Sacrifice (Book 4)

by Brian Fuller

  Gen retreated inside himself, trying to find the will to dispel the confounding swirl of his mind and center his thoughts on the shining blade arcing unopposed toward the space between his neck and shoulder with enough force to drive the sword deep into his chest. He fought Mikkik’s spell, but the Mynmagic was too strong. He would not escape.

  Run Chalaine! Gen willed. Run!

  Pontiff Athan rubbed the unfamiliar growth on his face and let his fingers wander up to the tired eyes that had scarcely rested since departing Echo Hold over three days before. Padra Nolan and ten of the elite Eldephaere had accompanied him on their crucial mission to restore Ki’Hal before Mirelle and her schemes could endanger it. Eldaloth would deal with her, Athan was sure, though he need not fear her interference any longer. The goal was in easy reach.

  They rode at a casual pace across the bridge over Mora Lake toward the still and quiet city of Elde Luri Mora. The journey eastward had passed in blessed ease. No storms or Uyumaak had menaced them as they pushed the horses to their limits. Athan would not let any idleness or overconfidence or neglect put his sacred task in jeopardy. He had regimented their travel with uncompromising efficiency and with some cost to their health and the welfare of the horses.

  But they had come fast and they had come far, and when Ki’Hal was restored, then so would they be. An end to sickness and famine and even death awaited a weary world, and the sacred sword bundled in oil-slicked leather would return a joy and brightness to the world that had been lost since Mikkik’s treachery. That Eldaloth would entrust him with this final task was a supernal reward that would immortalize the name of Athan forever.

  Elde Luri Mora sat as it once had when he and the doomed caravan had entered it. As then, it was a place of refuge and safety, sleeping in an eternal spring, unable to mature to the sweet fruit of summer. Very few of Athan’s memories of that time brought him cheer, though the old Pontiff Beliarmus tossing an insolent Gen across the sacred hall would always bring a smile to his face. How they had all survived those tumultuous days eluded him, but miraculous was an apt description for their deliverance.

  Of course, no great act of history was accomplished without losses and setbacks, but tonight would see the end of evil, the end of nefarious schemes and demented Queens. He would be the instrument in Eldaloth’s hands. Pontiff Athan would bring peace. He would bring health. He would bring joy. The thought nearly overwhelmed him with anticipation, and he fought back the urge to push his exhausted horse into one last gallop.

  Evening had passed, only a dim veil of light rising up from the horizon before him as they finished their traverse and the hooves of the animals trod upon the cobbled roadways of Elde Luri Mora. All three moons shone brightly in summer sky, highlighting the edges of thin clouds riding just above the forested hills that encompassed the lake and the island. The scent of blossoms caressed their worries and weariness away, and Athan smiled in anticipation. Fireflies swarmed and blinked aimlessly in the gathering darkness, pushed about by a gentle evening breeze.

  “Is that the great hall of Elde Luri Mora?” Padra Nolan asked as the edifice slid into view as they crested a rise. The tall domed structure waited just as they had left it.

  “The Hall of Three Moons, yes,” Athan answered. “Unless the Ilch made some other provision, the bones of my predecessor await somewhere in the darkness there. You will see where Chertanne and the Chalaine were wed. The babe was conceived in that dwelling just across the way. When Eldaloth reigns here, I imagine all will be welcome to come see the places where such momentous events took place. I hope that I will dwell here with him. It is the most beautiful of places.

  “Let us make haste. This task should not be delayed. I truly pity all the unfortunate nobles in the caravan. How disappointed they will be when they realize they will not be a part of this great moment. I hope they will understand the need for our haste. At the very least, they will be among the first to visit the great city after its glory is restored.”

  “It will be a disappointment,” Padra Nolan agreed. “But Eldaloth will reward them some other way, I am sure.”

  “Exactly, brother. Thank you for accompanying me. Now, let’s be about our task quickly. I am anxious to discharge this duty.”

  They dismounted their horses and ascended the familiar stairs toward the arched entry, Athan clutching the Sword of the Chalaine to his breast. As they approached, the fireflies gathered and swarmed in an enormous cloud and streamed inside the Hall of Three Moons, illuminating it in a yellowish light.

