by Brian Fuller
The memory of draining Gen’s blood she would never forget. “It was used to revive Chertanne from death. It was horrible.”
“Blood magic can only be used to annihilate or to heal. One can use the power of his own blood to heal another, but must use the willing blood of another to destroy. Blood ranges in power by race. The gods have the most powerful, while human blood holds so little power it is almost worthless. Almost.
“Within your veins, you carry the most powerful blood in Ki’Hal, and the power of blood is now the heart of the matter. I must show you why Mikkik is impersonating Eldaloth. It is an idea I gave him and that he amplified and twisted for his own ends. I must show you what happens to these pilgrims who have come to claim the offer of passing on to Erelinda. Take my hand again.”
The Chalaine took her wrinkled appendage, and Joranne pressed a memory upon her. Before her a line stretched before the front gates to the keep at Echo Hold, the pilgrims chatting excitedly about their coming journey to a world without fear, sickness, or pain. Many of those who came were old and infirm looking for relief, but children and families came, too. The Eldephaere led them through the gates, taking twenty at a time through the door of the keep where a young Joranne waited in what looked like a small hall. She was dressed in ceremonial white robes, her benevolent smile and inviting face hushing them as she raised her hands. The Eldephaere left and shut the door.
Joranne stepped forward, clasping her hands in front of her. “You have all chosen a great gift, the greatest of all the blessings with which Eldaloth can bless you. I have seen the world into which you will enter, and it is glorious. Follow me. Leave all your worries and your possessions here. Eternal peace and a freedom from sorrow await. Come into the presence of Eldaloth and taste your reward.”
She led the happy group through an archway and down a spiral staircase carved from the rock. Lanterns lit the way, and in that light the euphoria in the people’s gazes faded ever so slightly as the descent took them unexpectedly deep into the earth. At last, the journey ended at a beautiful, gilded door encrusted with jewels. Joranne produced a key and unlocked it, signaling the group to enter.
She led them in, the lamp the only illumination. The room was cylindrical, a mighty wooden beam rising from the center of the floor and shooting upward to disappear into darkness of the upper area of the chamber. Grooves etched into the floor emanated out from the post, deepening as they reached the edge of the room where they terminated in holes drilled in the floor.
“You may wonder why such things must be done in the deep of the earth,” Joranne said to the eager faces. “It is from the earth that life sprang, and Eldaloth’s power courses through these underground passages like the blood in your veins. I will leave, and the room will be dark. Kneel and pray these words which I give you:
Freely I give my body.
Freely I give my blood.
Freely take my life
To rest in Erelinda.
When Eldaloth hears you, a great light and a rushing like a mighty wind will carry you to Erelinda and a life of rest.”
With joy the pilgrims embraced one another and then knelt, smiles and tears gracing their faces. As one their chant to Eldaloth rose, and Joranne stepped out and shut the door. On the wall an iron lever waited, and she reached out and pulled it down. The rushing sound she so reverently promised came, not of wind but of something heavy falling. It terminated in an awful clang that shook the chamber. She opened the door, revealing a heavy metal platform that had descended and crushed the supplicants, their blood draining down the grooves and through the holes.
The Chalaine pulled away in horror, ending the vision. “You monster! Whose side are you on?”
“It’s not about sides, Chalaine,” Joranne scowled. “It’s about survival! Listen to me carefully. In order to get the power that he needs to destroy Elde Luri Mora, he will need the blood of countless thousands of the race of men. It may take months. Eldaloth needs your blood drained only seven times, which will save him time and more lives than you can count. But he fears you because that same blood is what is needed to destroy him, as the blade the Ilch used against him almost did.
“This is what matters. When you are before Mikkik, the only way his scheme will work is if you are willing to give the blood. You have the power to bargain. He may try to bargain for the life of your mother, who now stands condemned to die.”
“When?!” the Chalaine asked, mortified.
