Rynn smiled. “You do not need to worry about me. I plan on studying this magic and not living in fear of it.”
“Are you not concerned what others will think?”
“They will have to open their minds and accept this. Whether I planned for it or not, this is now a part of me.”
They heard a shout of surprise downstairs.
“We should be down there to help explain,” said Kithia, walking towards the door. As she passed the acolyte, she quickly kissed him on the cheek before vanishing out onto the landing.
Left on his own, Rynn reached up and touched his cheek where her lips had touched his flesh. His heart pounded hard in his chest and he could feel the pangs of desire stabbing wildly at it. For a moment, he allowed his emotions to rise but the room suddenly began spinning. Rynn staggered and fell to the floor as a searing pain coarsed through his veins.
It will pass.
He listened to the voice and tried to remain calm. As quickly as it had arrived, he felt the pain diminish and the room slowly stopped its nauseating spiral. A moment later, he stood and wiped the back of his hand across his perspirating forehead.
It will happen again. It will be more painful. Do not resist it.
Rynn took a deep breath then walked out onto the landing, anxious to join his friends downstairs. He did not even stop to reflect on the sudden agony he had experienced or on the voice that had resounded in his mind.
Chapter 32
Ilkar looked up into the overcast sky and wondered whether the ominous clouds gathering overhead knew of their morose journey back to Vylandor, waiting for the right moment to release the freezing rain onto them. It was bitterly cold and he knew that the first snow would soon fall on the kingdom.
The corporal desperately wanted to sleep but he could not. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes first fell on the covered wagon that rolled slowly behind. Within it lay the body of King Afaron.
Ilkar thought back to the disturbing events that had transpired during the previous night. He had fled the house after seeing the king slain by Saroth, forced to break through one of the rear windows to escape the approaching Turambar traitors. Outside, the rest of the king’s entourage were surrounding the house. The most powerful men were trying to smash through the front door whilst others battered at the back. The wood refused to give and would not even splinter.
After Ilkar had reported what had happened to the officer who had originally entered the house with them, he watched as they lay siege to the humble dwelling. Several minutes later, the lights in the house were all extinguished at the same time and the chilling sound that Ilkar had heard Daen make could be heard within. As soon as that noise died away, the front door had given way and the soldiers charged in.
Ilkar entered soon after, his split ribs throbbing with a dull ache that he tried to ignore. The king lay where he had fallen, sprawled on the cold wooden floor which itself was red with Rotian blood. Afaron’s eyes were closed and he looked peaceful, as if he had died of natural causes.
Ilkar recalled seeing the bodies of the remaining five Turambar men, all lying next to one another in the same bedroom where he had been forced to kill Daen. Two of the men had minor wounds but no fatal injury was found upon any of them. They had seemingly just dropped dead.
Saroth was nowhere to be found. The assassin had somehow escaped the house, despite there being nearly two hundred soldiers in the settlement. Ilkar had now witnessed the foreigner murder both Sarin and Afaron. Both images haunted him, accompanied by rage, regret and guilt.
A raindrop landed on his face, snapping him from his thoughts. He looked from the wagon to the line of soldiers following him along the road. Their heads were bowed and shoulders sagged. They had not intended to be a part of the king’s impromptu funeral entourage.
Ilkar had ordered that a handful of men, along with three scouts, be sent to the Vylandor army who had continued their march to the bridge. The orders were simply to return to the capital. Word had also been sent to the commanding officers at Ashgar, telling them the grave news and issuing orders to set up defenses on the roads.
There was still no clue as to where the invading army would strike next but they would need to push south and Ashgar was an obvious target. Naskador was the nearest city to the Ulmerien on the southern banks and word would be sent to them also but, for all Ilkar knew, the Thieve’s Capital had already been seized or burnt.
Back along the road to the north, Ilkar could still make out the forest and he longed to be away from it as quickly as possible. However, the daunting task of delivering the news of the king’s death to those within the walls of Vylandor now fell upon his shoulders.
As the corporal began imagining the effect his news would have on both the city and the kingdom itself, the clouds decided that the time had come and rain began falling heavily on the grim procession.
Draliak ran the Rotian soldier through, watching the man’s terrified realization that he was going to die. As the body fell back, he pulled his sword clear and turned to take in the scene unfolding around him.
His Shada-Kavielian soldiers were locked in combat with the Rotians who had approached the bridge; black and silver clashing together on the green banks of the river. Many from both sides lay dead or dying but the Shada-Kavielians outnumbered the Rotians. As expected, the defenders of the kingdom were brave and not without skill but their officers had begun issuing the orders to retreat, realizing that to continue fighting would mean annihilation.
It was the Rotian officers who had led their men into Draliak’s trap. Shada-Kavielian soldiers placed on the north side of the bridge had acted as bait, to see whether the Rotians would dare to cross the river. The inept officers had ordered a large contingent of men across in pursuit but had been attacked then by Draliak’s first wave. When the rest of the Rotians charged to the aid of their comrades, the second Shada-Kavielian wave hit their flanks. With the river flowing behind them, and with the bridge their only narrow means of escape, the Rotians had no option but to fight.
Draliak watched as a number of silver soldiers managed to flee across the bridge, calling to others to follow. The commander looked across to where his bow and crossbow ranks waited patiently. He held his sword aloft to alert the officer amongst the bowmen.
“Send a volley into those fleeing,” he yelled.
Instantly, the officer barked orders to his men and their arrows arched into the sky. Draliak watched in silence as he saw a number of the retreating Rotians stumble and fall, black shafts protruding from their bodies. The officer glanced across at him.
“Save your arrows,” ordered Draliak. “Move back.”
As he walked away from the battle, he heard the rain hitting his armour and grimaced. He had been looking forward to encountering the Rotian force in daylight for once but the frequent rain that insisted on falling on the kingdom was beginning to irritate him.
“Your orders, commander?” came a voice from alongside him.
Draliak did not bother to look at the officer. “This battle is won. Allow the men to finish any Rotians foolish enough to keep fighting but try to take prisoners where possible.”
“What of those who are fleeing south?”
“Leave them. We are not yet ready to cross the river but keep your men alert. Do not let them revel in their glory and remind them of the fallen amongst our ranks today. The Rotians are to be respected.”
As the officer took his leave, Draliak removed his helmet and felt the cold air bite at his exposed skin. He allowed himself a glance to the west and began wondering whether Saroth had been successful in his mission. By now, the commander expected that Saroth was on his way back to Boraila. He himself would return to the port soon and was eager to hear Sephonis give the order for him to drive the Shada-Kavielian invasion deep into the heart of the kingdom.
Chapter 33
Varayan sat staring into the blazing fireplace in Jolas’ study, his expression distant. The flames reminded him of the fateful night b
ack in poor Barentin. He saw the tavern burning and the foreign magic-user poised to murder Rynn silhouetted against it. He had not thought much of Barentin since leaving the doomed town but now it played on his mind, as did the events that followed.
“How are you feeling?”
Varayan blinked as he heard Jolas’ voice. “Never felt better.”
“You were deep in thought,” said the councilor, moving to sit in the plush chair next to him. “Where were you?”
“Barentin. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about what has happened during this last month. Before my injury, I lived my life only looking forward as I had learnt never to dwell on the past.”
“I know people who have nearly died in accidents and they tend to see life differently after the event.”
Varayan shrugged. “I wish I could recall what happened to me but my mind is a blur when I try to think back.”
“Best not to let it frustrate you and just be thankful for being alive.”
“I am thankful, but I never thought it would be Rynn who saved my life.” Varayan shook his head. “He has changed so much since the day I met him.”
Jolas shot him a concerned look. “A change for the worst?”
“Let’s just say that Rynn was a lot less complicated before he read those scrolls. If he had not done so though, I would not be here.”
“His abilities must remain secret for now,” stated Jolas. “Some of the other councilors would certainly call for further investigation into whether he was a risk to the city or not. Toresin is busy keeping watch for anything out of the ordinary in Vylandor so I would rather he did not need to get involved.”
“Out of the ordinary?” asked Varayan, curious to know more.
Jolas shifted in the chair. “There was talk that Boraila was infiltrated by these foreigners, which ultimately led to it being taken. Some panicked and believed that the same was happening here. Toresin has been searching high and low for any sign of their presence.”
For a moment, the councilor’s words seemed to jolt something in Varayan’s memory but he could not hold onto it. “Has he found anything?”
“Nothing to suggest we are due to be attacked from inside the city.” Jolas saw that Varayan’s gaze had returned to the flames and he decided to move the conversation on to an urgent matter. “There is to be a meeting regarding your actions prior to the fall.”
“I understand.” Varayan’s eyes did not move from the fire.
“Not all councilors will be present,” mentioned Jolas. “However, I need to know what possessed you to firstly start stealing and then to clamber around the rooftops.”
At this, Varayan closed his eyes. “I have had to steal to survive for as long as I can remember, first in Shulgard, then in Ashgar. I am a good thief.
When I came to Vylandor, I found it too easy to fall back into a life of crime, despite the fact that you had kindly agreed for me to stay here and that Rynn and myself were treated so well from the moment we arrived.
I do not expect the matter to be taken lightly but all I can say is that my outlook on life has changed drastically since I was saved.”
“Are you saying that stealing is no longer a way of life for you?” Jolas asked him, gauging his reaction through narrowed eyes.
Varayan laughed. “It will always be a part of who I am. What I am saying is that I don’t intend on committing another crime in Vylandor and all I can offer is my word.”
Jolas grimaced. “That may not be enough. You don’t remember anything about the rooftops?”
“No. All I can imagine is that I decided to traverse the city from that perspective so as to avoid guard patrols.”
“In the pouring rain?”
“I can’t say rain has ever stopped me before.”
Jolas tapped at the arm of the chair as he gave the matter further thought. “What would help is if you occupied yourself with a role whilst you are here. Gorric and Khir both enlisted into the recruits.”
