Legends of Ahn (King's Dark Tidings Book 3)

by Kel Kade

  “We have,” they said in unison, “but you do not listen.”

  Rezkin’s head throbbed as though a hammer was pounding on his brain.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “The knowledge is there,” said the first that had spoken, still pointing at him. He decided by the hairstyle that it must be Elry. “And you heeded our call. Even though you have not listened, you know.”

  Again, his head pounded with immense pain, a pain so sharp it took him to his knees, and he nearly fell from the pedestal. Grabbing his head, he struggled just to take a breath.

  “Listen …” a disembodied voice hissed.

  Rezkin focused on the pain, and he tried to listen, but it was getting him nowhere. He listened harder. He tried to hear their voices, a sound, any sound. Something within his mind burst.

  Then he heard water. It sounded like the rushing water that was in his room—water that came from nowhere and went nowhere. He felt a tug at his hair, and he jerked his eyes open. He lay on the floor in his chambers, curled in a ball and clutching his head. He patted the cat that was licking his hair and realized his head no longer hurt. For the first time in weeks, he could think without experiencing the stabbing pain, and he knew.

  Rezkin leapt to his feet and grabbed his sword belt. Unlike in his dream, he was already dressed with knives and other small weapons secreted about his person. He strapped his Sheyalins to his hips and the black sword across his back and rushed out the door. He did not stop to greet the people he passed on the way. He made his way to the wing where the women were staying. He had given orders for everyone to stay in pairs, so although the palace afforded plenty of space, they shared rooms. He pounded on the door that had recently been installed, but after several attempts, no one answered. He went to the next door and banged on it until it opened.

  Frisha said, “Rezkin? What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “Have you seen Yserria?” he said in a rush.

  “Um, no, not for a while. She was to escort Ilanet to the garden.”

  “Then you have not seen Ilanet either?”

  Frisha was finally overcome with alarm. “No, what’s wrong? Are they missing?”

  “Just … who is with you?” Rezkin asked.

  She stood to one side so that he could see past her. Shiela, Malcius, and Brandt were all in the room watching them with pensive expressions.

  “Good, you all stay here. I will send for you if your assistance is required.”

  Kai and Shezar rounded the corner in a hurry.

  “What is wrong?” Kai asked. “The phantoms said you needed us.

  “Shielreyah!” Rezkin called. They did not appear. “They came to you?” he said.

  Kai nodded. “Yes, it was Elry, I think.”

  “Yeshri came to me,” Shezar said.

  “They do not respond to my summons,” Rezkin said. “Have either of you seen Yserria or Ilanet?”

  “Yes,” said Shezar. “I just left Ilanet. She was watching the life mage class in the garden.”

  “What of Yserria?” Rezkin said.

  Both men shook their heads.

  He finally said, “Yserria has disappeared.”

  Everyone gasped and began talking at once. He had a sudden thought. He caught Frisha’s attention and said, “Where is the tree?”

  “Um, what tree?” she asked, still distracted by the upsetting news.

  “The little tree—the one from the ship,” he said. “Where is it?”

  Frisha shook her head, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. “I don’t know, Rez. I haven’t seen it since we got here. Shouldn’t we go look for Yserria?”

  Rezkin turned and strode down the corridor toward the throne room. He needed to find out what was happening to the missing people. Until now, all of those missing had been people who had joined their party or arrived on the island after Serret—after he had made the deal with the katerghen. He had no idea if that made a difference, but he knew that if something happened to Yserria, Bilior would have a problem. He needed to speak with the little ancient, but he had no idea where to find him. Like Frisha, he had not seen the creature since they had arrived.

  As soon as he got to the throne room, he started shoving crates aside. Everyone had apparently followed in his wake, even Shiela, and most of them started doing the same. Once the crates were out of the way, Rezkin opened the chamber doors. Just as in the dream, he felt a sense of foreboding about entering the hallowed place. Also like in the dream, the vast chamber was mostly dark. He could not see the far walls or the ceiling, but in the center glowed the pedestal, lit by an unknown overhead source.

