The Fourth Runi (The Fledgling Account Book 4)

by Y. K. Willemse

  The Lashki’s black eyes narrowed, and he raised the copper rod to attack Rafen. Sherwin swiftly moved in between and passed Rafen an Ashurite sword behind his back. Rafen accepted it with his trembling right hand. The Lashki remained poised, as if Sherwin’s appearance was an insolvable problem. Sherwin stooped and picked a silver object up from the ground, eyeing it with intrigue. It was Etana’s ring.

  “Give me the ring, human,” the Lashki said, holding out his slimy free hand.

  “I don’ think so, yer maniac.”

  The Lashki’s head snapped upright, and he screamed, “Attack!”

  The crowd around them exploded into action. The front rows surged forward. People clawed at Rafen, pulling him away from Sherwin. Rafen swung his sword into someone to his right, and then something hit him on the head. He reeled, and whirled the sword about again, dropping another person. Kesmal laced the air, and he threw himself down to avoid it, lifting his left hand with awful effort. A wall of fire separated him from some of the onslaught. He forced himself to rise behind it and looked around desperately for a gap in the swarm. A path opened and closed, a writhing snakelike space among the bodies. He glanced around for Sherwin, who gripped his shoulder.

  “Raf, let’s get out of ’ere!” he roared.

  Three people smashed into Rafen’s right side, having broken through his shield. An explosion of kesmal rendered everything unclear. Smoke obliterated everything. Rafen staggered forward with Sherwin, and then the Lashki was directly before them again, flanked by Ashurites. Ever-growing numbers of Naztwai shambled through the people behind him, whistling. Rafen stared wildly around himself. If only the spirits in his vision were all like Fritz.

  Then he gritted his teeth. He would make them like Fritz. Fritz had mentioned an army. Rafen might not have been able to bring Thomas back, but he could try summoning Fritz’s men of old. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Zion, give me strength.

  He concentrated all his kesmalic energy on his left arm and Fritz’s ring that was fixed onto his blackened index finger. By using an object from the past – a symbol of the combining of the times – perhaps he could quicken the process of calling Fritz’s army. He channeled a warm, vibrating force into the cold circle of silver. The searing from his hand was blinding. Despite that, he kept deliberately staring at the white, transparent figures on the rocks around him. One by one, they came forth, and he imagined a Sianian uniform for each of them – a sword in every hand; an honest, wholesome face; a loyalty to Fritz burning in their hearts.

  A fist collided with his temple, and he crashed to the ground again. Forcing himself to focus on the army in his head, he slashed at someone’s ankles, and a flash of blue illuminated splashes of blood and a screaming figure momentarily. He scurried forward on all fours, shooting a beam into the eye of an Ashurite who was lunging toward him. Pain was sapping his kesmal of potency, he realized. He made himself push past it, even though he was close to vomiting from its strength.

  Get up! Keep fighting! Demus screeched in his head.

  The silver ring had fallen from Sherwin’s pocket and glistened on the stone floor. Two hairy, bare feet surged forward to separate him from it. The army in his mind was so real that he could hear the cries of its men and the thudding of their boots. He focused every spare thought there.

  When Rafen turned his head again, a group of Naztwai were gaining upon him, and kesmal filled the air like tentacles. In the center of it all, the Lashki was locked in conflict with Sherwin. They were both grasping one end of the copper rod. Sherwin had the sharp tip, his hands gleaming with blood; his eyes were a wild blue, and he looked extravagantly tall, a stretched specter.

  The tsunami of kesmal was on Rafen, and he flung up a fiery shield. At the same moment, a brilliant yellow wall exploded into being. Gripping her scepter with one hand, Etana reached down to help him up by his right arm. Her face was distorted with pain.

  “Etana,” he managed, despite his swollen tongue. He was almost angry to see her. He hadn’t rescued her so that she could return.

  Horror filled her eyes as she marked his appearance.

  A screeching Ashurite woman made to kick Etana’s abdomen. Rafen passed his sword through the attacker before he knew what he was doing. Shock rolled over him; he had never killed a woman before. A Tarhian’s hand closed on his neck, and green light burst above his head. He hurled himself forward to break free, still forcing kesmal through his left arm and into Fritz’s ring, which was now burning white hot. His hand dripped blood.

