by Liam Reese
Merdon had ordered the bodies burned, and Keris had watched as the guards unceremoniously dumped Scar-face’s corpse on the fire. “Wave goodbye to Dada,” she said to Neira as the girl pressed up against her side.
As nightfall had drawn in, Lyeeta had sought him out and taken his hand, leading him aside. “What’s going to happen to them?” she asked.
“I don’t know, really,” he admitted. “If she has any family, they might take her in, but that’s something that can be sorted out later. They’re safe for now,” he added.
“But she can’t make any money. How is she going to survive?” Lyeeta wondered.
“Oh,” Merdon said with a wry smile. “I suppose, as I helped to rescue her, I’m responsible for her?”
As a reply, Lyeeta had reached up and wrapped her arms about his neck, dragging his face down for a passionate kiss.
Now she rode before him as he guided Teghime down into the streets of Port Vartula, heading for the citadel in the hopes his grandfather was there.
And alive.
Besmir staggered inside the chapel to try and get a little privacy while he struggled to control the nagging need inside him. Built from the same gray stone as the rest of Port Vartula, it consisted of several rows of simple benches, facing the statue that looked down benignly from the far end of the room.
Sunlight shone through a high window, illuminating the statue. The artist had caught the God’s features quite well, Besmir thought, although his eyes were larger in life than this representation.
The king lowered himself wearily onto the front bench, facing the statue, and sighed, looking up at the immobile God. “I don’t suppose you’re going to help me, are you?” he asked the silent form.
“No, but I might,” someone said from behind him.
Besmir jumped up, spinning to see who had spoken. A grin split his face when he saw Merdon standing in the doorway. “How did you—?” Besmir asked, skirting the benches and trotting for the door.
“Well, despite your best efforts to ditch us, your ever-faithful daasnu came and found us, so … cutting the hose tack and saddle straps didn’t stop me from getting to you.”
“Teghime?” Besmir cried, happiness lighting his chest. “She’s with you?”
“What were you thinking?” Merdon asked. “Leaving us like that?”
Besmir reached out and laid his hands on his grandson’s shoulders, gripping them solidly. “Honestly, I don’t know,” he admitted. “Emmerlin’s dangerous, and I suppose I wanted to see you safely home … if she’s going to kill me, I...”
“Grandfather, she’s not going to kill you, and she can’t kill me.”
“You don’t know that!” Besmir cried. “What happens if...”
“Lyeeta?” Merdon said. Besmir watched as the young woman appeared behind his grandson. Her eyes were different somehow.
“Highness?” she asked.
“Stab me,” Merdon said.
“Wait!” Besmir cried. His words came too late, however, as the guard had her sword in her hand faster than his eyes could follow. She lashed out at his grandson, who kept his gaze locked onto Besmir’s own as she attacked.
“No!” Besmir felt the word leave him in an explosion as Lyeeta’s sword smashed into his grandson’s back.
Merdon spread his arms, turning in a circle to show he was fine, as Besmir examined his back for any sign of the cut that should be streaming blood. His eyes rolled up to Merdon’s in wonder.
“I thought I dreamed it,” Besmir said in a tone of wonder. “When I … in the cell.”
He trailed off as the reality of the situation hit him. I tried to burn Merdon!
“No, that happened,” Merdon said calmly.
Besmir followed his grandson into the chapel, sitting beside him and wanting nothing more than to pull him in for a hug. “I’m sorry for that,” he said, as Lyeeta closed the chapel door behind them.
“You were ill, Grandfather,” Merdon told him. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” Besmir smiled at the incredible man his grandson had become, pride swelling his chest.
“I need to speak to you,” Cathantor said from behind him.
17
Arteera watched her daughter wander around her sitting room, touching various items as if she had never seen them before.
“You know,” she said, “it’s going to be really nice to have the family back together. I can’t wait to see my big brother and his wife.” Emmerlin looked at her with a dead-eyed stare. “And those adorable children of theirs.”
