The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2)

by Jerry Autieri

  Strange cries bounced down the corridor, sounds of celebration in a language beyond Syrus's understanding. The echoes swirled and collided into a watery mess, and if there were one or one hundred voices Syrus could not determine. He glanced at the torch, and Thorgis immediately threw it into the sand and crushed it out under his boot. Acrid smoke stung Syrus's nose and he closed his eyes in frustration. That scent alone would give them away.

  Thorgis drew Syrus's ear straight to his mouth and whispered, hot breath washing over his face. "Should we see who it is? Maybe Avadurians?"

  Yet those cries were more delirious and otherworldly than Syrus could ever explain. The sound made the back of his neck prickle. He shook his head to disagree, and then pointed at the outcropping. Perhaps Urdis had descended to the world after all. Hiding from a god behind a few rocks would be useless, yet he could think of nothing else.

  The voices died down, but a conversation of echoes drew closer through the black hall. Syrus and Thorgis both had only enough time to slip behind the stagelike outcropping where shadows flowed over them. Syrus squatted low and peered around the corner, Thorgis leaning over his shoulder to watch as well. Syrus had only a moment to glance around this part of the cavern. He discerned little in the bouncing light tumbling from above. There seemed many uneven humps of rock dotting a large expanse of blackness. He could not find an end point or exit. He might have backed himself against a wall for all he knew.

  Six tall, slender men entered into the shaft of light. They wore polished armor fashioned with both plate and chain and carried metal shields designed like sea shells. Long, fine hair of pale yellow or dirty white hung from beneath their simple helmets. From this distance, their faces were no more than caricatures of a thin man's face--shadows making black lines and dots of their features.

  They seemed as awestruck at the scale of the cavern as Syrus had been, each one silently looking up into the black. Their muttered words echoed and Syrus held his breath. If he could hear them this sharply, how well would his own motions be heard?

  Thorgis had not been as insightful and now withdrew to the side, his shoulder scraping the rock and loosening grit to fall over Syrus's shaved head. The six men turned toward the sound. Syrus remained frozen, watching, wondering if the men staring at him could find him in the shadows. He grabbed Thorgis's leg to halt him, and the prince drew still. No one, not him nor the six men, moved.

  The strange men stared into the darkness. Then one held something aloft. It was a chain shirt.

  "Little dog," said the man holding the heavy chain shirt in one hand as easily as a dish rag. "Come fetch your belongings."

  The laughter that echoed from his companions was as cold and dank as the draft moving through the cavern. Syrus ducked behind the rock outcropping, staring up into Thorgis's shadowed wide eyes.

  He whispered, "We're in trouble."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kafara slouched against the cold stone wall, weary and sleepy. She remembered trying to stand, then slipping down the wall until she sat on the floor. Through slit eyes she watched Turo struggle as well. He sat opposite of her in a circular room, leaning against a stone brick wall. His gray wool shirt was torn at the shoulder, and the sleeve hung limp around his hand. His head had flopped forward and his dark hair fell over his face. He seemed unable to raise his head any longer.

  The room was plain gray slate, cold and echoing, smelling of dust. A vague yellow light emanated from a spot on the ceiling, part of the ancient enchantments of ... where? Kafara could not remember where she was or the reason for her crushing weariness. She had been enraged, this much she remembered. There had been an argument, and a struggle. She peered at Turo again. His bare feet peeked from a plain brown robe, and drops of blood splattered the cuffs. It was not his blood.

  The room was featureless but for two stone slabs at the center, each with a plush red covering and pillow placed on it. Beyond that, a door of solid bronze now whorled with green patina was the only other note of interest. The ceiling was twice her height above, and the spot of light hovering there hurt to look at directly. She closed her eyes, an orange dot floating in the blackness of her sight.

  "Turo?" The weakness of her voice surprised her. "Where are we?"

  His head bobbed with the effort of raising it, revealing his tired face. His beard had grown ragged, curling wildly as he smiled. "Prison."