  “The king is in need of aid!” someone called in his mind. A bellow from two thousand throats answered him. Rafen could see the Sianian soldiers so clearly that everything else around him seemed unreal.

  “Sherwin!” Francisco shouted from a distance.

  The Lashki had thrown Sherwin back and raised the rod, stained crimson, above his head. Sherwin’s eyes darkened; and the Lashki froze, his gaze dragged away as if by force. The Naztwai were romping among the philosophers and Tarhians, screeching, whistling, swiping claws, and eating their own masters. The shrieks were confused amid the volley of kesmal as the philosophers attempted to control the beasts. Staring at something Rafen couldn’t see, Sherwin wore a singular expression while he rose to his full – and impressive – height.

  “No!” Francisco cried, dashing the whip from Talmon’s hand.

  Rafen recoiled from Talmon, who had been directly behind him. His whole body was tense and vibrating with the effort of visualizing the men and pouring power into the ring. He bit back a scream; the wound was very bad. Yet he kept thinking frenziedly that Zion was going to reward his efforts.

  “Francisco!” Talmon called loudly to Rafen’s twin. He spoke with the air of someone trying to be rational in the event of a volcanic eruption. Even amid the panic, his face flushed with relief.

  “No!” Francisco shouted back. “It is you who should listen to me, not I to you.”

  “Stay back,” Fritz warned, thrusting Etana into Rafen’s arms.

  Fritz stood before them, glaring at parts of the tangled and fleeing crowd as if he could stop them from attacking. Even as those behind and to the right and left surged forward to envelop him and those he sought to defend, a shimmering apparition rushed across the tops of the throng. Rafen stiffened. Was it his Spirit Awareness?

  The transparent men solidified and engaged with the philosophers who would have crushed Etana and him. The searing of the ring came to a climax. It was radiating such a bright, ruddy glow that it lit up the faces of those nearby. In response, the identical ring on Fritz’s finger gleamed palely.

  “Rally to me, my men!” Fritz roared, his face shining. “They cannot kill the past.”

  An impact against Rafen’s back nearly toppled him. Etana gripped his shoulders to steady him and then flung a beam of kesmal at Asiel’s head. Asiel ducked, and a Naztwai crumpled behind him, screeching. The Ashurite raised the nhanya in his hand and made to bring it down on Rafen’s skull. Rafen turned and hacked at Asiel’s arm with his own sword, pushing him back.

  “Destroy all the Tarhians, Ashurites, and Naztwai you see!” Fritz commanded his men.

  Attired in the red uniform of the Sianians, the two thousand men who had gathered around Fritz spread out now, their hands wrapped tightly around their blades. At the sight of the Lashki, their eyes widened nervously. Yet the moment they moved forward, Rafen knew why they were Fritz’s men. They fought and killed with a speed and efficiency Rafen had never seen before.

  “Fritz!” Rafen cried, lunging forward and seizing the king’s shoulder. Fritz turned, his eyes clouded with concern. Rafen wished everyone would stop looking at him like that. “We have to help Sherwin,” he said hoarsely. “Make some of your men protect Etana, and we’ll take the Lashki down together. We can do it!”

  Something was screaming for attention in Rafen’s mind, and when he examined it, he discovered it was Fritz’s time – Fritz’s time. It was almost up. After this ba
ttle, he and his men would have to return to their own era… unless Rafen and he killed the Lashki.

  “Matthew, Adonijah, protect this lady,” Fritz commanded, lunging forward and grabbing two men. They rushed toward Etana, who shoved them aside with her silver scepter.

  “Rafen, I don’t want protecting!” she shouted as Rafen and Fritz pressed through the crowd toward where the Lashki was standing on a rock above everyone else in the Ravine. His black eyes roved his Naztwai as he tried to control them again with his mental efforts. He held the copper rod aloft in his left hand, blue blazing at its tip. Sherwin was nowhere to be seen.

  “Stay where you are, Etana!” Rafen bellowed back at her, worry consuming him. He dragged his mind back when he felt his control over Fritz’s ring slipping. He had to keep Fritz and his men here as long as possible, no matter what their own time demanded. He injected another jet of kesmal into the ring, and his insides churned and threatened to shoot up his throat while a spasm shook him.

