The Sword of Einiko (Swords of the Bloodline Book 2)

by A. R. Wilson

  “Kid—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “You have been my friend and neighbor for twenty years. You know the history of Bondurant better than most.”

  “Better than any.”

  “And how many tales involve a hero who never experienced fear?”

  Kidelar’s mouth screwed to the side.

  “You know as well as I that bravery isn’t a lack of fear. It’s a desire to do the right thing, regardless of what we fear.”

  “And what do you fear Jurren?”

  “I’m afraid of losing you to a warlock who probably isn’t even as smart as you.”

  A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You keep using that to flatter me.”

  “Flattery is for my wife, and begging the mercy of kings. Encouragement is for my friends who have forgotten what they used to teach.”

  Kidelar let out a nervous laugh. “It is a noble matter to spur on strength in another. However, living such a concept is a different matter entirely.”

  “Difficult is not the same as impossible. We’ll get through this together.” Putting out his hand, Jurren moved to grab him at the forearm. “I bind it in oath.”

  Accepting the gesture, Kidelar stood a little taller. “And so we are bound. We will get through this together.”

  He nodded, relieved to see the expression of resolve melting into the scholar’s features.

  They set out. Jurren took a turn carrying Azredan’s pack. Arkose took up the rear as usual, giving him that same look since Jurren discovered the change in his ears. For hours they marched, taking dozens of turns as Jurren listened to that inner knowing, nudging him forward. By late afternoon, they came to a place where the floor began to slope downward.

  “This is it. Time to play the warlock’s little game.” Arkose came to stand next to Jurren.

  “I can do this.” Kidelar bobbed his chin, gripping the straps of his pack. “I can absolutely do this.”

  “Good man.” Jurren slapped Kidelar’s shoulder and kept walking.

  Within two more turns, the walls switched from a slab of rock to stones encased in mortar. Further on, they opened in a wide expanse. The ground continued to slope away, dozens of feet below them. A thick, dark cloud blanketed the valley, its mist lingering near their feet. Ripples of dense vapor stretched out to the horizon, where a tiny shift in detail indicated the walls of the labyrinth on the other side. Bright pockets of light flashed here and there in the cloud with no rumble of thunder.

  “Courage men.” Jurren walked into the mist.

  At the bottom of the slope, the ground changed from dirt and stone to loose sand. Looking up, Jurren saw the cloud had vanished. A bright, clear sky boasted a sunny day. He turned to see Arkose’s expression. Nothing but sand in all directions. The walls of the labyrinth were gone. His companions were gone. Only sand below and blue sky above. He walked back several paces, hoping to pull out of the illusion created by the cloud. After counting twenty steps, he stopped and looked back. Nothing behind him.

  Not even a single footprint in the sand.

  “Arkose?”

  The silence mocked him as he waited for a response.

  “Kidelar?”

  Not even the feel of a breeze on his skin. Nor a single echo. He called out for them again, shouting with as much force as his throat could produce.

  Silence.

  “What is this?”

  Was he still in the labyrinth? Or had the spell which created the cloud transported him to another place, like the quick paths in Chlopahn? He closed his eyes to focus on his inner knowing. Something screeched to the right of him. He snapped his eyes open. Scanning right then left, he found nothing. He spun on his heel to take in a full view of the area. Only sand below and blue above. When he tried to close his eyes to focus, the same screech happened again. And again. As long as his eyes were open, he saw only the empty desert. But each time he closed his eyes for longer than a blink, the sounds of powerful creatures screamed at him.

  “Okay. So no concentration allowed in this little game.” He slung Azredan’s pack onto his other arm, and started walking.

  Several minutes passed as he marched in the soft sand. When his legs started tiring, he knew he must have been walking for hours. But with the sun in the same place as it had been since he entered this world, he couldn’t tell. So he kept going. When the fatigue in his joints turned to pain, he wondered if he should stop to rest. Was the trick to mastering this place to make the trek across in one stint or to simply make it to the other side eventually? Wherever the other side was.