  His head fell forward again, and now he too slouched to the side and collapsed on the floor. Kafara wanted to ask more, but had no strength. Lying down seemed like the highest pleasure in life. Nothing would be sweeter. If she had the power, she would crawl to the slabs and flop onto the inviting cushions. It would be so much better than the chill, rough stone. She smoothed her simple blue dress over her legs. Her mouth was dry and tacky, and a lingering taste of something bitter clung to her. It was not an altogether unpleasant taste, holding the faint notes of berry. But she could not remember when she had last eaten a berry of any kind.

  The door began to rattle. She could barely see it through her heavy lids. Sleep was all she wanted, the cool, soothing blackness of sleep. Her eyes closed just as the door swung in with a loud, metallic creak.

  "Kafara? Turo? You're still awake?" The man's voice echoed in Kafara's head. She felt herself spiraling into a dizzying abyss even as footsteps approached.

  Warm hands, almost too hot to be human, grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

  The man spoke again, "We're not too late yet."

  "Turo is almost gone," said a female voice. Kafara liked the sound of it. It was a smoky voice that sounded welcoming like a gently crackling fire. She could be friends with someone with such a voice. A small smile came to her as her head spun faster and she felt herself sink deeper into darkness.

  "That they've fought it this long is amazing," said the man.

  He lifted Kafara up, and her head flopped back. It made her feel as if her head had fallen off and spun on the floor. She chuckled at the thought.

  "What is she laughing about, Tirkin?" asked the female voice, a spark of irritation in her voice.

  No answer came. Kafara felt something warm and wet flowing over her lips. The fluid ran down her chin and puddled in the hollow of her neck.

  "You're wasting it," the female voice said.

  "She won't hold still. Come on, Kafara, be a good girl." The words echoed down a long tunnel. She wanted to help them. The fluid tasted salty. Was it blood? No. It was thin like water and as it trickled down her throat the dizziness abated. "That's it," said the man. "Drink up. We've not much time."

  The spinning stopped and something that felt like a hot, wet blanket that had been smothering her now suddenly pulled aside. Her mind was returning. Her eyes snapped open as if she were awakening from a nightmare. In fact, she was.

  Tirkin, the Prime of fire, cradled her head in the crook of his left arm while he held a small skin to her lips. His long thin hair was like wisps of fire flowing from his head. His sharp nose dominated a face now creasing with a smile. "You're waking up. Good!"

  "I'm losing Turo," said the woman with the warm voice.

  Everything flooded back to Kafara. There had been a council held in the ancient stronghold of the Manifested, Vanikka. She and Turo had been accused of breaking the pact with the Tsal, and were sentenced to sit out their return to the world. Myrakka and Kelata, the eldest Dyad, had forced them to drink pitea berry juice. In small measure the juice soothed the pains of the Manifested, but in a large dose it could poison them into torpor. Myrakka knew how to make it strong enough to last centuries.

  "Let me speak to him," Kafara said. She forced herself up, and Tirkin helped her stand. The room swam for a moment. The salty taste of the pitea berry antidote lingered on her tongue, and in another breath she stabilized. She reached out with her mind, contacting him at his deepest thoughts where he would still be awake.

  Turo, she thought, drink the antidote. You've been poisoned with pitea berry. Myrakka wants us silenced for this age of the
world, but we cannot sleep yet. You must come back to me.

  She felt his strength, rage, and power. He was her Cohort, the channel through which all magic power flowed to her. If either of them had to fight, he had the most energy for it. A primal roar like a jungle cat echoed through her mind and she smiled. Turo's eyes opened.

  "He's drinking," said the woman. Kafara now recalled her as Storra, the Cohort to Tirkin. She was a slender woman whose figure and clear skin made her seem little more than a teenaged girl. She wore her flame-red hair blunt at her shoulders. Holding Turo's head up, she tipped a small skin to his lips and gave a warm laugh. "He's waking up."

  "I thought you would not have lasted," Tirkin said. Kafara turned back to him. He wore a simple traveling cloak of brown over his red shirt. Various pouches and bags were slung across his body, each one bulging with its load.

  "How long?" she asked.

  "Two days," Tirkin said. His eyes fell and he winced. "It was as fast as I could return after--well, after the chaos."