  “Now, Rafen!” Fritz cried, pointing his sword at the Lashki.

  Using both hands, Rafen lifted his too, and their kesmal intersected in the air and became one golden, flaming mass rushing toward the ghoul.

  The Lashki’s head snapped around, and a blast of blue met with Rafen’s and Fritz’s kesmal. The explosion rattled the Ravine. Around them, Tarhians and Ashurites screamed. Fritz’s men were doing their work well. Though Rafen wasn’t sure if they could do kesmal or not, clearly their appearance was enough to terrify even the stoutest philosopher amid the Lashki’s warriors.

  A stray ribbon of gold had managed to pierce the Lashki’s defense, although when it passed through the rotting shoulder, Rafen was disappointed to see no change. Could it be that even Fritz couldn’t harm the Lashki?

  “My kesmal hurts him,” Rafen muttered, grasping Fritz’s arm. “Protect me while I go for him.”

  His vision filled with blue, and he flung up his sword to defend himself. Fritz was there first. His thrumming yellow shield provided Rafen with warmth. Another sheet of yellow filled the air, and the Lashki swept aside Etana’s kesmal as easily as if it were a breeze. A figure appeared from behind the rock the Lashki was on. Sherwin, clearly recovering from a semi-conscious state, leapt onto the Lashki’s platform, reeling, making to grab the copper rod again.

  “Don’t touch the rod, Sherwin!” Rafen screamed, sending a knife of fire through Fritz’s shield. The world whirled around him, and pain fogged his sight.

  He followed his assault up with another and another – all perfectly focused beams aimed at the slimy head and chest. Fritz’s shields allowed Rafen’s kesmal passage, while blocking the Lashki’s repeated attacks. Rafen’s eyes watered, and his arm shrieked at him, tremors making it hard for him to grip his sword with numb fingers. It was an effort to keep Fritz’s army in his mind, to keep the figures from the past solid through his concentration. Sherwin leapt out of the way, and the Lashki answered Rafen’s kesmal with violent beams of his own. They struck Fritz’s and Etana’s shields around Rafen with formidable force. A desperate look entered the black eyes as Rafen continued fighting, each fiery ray stronger than the last.

  And then, between attacks, Sherwin lunged and seized the Lashki’s shoulder, jerking him forward with unnatural strength, so that they fell in a sprawling mess. The rod was very close to him now, and Rafen roared again, “Don’t touch it!”

  Despite the overwhelming throbbing of his left hand, he forced himself to unleash one more beam – a rapid, fatal flash. Simultaneously, the Lashki wrenched the copper rod from Sherwin’s grasp and vanished. The trickle of gray passed into the air, and Rafen’s last line of kesmal pierced a rock and disappeared. Rafen’s disappointment was so all-consuming he almost lost Fritz’s army. He crashed to his knees, and Fritz’s and Etana’s shields fell away before him. Sherwin pulled himself into a standing position on the rock, trembling uncontrollably.

  “Retreat!” Asiel screamed nearby. “Retreat!”

  Bodies littered the Ravine around them, and the Lashki’s remaining followers were fleeing, screeching frantically at each other. Annette and Asiel had already disappeared. The area fell oddly silent, apart from the panting of Fritz’s men – two thousand of them, and every one of them draining Rafen’s mental energy.

  His bruises cried for attention as he kneeled there, and the searing from his arm filled his universe. The ring was getting colder and colder… he couldn’t keep pouring kesmal into it, and his hand was bleeding horribly, sapping him further. Yes, Fritz’s time was coming to a close.

  Rafen hadn’t managed it, hadn’t even hurt the Lashki this time. And he should have been able to kill him with all the support around him. His kesmal wasn’t good enough, he supposed. He would have to practice more, so that one day the Lashki would be gone, and Rafen would be a long way ahead on his trip to destroying Nazt. He would search for that fragment of Alakil’s spirit that would bend to his will, as Adelphia had mentioned, and he would reunite the Eleven… somehow… some way.

  “Rafen.”

  Rafen glanced up to see Etana and her grandfather standing over him. Etana was clutching her abdomen, and she looked bloodless. His insides grew cold. When he made to get up, his head spun.

  “You do not know your own strength,” Fritz said, stooping before him. “I did not summon them – it was you. Rafen, I have not treated you as a fellow Runi, as my leader.”