“Me either,” Arteera replied. “Hopefully, Joranas will see the sense in burning you alive as soon as he gets here.”
“Doubtful, when I have his little wife and offspring by the throat,” Emmerlin said. “He’ll do as he’s told.”
Arteera felt a gnawing sensation in her chest, like rats burrowing out through her stomach and wriggling about in her lungs. It was the awful certainty her daughter spoke with that frightened her the most. The way that she believed everything that came from her twisted mind, and spoke about hurting children with ease.
The door to her sitting room opened and Joranas entered, his face a mask of anger as he stared at his sister. “What in the name of the Gods are you playing at, Em?” he demanded, his eyes flicking to Senechul as he came over towards the queen.
“It’s no game, Joranas,” Emmerlin said. “Where’s Ranyeen and your children?”
“Gone,” Joranas said, turning Arteera’s face in his hands. “If you think I was about to bring them here after what Petrena told me, you’ve lost your mind!”
Relief dripped into Arteera’s chest at the thought her granddaughters would be safe, but it was quickly replaced by more fright when she saw Emmerlin’s expression. “Joranas,” Arteera started, but her daughter had other plans.
The prince’s eyes went wide as he was jerked into the air and his body slammed into the ceiling. From there, Emmerlin smashed her brother towards the floor, crashing him through Arteera’s writing desk on the way.
“Pity you didn’t bring them to the reunion,” Emmerlin said. “I had such fun planned.”
Joranas gasped a deep breath in as Emmerlin gripped him with some other force, his hands shooting out towards her and flames bursting forth.
Arteera felt the wind of Senechul’s passing as the guard dived at her daughter, knocking her to the floor, Joranas’ fire lancing over her head. The queen felt the heat of his power dry her skin as she sat, powerless to help.
Emmerlin screamed wordlessly as she scrambled to free herself from beneath her guard, throwing his body across the room with her vast power. Arteera leaped at her when she saw her focus go back to Joranas with a murderous intent in her eyes. Pain flared in her ribs with her movement, but she managed to hammer her fist into her daughter’s jaw as hard as Besmir had taught her to hit.
Emmerlin’s head flew back and sideways, blood flying from her bottom lip where Arteera's wedding ring had cut in deeply. The princess staggered and tripped over her brother’s foot, falling hard and catching her temple on the front of a wooden chair.
Arteera panted, the sudden silence in her room stark and somehow frightening. She dropped to her knees beside Joranas and shook him gently.
“Joranas,” she whispered. “Joranas, we have to leave.”
The queen glanced over her shoulder at the muscled form of Senechul, who lay still in the opposite corner of the room from Emmerlin.
“Mother,” Joranas croaked. “Emmerlin might have gone a little insane,” he added, turning his head to look at her.
Relief washed through her as soon as she heard his sarcastic tone. Gently, she tried to help him up, but he managed without too much aid, and the pair stumbled to the door together.
“I know she’s my sister and all,” Joranas said, as he helped her through the door, “but I hope she’s dead.”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Arteera muttered. “With any luck, we can get away from her until your father comes back. Wherever h
e is,” she added with a frown.
Arteera threw Joranas’ arm over her shoulders and wrapped her arm around his waist, supporting him as best she could. Flashes of pain ripped through her with every breath, but she carried on relentlessly.
Sorrow and hate welled inside her when she saw Branisi’s body, broken, with her head at an awkward angle. A sob tore from her throat as she walked past the body.
Find peace, my friend.
“Going somewhere?” Emmerlin asked from behind them.
Arteera felt a hot blast of something slam into her back, throwing both her and Joranas to the floor. Something snapped in her shoulder, sending agony throbbing into her throat, neck and chest.
Khaleen heard the sounds of battle quieting outside, and knew this was probably her only chance to escape.
“We could just leave,” she said. “Now.”
