Lachlei Read online

  “Perhaps,” the wolf-god shrugged. “But that time is not now. Fialan is dead. Areyn killed him…”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know the mark of an immortal’s work. Who else would desire to destroy the peace we’ve achieved?”

  Rhyn’athel shook his head. “It could be followers of Areyn ...”

  “As long as the Fifth World remains under both your and Areyn’s control, there will be no peace. Areyn will not settle for the Nine Worlds being equally divided.” Ni’yah sighed. “With Fialan dead, the power will shift — you know that.”

  “Fialan was my champion,” Rhyn’athel agreed. “There will have to be another.”

  Ni’yah frowned. “You said that when Lochvaur died — and there has been no equal to him. That was another time when you gave into Areyn’s demands…”

  Rhyn’athel’s gaze hardened and Ni’yah knew the barb had hit its mark. “Don’t you think I rue that decision, Ni’yah? Lochvaur and I agreed that for the sake of the Truce, he should remain in Areyn’s realm. You, I remember, talked me into it.”

  “You’ve given too much for peace, brother.”

  Rhyn’athel’s face was expressionless, but Ni’yah knew he had pushed the warrior god past his limit. “Don’t you think I regret every day that Lochvaur stays under Areyn’s power? Don’t you think I regret that my Chi’lan feed that demon god’s power? Ni’yah, if it were not for the living…”

  “And now, without a champion, we risk that, too. There’s no other living right now who could rival Fialan,” said Ni’yah. He paused and a glint entered his eyes. “Save one.”

  “Who?”

  “Lachlei.” Ni’yah’s eyes gleamed now. “She could do it.”

  Rhyn’athel scowled. “Fialan’s consort?” He searched his memory for the Lochvaur woman’s image. None came readily to mind.

  “Lachlei is Chi’lan,” said Ni’yah. “She trained under Lochalan; she’s a distant cousin. And she’s half Laddel as well. Her mother Ladara was Laddel’s granddaughter…”

  “Then, she’s first-blood,” Rhyn’athel mused.

  “Oh yes, she is,” Ni’yah grinned. “She’s twice first-blood, from both the Lochvaur and Laddel lines. Very powerful — if she’d use her magic. She was an exceptional warrior before she became Fialan’s queen.” He paused and glanced sideways at his brother. “She’s beautiful, too.”

  Rhyn’athel stared at Ni’yah. “You’ve been among the mortals for far too long.”

  Ni’yah chuckled. “I have — I won’t deny it. I’ve learned to appreciate what the Fifth World has to offer.” He paused. “But Lachlei can’t handle Areyn Sehduk alone, my brother. She’ll need your help.”

  Rhyn’athel shook his head. “I’m sworn by the Truce to not become involved.”

  “Then, at least come to Elren and see what Areyn has done,” Ni’yah said. “Observe what has happened first hand, and then tell me this is not the work of the death god.”

  Rhyn’athel hesitated. He knew Ni’yah had a good reason for being persistent, even if his brother was a rogue. Rhyn’athel stood for a moment, arms crossed, vexed at the choice he had to make.

  Ni’yah smiled slyly as he watched his brother weigh the options, his brass eyes glittering with mischief. “Observe — that’s all,” Ni’yah said. “You don’t need to act…”

  “Observe,” repeated Rhyn’athel. It sounded harmless, but it was Ni’yah and Rhyn’athel knew it wasn’t. Ni’yah had one final trick to play. He sighed. “Very well,” Rhyn’athel said, at last. “I will observe — that is all.”

  “That’s all,” said Ni’yah, triumph ringing in his voice.

  Rhyn’athel fixed him with a stare. “That is all,” he said with finality.

  CHAPTER Four

  Lachlei watched the wagons enter Caer Lochvaren. The iron gates swung wide to admit the slow and somber procession. All along the wall, walks, and towers of the fortress city, Chi’lan warriors turned in respect towards the wagons bearing the bodies of the king and his guard.

  By Eleion standards, Caer Lochvaren was a small fortress city. It had a single keep and bailey, with no other towers and no buildings larger than two stories. The whole fortress was little more than the fortified settlement it replaced. Only the keep and curtain walls were made from stone. All other buildings were wooden, built from timber taken from the surrounding forests. Another cluster of homes and shops lay just beyond the walls, protected by a palisade and moat as a secondary defense.

  Not much more than a grody, Fialan had said. Lachlei smiled sadly at her husband’s words. Fialan would never get the chance to see the Lochvaur to the greatness he envisioned. Of all the Chi’lan, Lachlei believed Fialan could have done it. Fialan had the strength, determination, and the power to make the Lochvaur into the greatest kindred.

  Now, Fialan was dead.

  The Lochvaur had never been the largest kindred of the Nine. Even so, the Chi’lan warriors had become legendary as they defended themselves against larger, more aggressive kindreds like the Silren, Eltar, and Redel. Warriors who preferred peace to war, the Chi’lan had always sought to settle their differences with treaty, but were never afraid to fight or die.