  He stopped. Behind him ran a blank expanse of sand stretching out as though he hadn’t taken a single step. The discomfort in his back proclaimed otherwise.

  Setting Azredan’s pack down, he aimed it to point in the direction he thought he needed to go. If anything disoriented him, he wanted a reference to pick up his path again. Taking a few steps back, he set down his own pack and lined it up to the first one. After a few stretches, he pulled out his waterbag and took the last drink. He ate a few acorns, then used his travel pack for a pillow. Pulling his hood down low to block the glaring sun, he kept his eyes open. He wondered if Kidelar was in a similar place. Especially, if the scholar had enough water to take him to the other side.

  A couple hours passed, and the ache in his joints lessen. He tried to sit up, but his back ached too much to move. Rolling onto his side felt as though his elbows no longer had the strength to support his weight. Tucking up his knees, the same weakness spread into his legs. He tried to force himself up onto all fours. When his arms gave out, he got a mouthful of sand. Sputtering against the grit, he spit out as much as he could. His hip lowered in the sand. Rolling onto his back, he felt his torso sink. He clawed at the loose ground, trying to move away from whatever was happening, but his strength had failed. Little more than flopping motions came from his arms as the tan grains swallowed him. He managed a deep breath before his head went under.

  Gray walls surrounded him. He was back in the labyrinth. Cool stone pressed against his cheek. The two packs rested a short distance away. What is happening? The snort of a minotaur blew and grunted somewhere behind him. He rolled onto his side, fighting for the strength to pull out his sword.

  Jurren glanced right and left. No minotaur. But then he heard a scream. One which had haunted both his sleeping and waking hours since beginning this quest: the anguished cry as Tascana was lifted away by a horsk dragon. Shivers raced along his prickled skin.

  Which direction was it coming from?

  “Little Mally!”

  Each syllable of her nickname caused him to relive the sight of her flying away that night. The image of two powerful wings above two dangling legs remained seared in his memory. He called again, struggling to gain his feet. Her scream echoed all around him. Suddenly, vigor returned to him and he sprinted down the corridor, calling her name again. Tascana’s scream came from behind him. He ran in that direction, only to wonder if it came from his left. Down this passage and that, he raced to find her, and put his sword through whatever was causing her pain.

  On and on he chased after her voice. And always, it withdrew more this way or back that way. When the burning of his lungs could be ignored no more, he dropped to his knees. He had failed her again. Gasping, shaking, he felt the sting of tears starting to come.

  I tried.... I tried so hard.

  “Father!” Tascana’s voice sang out over the stone walls.

  Jurren’s brow furrowed, his gut clenching. Then, he sat back on his haunches.

  She never uses that name for me.

  “Help me Father! Why won’t you help me?”

  Her urgent cry burned in his ears, but he now understood the origin of that voice. Somehow, this Fear could tap into the secret worries of his heart. Yes, he feared the possibility of failing his daughter, but he wouldn’t give in this delusion. It wasn’t her that called out to him. Though the spell could mimic Tascana’s voice, it hadn’t copied her
mannerisms. His precious Little Mally had always called him Daddy. Even when most other children in Bondurant used the more formal ‘Father’. This wasn’t real. It was a test. A game to poke and jab at the fears which lurked in the back of his mind.

  Ignoring the next series of screams, he chose to rest his wearied muscles. After several agonizing minutes, he rose to meander through the corridors to find the two packs. Each cry sent a shiver into his very bones, but he refused to chase after it. The words were not from her. They were carrots hanging out before a beast of burden and he was no donkey. Pressing his hands over his ears, he tried to focus on that inner knowing. Several minutes passed before he found the packs and slung his into place. He looped the second one over his arm. Then, he turned and walked towards the next gap.

  Down the corridor, he saw an opening to a grove. Relieved for a chance to refill his waterbag, he hurried towards it. Marching through the grass, he headed towards the forest in the distance.

  A voice called to him after he passed the first line of trees. “I did not hear of your return.”

  The tone and inflection of the speaker gave Jurren a new prickling of chills. He pivoted his head only enough to confirm Neywan standing a few yards away. The mentor who refused to speak in Jurren’s defense at the trial for his banishment.

  “I always hoped you would find a way home, Jurren.” The man’s sandy blond hair brushed the tops of his shoulders. An off-white robe hung from to the forest floor, standard dress for a Highlander.

  Jurren looked across the field behind him. The passage which brought him to this place no longer existed. He was trapped here, as he had been trapped in the sandy desert.

  “This isn’t real.” Jurren walked away.

  “When did you get back? Threnody and Erlafoss didn’t say a word to me this morning.”

  He didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. This wasn’t real, and as soon as he made it to the other side of this pocket of insanity, the world would return to normal again.

  Neywan gripped Jurren’s shoulder to turn him around. “Speak to me.”

  In one motion, Jurren spun and punched Neywan below the nose. The Highlander stumbled into the base of a tree, cupping his hands over his mouth.

  “What has possessed you?” He coughed, easing up into a seated position. “You cannot possibly still be angry that I agreed to your banishment. Surely by now, you realize it was in the best interest of Orison.”

  Nope. Jurren merely shook his head. This wasn’t real and he had no intentions of having this conversation. The best way to be rid of it was to hurry across to the next horror. Up ahead, a tall, white dome stood above the trees. Its sight revived the memory of the five kros spells he had received in that place. The joy and healing, of both mind and spirit, were not a spell at all, but an antidote. Everyone living on Orison was actually an elf. The arrogance of the Highlanders made so much more sense when compared against those who lived in Chlopahn. Superiority and arrogance must be a common trait among elves.

  Jurren changed course to avoid the city of Ukiah. There was not a single person living there that he wanted to come across in this illusion. Except perhaps his sister Tarin. But he knew any vision of her would be of no more substance than Tascana’s urgent cries. As he marched forward, Neywan ran to catch up.

  The man held a wad of cloth up to the corner of his bleeding mouth. “I personally oversaw the upkeep on your home.” Neywan pointed back to Ukiah. “It’s this way.”

  Pretending not to hear the offer, he walked on.

  “Jurren, please. The Mistress of Knowledge has been anxious to speak to you upon your return.”

  Spinning on his heel, Jurren withdrew his sword. “One more step.”

  “Speak to me. Why else did you come back, if not to rejoin us? You must know by now that The Eldest could not risk allowing your sister to live.”

  “This isn’t real. You’re a character in a spell meant to trick me into believing I’m back on Orison. It won’t work. I’m stronger than that.”

  A flurry of color surrounded Jurren. Butterflies of every size, hue, and variety swirled around him, as they had done many times before when he was on this island. Messengers of the Mistress of Knowledge. She had taken special interest in Jurren since his first kros spell, always interrupting the ceremony with her little minions.

  He slashed to scatter them. His efforts passed right through as they flittered out of the way. Jurren swiped again without hitting a single one. Tired and frustrated, he turned to leave. The butterflies created a tornado of color around him. Swinging his sword, he continued his march. They pulled in close, obscuring his view. He stopped. Flapping color dissipated as the little insects scattered into the trees.

  “Jurren, please. The Mistress of Knowledge has foretold your arrival for the past two months. She eagerly waits to have an audience with you.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “I’m not the same man who sailed away from these shores twenty years ago.”

  “Clearly.” Neywan’s eyes shifted to the side of Jurren’s head.

  “This is the real me and the real you.” Jurren pointed to his ear. “The reason why the kros spell heals us to eternal youth is because we are of the race of elves.”

  The lines in Neywan’s brow deepened. “You have learned much in your travels.”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew.”