  He stepped into the room, and the floor around his feet glowed. The light followed him as he moved toward the pedestal, his gut tightening with each step. A familiar melody began to play in his mind. It was the soothing sound that sometimes accompanied his deepest state of meditation. The tenseness in his shoulders began to ease, and he worried that something was trying to steal his acuity.

  “Rez?” came a hesitant call from the doorway.

  He glanced back to see that one of the shielreyah was preventing his companions from entering the room. He did not know if the wraith was simply following his standing orders or if it wanted him alone. He shook his head at Frisha’s anxious gaze and then turned back to the pedestal. Before stepping upon it, he surveyed the chairs around him. Each one would have been a magnificent throne in any other kingdom, but in this place, there were seventeen, and they hovered above the ground as if suspended by invisible cords. Unlike in his dream, the crystals on the backs of the chairs did not glow with the topaz lightning, and no corpses occupied the seats. Although the evidence of death was absent, somehow the room felt less alive without the mummies.

  Remembering his purpose, Rezkin’s renewed sense of urgency pressed him to take his place. He stepped upon the pedestal and rocked as it unexpectedly began to rise. It ascended high enough that if he fell, it would be to his death. He looked down at his friends who were gathered at the threshold looking up at him. They appeared small, yet still he could see the dread on their upturned faces. Around him, small points of light began to glow in the gloom. They grew larger as they moved toward him. Then each erupted into a swirling chaos of colors that seemed to fill the vast emptiness of the chamber. An icy tendril snaked toward him, lashing him in the chest. Another struck from the side and then another. A face appeared in the mass of vapors, and it sailed at him with a shriek.

  He resolved to hold his ground and met the wraith with determined focus. He envisioned himself smashing through the phantom, a stronghold against the storm, dispelling its wispy vapors with ease. His efforts were in vain. As the wraith struck, an icy spear seized his will and struck at his core. Rezkin was thrown from the pedestal, and he heard his friends scream as he toppled to the ground. He landed on his back with a crunch as dust was tossed into the air around him. The searing pain of crushed bones did not assail him as he had anticipated. His mind spun as he tried to determine how the hard stone of the throne room could have cushioned his fall. A sense of stillness enveloped him as his eyes tried to focus on the darkness above. Tiny specks twinkled over him, and dark, shadowy tendrils threatened to block out their light. He blinked several times trying to make sense of the vision. His chest began to burn, and he realized he had not taken a breath since striking the ground. The muscles surrounding his lungs refused to heed his call, and he struggled to gain control before, finally, they released and sweet air was sucked into the vacant vessels.

  He rolled to his side as he coughed and choked on the new sensation of breath, his fingers digging into the earth beneath him. His vision swam and his eyes watered, but when he could finally see again, he realized what the terrible crunch upon landing had been. He lay on a rich soil covered in detritus, the sticks and leaves beneath him crushed. Turning his gaze upward, he saw that the tiny specks were stars and the black tendrils, branches swaying in the breeze.

  Lurching to his feet, he drew his swords in
preparation for attack. He was surrounded by towering sentries, but none were likely to move. The trees were massive and gnarled, appearing as ancient as the citadel he now called home. That citadel was gone, now, and he was surrounded by thick forest. In the depths of darkness, he could feel a presence, but he could not place it. The sensation was everywhere, all around him, yet nothing stirred save the wind through the trees.

  Then, he saw it—the silvery-red glow of moonlight reflected off animalistic eyes. First one set, then another, and another. They appeared everywhere, and they were advancing. Something seemed off, but he was struggling to find the pieces that were missing. His mind racing, a vision came to the forefront of his memory. A black sky with tiny specks of light and dark tendrils. There was no moon that night. From where was the light of the creatures’ eyes emanating. It seemed an insignificant detail, and yet he felt it was important. He risked removing his gaze from the advancing creatures for only a second to investigate. It was him. He was the source of light. Not his weapons or any other possession, but his very person was radiating energy.

  Rezkin’s eyes lifted just in time to catch a glimpse of the first creature to strike him. It was roughly the size and shape of a human small-one, completely hairless, its skin pure white and wrinkled with black eyes and red lips, behind which sharp, serrated teeth dripped with saliva. Its black nails dug into his armor as it tried sink its teeth into his throat. Its hisses were joined by the hisses of dozens more. It collided with three others as he thrust the first away from him. He felt the throbbing jab of tiny teeth in the back of his neck, and claws slashed at his hands where he gripped his swords. He spun to throw the creature from his back, but it clung to him. His swords slashed through two more with ease, spraying blood across the others.

  The creatures were unnaturally fast, faster than anything he had previously fought; but unlike the drauglics he had encountered during his training, these creatures’ skin could not withstand the razor edge and strength of steel. He sliced through the attackers as he backed his way toward a tree and then drove himself into its trunk. A terrible crunch reverberated through his torso as the creature on his back was crushed against the sturdy, old wood. It released his neck as it shrieked with its last breath. Now that he was free, he moved faster, hoping to at least match the frantic speed of the creatures. He thrust, sliced, kicked, and stomped the fiends until no more assailed him. He breathed heavily as he appraised the carnage. White flesh, crushed bone, and crimson blood littered the ground. Some of the creatures continued to twitch and grasp even after having lost half of their bodies.

  Rezkin scanned the forest and sky for any clues as to where he might be or in which direction he was supposed to travel. He knew that, somehow, this had to do with Yserria and the others’ disappearance, so he wondered if these creatures were involved. While the others who had disappeared were vulnerable, he could not imagine their easily taking Yserria. If they had swarmed her with so many, though, she might have succumbed. Still, some evidence should have been left for his people to investigate.

  He circled the area using the light of his own body to search for clues. The creatures seemed to have come from every direction, but one held the largest concentration of tracks and broken branches. He followed the trail through the dark, ever cognizant that other things could be stalking him. Strange sounds began to reach his ears. Yips and hollers and cackling hisses. A woman screamed, a blood-curdling wail, and a cacophony of growls and gaggling chirps followed. A yellow glow seeped through the gloom, and a dance of shadows played in the firelight.

  Rezkin edged closer to the clearing that smelled of putrid, rotting flesh. A breeze swept the heat of the fire over his face, and the scent was mixed with a noxious odor of burning hair and bone that threatened to choke him. Concerned that his enemies might see the light that filled the air around him, he crouched low behind the underbrush. He doubted it would do much good if any looked his way. He glowed like a beacon, beckoning the hostiles to attack. By the way the shadows stretched up the cliff across the clearing, he realized the fire had to be coming from somewhere below. He sheathed Bladesunder and gripped Kingslayer as he crawled forward on his belly, frustrated each time one of his sword hilts caught on the branches, roots, and rocks. His head came free of a particularly thick tangle of limbs, and he nearly dived over the edge of a steep drop.

  Thirty feet below, in a chasm, was a pool of black water, from the center of which erupted a slab of rock bearing a flaming pyre. Surrounding the pyre were six monoliths, each possessing one of the missing people from the citadel standing and trussed by thick ropes. Although they suffered no obvious signs of serious injury, a few looked half dead already, probably from days without food or water. On the far side, Rezkin spied Yserria. She appeared to be unconscious, her head hanging forward, painted with partially dried blood that had spilled down one side of her face and neck.

  Of the raucous enemies that were making such disturbing and unrelenting sounds, he saw no sign. Still he heard the wail and chitters, but the source eluded him. He backed away from the edge and skirted the perimeter, peeking down into the chasm every so often to survey it from different vantages. When he reached the side where Yserria was bound, he was nearly to the mountainside cliff, and still he could not see the creatures making the noises. Then a glow came toward the pool from a shadow in the cliff below where he had been hiding. A moment later, a torch came into view, carried by a figure in a dark, hooded robe. Rezkin realized that the cloaked figure was emerging from a cave. It was from there that the noises were originating, and then they echoed off the walls of the chasm to sound as if coming from everywhere.

  Rezkin now saw a small path that led from the cave to the stone slab and another that passed around the pool at the base of the cliff. The figure took the second path toward the opposite end of the chasm and past the pool where he disappeared into the dark. Rezkin wanted to follow the figure, but the prisoners were his priority. He did not know if the mysterious figure would be returning soon or how many more were down in the cave, so he had to move quickly. He had another problem, though. Once he had freed the people, what would he do with them. A few looked like they would not be able to walk, and Yserria had not shown any signs of rousing. In addition, he had no idea how to get back to the citadel. He did not even know if he was still on the island.

  Rezkin backed away from the edge intending to return to where he could climb down onto the walkway, when suddenly he fell backward … and kept falling. His breath was once again dispelled from his lungs as he slammed into hard stone. Kingslayer went sliding across the ground as it was forced from his grip. Knowing, now, that there was a good possibility of immediate attack, he had drawn a dagger and rolled to his feet before even managing to catch a breath. He blinked several times to clear his blurred vision and then spied several indistinct figures running at him. He heard shouts and the thunder of footsteps, and he prepared to defend himself as his mind worked to catch up to the present.

  “Rezkin, Rezkin, can you hear me?” someone was saying.

  The voice sounded familiar and concerned, so he did not attack when he was jostled.

  “Step back!” said a deep, male voice. “He is not yet cognizant of his surroundings.”

  Rezkin recognized the voices and was somewhat confident they would not take advantage of his momentary vulnerability, but he was still hesitant to put away his weapon. He inhaled deeply and blinked several more times as the world began to right itself. Finally, he recognized the faces of his friends, looking at him with trepidation.

  “I am well,” he muttered.

  He surveyed the thrones, all of which were currently occupied by misty blue wraiths that stared at him expectantly. The others followed his gaze but did not seem surprised. His friends had joined him in the middle of the throne room, apparently having been allowed to enter when the shielreyah took their seats.

  “He lives,” said Manaua.

  “The gates are open to him,” Opohl intoned.


  “His strength is sufficient,” Elry said.

  Then they all disappeared, and the entire room was cast in darkness save for the light of the pedestal that had returned to its original position.

  “Rezkin,” Frisha said, as she clutched at his arms looking for something. “Are you hurt? Did you break anything?”

  “No,” he said. “I am not broken. The leaves and dirt broke my fall.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Rezkin, did you hit your head? There are no leaves and dirt here.”

  “No,” said Brandt as he pulled a twig from Rezkin’s hair, “but there are on him.”

  “Are these scratches?” Frisha said, examining his hands.

  “They look more like claw marks,” said Kai as he circled Rezkin. He tugged at Rezkin’s collar. “Is this a bite mark? It looks nasty. We need to get that cleaned.”

  “What happened? Where did you get all this?” Frisha asked as she studied the livid, bleeding marks.

  He finally turned to her and said, “What did you see?”

  “What do you mean? We saw you fall from up there,” she said, pointing toward the ceiling.

  “That is all? I just fell?”

  “Yes,” said Brandt, “and then you smacked into the floor. I thought for sure you would be dead.”

  Malcius stood behind them glaring at him, although Rezkin did not know the reason for his hostility. Shiela appeared pale and clung to Shezar’s arm as though he might save her from falling. Rezkin glanced one more time at the pedestal and the now vacant thrones.

  “Let us reconvene in the war room. Prepare the troops—all of them, including the mages. We must make haste.”

  With his officers and mages gathered in the war room, Rezkin perused the map they had been making of the island from their explorations. It was far from complete, but he could at least narrow down possible locations.

  “Have any of the patrols reported a chasm near the mountains? One that is filled with water and has a stone slab in the center.”

  Chieftain Gurrell stepped forward. “We have been seeing this place at the foot of the northeastern slope of the bowl.” He pointed to the spot on the map and said, “We did hike to it in two or three hours.”