  “No,” Rafen said. “Forget it. I’ve been a beast to you.”

  “Rafen, you have shown yourself to be a true Runi indeed. I have never seen kesmal like that, especially not after such an injury as you have sustained. Do not be discouraged. You will kill him someday.” His eyes dimmed. “I can feel my death approaching. I cannot shake this cold about my heart. I will not tell Adelphia; it would drive her mad. Poor, poor Arlene.”

  He glanced up at his men. “My time is up,” he said, and already his voice sounded fainter to Rafen’s ears.

  A thrill of panic shot through Rafen. “I’m going to keep you here,” he panted. “I’m trying with every thought—”

  “We will meet again, Rafen. Promise me you will do your best to bring me back once more, someday.”

  “I promise,” Rafen gasped, his chest tightening as he forced himself to hold Fritz and his army there for a little longer.

  Weeping freely, Fritz embraced him, and tears stung Rafen’s own eyes.

  Rising, Fritz whispered his farewell to Etana, who clung to him wildly.

  “You mustn’t go,” she said.

  “My dear granddaughter, do not fear. Zion watches over us in the darkest of times. I was honored to meet you,” Fritz added without warmth, extending his hand to Sherwin, who had joined them on the Ravine floor. “You have your own secrets, Sherwin, I am sure. And I am likewise sure that they were the very reason Zion chose you to be one of the chief companions of the Fourth Runi.”

  A shadow flitted across Sherwin’s face at the last part. He looked askance at Fritz. “An’ where are yer goin’?”

  “To my death, I suppose,” Fritz said.

  His men had cleared a space amid the bodies and regrouped themselves, watching Fritz, Rafen, Sherwin, and Etana in confusion. The officer was distinguishable by his decorated, though soiled, uniform. He nodded solemnly to King Fritz.

  “Francisco is not here,” Fritz said in bewilderment, turning back to the others.

  It was the last thing he said. A shroud thickened about him, and then the growing gray swallowed him and his men. It was as sudden as Kasper’s disappearance. Fritz’s death dropped into Rafen’s stomach like a stone, and he bowed his head.

  *

  On the rocky path adjoining the Ravine, Francisco stepped away from Talmon.

  “I cannot harm you,” he realized, staring at the smoking pistol in his hand.

  He had stolen it from a Tarhian and had been using it while pursuing those fleeing from the Ravine. That was when he had discovered his pseudo father, awaiting a philosopher to take him back to Tarhia
via a Connection.

  “Francisco, this time you will come with us,” Talmon said, touching Francisco’s hand.

  Francisco drew back, shaking his head. “I will not.”

  “There is nothing for you here,” Talmon hissed in frustration. “You are on the wrong side. Rafen will lose in the end.”

  “Who was forced to flee tonight?” Francisco spat. “Was it not this creature you call Master? No, it is you who is on the wrong side.”

  He softened, staring at the bruises on Talmon’s face and noting the torn shirt he wore.

  “I know what you have done for me, and it is a great thing indeed,” Francisco said. “Please come with us. Do not go back to Tarhia.”

  Talmon’s eyes darkened. “You would have me give up my throne for your brother?” His tone was incredulous.

  “No,” Francisco said. “I would have you gain your life. You are not free with the Lashki. Please, Talmon.”

  “You do not call me Father anymore,” Talmon whispered.

  “You are not my father.”

  The Tarhian king stiffened. “Then who is? That fool Roger?”

  “I and my brother have no father,” Francisco said, trembling out of weariness. “We look to Zion and fend for ourselves. Please, Talmon, we can give you a new life. We—”

  “Talmon!” Asiel’s voice pierced the nighttime quiet around them. “Do you want to rule your country again or not?”

  “I have done too much in the service of Nazt to turn back now,” Talmon said in a thick voice. He drew away from Francisco, his face twisted. Then he whirled around and vanished into the darkness.

  Francisco’s heart plummeted. With a sharp pain in his throat, he made to return to the Ravine.

  A sheen of kesmal strapped his arms to his sides, and he struggled to move. Someone clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Not a sound,” an even Sianian voice said in his ear. “Tell me where Etana is, Rafen. And speak quietly if you wish to live.”

  A prickle at his throat told him someone had pressed a blade to his skin. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth.