Heir of Fain [Faxinor Chronicles #1]

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Suddenly, all she saw were fleeing backs, the yellow and black Sendorland tunics spattered with blood, torn and slashed and muddy. Andrixine tugged on Grennel's reins to stop him when he shifted into a gallop. Her stallion might be willing and eager but she needed a moment to breathe. Where was Kalsan?

  Turning Grennel, she surveyed the battlefield behind her. There was Derek, whacking at a retreating Sendorland soldier with his short sword and the splintered pole that once carried her standard. She grinned, relieved that her brother was still on his feet, and delighted that the banner was lost.

  The fight moved further into the narrowing pass, the tide heading back to Sendorland. Sheer rock walls streaked with trickling springs and tiny pockets of grass reached to the sky on both sides, framing the near-zenith sun. Andrixine surveyed the destruction that had been at her back all this time. She grinned, knowing a moment of triumph at simply having survived. Then the sticky mask of grime on her face made itself felt along with the aches in her shoulders, the pulled muscles in her thighs from guiding Grennel, the sticky-dry spatters of blood on her arms, clotting her chain mail and leathers.

  A tiny knot of fighting several hundred yards away, near the left rock wall caught her attention. Andrixine watched two Sendorland men emerge from the mass of flashing swords and run. Two Sisters darted after them, drawing their arms back in perfect unison to fling their spears. Both men went down with matched cries. Andrixine couldn't feel anything, not even approval of their skill. How long had this battle gone on? It felt like all her life, not half the day.

  The fighting disintegrated. Another Sendorland soldier stumbled out of the commotion and slowly crumpled to his knees, clutching his chest. Three Sword Sisters followed him and paused to watch him die, then headed down the gap after the retreating enemy. Other Sword Sisters moved away, with stumbling and dying enemies in their wake. Only two figures remained fighting as the dregs of the battle vanished around the bend in the pass. Andrixine felt her heart miss a beat—Kalsan was one of those warriors. She urged Grennel closer.

  Kalsan had lost his cloak. His overshirt had been slashed half off, exposing chain mail dulled with blood and dirt. He held his ground, matching every thrust and lunge of his opponent with sword blocks that even from halfway across the battlefield, Andrixine knew were only a fraction of a second fast enough. He tired. She imagined she felt the heaviness in his arms, the aches of bruises, stings of tiny cuts, sticky blood gluing his clothes to his body. Yet he smiled, his teeth bared, a white slash against the grime blackening his face.

  He tripped, sprawling backwards over a corpse, and his helmet tumbled off, the strap broken. She swallowed a scream, staring as Kalsan somersaulted to his feet, spun and slashed at his opponent's momentarily exposed neck. The soldier went down and didn't get up.

  Andrixine closed her eyes against the hot pressure of tears. How many battles could she endure, seeing scenes like that? How much fear could she feel for him without growing ill? What good was a Sword Bearer who couldn't keep her mind on the battle because her heart rode with another?

  "Why do I have to love a warrior?” she whispered.

  Silence on the battlefield. It sent a chill up her back and prickled her sweaty scalp. Andrixine knew there were dying and wounded crying in pain all around her. She could smell the blood, the spilled guts, the sour metallic smell of pain. Yet there was only silence.

  Her chain mail was too heavy. Her helmet threatened to crush her skull. She reached up and yanked it off and hung it by its chin strap from Grennel's saddle. Andrixine opened her eyes as she tugged down the coif of chain mail and let the chill breeze soak into her sweat-slicked hair. She tugged off her gauntlets, smiling wearily at the bruises on her stiff hands.

  Kalsan stood watching her, framed against moving shadows. Slowly, she raised her sword in salute. He smiled, raised his sword and bowed, revealing a dark shadow creeping up behind him.

  "Kalsan!” Andrixine screamed warning before she recognized what she saw.

  A Sword Sister crept up behind him, spear raised in both hands. Kalsan straightened, spinning on one heel. He swung up with his sword, catching the spear shaft and deflecting the blow to one side. The momentum pushed him off balance and he went to his knees.

