by Brian Fuller
TRYSMOON
Book Four: Sacrifice
By
Brian K. Fuller
TRYSMOON
BOOK FOUR: SACRIFICE
Copyright © 2014 by Brian K. Fuller
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
Edited by Jessica Robbins [email protected]
briankfullerbooks.com
facebook.com/briankfullerbooks
ISBN-13: 978-1502806543
ISBN-10: 1502806541
For Jeff and Jenny:
Your enthusiasm kept me going.
CHAPTER 70 – CHARADE
For three days Mikkik’s armies marched up the narrow road to Echo Hold, and for three days the armies of men slaughtered them almost without casualty. Only the powerful longbows of the Uyumaak archers took some toll on the soldiers across the ravine, while their human counterparts devastated their enemies in return. Every new wave of creatures to ascend the mountain cast their dead comrades into the deep canyon, and the fresh Uyumaak often found themselves pierced by a well-aimed shot, tumbling over the side and down to join the dead.
The easy victories, low casualties, and balmy summer weather sent a surge of confidence through the ranks of besieged soldiers. Indeed, only the growing shortage of arrows to shoot at the reckless invaders concerned them.
On the fourth day Warlord Jarius of Aughmere extended the bridge across the ravine and sallied forth briefly to beat back a fresh wave of creatures and recover what few undamaged arrows they could find among the carnage. He returned, smile wide and face proud. “I believe I could push this whole army back down the mountain in a day!” he bragged.
Those with no sense of history took pleasure in what seemed more like sport than warfare, while the smiles of those with more lore never reached their eyes as unsettling stories of the past preoccupied their minds with dark speculation. Mikkik had more than Uyumaak at his command, and he had more intelligence than to just throw away Uyumaak in droves day after day. The tales of the First and Second Mikkikian Wars held but few mentions of victory, and what victories there were cost plenty in blood and sacrifice.
Lord and Lady Khairn, safe within the keep, had little to occupy them during the long days of battle. Athan encouraged Chertanne to practice with the sword every day, though the nervous King could rarely stop fidgeting and pacing long enough to work up a serious will to accomplish anything. Dread cast his features into wrinkled contortions, and his muttered phrases of self-deprecation—uttered in long dialogues with himself—set the Chalaine to worrying. Athan’s discipline allowed him to present a calm demeanor, but the Chalaine could pick out the little habits that revealed the Churchman’s concern. She wondered if his thumb had a fingernail left at all.
What hope the Chalaine held to sprang from her protruding, uncomfortable belly. She felt like an engorged pumpkin propped up on two twigs, but the baby’s pronounced and sometimes painful movements always brightened her heart, whatever the cost to her back. She wanted to believe herself a beautiful pregnant woman, but the giant lump of her belly destroyed whatever grace she could lay claim to. She mostly laughed at her awkwardness, realizing it signaled the end of one journey and hopefully the start of a better.
She rarely spent time with anyone other than Chertanne and Athan, and their thoughts rarely wandered from the potential doom that awaited at Mikkik’s hand. Only her shy, though capable, handmaiden—handpicked by Athan to replace Mena—offered the occasional ray of excitement and cheer, although even that was subdued. Her mother and Gen, she knew, waited somewhere outside of Echo Hold, and she dearly wished for their company and fretted that outside the protective walls more sinister danger might befall them.
Soon, she thought. Soon this will all be over, one way or another.
A tightening across her belly ended all purposeful thought and clenched her jaw. The contractions had come with increasing frequency and pain all morning. She exhaled sharply as the tension increased. Chertanne, however, did not break from his pacing or even look up despite her increasingly obvious distress. Their wide room on the second floor of the keep provided an ample track for her husband to traverse in the throes of his anxiety.
Sometimes he would slide the sword from his scabbard and thrust it weakly about, and the Chalaine had to bite her lip to keep herself from critiquing his every move. She understood why Samian spent so much time teaching her to draw a sword and move about with it. Every time Chertanne unsheathed the sword, he seemed like a blacksmith’s new apprentice staring at some strange implement pulled from an unfamiliar bag.