  Jurren sneered a laugh, suppressing the urge to punch him again. “Of course you knew. Just like every other little secret you keep from the Lowlands, and Erlafoss, and anyone else you deem unworthy of truth.”

  “Truth has consequences, Jurren.”

  He took several calculated steps towards him. “You do not get to lecture me on the consequences of truth.”

  Neywan’s gaze flicked around Jurren’s face. “You must be hungry. Allow me to prepare you a meal.”

  “No.”

  “Jurren—”

  “If this is some kind of attempt to draw out all those old wounds, you can give up the ruse. I know none of this is real. The desert wasn’t real. My daughter’s screams weren’t real—”

  The expression on Neywan’s face cut Jurren off from finishing his thought. “You. Had. A daughter?”

  Ice prickled along the back of Jurren’s neck. Watching Neywan’s eyes widen, as the color drained from his cheeks, dared Jurren to believe this was more than a spell to make him face his fears. What if there truly was some kind of bridge between Einiko’s kingdom and the island of Orison? After all, the Ellium Bridge connected Chlopahn to that island.

  “Yes. I had a daughter.”

  Neywan took a few choppy breaths. Dropping the bloodied cloth, he thrust both hands to his head and stumbled backwards. Within a few steps, he hit a tree. The impact threw him forward enough to force him to his knees.

  “No, no, no.” He clawed at the sides of his robe. “The line of sons cannot be broken. I have seen the promise from the Fates.”

  “Maybe you should check to see if history was rewritten.”

  Neywan scowled at him, eyes firing invisible darts.

  Jurren shrugged. “You know as well as I that Highlanders are notorious for such acts.”

  “I must speak with The Eldest.” Neywan staggered to his feet. “I suggest you seek the Mistress of Knowledge.”

  Neywan trudged in the direction of Ukiah.

  Unsure of what to think, Jurren stood for several moments. Was he really back on Orison? And if so, how would he get back to the labyrinth? Surely Kidelar and Arkose had no hope of retrieving the Sword of Einiko without him. But he didn’t even know how he got here in the first place.

  He looked into the trees. Thousands of butterflies waited patiently among the leaves.

  “What does your mistress want of me?”

  The winged creatures jumped from their perches. First, they came together in one large mass, then stretched out to fly in a stream leading uphill. They resembled a giant living ribbon floating
in the air. And apparently, they wanted him to follow.

  Jurren gritted his teeth and dug his nails into his palms. He was supposed to be walking through a valley on his way to find his daughter. Not hiking through the woods of his previous life. What would happen to Tascana if he couldn’t find a way off this island? And Heluska. How was she going to survive the goblin army?

  His wrists started to twitch.

  Maybe, if he played along, the way back would present itself. What other choice was there?

  He followed the butterflies.

  CHAPTER 16

  Tascana sat in the library, flipping through the pages. When she found her place, she adjusted herself to sit with her legs tucked to the side. The name spoken by the unicorn bounced around inside Tascana’s mind. Who had chosen that name for the child? And what was all that ‘look for truth’ nonsense about? Uncertainty pecked around at her thoughts. It was as likely for the mare to be serving The Master, as it was for any of that vision to be a hint of hope. And yet, something didn’t fit. Why wasn’t Jerricoh behaving as though he expected her to receive a vision from the unicorn? He had even gone so far as to suggest her fear and loneliness caused her to sense something from the mare. Surely, during his years of living at the castle he learned the unicorns could communicate. Or was this somehow a unique gift only for her?

  Moving her eyes across the words on the page chased away every notion of the mare. Power, tension, and need had begun to swirl inside her.

  I choose this. I choose to stay here.

  The building nausea eased.

  For hours, she played the same game as yesterday. Read, feel ill, convince herself she wanted to study, relax, then read again. When Jerricoh stopped her for dinner, she marveled at how much of the book she had devoured. Another day like this, and she would be finished. Not that it gave her any level of satisfaction. Each passage increased the overspill of her soul. She was losing herself. How long until there was nothing left to care if she escaped?