“I told you to keep qui—”
Before the young mercenary could finish his sentence, however, a group of Gazluthian infantry kicked in the door and flooded the room, bristling with arms. Wild-eyed and crazed with battle lust, their eyes fixed on her before falling on the mercenary with hate.
“Wait!” Khaleen shouted, but it was too late.
With horrid vengeance, they fell on the young mercenary, cutting and stabbing his body. With a gargling scream he fell, blood pumping from his wounds, his eyes on hers, pleading as he died.
“General,” one man said, reaching down to help her up.
Her bindings were cut, the circulation returning to her hands painfully. Khaleen stumbled over to where the boy lay, appearing even younger than he had in life. She knelt beside him, straightening his clothing and closing his eyes as the soldiers shuffled nervously beside her.
“Did we do the wrong thing, General?” the one that had cut her free asked.
Khaleen looked up at him, his face flushed red with battle lust and restless with the need to fight. Sickened by the sight and the violence around her, she wiped the tears from her face.
“Technically, he was our enemy,” she said. “But the truth is, I really don’t know anymore.” She stood awkwardly, flapping at his hands when he offered them to her. “We need to get out there,” she said, pointing. “They’ve got reinforcements on the way.”
“They’re already here, General,” he said. “The fighting is intense.”
“So what are you doing in here?” she started to ask, but his guilty glance at his comrades told her everything. “Looting.” she concluded.
“Looting, when your comrades are out there fighting.” she sighed. “Get out of my sight.”
The men trotted out and Khaleen followed, grabbing a sword from a dead mercenary as she passed, leaning on the outside of the buildings for support. Above her, Gazluthian forces battled atop the wall, frantically forcing the mercenaries back. She made her way through the makeshift streets, pausing as the occasional body rained down from above.
Her ears picked up the roar of battle sooner than she’d believed possible, and upon rounding the building she was currently next to, she encountered madness.
Men and women battled against each other in a chaotic dance. Blood sprayed and screams rang out as mercenaries and soldiers hacked at each other. It was obvious to the general the reinforcements had turned the tide of the battle in their favor, and the combined Gazluthian and Waravalian forces were being chopped to pieces.
Despite her sickness at the horror about her and the pain in her thigh, Khaleen knew she had a duty to her army, country and crown, so, ignoring the stench of blood, feces and urine, she dragged in a huge breath.
“Gazluth! To me!” she bellowed.
Several of her soldiers turned to the sound of her voice. Unfortunately, so did several of the enemy. Khaleen lashed her sword across the face of the first, her arm lightning-fast. The blade bit deep into his cheek, smashing the bones beneath and severing a portion of his nose. He fell with a scream, trampled beneath the feet of her troops as they fought to reach her.
Another man appeared before Khaleen, teeth bared in a grin of rage. Blood covered his face and hands as if he had been rolling in the stuff, and his armor had darkened with it. A yell of pure, animal fury tore from him as he hammered his sword against her.
Khaleen blocked the blow, turning his blade, but the sheer force of it jarred her arm, numbing her fingers, and she almost dropped her own sword. The mercenary, fueled by adrenaline, drew his arm up for an overhead strike that would split her skull.
Time seemed to slow and Khaleen watched as a ray of sun glanced off the blade, lighting the mercenary’s face for a second. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth and she noticed he had something lodged between his teeth. Unable to lift her arm with enough speed to save herself, Khaleen waited for the blow that would end her life.
Merdon threw himself to the floor of the chapel as soon as he saw the God. Awe pulled at his mind, making him tremble.
“There’s no need for all that, young prince,” the God said, in a voice that sounded like a million throats singing in harmony. “Please get up.”
Merdon climbed nervously to his feet and slowly forced his eyes to look at the God. Cathantor was staring at him with an amused smile on his deer-like face, his massive eyes filled with mirth, and joy filled Merdon’s soul to see it. The prince felt a ridiculous grin split his face as he stared at the God.
“Ah,” Cathantor said. “One of those.”