  “Marvelous!” Padra Nathan exclaimed.

  “Yes. More wonders will come,” Athan said. “Guard the way,” he commanded his soldiers. “This should take but a moment.”

  Before them stretched the map of Ki’Hal etched upon the floor, and on the far side of the room, Pontiff Beliarmus’s dark robe and desiccated skeleton moldered on the ground.

  Athan shook his head in disgust. “I suppose it is no surprise that the Ilch and his companions could not show even the least bit of decency to provide a great man a proper burial. We will attend to it when we are finished.”

  They reached the center of the map, following Eldaloth’s instructions. Reverently Athan knelt, unwrapping the sword entrusted to him. It was a simple blade, but he could feel the power of the Chalaine’s blood—Eldaloth’s blood—coursing through it. Once inserted into the holy ground of Elde Luri Mora, Eldaloth’s power would flow from the sacred blade and enliven the world.

  He exhaled. “The time has come.” He remembered the words, thick upon the tongue, given him by his master: “Kekkat. Gundrued Ki. Gundrued Tekkix. Gundrued Zhas. Kekkat!”

  The blade began to glow, the air vibrating with power. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he raised the sword above his head and jammed it downward, the point sliding into the stone floor like a sharp dagger into soft flesh. It slid all the way to the hilt and Athan released it, raising his head to the sky. “It is done!”

  The ground beneath his feet buzzed like the air. “It is happening, Nolan! It is happening!”

  As if blown by a gale, the fireflies streamed out the door, leaving them in darkness. The buzzing beneath their feet progressed to a tremor, a horrible low moaning of grinding rock pummeling their ears. A mighty shake of the ground threw them to the floor, a wrenching, cracking noise bringing their hands to their ears to muffle the penetrating thunder that shook their bodies to the core. The great glass dome of the ceiling crashed down, cracks in the masonry of the dome loosening in chunks and throwing down sections of the ceiling and walls all around them.

  Athan struggled to his feet as the shaking subsided, casting about to find Padra Nolan crushed beneath a heavy stone, his blood pooling outward. A great fissure stretching the length of the floor had swallowed the sword, but Athan knew he was in grave danger and could not linger.

  Swaying as he tried to keep his bearings, he went to cast a spell to steady himself and calm his nerves, but his incantations issued from his mouth in vain. Stumbling over fallen rock and debris, he reached the broken entrance finding that his soldiers had fled to the base of the stairs to escape the crumbling building. As one they looked to the sky, mouths agape, unaware of his presence.

  Athan’s eyes followed theirs to the sky. The moons had gone, or rather they had been obliterated. Nothing but expanding clouds of what seemed to be fine dust remained, as if each had exploded from the very center. The power of magic was gone. The blessed feeling of life in Elda Luri Mora was gone.

  What have I done? Athan thought, stumbling and falling down the stairs in shock. Battered and bruised, he regained his feet, eyes ever upon the sky as the clouds of shattered moons swelled the sky, streaming in every direction.

  “The trees!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.

  The blossoms that had clothed every tree in splendorous pinks, purples, and yellows had wilted as one, their leaves falling like a rain to carpet the ground beneath them. In seconds, the branches were barren and colorless, the soothing breeze that onc
e blew gently kicking up into a gale that swirled the detritus around them in a whirlwind.

  Athan was numb. He had to make it back to Echo Hold. There had to have been some mistake! Had he said the wrong words? Misplaced the sword? But as he reached his horse and clung to its bridle, the horrifying possibility that he had dismissed as folly started to reassert itself. Had Mirelle been right? Had they all been duped? Impossible! All the signs were there! Every event detailed by the prophecy had happened. Eldaloth had come!

  “We should go, Pontiff,” one of his soldiers said, breaking through his confusion. “Something is not right, here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  Athan lifted his gaze to the city around them. In the last of the evening light, every tree, every blade of grass, every creeping vine and flower was turning black and shriveling into a gray powder as if burned by some invisible fire. Terror and despair gripped his heart as his own flesh and that of the horses began to dry and peel.