“Nothing is fixed. Athan will use her to try to persuade you to come, but even if you disagree he will take you. But when the time comes that you stand before Eldaloth, you must remember this: whatever the cost, the only bargain you should make is for your own life. If you do not, he will unmake you just as he did Chertanne and your baby. Once he has your blood, he will make the weapon. He cannot abide your presence for long. You may need to use that to your advantage. Remember, give your blood only in exchange for your life. You must remain alive if there is to be any hope of ending Mikkik.”
“Mother!” Dethris said, pulling in his pole and laying it in the grass.
“He comes?”
“Yes, he does.”
Joranne sighed. “It is time, then. Chalaine, I will make you forget this until it is the proper time. Mikkik may search your mind, and he cannot know what I have done. When you remember again, remember that what I do, I do so we can survive.”
Joranne reached out and took her hand, and the Chalaine collapsed.
The Chalaine released Mikkik’s hand and stepped back, gasping at the horrible memory. The woman who came with Mikkik regarded her intently from behind her master was the Ash Witch, Mikkik’s crony with some agenda she could not understand. Mikkik, now healed, probed his healed back and stood upright.
“I have one more need of you, Chalaine,” he said. “I need your blood. I need you to give it willingly. If you do not, I will ensure that your mother is killed in the most brutal manner. She will scream loud enough for you to hear it.”
The Chalaine looked at Mikkik and at Joranne. She couldn’t bear the thought of her mother’s torture and death, but if Joranne was right, then Mikkik would unmake her, and the virtue of her blood would be lost. Her thoughts turned to Gen and Cadaen and if they were too late. The chances had never been good, but Gen and failure never seemed to enter her mind together at the same time.
She said, “I will only give my blood to you willingly on the condition that I am left alive, unchanged, and free when you are finished. I will accept no other terms, and if you go against them, then the contract is void. That is my only offer.”
Mikkik regarded her coldly. “I cannot let you live.”
“Then kill me now. I will not willingly give you any blood of mine.”
He stepped forward, towering over her. “Perhaps I did not make it plain what I can do to your mother! Perhaps I did not make it plain what I can do to this town!”
Again he pushed into her mind, showing her scenes of depravity and destruction that chilled her heart and weakened her knees. Her mother yelled in agony under blades and flames of torture unending. The buildings of Blackshire burned with the families inside, the bodies of the soldiers ripped apart by the wild animals drawn to the carnage. Men, women, children, her mother, all stared at her with pleading eyes, begging her to give them release.
The vision faded and she nearly fell under the emotional weight. Joranne, standing just behind her master, regarded her intently.
Breathing in deeply to collect herself, the Chalaine stood tall. “I stand by my conditions—take them or leave them.”
Mikkik stared death at her for several moments and then turned on his heel. “So be it.” With a thought he turned the altar into a wide stone basin. “Joranne, seal the doors and bleed her seven times. When finished, erase the memory of this encounter. I will need the support of the Padras a little while longer. I will return shortly.”
Mikkik disappeared into the rooms behind the altar, leaving the Chalaine with Joranne, who g
lanced at her meaningfully. The Chalaine ascended the steps, Joranne signaling for her to lean over the basin.
“You have done well,” Joranne whispered, pulling a thin knife. “I am sorry for this necessity.”
For what felt like the entire morning, the Chalaine found herself reliving the nightmare of Gen’s bleeding. Watching the blood drain from her arm and the accompanying weakness sickened her. She vomited twice, unable to bear glancing at the gathering pool of blood. After the seventh bleeding and healing, Joranne appeared spent. Feeling unsteady, the Chalaine descended to the first bench and threw herself onto it.
“What is he going to do?” the Chalaine asked.
Joranne opened her mouth to answer, but Mikkik striding forward from the back of the Chapel closed it. He carried a simple sword in his hand, one that might be found in the scabbard of a common soldier. Face twisted in discomfort, he stopped well short of the bloody basin.
“Take the sword, Joranne,” he instructed. “Lay it in the blood.”
Joranne complied and stepped back. Mikkik did not approach any closer, but the dark speech flowed smoothly from his lips in subdued tones. The Chalaine remembered the familiar words from the vision Aldemar had shown her. His incantation lasted but moments, but when he was finished the blood was gone and the sword shone with power. Mikkik produced a dark cloth from nothing and handed it to Joranne.