  Now, the Chi’lan and the Lochvaur were leaderless.

  Lachlei walked slowly from the mead hall. Gone were the tears, replaced by cold anger. Gone too was the finery of the office. Lachlei now wore her old mail and badges of a Chi’lan warrior. Her surcoat and cloak still shone bright red-gold, and her old broadsword hung at her side.

  “My queen,” Cahal said, standing by her side.

  “Chi’lan Lachlei,” she corrected him. “I am no longer your queen, Cahal. I ceased being your queen when Fialan died — it is up to the Council to decide who will be the next king.”

  Cahal stared for a moment and then shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Fialan is really dead,” he said.

  Lachlei smiled sadly. The ever-present mind-link that connected her with Fialan was gone. “It isn’t to me.” Her silver eyes followed the slow procession. Each wagon, draped with red and gold cloth, bore a warrior. Two horses drew each wagon. The last one, Lachlei knew, was Fialan’s.

  A tall Chi’lan approached Lachlei. Kellachan, her cousin, stood beside her. “Lachlei, the Council will meet…” he began.

  Lachlei held up her hand. “Not now, cousin,” she said.

  “I will ask that they choose you as…”

  “No.”

  Kellachan blinked. “But you are the queen.”

  “I was your queen,” Lachlei said bitterly. “I have neither right nor title to the throne, save perhaps being first-blood. The Council has not chosen me, nor would I accept it. I don’t deserve it.”

  “Lachlei,” said Cahal. “Reconsider this. Of all the Chi’lan, you alone can see our kindred to greatness.”

  Lachlei shook her head as she walked towards the wagons. The lead Chi’lan, astride a battle horse, raised his hand to halt as he saw her walk forward. As Lachlei approached, the stench of death filled her nostrils. She fought the gorge that threatened to rise in her throat.

  Instead, Lachlei turned to the commander of the accompanying Chi’lan. “Kian, how did they die?”

  Kian turned to her, his face ashen. “Fialan took a blade to the chest,” he replied. “The others…” He shuddered.

  Lachlei turned to the first wagon. She stepped up on the running boards and peered at the corpse. A wave of dark magic assailed her, and she shuddered involuntarily. Despite her nausea, she pulled the cloth back from the corpse. Bright red blood stained its mouth as though the man had just died.

  Lachlei frowned. She didn’t want to touch the thing — it reeked of foul magic — but she had to know. She reached out and touched the corpse on the forehead.

  Hot pain shot through her. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” she yelped, pulling her hand back. She looked at her fingers and saw blisters form on them.

  Cahal stood beside her. “What is it?”

  L
achlei showed him her fingers. “I would wager all the bodies are like that,” she said.

  “Magic?”

  “Dark magic — a heinous kind.”

  “Did you feel anything when you touched the corpses?” Cahal asked, turning to Kian.

  Kian shook his head. “No, but we didn’t touch the bodies directly.”

  Lachlei focused on her fingers. The blisters absorbed into the skin and healed. Part of the powers of a first-blood was the ability to heal oneself and others — even from terrible wounds. She gazed at the corpse. “He didn’t die through normal means,” she said at last.

  Kian and Cahal glanced at each other. “What happened?” Cahal ventured.

  “His heart and lungs burst,” she said. “Were all the others like this?”

  “All save Fialan.” Kian suppressed a shudder. “The horses, too.”

  Cahal met Lachlei’s gaze. “Do you know what caused it?”

  Lachlei stepped from the wagon’s footboards. “Dark magic,” she said. She walked towards the last wagon, dreading what she knew she would find.

  Cahal caught up to her and gripped her arm. Lachlei turned towards him, her eyes haunted. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

  Lachlei shook her head. “But I do, Cahal. I do.” She glanced at his hand. “Let me go.”

  Cahal released her and Lachlei climbed onto the running boards of the last wagon. Fialan’s corpse was covered with a red shroud. Lachlei hesitated for a moment and then grasped the shroud, pulling it back. She caught her breath as she gazed into her husband’s dead face.

  A wave of emotion flooded her as she looked in his unseeing eyes, glazed with death. Pain and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her again, but this time she fought it. She focused on the anger as it welled inside. Some thing had done this to Fialan. Lachlei was going to find out what.

  Fialan’s pale face betrayed nothing of the horror he had felt in the last seconds of his life. Like the others, his body stank of foul magic. Lachlei didn’t dare repeat touching his body for fear of the same result.

  Lachlei forced herself to look away from the face and look at the blood-soaked armor. She saw only one wound to his chest — a single sword cut. She frowned. Fialan was too great a warrior and too powerful a first-blood to let someone surprise him. If thieves or soldiers had caught him, Fialan would have fought and suffered many more wounds than this. Seldom did Chi’lan die with only one sword wound.

  Her gaze drifted to the long sword, Fyren, which lay beside him. Lachlei reached out and touched the adamantine blade’s hilt lightly, half expecting to be burned. Instead, the blade felt cold and hard to her touch.