  In haste they mounted their skittish horses and fled, the affliction of flesh lessening as they rode away from the ruined Hall of Three Moons. Their skin gradually smoothed and regained its elasticity as they galloped across the cracked bridge above the dark, still water. The gate, bent and hanging from one hinge, squealed in the wind.

  Elde Luri Mora was dying.

  I killed it. Athan lamented. I am a fool! His righteous anger, his arguments, his adoration for the being who claimed Eldaloth’s name faded and disintegrated with all the suffering life behind him. A poisonous dread seeped as deep into his soul as the exultant honor and pride he had felt just minutes before, the vast gap between the two emotions a crater into which his very soul plummeted in freefall.

  Nearly insensible to all around him, he let the horse follow its companions through the gate to find that the road that had so invitingly welcomed them into the city had completely disappeared, leaving nothing but wilderness ahead of them. Their pace slowed as they tried to pick their way through the uneven ground in the deepening dark.

  “Shall we encamp here?” one of the soldiers asked. “The horses cannot go on again! They’ve barely rested!”

  Athan hardly heard him.

  “Pontiff! Shall we encamp here?”

  Athan snapped out of his reverie, regarding the soldier with sober, bleary eyes. There was only one way to remedy this error, only one way to restore the world. If the blood of the Chalaine could destroy, then it could also heal. She must be bled again, only this time in a world without moons, a world where no magic could heal her. If all had gone well with Dason’s plan, then the Chalaine would be safely on her way to Echo Hold, though if she reached it, he feared what Mikkik would do. Surely he knew that only she held the key to the restoration of Ki’Hal.

  “No. We don’t camp. We ride for Echo Hold.”

  CHAPTER 85 - NIGHT FIRE

  The Chalaine shrank from Sir Tornus, trying to pull Dason away from him. Her former Protector stood firm.

  “What house do you come from?” Dason asked Sir Tornus, who looked at him like a savory meal ready to be devoured. “I’ve never heard of any Sir Tornus from anywhere.”

  “He’s a Craver, Dason,” the Chalaine explained. “He betrayed the nations at Echo Hold in the Second Mikkikian War.”

  “The Lady knows her history!” Sir Tornus said, smiling. “Pray, who did you learn it from?”

  “Gen,” she said.

  Sir Tornus nodded. “Ah, yes, the man with no soul. You know, I tried to devour him and his companions. I felt dreadful about it, but essence of Uyumaak simply grew too tiresome. It’s not like you can season an essence with herbs. It was, therefore, simply impossible for me to pass up an opportunity for something a little sweeter. But you, Chalaine, are the sweetest soul I’ve come across in ages.”

  Dason’s brow crinkled. “Cravers are a myth!”

  Sir Tornus regarded him with a wicked grin. “Oh, how I wish I were a myth! I’ve tried to disbelieve in myself for some time, but I keep turning out to be real. But you, my friend, you will learn differently soon.”

  Dason stepped back. “Pontiff Athan said he would send a force to protect us. You’d best flee while you are able.”

  “I think I devoured your protection,” Sir Tornus explained. “Strange people, these Eldephaere, castrating themselves so they wouldn’t be attracted to a woman they haven’t been allowed to guard for nearly a century. I know traditions tend to linger, but let’s face it—castration is a really poor choice of tradition. It seems a simple vote to end the practice could hardly fail. Quite a deterrent to recruiting, I would imagine.”

  During Sir Tornus’s musings, Dason grabbed the Chalaine’s arm and led her sideways, away from the center aisle. The Eldephaere soldiers lay in heaps in the shadows, forcing the Chalaine to step over them and on them in order to reach the side aisle and make for the rear door. Sir Tornus simply strode back to where he had come from to block their way.

  “You can’t leave yet!” he said. “The sign hasn’t been given! I’ve one last duty to discharge and I’ll at last be free to die. You young people can hardly understand how the years grind on in boredom, but they do. Death isn’t a punishment or a disease—it’s a relief!”

