed out of the room and made her way along to the second door. However, as she reached out for the handle, it swung inwards and she could not help but emit a soft gasp as she found herself looking at a familiar but unexpected face.

  “Good morning,” Varayan grinned, leaning against the door frame.

  She looked him up and down, her mouth open in sheer disbelief. Varayan’s hazel eyes were bright and, despite being unshaven, he looked healthier than the last time she had seen him. There were no dressings on his head and no visible scars to indicate the fatal wound he had sustained. The only difference in his appearance was a tussled patch of dark grey hair above his right ear.

  “I…I don’t…” Kithia simply could not find the words.

  “Understand?” smirked Varayan. “I’m not sure any of us do.”

  “They told us you were dying.”

  Varayan shrugged. “They were wrong.” He glanced back into the room and, when he turned back to face her, his smile had faded. “I’m afraid I can’t remember much of what happened but I do know that our friend has done something quite impulsive.”

  Kithia peered over his shoulder to see Rynn standing facing the window, hands clasped behind his back. “He healed you?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me like I am not in the room.” Rynn turned and, upon seeing Kithia, sighed deeply. “I am sorry…for everything.”

  Varayan stepped back to allow Kithia into the room.

  “What have you done?” she asked the acolyte, sounding like a mother scolding her child.

  “I had to do it,” he replied. “I didn’t have the power to save Varayan.”

  “So you read the second scroll.” Kithia moved closer to him and could already see a noteable change in his demeanor.

  He regarded her with confidence, staring deep into her eyes. “Would you rather I let him die?”

  “Now you’re talking like I’m not in the room,” muttered Varayan, sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on.

  Kithia reached out and caressed Rynn’s face. “Forget about what has happened before. We can’t change the past. How do you feel?”

  “I feel…different. When I read the scroll, the same thing happened as with the first. However, now I can feel it within me, Kithia. The magic contained in the second scroll was more powerful.”

  �
�You sound happy about it,” she stated, frowning.

  “I don’t feel so scared now. I believe I can control it.”

  “You believe?” came Varayan’s doubting voice. “Like I believed I could run across rooftops in the rain?”

  “Should I have let you die?” Rynn’s tone was harsh and his eyes grew darker. “I don’t pretend to understand the extent of this magic or even how to work it yet. All I know is that I have saved a friend. Is that not a power worth having?”

  “Your intentions are not in question,” Kithia said. “We are just concerned.”

  As Rynn looked once more into her eyes, his expression softened. “I know. By the way, how is Arlath?”

  “Sulking and confused, but he was not hurt. He is downstairs with Gorric and Khir.”

  “Then I should apologize to him.” Rynn straightened his clothes and began heading for the door.

  Varayan stood, reaching out to grasp his arm. “Leave it for now. Let me go first.”

  “Why?” The acolyte looked puzzled.

  Varayan flashed a mischievous smile. “Its not every day they come face to face with the walking dead.”

  Rynn and Kithia watched him leave the room with a renewed bounce in his step.

  “Is he fully healed?” she asked.

  “Yes, although his memory has been affected. The last thing he remembers is walking the city streets and relieving some people of their purses.” Rynn turned to face her and, for a moment, he watched her standing before the window. The daylight gave her a glowing aura. “I told him about the fall.”

  “Will his memory return?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. He is just happy to be alive.”

  “I can see that. Does Jolas know about his stealing?”

  Rynn nodded. “The council and even the king know he was stealing. Afaron left Jolas to deal with it but I’m not sure anyone expected Varayan to be walking around again. Jolas will have to decide whether or not to have him arrested.”

  Kithia ran both hands through her hair, closing her eyes as she did so. “So much is happening, Rynn. It frightens me. My mind is full of concerns for you, for Gorric and Khir, for Arlath, for Varayan and for the entire kingdom. It is overwhelming.”