“Conceal it and give it to me.”
Again Joranne obeyed, and once the sword was obscured, Mikkik’s eyes closed in relief and he took the sword from her.
“At last it is finished. At last I shall have an end of agony and Eldaloth be silenced forever. Cleanse her memory while I go instruct the helpful Padras about their next task. Meet me in Echo Hold. We have work to do.”
“Give me your hand,” Joranne said as Mikkik strode to the doors.
When the Chalaine placed her hand in Joranne’s, she could feel Joranne come into her mind again, but instead of covering the memory of the sword’s creation, she spoke.
“I will not erase what you know, but understand that Mikkik now holds the power of your blood in a weapon like the first he used to strike Eldaloth down. He will use the Churchmen to take it where he and I cannot go, to the heart of Elde Luri Mora. He will trick them into destroying Ki’Hal. More of his plans I do not know, but now you know the doom that awaits the world. It falls to you to stop it, if you can. Remember, the weapon he has created can be used to destroy him!”
Joranne released her and left hurriedly through the back, leaving the Chalaine stunned and confused. Her body wanted to stay inert, her sluggish mind still trying to churn out what she was to do. Could a sword really destroy Elde Luri Mora, and Ki’Hal with it? Was her blood that powerful? She needed Gen’s knowledge and her mother’s wisdom, and again she prayed for their deliverance from Echo Hold.
The Dark Guard ran into the Chapel, Dason charging down the aisle. He knelt before her. “We have failed you. We felt the blood being drained from you, but Athan kept us from coming to your aid! Are you well.”
“Help me up, Dason. I am well enough,” she said. “Get Maewen and General Harband. We can’t delay.”
She stumbled, and Dason grabbed her arm to steady her. “You must rest!”
“There is no time. Is Athan gone?”
“Yes. Eldaloth or Mikkik or whoever ordered them to leave immediately for Echo Hold.”
“Then time is short. We will ride, even if you must tie me to the horse.”
CHAPTER 81 – RAGE
The vulgar, jeering crowd clogged every avenue of Echo Hold, the Eldephaere overwhelmed by the sheer number of spectators hoping for a glimpse of the First Mother of Rhugoth being dragged to her death. Gen and Cadaen muscled their way forward. The late afternoon sunshine beat down like a hammer on the uplifted, rocky forge of Echo Hold. The sweat and humid stench of the mob was nauseating, but no inconvenience could slow or deter the two from their purpose. They shoved and elbowed citizens and soldiers alike without reservation.
“Once we get to the next intersection, we must bear left!” Cadaen shouted over the crowd, his stern, determined face more than enough to convince most people to clear out of his way. “She is moving.”
During their two day journey toward the mountain stronghold, Cadaen had felt Mirelle weakening from lack of nourishment. After he and Gen had entered the city that afternoon, Cadaen gritted his teeth and reported that she had endured a whipping, and that her bonds had rubbed her wrists and ankles into festering wounds. Gen felt his ire rising, and only the Shadan’s training kept him under control. In the back of his mind he knew that as soon as he saw Mirelle bruised and beaten, there would be no damming up the fiery indignation he could feel beginning to burn in his heart. Cadaen’s steadily reddening face let Gen know that the same fire consumed him, as well.
Cadaen stopped short. “They are dragging her!”
A shout erupted at the intersection in their view, and the people surged forward. A cavalry unit of Eldephaere trotted by escorting a Padra, the blue pendants adorning their lances streaming behind them. A mighty black warhorse ridden by the executioner slashed through their view, rope tied to its pommel, a rope Gen knew was tied to Mirelle’s wrists. Another cavalry unit followed, the people surging into the street after it. Cadaen froze for a moment in horror, and Gen used Trysmagic to create a simple sword in Cadaen’s hand.
“Here!” Gen said. “Follow me!”