  Three more Sisters leaped on Kalsan. Andrixine dug her heels into Grennel, making the stallion shriek. He darted across the battlefield, breaking bones and kicking aside wounded and dead bodies.

  Seconds slowed to hours, her muscles mired in ice as Andrixine watched the warriors swing swords and spears and fists at her husband. She saw him kick and punch in defense. Two more Sisters joined the battle, hiding him from her view.

  A shrill, throat-tearing cry filled the air as she leaped from Grennel in mid-gallop and threw herself on the struggling knot of bodies. The Spirit Sword burned, its blue light turning red. Andrixine heard a woman scream, felt hot blood run down the blade onto her bare hand. A body crumpled like a rag doll.

  "Mercy!” another woman shrieked. “Sword Bearer, we only serve—” Her words vanished in a gurgle as the sword entered her chest.

  "No!” Lissan appeared from nowhere and flung herself at Andrixine, trying to pin her arms. “Please!” She gasped as a knee caught her low in her chest. She fell, retching, and wisely stayed down.

  A howl like a crazed animal split the air as one Sister flung herself down on Kalsan's prone, unmoving body. Darsa's helmet was gone, letting her hair stream down her back, thick with sweat and filth. She had no weapon but a knife and she raised it to plunge into Kalsan's back.

  "For you, Sword Bearer!"

  Andrixine sliced off her hand. The knife went flying from the lax fingers. Andrixine took half a step back, held her breath and raised the sword. She bared her teeth against the terror in Darsa's dusky face.

  Fire raced up Andrixine's arms. The Spirit Sword blazed red and yellow, hiding the blade. The air left her lungs as she felt her skin begin to shrivel. She screamed and flung the sword far from her and went to her knees, her head pressed to the bloody ground, her arms over her head.

  Bearers who fell from their vows were killed by the sword.

  The silence congealed around her. Andrixine braced herself for the final flash of destruction.

  Twenty struggling heartbeats passed before she realized she wasn't dead. Death, after all, didn't include aching muscles and weariness, filthy, sweaty clothes and the reek of blood.

  Andrixine raised her head. She was alone with Kalsan and the dead bodies, and Grennel keeping faithful guard over her.

  And the sword, quiescent now, lying in a tiny patch of grass ringed by muddy, churned hoof prints.

  "Kalsan,” she whimpered.

  Her muscles protested as she crawled to his side. She turned him over. Tears blurred her vision when she saw the blood trickling from his mouth, his pale face, the ugly red splotch at his temple from the blow that had felled him.

  But he still breathed. She knelt and cradled him close, his head on her shoulder, and closed her eyes. She had no idea what to do besides hold him. She was too numb to even pray, though she knew she should. A voice whispered in her heart that this time, Yomnian would not listen.

  She ignored everything and everyone. Grennel stood guard, head hanging, his tail not even moving. A few soldiers on both sides passed by, but were too intent on fleeing the battle or rejoining it to come over to investigate. Derek found her and came close enough to see Kalsan in her arms. Her brother wisely stayed silent and soon left to look for help.

  Brother Klee found them a short time later as the healers from Snowy Mount descended into the pass to tend to the injured and take away the dead for burial. Andrixine slowly grew aware of someone watching her. Just as slowly, she raised her head.

  "Andrixine, where is the sword?” he asked, his voice gentle, pity wrinkling his face.

  "No.” She clutched Kalsan tighter and felt him flinch. He moaned, and the sound cut through her chest.

  "You are the Sword—"

  "I won't!”
Andrixine would have stood if not for Kalsan's weight holding her to the ground.

  "I know what happened.” Brother Klee knelt next to her and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  "Why didn't it kill me?” Her voice cracked. Her fury at him, at his insistence on her duty, softened into tears that pressed at her skull and squeezed the breath from her. “It has to kill me. I—what I did—” She shook her aching head and hid her face in Kalsan's filthy hair.