Her husband needed confidence, and the Chalaine could think of no way to lend it to him, especially considering her own doubts. Even with Gen at her side, she doubted she would face birthing the Child and confronting Mikkik with any degree of calm. At least she trusted Gen’s ability and loyalty. As it was, she suspected that at the first sign of Mikkik’s presence she would only catch sight of Chertanne sprinting in terror off into the distance just moments before the evil god annihilated them all.
Another tightening came and she gritted her teeth. Is it really going to hurt this badly? This time a grunt escaped her lips and Chertanne did turn, face screwing up into a question before he sheathed his sword on the second try. She breathed deeply and quickly until the contraction passed.
“Are you all right?” Chertanne asked, not stepping closer but staring at her as if she had the plague. The Chalaine felt a sudden wetness.
“Get Athan!” she yelled. Chertanne scurried out of the room as if death dogged his heels.
“What is Mikkik up to?” Torbrand wondered aloud as he, Gen, and Falael lay on a precipice overlooking Echo Hold. They had split from Mirelle’s army nearly a week before and scrambled into the mountains to watch Mikkik’s host as they assaulted the mighty fortress. They hiked a goat track to the cliff that dropped nearly two hundred feet to the road below. In their packs they carried the cloaks of the elves with them and waited for the time when they would be able to drop from the cliff and strike.
“And why does Jarius keep shooting at them?” Torbrand continued. “Let them waste their arrows and starve, for Eldaloth’s sake! I imagine they would start jumping over the edge out of sheer boredom. I know I’ve thought about it several times just sitting here.”
Gen shook his head. He joined Torbrand in his puzzlement over Mikkik’s strategy, or lack thereof. History told that Mikkik never marched with his armies, preferring to scheme and plot in the shadows and let his underlings do the work and take the risks. Whomever he sent to command the armies below certainly cared nothing for the piles of Uyumaak stacking up on the canyon floor nor possessed any sort of military creativity.
But the more he thought about it, the more it nagged Gen. In the first two Mikkikian Wars, the dark god had sent creatures of flight—giant birds of prey, swarms of needling and poisonous insects, and soaring, dog-sized lizards with wide mouths and sharp teeth. None had come this time. No Magicians sent lightning or hail or wind to harry the enemy archers or to strike at the carefree soldiers manning powerful ballistae and devastating trebuchets that tore avenues of slaughter down the ranks of Uyumaak advancing up the mountainside.
The three spectators conjectured that perhaps the short time since Trysmoon’s return had prevented Mikkik from creating or breeding a significant force of creatures. But if that were the case, then why waste what army he had pounding away at a nearly impregnable castle? And if he had used Magicians against them during the journey to Elde Luri Mora to skew the weather, why not do so now? A good lightning storm over Echo Hold would likely kill more soldiers in a few minutes than the Uyumaak had in nearly four days.
Still, however perplexing the battl
e below, each day that passed brought them closer to Eldaloth’s advent and what prophecy outlined as the final drama. With any luck, the Chalaine would give birth within the safe confines of Echo Hold and never see Mikkik’s face. With a larger helping of luck, Chertanne’s participation in events wouldn’t doom them all to a lifetime of futile war against a mad god.
This is the final chapter, Gen thought. I will see the Chalaine and Mirelle again and be content. He found that he felt more for a rekindling of that joy than for any other good that could come from Eldaloth’s return.
After watching Jarius lead another attack across the retractable bridge, Gen returned to their meager camp. The rocky, steep inclines of the Far Reach Mountains challenged their climbing skills in their journey to reach their lofty overlook. Their cramped camp on a slightly sloping space between two granite outcroppings provided little more than a place to stow their gear and sleep, with a minimal chance of their rolling off the mountainside. Gen took up his waterskin and reclined, sensing another of the Chalaine’s frequent contractions. They had started earlier that day and steadily increased in frequency and duration. Now they came almost unrelentingly.