The God stood from where he had been sitting on the bench and approached the statue, turning to face them as he matched the pose.
“What do you think?” He asked, conversationally. “Did they get me right?”
Merdon gaped at the similarity between the God and his idol, although the actual God had had one of his antlers snapped off, letting silver ichor dribble from the stump. The eyes were different, not just in shape, but in terms of what they conveyed.
Merdon could see the light of eternity in Cathantor’s eyes, the limitless intelligence and compassion, as well as love, that radiated from him. A lump rose in his throat as he watched the God walk over to his grandfather.
“Well, old friend,” the God said. “You know I can’t do anything to help, don’t you?”
Merdon watched as his grandfather sighed and scratched his beard. “Thought as much,” Besmir said. “You Gods are still as weak and powerless as ever, then?”
Merdon gaped at the old man’s attitude, but Cathantor guffawed, his laughter lighting Merdon’s soul, and shook his head. “Ah, Besmir,” the God said. “How I love you!”
Merdon looked across to Lyeeta, who was openly staring at the God with the same expression he felt on his own face. Her eyes met his, and something passed between them, a communication of support and love so powerful and strong Merdon felt his knees weaken. Her small smile echoed his, and he walked across to her, Cathantor forgotten for a second.
Cathantor sat beside Besmir as the king followed him with his eyes. He had been surprised when the God made an appearance, not expecting even that, but to hear he could not, would not do anything to help cemented his feelings towards the Gods.
They’re cruel.
Throughout his whole life, they had brought nothing but danger, depression and misery to him. Even when they had chosen to resurrect him at the Battle of Ursley, it had been almost a cruelty, extending his life so he could sire a daughter so damaged and powerful…
Wait!
“It’s your fault!” Besmir cried, when the truth hit him. “Emmerlin’s extra powers came from you when you brought me back, didn’t they?” he demanded of the God.
Cathantor nodded. “We think so,” he admitted.
“And now you won’t help me when my family’s at risk!” Besmir spat, fury rising in his chest. “You—”
Besmir felt the hot pressure building inside him, powerless to stop it and, in truth, not wanting to. His arm rose almost as if controlled by someone else, fire and lightning exploding from his fingers and engulfing Cathantor completely.
Kh
aleen saw the bloody tip of a sword appear from the right side of the mercenary’s chest as someone ran him through from behind. His eyes widened in agony, and his whole body stiffened before her. The sword that had been about to hack the life from her fell from his fingers as the blade in his chest disappeared, as did his body, crumpling at her feet.
“Orders, general?” one of her troops asked, fending off a blow from someone else.
Confusion and indecision made Khaleen wonder about her entire life. What had she been thinking, choosing to do this to other people? The death and misery she had brought about in her lifetime weighed down on her.
No wonder Slevward hates me. Misery and self-loathing gripped her, and she turned away from the soldiers who had gathered there.
“General!” someone cried as the sounds of fighting drew closer again.
Get a grip, woman! Whether she had spent her life bringing misery to others or not, whether she would spend eternity paying for it or not, these men and women would suffer if she did nothing.
“Fighting wedge!” she barked, straightening. “On me!”
A growing number of Gazluthian troops joined her, and she scanned the larger battle, watching the ebb and flow, pinpointing where they would be most effective. Her eyes showed her the battle as if it was an ever-shifting pattern, allowing her to predict where troops would be needed.
Choice made, she lifted her sword painfully and pointed at an area that looked almost peaceful.
“Charge!” she cried, seeing the concerned looks of the men and women around her.
Nevertheless, they started forward, swords out and shields locked. Khaleen trotted across the broken, scarred ground within the camp with them, watching as a huge number of mercenaries were forced back before the gates.
Encouraged by their appearance, the soldiers around her charged faster, almost carrying her along when her leg failed her. The Gazluthian wedge smashed into the mercenaries as if driven in by a massive hammer behind them, cutting through the block of defenders, killing them and separating them from their comrades.