  "Obviously, it still wants you as its Bearer,” the holy man observed after a few seconds of silence.

  "What if I don't want it?” She caught her breath when she thought she felt Kalsan's arm move.

  "Andrixine!” Brother Klee nearly sat backwards in shock.

  "They tried to kill Kalsan because of me. To free me.” She swallowed hard to hold back the sobs filling her throat. “If I must choose between the sword and Kalsan, I take Kalsan."

  "It isn't that simple, daughter."

  "He is my life!” She raised her head and glared at him, meeting his stern, caring gaze until he had to look away. She closed her eyes and tasted her own tears as she kissed Kalsan's forehead, his wounded temple, his lips. “He is my love,” she whispered, and knew she imagined the sudden rise in Kalsan's chest and the hiss of indrawn breath.

  "Yomnian must come first, daughter, or even the purest love will turn to poison."

  "I know,” she whispered. “I want to serve—but why does Kalsan have to pay?"

  "Who says he is paying? Is he dead?” Brother Klee managed a tiny, crooked smile when she jerked her head up and stared.

  "No.” The word slipped out almost against her will.

  "Trust Yomnian, child, or you will know a far greater sorrow for the rest of your life."

  She could only close her eyes and let a few more tears slide out, scalding her skin and creating a trail through the dirt crusting her face.

  Brother Klee moved away. She heard his boots squelching across the torn ground. The wind whispered in her ears. She felt Kalsan's pulse against her lips when she kissed his temple. Her mother had always cured terrible childhood wounds with a simple kiss. If only she could do that for Kalsan now.

  "Andrixine.” Brother Klee came back to stand before her. “Look at me.” When she refused to raise her head, he took a handful of her dirty hair and tugged.

  "No,” she whispered, as she opened her eyes and faced the sword only inches from her nose. It glowed a soft blue. Once, she had taken comfort from that pale light.

  "Take the sword."

  "It will kill me."

  "If you were found guilty, you would already be dead."

  Exasperation touched his voice—that she could take. What stung was the hint of laughter. What did he find amusing about her pain?

  "Take the sword,” he repeated, and waited while the voices behind them grew stronger, accompanied by the cries of the wounded as they awoke or were moved. “You swore to serve Yomnian when there were far greater sorrows at stake, Andrixine. Why do you falter now? Take the sword and trust in Yomnian. Do not make me force your hand open."

  Her stiff hand opened. She held it out gingerly, expecting any moment the fire would enfold her. Kalsan's eyes flickered open, and she didn't see. He took a deeper breath and watched Brother Klee put the hilt into her clasp. The former Sword Bearer had to close her stiff fingers around it.

  The light flickered as if underwater. Andrixine held her breath, waiting.

  "Now heal your husband,” Brother Klee said. A gentle smile softened his lips. He turned his back on them and walked away.

  "Can you?” Kalsan whispered. He winced and moaned when Andrixine jerked and nearly dropped him. “Careful!"

  Tears blinded her as she helped him up. Kneeling face to face, she flung her arms around him. Kalsan's arms trembled but held her tight. She let the sword fall to the mud and welcomed the ache of his bruising kisses. She tasted the blood from his split lip, felt the sticky blood on his scalp as she tangled her fingers in his hair and held him close.

  "Let me breathe, love,” he whispered on a weak chuckle. “You are my love, you know."

  "Kalsan—” She couldn't resist him when he pushed her back to arm's length.

  "I thought I'd die before I could tell you I loved you.” He dabbed the blood from the corner of his mouth with the shredded remains of his sleeve and swallowed hard against whatever thickened his voice. “Andrixine, I heard you—"

  "You are my life.” She clutched at his shoulders. “My oath-friend, my lover, my husband—my one love."

  "You'd turn your back on the sword for me?” The incredulous look widening his eyes started her giggling. She couldn't understand why tears followed. “Promise me, Andrixine. Promise you'll never put me ahead of Yomnian. I love you too much to let you endanger your soul for my sake."