  “Let us pass, or I will cut you down!” Dason threatened.

  “Haven’t you been listening? You can’t cut me down! It is my dearest wish that you could! Give me a good whack, young man. Give it all you got. In fact, I wrote a little song for these occasions. I even have a little dance to go with it.”

  Hit me hard and cut me deep.

  Cleave me in two,

  From my head to my feet.

  Stab my heart, hack off my head,

  Slice off a limb,

  Or run me through instead.

  Break my bones and spill my guts.

  Burn me with fire,

  Pound my chest to a mush.

  You will stare, and I will sigh.

  Oh, how I wish

  You could make me die.

  While he sang he danced an awkward jig that ended in a bow as if performing for an audience. Dason pulled the Chalaine forward.

  Tornus straightened and cut off their retreat in a heartbeat. “I said not yet!”

  Dason yelled, “You are mad! Move aside!”

  “Mad? I am hungry!”

  Sir Tornus’s arm shot out, Dason slapping it aside with his blade and then plunging the sword into Sir Tornus’s heart. Dason twisted the blade while Sir Tornus looked on in boredom. Neither man moved for several moments until Sir Tornus threw up his arms.

  “See what I mean? Trust me, the fact that I am not dead is more disappointing to me than it is to you.”

  Sir Tornus’s hand shot out again and grabbed Dason’s arm at the wrist. The madman’s eyes flared and Dason’s face went slack, an energy pouring from his eyes and into those of Sir Tornus. The Chalaine screamed and shoved Dason away from Sir Tornus’s grasp, her Protector falling to the ground, alive but face wan and devoid of intelligence. The old knight’s malevolent gaze turned on her and he backhanded her to the floor.

  “Never take away the meal of a starving man when he is but half done!”

  The Chalaine, ears ringing, tried to get back up, but Sir Tornus had already lowered his face above Dason’s, consuming what remained of her Protector’s essence before she could recover. Once finished, he stood and shook his head, an odd expression of regret flashing over his features, before turning his attention to her.

  “Who sent you?” the Chalaine asked.

  “Mikkik, of course,” Sir Tornus said, voice suddenly melancholy. “You know, I . . . I never wanted to do this. The hunger. It is too strong. I can’t stop it. I can’t!”

  “Are you going to kill me, too?”

  He regarded her, face sad. “Yes. But not until he knows that he doesn’t need you anymore. It shouldn’t be long. I am sorry. And on your wedding night and everything. You look quite stunning, I must confess. Such a nice dress. Tell me, is that really Aldra
dan Mikmir on that throne?”

  “He is the King.”

  “Not quite what I asked.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Your evasion answers the question. No matter. Mikkik should be busy killing him right now. Aldradan Mikmir—or some good impostor—against Mikkik. Quite a contest to amuse the populace. It’s a shame that we aren’t there to see it. . .”

  The Chalaine gasped. Mikkik? In Mikmir? She sprinted for the door, but Sir Tornus knocked her to the floor with his forearm.

  “I am so sorry. I was a gentleman once. I can still remember it sometimes. Opening doors for the ladies, throwing out compliments they didn’t deserve. . .”

  The Chalaine slid to a sitting position, leaning against the wall and regarding her captor. He seemed so distracted and lost, but clearly he burned with a purpose that rose up whenever anything threatened it. He offered his hand to help her stand up and she refused, shaking her head. He sighed and retracted it, staring at her with the same hungry expression with which he had sized up Dason. The Chalaine stared back at him, trying to choke down her fear.

  Then the world changed.

  She could feel it, like a subtle shift in the wind or the weaker quality of light when autumn has at last conquered summer. A wrongness pervaded everything at once, a feeling of stillness and death. She shot to her feet, noticing Sir Tornus with his eyes closed and face troubled. She darted toward the door, her wedding dress streaming behind her. If I can just get outside! The closer she got to the door, the louder became the shouts of exclamation and dismay rising from the streets. Had Gen been killed? Was the news spreading that Eldaloth had come and slain the pretended Aldradan Mikmir?