A feral snuck up on him from his blind spot and bit down into the side of his neck. He roared with pain and reflexively struck it in the chest with an open palm. It flew backward and took two ferals with it. There was a loud snap that went with it. It wasn’t the feral that snapped, but Ben’s wrist. He yelped with pain and realized he’d broken a few of the bones making up the joint. The force of the open-palm strike, coupled with the angle his wrist made to form the attack, was too much for his body to handle.
With the blood pouring from his neck, on top of the gore that already covered the rest of him, all of the remaining ferals focused on him. His head was so foggy that he couldn’t count how many were still standing. More than ten but fewer than twenty. The bulk had been dealt with already. Mandi, Darius, and Liv were all unarmed at this point, their steel weapons in many pieces on the ground. They huffed and puffed but kept their fists raised in case any others broke off from the group back to them. Sierra couldn’t distract them since she didn’t bleed herself, and the ferals only paid her any mind when trying to defend themselves—which didn’t happen often. One of Hüginn’s wings had been damaged, and it could no longer remain in the air for more than a few seconds at a time. Still, the raven did its best to defend its master.
Ben kicked another away from him as it dove at him over the pile of dead or unconscious ferals. Another snap—this time in his knee. His leg buckled, and as he went down, three or four ghouls lunged at him. They clawed at his back and cackled as more and more blood poured for them.
He fell to the ground and landed next to the barely recognizable body of Kirk. Remembering the fate of the other wastelander, Ben realized there was only one thing left to do. With his remaining strength, he pushed himself off the ground and limped toward the river. The others shouted at him, but all sounds and senses had been dulled at this point. It was the only way he could avoid passing out from the pain. He didn’t even take a second to hesitate when he reached the edge. Knowing full well that the ferals would follow, Ben jumped into the roaring rapids.
Usually, a situation like this would have knocked him out cold. Instead, he was conscious for the entire ordeal. He was violently dragged through the freezing water and swept back and forth down the cascades. He swirled around and slammed against the hard limestone riverbed, his Nephilim powers keeping him alive yet conscious for all the pain. He had no idea how far this river ran. The current rushed at such immense speed that there was no hope of swimming against it. And his friends would never catch up to him to offer any aid. He was all alone on this one.
They’re alone, too, Ben realized. In a broken city full of wastelanders and ferals. His body continued to thrash through the water like a rag doll. His lungs screamed for air, and his chest burned with terrible claustrophobic tightness when he couldn’t answer with a single breath. With the water splashing this way and that he could hardly see, and his vision soon became clouded in a disorienting red blur as the pain and suffocation buried his other senses. The last thing he heard from his friends were screams. Even if he’d attracted all the ferals to jump into the river with him, more could have arrived as insidiously as the first.
The roaring rapids enhanced in volume. His senses may have been dulled, but even a deaf man would have known that he was reaching the end of the river, to where the loudest sound in the forest originated. It was a source of such primal power. A waterfall that could be heard from all the way across the city at the edge of the wasteland. If ever there was a time to test if his powers ever ran out, it was now. He summoned everything he could, channeling the fear and rage and desperation buried within. As soon as he floated over the precipice of the falls, he focused all his power into his legs and sprung from the water like a speeding bullet. He shot out from the waterfall, avoiding its crushing pressure. He didn’t go far; if he had had the ability to simply jump out of the current, he would have. As his body succumbed to the pull of gravity, he fell parallel to the unmitigated power of the falls. Sprays of water splashed his already drenched body, coming not from the waterfall itself, but on their way back up from nearly two hundred feet below. The deafening crash of the falls roared at him like a snarling beast. It was hardly just a continuation of the cascading river he’d been dragged through—more like one massive waterfall that formed a semicircle fed by many other rivers just as devastating as the one he’d been in. This was the Mouth of Ney. If he had the time and energy, he would have liked to use his night vision to get a better picture. He imagined the falls were a wondrous sight when not falling to his death.
He was already a third of the way to the bottom. Only a few seconds until impact. Instantly, his body straightened with his feet level with the ground. One. His arms crossed over his chest. Two. Unless he suddenly learned how to fly this would be his best chance. Three seconds. Impact. Only as his body slammed against the misty surface below did he finally lose consciousness.
21
Arynn
First Hearth, Vestinia; Ænæria
Present Day
Sweat dripped down the nape of her neck, and the hot afternoon sun beat against the sandy arena swarmed by storms of dust clouds. Metal clanged against metal as leather-clad Rhion trained through their drills. They sparred most hours of the day, training intently for the coming war.
“You should be down there with them,” Prefect Memnon told her. His immense presence towered next to her, overseeing the training below, his cannonball arms folded across his chest. The man looked like he could snap her neck with his fingers alone. Being forced to work with him was among the many difficult adjustments that Arynn had to make during her time in Vestinia.
She had joined the Rhion as often as she could, knowing herself to be far less experienced than the men under her command. The bruises at her flanks and on chest roared with an aching fury from the previous day’s fight. If she joined their ranks today, she wouldn’t be able to move tomorrow.
“I’d just be getting in their way. From up here at least I can be useful.”
Memnon groaned and spat a wad of overly chewed tobacco, narrowly making it into the spittoon placed right next to Arynn’s feet. Lovely.
Lines of men and boys swapped blows with one another until their opponent yielded or fainted. Under Fenwin’s charge, the very idea of yielding had been unheard of. If any surrendered, it was often a boy, young and inexperienced. Much of Fenwin’s ruthless legacy continued with his prefect.
“They’re slowing down,” Memnon snarled. “Order the taskmaster to whip them back up to speed.”
“And injure them days before the march. I think not.”
“It will cull the weaklings. If they cannot keep up against dull swords, they won’t withstand the battlefield.”
“Is that what Fenwin would’ve done?”
Memnon’s nostrils flared as if the answer were obvious. “He didn’t need to. He had the respect of his Rhion. They knew better than to slack off.”
The prefect lunged at every opportunity to make it known he was better suited for legate than herself. Too bad the king needs a symbol of change more than a seasoned fighter. He already has plenty of those.
Arynn dismissed the prefect’s comment. He wasn’t the only man who disliked taking orders from a woman. Like it or not, he was under her command like the rest of the Rhion. To disobey her was to disobey their own king—an act that could be perceived not only as insubordination but treason. The king’s decree was enough to gain their cooperation, if not their trust of her. She was inexperienced, female, and above all else—an outsider.
She arched over the balcony, her elbows pressed firmly against the dry wooden railing. Her gaze moved back and forth across the arena. She studied the Rhion, their techniques, the subtle ways their bodies moved. It was hard to believe that she had once fought against men like these. Killed some, even. Many of these Rhion were mere children, plucked from their homes at five-years-old and thrown into the training pits for seven years until becoming full-fledged Rhion. She’d never seen any ch
ildren during her initial travels through Ænæria when she’d fought for the wrong side. Seeing them in the sand, beating their comrades, being beaten by men thrice their age, had all been nothing short of a shock for her.
No amount of training could fully prepare anyone for the chaos of combat—and war was nothing if not raw chaos. She would help train these boys and men—these Rhion—to adapt to unpredictability. Each day they were thrown into different drills. They were always matched with a random partner and armed with a different weapon. Yesterday, half the Rhion had been thrown into the lake on empty stomachs with nothing but swimming trunks and a wooden sword, then ordered to swim to the other side. Once there, they were met by the other half who had been well-rested and armored. The swimmers were given the incentive of an extra dish for lunch if they won. Today, the roles had been reversed: the armored Rhion had their sleep disturbed throughout the night and came today foggy and fatigued. The reward for victory in practice was an early night to bed followed by a late morning.
The noon bell tolled. Arynn saw the faint pause in the younger Rhion’s strikes when the hard brass struck. Then they continued on with their exercises as if nothing happened. A short smile stretched from the corner of Arynn’s lips. They knew to wait for her orders to dismiss them.
“Have them skip lunch,” Memnon suggested, though it sounded more like a command. “They should not be rewarded for their poor performance today.”
“I doubt you would fare any better after the training they’ve been through this week.”
Memnon grumbled and spat another wad of tobacco next to her. “You think what they’re facing is tough? It is nothing. I could defeat every man in that arena on an empty stomach after taking twenty lashes that very morning. I know because I have done so in the past.”
“Maybe you could do that when the rest of your comrades were hungry and wounded. I want to keep our men in good condition and reward them for their behavior rather than punish them for it.”
Arynn stepped a foot or two to the side, away from the giant. She knew logically that Memnon was her subordinate; he would never hurt her. Even so, it was hard to control the urge to flee when he got angry, and little seemed to anger him more than questioning his pride.
“Rhion!” she yelled down to the arena. “Take half an hour for lunch and report back here to continue your exercises.” She turned from the balcony and made her way down the stone hallway of the garrison. Racks leaned against the wall with fresh forged steel weapons. Since the annexation of Bacchuso, resources like iron, chromium, nickel, and coal were no longer as rare as they had once been. Arynn wondered if the true motivation for control over the old island kingdom rested with the desire for their untapped resources. With the king’s own nephew ruling the province as its legate, trade with Bacchuso had exploded, leading to a vast uptick in production throughout Ænæria. First Hearth’s crucibles and forges had been working day and night to prepare for the war—even harder since scouts reported movement from the south.
She’d spent the entirety of the summer working tirelessly to ensure their victory. According to the informants who’d infiltrated the Penteric Alliance’s ranks, the enemy’s forces had already marched into Ænæria and were making their way toward Plutonua. Unless that fleabag Gatron had another trick up his sleeve, his province was as good as gone. Maybe one of the other provinces could ruse to his aid, but Arynn was left planning an assault of her own.
As soon as the Penteric Alliance drinks to their victory over Gatron, they’ll have already lost one of their five settlements. Her coming battle would prove her loyalty to them and demonstrate just how serious she was about being their legate.
In a few weeks, Arynn would be leading the assault on Vänalleato. Strange to think she’d been homesick just last moon. How quickly things changed when secrets were exposed.
Hours later, within First Hearth’s trade district, Arynn strolled through the rough cobbled streets, her hand comfortably folded in Sera's. If her time adjusting to Vestinia had been trying, her reunion with Sera made up for it more than tenfold. When they took walks like this, sat up late at night under the stars, and swam together in Xander's Bay, Arynn couldn't help but think that she'd never been happier.
Stone pillars, moss-covered and weather-beaten, towered above at the gates where they marked the lines between districts. Few other buildings were crafted with stone or brick, for Vestinia had little clay and few quarries. They once had an abundance in pines and maples competing to touch the sky. Those had long ago been done away with to make room for fields where villages sprang up to grow what food they could. Factories littered the barren deforested fields where weapons and armor were forged.
Arynn and Sera ambled lightly, their loose sandals clopping against the hard ground mixing into a cadence with the boisterous crowds and busy merchants. War was a lucrative business, even for those not in the arms trade. Families feared for their safety, preparing to board up their homes, despite multiple attempts to explain that the enemy wasn’t headed this way.
"It was smart to mandate the ration," Sera said, her voice soft and hidden under the blanket of noise.
Arynn smiled, her face warm with affection. After all the years of abuse Sera had suffered in Ænæria, she rarely complimented Arynn's now active role in the kingdom's leadership.
"I care about the people. Our people. I won't have them go hungry." She had ordered a cutoff on the amount of food the people could buy at a time. She didn't want the rich taking everything for themselves with naught but scraps for the commoners. Warehouses were filled with rations only to be touched and handed out in equal quantities. Lady Estel and the surviving minor noble families didn’t like that. Fenwin had been happy to oblige to their ravenous desires so long as they continued to lend support to his military. They weren't used to being told no.
At times it was difficult to even want the Ænærians’ respect. So much of their culture was counter to the beliefs she’d grown up with and held so close to her heart. They were a reminder of all the lies Vänalleato had fed her. Like how they’d been the ones to sell Sera to the slavers in the first place. The bastards had been so preoccupied with controlling the minds of their people that they had the audacity to force those who didn’t comply into slavery. What kind of deal had her father made with the Elders to let her stay in the town after they’d decided to sweep their little problem under the rug by selling Sera? Was it money? Secrets? There had been so much deception, so many things withheld from her. If she couldn’t trust the people she’d grown up with, then how was she expected to trust the Vestinians?
Still, this was her new home, and Sera often reminded her to make the best of it. The most effective way to do that would be to earn the people’s respect—whether she wanted it or not. Therefore, she established that she would not rule with fear and punishment as Fenwin had. Few missed the lunatic—even poor widowed Lady Estel Crane. Once I’ve won my first battle, they’ll respect me. They would know themselves better off with her in his stead.
“You’ll have enough food saved for the road, right?” Sera asked. “For the whole army?”
Arynn nodded, double-checking the numbers in her head. She’d run them over with Memnon and Estel dozens of times. “Yes. We’ll have enough to make it to Vänalleato and withhold a decent siege. Not that it’ll last more than a day.”
“You’re okay with attacking our home?” Sera said it so matter-of-factly that Arynn almost mistook it for a statement.
“I’m not attacking it out of malice. They need to pay for what they did to you—and others like you. I’m liberating them from the Elders grasp.”
A shadow of a smirk spread from Sera’s lips. “But you always had so much respect for the Elders.”
Arynn chuckled at the glib remark. Then Sera’s eyes darkened, serious again. “Do you still believe in the Ascendants?”
Arynn doubled checked her surroundings. She could only get away with so much as legate. Blasphemy would win her no favors. Ancestors,
we’re supposed to call them. Did a name really make much of a difference? When she saw no one was around, she nodded. “Yes, I do. Of course, I do, Sera. They led me back to you, didn’t they?”
“Maybe. Maybe they took me away too.”
“No! That was the Elders. It has to be them selling slaves to wastelanders. I don’t know why, or who else is involved, but I can’t see it being anyone else.”
“You trust the rest of Vänalleato?”
Arynn paused. All of them? No. She couldn’t be that trusting. “I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.” It was the most she could offer.
“Does that include your father?”
It felt like she’d been stung. She pulled her hand away from Sera like a reflex. Like Ben and Darius and Trinity, Arynn had tried putting her father out of her mind as much as possible since discovering he’d kept so many secrets from her. He hadn’t even come looking for her. It had been over three moons since Jordysc, and there weren’t any reports of anyone so much as asking about a girl with red hair and blue eyes.
“I’ll…” her words broke as she started to speak. She turned away, facing the beach of the Bay of Xander and the warm salty breeze. “I’ll be honest with him, as I always have. He’ll have no choice but to listen to me voice how disgusted I am with everything he’s done while he rots in a cell for conspiracy.” Siegfried’s involvement with the Miners Guild was more than enough to earn him a crucifixion—Ænæria’s cruelest punishment. She’d never seen it happen before, only the aftermath as the corpses were picked at by carrion days after the hanging. No matter how much her father had hurt her, she could never do that to him.
Sera could read the speckle of sympathy Arynn still had for her father in her voice. “And what about my parents? Can you protect them, too? And the children? When you attack Vänalleato, there will be chaos. You can’t control who will live and die.”
The Heir of Ænæria Page 26