  "But—"

  "Promise me?” Then he gathered her close, holding her until they could hear the flapping of the wings of the first vultures descending on the aftermath of the battle.

  "I promise,” she whispered and felt a hardness in her chest suddenly dissolve.

  Through the haze of weariness and relief, Andrixine remembered the sword and Brother Klee's words. Still hesitant, she slipped free of Kalsan's arms, reached for the sword and lightly pressed the flat of the blade to his wounds. Cool blue light flowed over her hands like the blood that had flowed before.

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  Epilogue

  HOW LONG HE lay awake, listening to the soughing of the night wind as it threatened to become a storm, Kalsan couldn't be sure. Something had awakened him, a brightness, a sense of movement in the room. He sensed no danger, no trouble, so he lay still, enjoying the peace.

  The summer had been long and hard. There had been few actual battles in the mountains dividing Sendorland from Reshor, but the rigors of keeping the armies ahead of attempted invasions had been draining. Still, the effort had been worthwhile because now Reshor had peace. At least, peace through the fall and winter.

  Just last night, he and Andrixine had ridden through the gates of Faxinor castle, weary and brown from a summer spent outdoors, eager for the months of rest that winter would give them. Kalsan speculated that two weeks enduring the twisted paths of court life had been harder for Andrixine than the worst of pitched battles. He had been delighted for her when King Rafnar released them to go home.

  Kalsan hoped the fall and winter would last forever. Spring would come too quickly, with news from the guard posts scattered through the mountains, trips to Cereston to meet with the king, and court politics to navigate. There would be new envoys from Sendorland to face, to listen to and try to decipher what was a lie and what was a concession to the truth. For now though, his most important duty was to make sure Andrixine rested and relaxed and enjoyed life for a change.

  He woke a little more and realized that the bed was empty next to him. Kalsan rolled over to look for Andrixine.

  She sat in her thin shift in the window seat looking out over the inner gardens. The Spirit Sword rested on the cushion next to her. Eyes half-closed, she wore a faint, sleepy smile.

  "Love?” He slid out of bed and padded across the cool stone floor to settle down next to her.

  She smiled a little wider and snuggled into his arms, and gently stroked the handle of the sword. In reaction to her touch, it flared once with pale blue light. Kalsan knew what that meant.

  "A vision?” A sudden bright pink in her cheeks intrigued him and drove away the fear that they had to leave on another mission. “A good vision?"

  "Very good.” She turned in his embrace and cupped his bearded cheek with one hand as she gazed into his eyes.

  "Tell me?"

  "What do you want to name our firstborn?” She held still, face bright with laughter, waiting while he digested the news.

  "You're pregnant?"

  "Twins.” She chuckled when he gaped and his arms tightened around her. “Boys. Both will be my heirs."

  "Better than letting them fight
over the inheritance.” Low laughter bubbled up as they kissed. “Are you happy?"

  "Very. They both look like you."

  "Flatterer,” he growled, and shook her a little. He kissed her long and deeply.

  "Kalsan?"

  "Hmm?” He was more interested in the smooth curve of her lips, but the slight catch in her voice snagged his attention.

  "One inherits Faxinor. The other inherits the sword."

  "How?” he managed to ask through a choking fear of the future. “When?"

  "I hand it to him when your hair is silver.” She smiled through sudden tears. “We'll be together a long, long time, my love."

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  Michelle L. Levigne

  Michelle Levigne has loved fantasy, quests and adventures since discovering Chronicles of Narnia in Sunday School. She has a long apprenticeship in writing fan fiction, including Star Trek, Highlander, Stingray, Starman, Beauty & the Beast and The Phoenix. Her first professional sale was in conjunction with the Writers of the Future Contest, with the story “Relay,” in Volume VII. Heir of Faxinor was her first full-length sale, and she is delighted to have it adopted into the Hard Shell family. Please visit her web site and explore all the words of her imagination at: www.MLevigne.com

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