  Kafara remembered the fight that ensued when Kelata brought out the pitea berry juice. Only twice before had it been forced on any Manifested, and both times were for heinous abuses of the Dyad's powers. The protest grew heated, and Turo gave himself over to the animal. When he transformed into a giant cat and raked a hunk of flesh from Kelata's gut, the brawl that ensued had been something never seen in all the ages of the world. The Manifested were openly fighting among themselves.

  She remembered Myrakka ordering obedience, but she was not a full-blown dominator. She could not gain control enough to cool the situation. Kafara was preparing to shift into a small form, a fly or an ant, and escape with Turo, but she had been caught up in the fight. She did not remember who had knocked her flat, but she had been dazed. It was all Myrakka needed to carry out her will. She did not recall more, but Turo must have been fed a heavier dose for all his rage.

  "I got the antidote and hurried back," Tirkin said, rubbing his arms as if cold. "I can't fly like you and Turo, so it took some time."

  "I'm glad someone came back," she said. Turo was now sitting up with Storra squatting beside him.

  "It seems we're divided," Storra said. "We believed what you said, and think as you do. The pact with the Tsal means nothing if the gods no longer have their eyes upon our world."

  "Not everyone feels the same," Tirkin added. "Which you experienced firsthand. Myrakka and Kelata want to hold to the old ways, and plenty are frightened enough of change to side with them."

  Kafara now crouched next to Turo, and began rubbing his arm as he returned from what could have become a sleep that lasted centuries. She had much to be upset about, from being forced into sleep to the stubborn resistance to see the truth, but now all she felt was relief at Turo's return. He gave her a wan smile as Storra tried to raise him to a sitting position.

  "But many were opposed to what was done to you," Storra said as she helped Turo sit up. "We are split between those who want to stop the Tsal and those who want abide by the pact. A few others haven't decided."

  Kafara shook her head in disgust. "And speaking of opposition, where is everyone now?"

  Storra glanced at Tirkin and their silence was an answer in itself. At last Tirkin answered. "After you two were subdued, the reason for the physical fight was over. Myrakka was ready to summon winds into the room if we continued. Those supporting you left, while the undecided or Myrakka's supporters remained behind. We lingered a bit to see what would happen next. Myrakka and Kelata have gone to ensure the nineteenth Dyad is truly dead, and left orders that you two were to be locked into your chambers while you slept. The others dispersed as well."

  "But the fight has begun, make no mistake," Storra said. "We were not the first to secure antidote to pitea berry. After that fight, trust is gone."

  Turo coughed and rubbed his temples, now sitting upright. He managed to speak in a heavy, dreamy voice. "As if trust ever existed. But thank you for saving us."

  "No guardians were set by this room," Tirkin said. "I wonder if they wanted you rescued, so you could lead an opposition that would justify more extreme measures."

  Kafara thought of the stone knife at Myrakka's hip. Would she use it on her? Kafara considered the birth stone she had taken from Grimwold's home. Would she craft it into a weapon capable of killing him with a stroke? She supposed if she thought he was using his powers for evil then she would. So why would Myrakka act differently?

  The silence of her brief thought drew everyone's attentions. She gave Turo a look that communicated as well as if they had touched minds. He was still groggy but the resolution in his expression spoke for him. She raised her voice, addressing everyone.

  "I think they trusted the pitea berry to keep us down. No need for guards when none could awaken us after the poison took hold. However, I have the same questions as Myrakka and Kelata. I do not believe that Grimwold and Lethos are dead yet. They are the nineteenth Dyad, and if the balance should claim one of us, it makes sense it would be them. But still, I have not sensed a death, and I believe neither has anyone else. We will follow Myrakka and Kelata to see for ourselves. The Tsal will be near as well. I want to understand what we face before we make any plans."

  "We should go with you," Tirkin said. Storra stood beside him now, nodding.

  "You should organize those who support us, and try to persuade those who have stood aside to join us." Kafara extended a hand to Turo, who took it and hauled himself up. "I'm making my own prediction. We must resist the return of the Tsal, but before that we must resist the stubbornness of our own kind. It could become violent."