Time is short. Eldaloth comes.
After a few more minutes, the pain coming from the Chalaine escalated, and he stood, feeling the need to do something and finding nothing more than a short prayer to offer. Gen waited in the shadow of an upthrust rock, trying to get out of the afternoon sun. The low booming of distant drums caught his attention just as Torbrand scrambled down the rocky track to meet him.
“I think the time may have come at last, thank Eldaloth!” Torbrand announced, wild excitement in his eyes. “We’d better gear up. How is the Chalaine?”
“I think the baby is coming.”
“I think Mikkik is,” Torbrand grinned. “At last, some fun! Eldaloth better leave a few heads to chop. He will, won’t he?”
Gen shook his head, though he had expected his former master to be excited for all the wrong reasons. As quickly as they could, they donned their armor, Gen wearing the black and silver banded mail of the elves, while Torbrand donned his black and gold breastplate and greaves. Carrying all the weight of the armor up the mountain had nearly broken them both.
“Do not forget the cloak,” Gen admonished his enthusiastic companion who had already started back up the hill.
“Oh, yes. Are you sure this cloak does what you say it will?”
“Yes. If it doesn’t, you really won’t have a chance to get angry at me.”
The booming continued to mount, reverberating through the canyon and off the walls of Echo Hold. Gen and Torbrand reached the top, laying on their bellies and following Falael’s eyes down the canyon road. Gen had to push the Chalaine’s spectacular pain out of his mind to focus on the procession below. At first, only more Uyumaak ascended the road, but as the pounding drums grew louder, the gasps and oaths from Echo Hold’s soldiers mixed in with the cacophony.
“What do they see?” Torbrand asked of no one in particular.
A few moments later, what the men of the castle saw rounded the corner. Uyumaak warriors, some pounding massive, skin-covered drums, surrounded a hideous figure sitting on an oversized throne of burned wood bolted to a simple platform. Severed human heads, spiked into the wood through the temples, formed a border around the sides of the platform, the dark wood wet with blood.
Two Gagons hauled the contraption up the mountain road. The Gagons stood a full fifteen feet tall and were covered in a thick, scaly hide the color of dried mud. They walked hunched over, but their stout necks could telescope five feet long, letting the flat snake-like head whip around unpredictably. Deep brows protected beady eyes embedded on the sides of a head that consisted mostly of thick bone and teeth.
The hideous rider slumping forward on the throne extinguished all the cheer and excitement that had built up during the preceding days’ easy victories. In form, the creature was like the Millim Eri Gen had seen before, only twisted almost beyond recognition. Oozing pustules covered a skin that seemed to have been burned to black and then stretched over the hulking frame, angry red cracks crisscrossing everywhere to form islands of leathery flesh. Ebony earrings, three to an ear, swayed with the motion of the two Gagons. Only a loincloth adorned the naked frame, while a cloud of buzzing flies enveloped the dark passenger, feeding on the blood and pus and casting a shadow about the throne.
The bald head swiveled to take in everything around it, empty eye sockets filled with maggots and coalescing flies formed eerie eyes which scanned the fortress and canyon. A stench and feeling of dread clung about the creature, and even the nearby Uyumaak it passed shrank from it. Archers, trebuchets, and ballistae all let loose at once, but the veritable wall of projectiles simply evaporated into the summer air. The Gagons continued forward until they stood at the platform landing, Jarius calling a halt to the vain bombardment. Gen turned toward Torbrand and Falael, eyes widening. Both lay unconscious on the ground. A tingling sensation flooded Gen’s body, and in a moment he lost a familiar connection.
He could no longer sense the power of Trys.
Startled, he rolled over. Two figures floated just behind him, and in an instant all strength left him. Joranne, young and beautiful, smiled at him. The other figure, tall, dressed in white and looking commanding, regarded him coldly, but not without satisfaction. Recognition pierced Gen’s mind. Here stood Eldaloth’s murderer, the progenitor of horror and death, and his creator. Unlike the creature below, Mikkik radiated beauty, though his person held no glory or brilliancy.