“I am hardly likely to join the ranks,” Varayan said, raising one eyebrow.
After a moment’s silence, a smile appeared on Jolas’ face. “Have you heard about the infiltrators?”
“Are you sure of this?”
Arlath watched Talgan’s reaction with interest. “I am, councilor.”
“And you say it was magic Rynn used against you at Karrid’s estate?”
“Yes. I was merely trying to stop him from hurting Kithia Orgillian.”
Talgan looked up at the recruit from behind his desk. “Why are you telling me this? I was not exactly friendly when we first met.”
“Councilor Jolas seems to be protecting both Rynn and his criminal friend,” said Arlath boldly, aware of just how serious his accusations were. “I would have spoken with Councilor Karrid but for his daughter’s friendship with Kithia, who in turn is a friend of Rynn. I felt that I had to warn you of this development with the acolyte.”
Talgan nodded. “I appreciate your concern, Arlath, and will of course look into this. In the meantime, I would like you to listen for any other news that would interest the council.”
“I tend not to hear much from the city. I am at the barracks most days.”
“Exactly,” smiled Talgan. “You spend time often with Gorric Orgillian and his friend, Khir. They must talk of what happened to them in the north when they were caught up in the invasion.”
“Sometimes, but they rarely want to hold a conversation about it.”
“All I am asking is that you let me know should they say anything that you deem to be useful information. The same goes for Kithia, Rynn and Varayan.”
Arlath frowned. “Are you asking me to be your spy, councilor?”
Talgan’s expression darkened. “Careful, Arlath. First you make potentially damaging accusations about Jolas, then you imply that I am being underhand? Vylandor must be protected at any cost and, if your new acquaintances know anything that could aid us against this new threat to the kingdom, it is vital that we are told.”
Arlath looked down into Talgan’s eyes. “I understand.”
“Good,” said the councilor, leaning back in his chair. “Now, what else can you tell me.”
Arlath felt his throat go dry. He had wanted to inform a member of the council of Rynn’s power so that they would consider the acolyte a threat and keep him under watch. This would of course keep him away from Kithia too, which was of utmost importance to Arlath. However, he now found himself in a difficult position. Whilst he did not like Talgan much, he understood the sway that the man held in the city and his reasons for wanting as much information as possible were reasonable.
Arlath made the decision then that he would not tell Talgan everything he knew and would feed the councilor only certain facts. Still, he was certain that Gorric and Kithia would not forgive him should they find out.
Gorric stepped into Khir’s attack, parrying the lunging sword with his shield and lashing out with his own blade. Khir quickly sidestepped and the two men began circling each other.
“You’re getting faster,” grinned Gorric.
“You’re getting slower,” Khir laughed, launching another attack.
The two friends continued their melee training for another ten minutes before they heard Devanor call out to them to stop. The veteran officer approached them, his hands clasped behind his back.
“We may make a swordsman out of you yet, Khir,” he remarked. “Tomorrow, you will fight several recruits of differing size and speed. I will be watching to gauge whether or not you have improved. Not everyone you face out there will be built like Gorric.”
“Has training finished for today, sir?” Khir asked him, glancing up at the blue sky above.
“You have worked hard, both of you, and you deserve to be rewarded. I have arranged for you to take leave of your training for a day, so as to spend some time with your friends.” Devanor looked at Gorric. “Or your sister of course.”
“With all due respect, sir, I would rather continue.” G
orric saw Devanor’s expression threaten to change. “I just feel that we are making good progress.”
“As I said, Gorric, you have a day’s leave. Spend it as you wish. If I were you, I would take the opportunity to spend some time with Councilor Karrid’s keen daughter.”
Gorric grimaced and then scowled at Khir, who was failing to suppress a smile. “Arelya is just…a friend…of Kithia’s,” he stammered.
“She wants to be your friend too though,” Khir pointed out.
Devanor raised his hand. “Listen to me. You have both had a traumatic month and I am sure that neither of you expected to be here under these circumstances. In such a dark time, it will do you good to enjoy the finer things in life.”
“You do not need to tell me again, sir,” said Khir, sheathing his sword.
“Be away with you then, before I change my mind and double your training exercises.”
Gorric and Khir left the courtyard, heading for their quarters. Whilst Khir eagerly removed his armour and weapons, placing them carefully in his footlocker, Gorric sat on the edge of his bed and stared down at his training sword.
“What is it now?” Khir asked him, seeing his friend’s distant look.
“I was just wondering what happened to my father’s sword.” Gorric turned the scratched blade in his hand.
Khir let out a frustrated groan. “Must you keep dwelling on this? That sword will most likely still be clasped in his hand as he fights to repel the foreigners in the north.”
“Then why has there been no news? If Celestius Orgillian was still alive, someone would have heard by now and word would have reached Vylandor.” Gorric placed the training sword on the bed next to him. “I would give anything to see him again, Khir.”
“And I would to see my parents again,” snapped Khir. “But that is not likely to happen so we are simply having to make the most of our situation.”
Severed Destinies Page 29