  "It already has," Turo said. To emphasize his point, he shifted his hand into a clawed talon. "Centuries of games are over now. Let the fighting start."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lethos's head pounded with terror. The yard, filled with stone debris and heavy with the inexplicable scent of blood, was filling with shadow as the seven oddly armored men murmured among themselves and studied the skies. One was tossing the hay from the cart where Lethos had hidden Grimwold. Lethos could see the dark shape of his friend's body peeking through the thinning straw. He stared out the opened door of the fortress, clinging to its shadows like a freezing man holds his cloak. The wind rose and the discarded straw circled about the invaders' feet. Their pale hair lifted with the wind and one in the center held up both arms as if pleading silently with the sky. Another man with a tattered, old robe joined him.

  "Those are the men who rode the storm to the ground," Valda whispered over Lethos's shoulder. To him it sounded like a scream from a mountain peak, and he cringed. No one else seemed to notice. "The one closest to us is their leader. He called himself Avulash."

  Trapped like crabs in a bucket. The entire ruined curtain wall was like a gap-toothed smile mocking his hopes of escape. If he had Turo's abilities he could fly over the heads of these invaders, carrying Grimwold and Valda in one giant talon each. He could even shit on their heads for good measure. Yet instead he had an intermittent power to predict a few fortunate steps that kept him ahead of danger. It flowed through him like the piss of an old man, sometimes in great splashes and other times in a trickle. Damn, why get penned like this?

  The storm rider--what Lethos decided to call these men--at the cart pulled away an armful of hay and turned to drop it. Lethos saw Grimwold's boots.

  He had to act. He didn't know what else to do. That power of his wasn't flowing at all.

  "What are you fools doing?" he shouted.

  Behind him, Valda drew a sharp breath and punched him in the back. "What are you doing?"

  All seven men turned to face him. What was he doing? Keeping them from noticing Grimwold's legs, but what good would that do him now? His hand fell to the dagger at his waist. It felt like a child's toy compared to the long swords the storm riders carried. Their hands fell to the hilts of their weapons as well.

  "Flee inside," Lethos said to Valda without looking back. "I will hold them off."

 
"With your dinner knife? I hardly think so."

  He did not want to take his eye off the approaching storm riders, but he cast a glare over his shoulder. "You claim to remember me from the last year. Then you should know what I can do. Now get moving."

  The lead storm rider drew a long, thin blade from a plain scabbard. Along its length, geometric shapes of violet fire sprang to life and began to whirl around the blade. The leader, Avulash, was wickedly handsome. His features were thin and refined, flesh translucently pale, and his eyes were a simmering yellow that pierced Lethos's thoughts. He could feel a cold hand in his mind, much like when Grimwold contacted him, but far less welcoming. This was like a man ransacking a house. He shoved back and the feeling abated.

  Avulash smiled, revealing delicately pointed teeth. "Lethos of Rao-Kharos." He made the name of Lethos's homeland sound like a horrible disease. "You are a blackened and degenerate descendant of the slaves that work the oars of my ship, only you are less useful. You have seen my ark, yes? Yet you are a merely a pig in wonder of the lightning. You understand nothing."

  "I understand you killed the High King." That sounded a lot less dramatic than he had intended. He envied Grimwold for his big curses and even bigger threats. He might have just as well called Avulash a bad man, for all the impact he had.

  "That is what you called him, but he was both more and less than that." Avulash stepped closer, his blade of whirling symbols held before him. The six others drew thin swords that also seemed to shimmer in the gathering shadows, but lacked the grandeur of Avulash's sword. Lethos swallowed hard at the sight of it. It was much like Eldegris's blade, and that had been used to slay a demon. He did not want to discover Avulash's sword was its equal.

  "What have you done with his body?" Lethos drew his own dagger, deepening his feeling of inadequacy. It looked like an apple peeler compared to what it was arrayed against. Still, no one was looking at Grimwold's feet. If he could lure them back into the fortress, then he might lose them inside and circle back to grab Grimwold and flee.