Cadaen expressed no surprise at Gen’s sudden production of a weapon, and they turned right into an alleyway running parallel to the street along which the cruel procession traveled. Some spectators ran with them, hoping to catch up with the spectacle. Others plodded along, but the time for shoves and polite elbows had ended. Gen and Cadaen simply blasted anyone in their way onto the ground or into the wall. Cadaen let out a ferocious yell, brandishing his sword, and people dove out of their way.
The alley ended its parallel track and forced them back toward the main street, the mob thick as it pulsed forward at a jog. Cadaen yelled for people to move as he sprinted behind Gen, and at the corner of the street they met their first resistance in the form of three Eldephaere who had been alerted to the inexorable sprint of two madmen, one armed. The soldiers pulled their weapons and hefted their circular shields as Cadaen and Gen approached. They didn’t slow.
Using Trysmagic, Gen undid cracks of metal along the swords where the blades met the hilts, and as the Eldephaere pulled them back to strike, the blades simply fell to the ground useless. Gen unleashed a hard shove to one as he pushed by, Cadaen decapitating another as the two of them tried to work their way into the main flow that was chasing the suffering First Mother.
The Eldephaere raised a shout and tried to chase them, putting their shields to good use to push the intervening onlookers out of the way. Gen scanned ahead. The horse units and the executioner had reached farther than he had hoped, disappearing around a corner as the procession pushed toward the town square. The sheer number of people would make it impossible for even a tenth of them to witness the burning personally.
Behind them the Eldephaere pressed toward them. Ahead the dense crowd compressed into an impenetrable shield to bar their way. The more they pushed toward the square, the more trapped they became. Cadaen roared, using his sword to encourage people to move, slicing anyone who thought to impede them.
The pursuing Eldephaere continued to scream and yell, and along the edges of the crowd, their fellow soldiers left their posts along the route and pressed into the crowd in an attempt to reach them. Gen formed a sword in his hand, creating an edge so sharp that when he turned and hacked at the Eldephaere behind him, the blade passed through the shield as if it were nothing more than paper. The soldier fell in a splash of blood, the sudden violence pulling the people behind to a halt, only to be bowled over by the Eldephaere coming up from behind. Cadaen ran another soldier through, and he collapsed in a heap to be trodden on by those trying to escape the bloodshed.
Gen turned to try
to keep moving forward, but the soldiers thickened as the hopeful spectators thinned, realizing that a fight was in the offing. As Gen and Cadaen reached the rear boundary of the crowd wall outside the square, they found themselves surrounded by nearly twenty soldiers. The spectators forming a ring around them, bets changing hands.
Shield at the ready, one of the Eldephaere stepped forward. “Drop your weapons and. . .”
Gen hacked him down, his blade thrusting through the shield with ease and puncturing the soldier’s heart.
We don’t have time for this! Gen thought as shout erupted from the square behind them. But the Eldephaere rushed and forced his concentration back to his own survival. The initial five soldiers came at them cautiously, but after Cadaen and Gen hacked them down with speed and skill they had never seen, the rest backed off a space to reconsider. The bets began in earnest.
Cadaen came to Gen’s side. “I only have seen three men fight like you do.”
Mirelle’s agonized scream from the square and Cadaen’s petrified countenance made his next words unnecessary. “She burns!”
The Eldephaere appeared ready to rush again, and the crowd near the square began to chant, “Burn, burn, burn!”
“Go, my brother,” Cadaen said, a tear running down his cheek. “If you have the power to stop this, then do it.”
Gen nodded and turned, and within his heart an agony and a rage built to a crescendo that all his control and all his training could not stop. Between him and the square was a wall of people thirty feet thick, and pulling in the power of Duam he yelled the ancient words of the incantation with all the anger he possessed.
“Shui’ Shei!”
A mighty gale of wind blasted into the crowd like an unseen battering ram and threw bodies up and away to slam into buildings and to fall into and crush the crowd. Gen sped down the newly cleared avenue as screams tore the air. He could see her now. Mirelle was tied to a pole above a burning pile of wood, the flames reddening and peeling her legs and setting her dress on fire. She screamed and wept in pain, red face soaked with tears.