“What do you think of my creation down there, Gen?” Joranne asked teasingly. “At first I thought the heads spiked on the platform a bit much, but now that I see their effect, there can be no doubt that my first inclination was correct. The flies and pus are a nice touch, don’t you agree? Everything horrible the simple race of men imagined Mikkik would be. I thought I would have him sit on a throne of bodies, but. . .”
“Enough, Joranne,” Mikkik’s commanded, voice deep and inviting. “Read him.”
Gen pushed against Joranne’s intrusion into his well-traveled mind, but her power battered away every defense he could throw against it as it had before. Once done, she turned to Mikkik and he absorbed the information without expression.
“As you are aware,” Mikkik continued. “I have stripped you of your power. You are nothing now. As a gift to you for your service in my behalf, I leave you your life, such as it is. You have played your part well.”
“And have a part yet to play,” Joranne added.
Confusion and helplessness rose within him. Had Mikkik really intended for him to do all that he had done? Had he duped the Millim Eri? The Chalaine’s pain spiked for several long moments, and Gen could focus on nothing more. At last it faded, and Mikkik flinched, pulling back slightly and snarling.
“He is born,” the dark god intoned gravely.
“Do you think you can unmake him?” Joranne asked.
“I must, but I cannot approach the creature. Its cries sear me like summer fire. The blood is much stronger than it should be, and I cannot come near it.” His troubled face relaxed after a moment, though doubt left a residue in his eyes. “It is nearly time. Let the parley begin.”
Joranne floated to Gen. “You’ll appreciate the theatricality. Watch.”
With a wave of her hand, she flipped him over and scooted his body forward until his head hung over the precipice. The two warring armies remained at a stalemate in the afternoon heat, an uncomfortable silence born of awe and terror radiating from the fighters of Echo Hold. Joranne concentrated and incanted softly. Her monstrosity hauled itself from the throne and stood at the precipice of the canyon, regarding the castle with a lazy disdain.
“God is born!”
The cry rose from a single voice three times and then swelled as voice upon voice bore it up until it reverberated through the canyon. Soldiers’ faces beamed anew with hope, and handshakes and hugs of congratulations replaced the cowering of
moments before.
Wake up, you fools! Gen thought. With all his might he struggled against the spell that trapped him to the ground. Joranne chuckling at his attempts.
“Not yet, Gen. Soon.”
The monstrosity raised its arms, and dark clouds gathered about the base of the elevated castle, electricity crackling. “Hear me!” it bellowed, voice like black, boiling pitch poured into the air, so loud that every motion halted on both sides of the canyon. “Your revelry is in vain, worthless dogs of weak blood! Your race is a blight. Open your gates, and perhaps I will let the women escape the Uyumaak cook pots!”
“We will not open to you,” Warlord Jarius shouted confidently from the walls above the gate. “Our god will find you, and you will end!”
Gen could just make out Athan standing exultantly at the Warlord’s side. Lightning erupted from the clouds, and at least twenty burned men plummeted from the battlements.
“I will slay you!” the monstrosity said. “I will slay your god as I have before!”
“You will not!” Athan countered defiantly. “For here rules the Ha’Ulrich, one who holds the power of Eldaloth and your undoing! He comes to meet you and send you to your destruction. God is born, and you will soon be an unpleasant memory.”
The creature waited a few moments before a laugh pulled out of the Abyss tore from its throat. Joranne crouched by Gen. “Your performance is almost ready to begin.” The creature laughed for what seemed like hours, pulling down smiles and unpinning knees.
“Do you think,” it finally said, “do you think I came here in ignorance? I know well what I face.” The impostor Mikkik reached backward, and Gen felt himself yanked from the overhang and pulled downward toward the clawed, outstretched hand. It caught him by the back of the cloak, lifting him high. Gen, paralyzed, slumped like a freshly killed corpse. The soldiers gasped and murmured.