  “What is it?” Cahal asked as she picked up the sword and held the blade to the sun’s rays.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, gazing at the discolored blade. She stretched out with her powers, hoping to gain a sense of what had killed Fialan.

  Death.

  Lachlei recoiled in horror, almost dropping the sword. Her mind reeled.

  “Lachlei?” Cahal grasped her shoulders.

  She shuddered and then gazed at Cahal. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword! It’s the blood of the thing that killed Fialan.”

  CHAPTER Five

  “Fialan is dead.”

  Areyn Sehduk stood in the throne room of the Silren, a smile played across his lips. In his current form, the death god was the warrior, Akwel, one of the Silren nobles. He had ambushed Akwel, taking the Silren’s body as the warrior rode alone in the forest. He consumed the hapless Silren’s soul, using Akwel’s energy to feed his power while he stayed in this world. Areyn would soon have to feed again.

  The sun shone brightly through the stained glass windows, casting a rainbow of color across the granite floors. The dark blue colors of the Silren standard hung overhead, emblazoned with a silver, eight-rayed star, contrasting against the light gray stone.

  In the bright sunlight, none, not even Silvain, suspected that the man who stood before them was the death god. Silvain, the king of the Silren, sat on the intricately carved throne, listening to Areyn’s words. The son of the goddess, Elisila, was old, even though his body had remained young. None here knew his age, save Areyn. The godling was over three thousand years old and had seen many battles — including the first battle against Areyn Sehduk.

  Areyn remembered the king of the Silren and despised him. During that battle, the kindreds had reunited under godlings such as Silvain and Lochvaur. They had fought with Rhyn’athel to overthrow Areyn. None here save Silvain remembered that battle. None here save Areyn, himself.

  Areyn had been hesitant at first to approach Silvain in his new body. Silvain had powers beyond even a normal first-blood, but Areyn soon discovered that the godling could not see beyond his disguise. No one could, save perhaps another god, and even then, Areyn doubted one of the lesser gods could recognize him. Areyn guessed that only Rhyn’athel could, but Rhyn’athel wasn’t here.

  Rhyn’athel wouldn’t get involved. That was the beauty of the Truce. Only when it was too late would the warrior god enter the fray. By that time, Elren would be Areyn’s and the power would shift. With the power of five worlds under his command, Areyn knew the other four would eventually fall.

  It was a good plan. It would work. Even the meddling Ni’yah couldn’t do much about it. Areyn had seen a wolf after he had killed Fialan, and that had troubled him at first. Could it have been the meddling god? But the wolf had fled, not confronted him, and Areyn had sensed nothing special about that wolf.

  Behind Areyn sat the Silren nobles, many who gazed at him in admiration. He knew the Silren’s minds and now was the time to put into words their desires.

  “With the Lochvaur champion gone, the Lochvaur are leaderless,” Areyn said. “Their confusion is our gain. Now is the time for the Silren to take back the lands that are rightfully ours.”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the Silren nobles. There was no love between the Lochvaur and Silren.

  Silvain raised his hand for silence and the room stilled. He met Areyn’s gaze. “We are at peace with the Lochvaur. We agreed to the treaty Lochalan and I signed nearly a hundred years ago.”

  Areyn laughed. “Have the Silren gone soft? Were not the lands the Lochvaur now occupied once ours?”

  “The North Marches have been in dispute for many centuries,” Silvain said evenly. “I remember when Lochvaur, himself, claimed those lands.”

  “Yes, but so did you,” Areyn replied. “They were our lands first.”

  The nobles looked to Silvain.

  The king of the Silren smiled, his ice-blue eyes met the gods. “Indeed, they were our lands,” he admitted. “Akwel, you know our history very well. Very well indeed.”

  Better than you think, Areyn Sehduk thought darkly.

  “But what of the Chi’lan?” one voice objected. The Silren warriors parted and a tall woman clad in mail approached the throne. Her ice blue eyes considered Areyn with contempt.

  “Rhyn’athel’s dogs,” Areyn scoffed. “With the Elesil, we can defeat the Chi’lan and take back our lands.”

  “Rhyn’athel’s dogs, as you call them, are the best warriors in the Nine Worlds,” she said. “We spilt much blood to obtain that treaty, and you would throw it away on a worthless scrap of land?”

  “North Marches is hardly worthless, Cara, my daughter,” Silvain said. “It has been traditionally our lands before Lochalan.”

  Cara met her father’s gaze. “The Elesil will not enter the fight with us.”

  A sardonic smile played on Areyn lips. “Conlan has assured me his support. The Elesil want their lands to the east almost as much as we desire ours. Now is the time to act, while the Lochvaur are leaderless.”

  “You’re insane — the Laddel and Haell will assuredly come to the Lochvaur aid,” Cara objected.

  “I hear the prattle of women,” Areyn spoke. Many of the nobles chuckled in response.

  Cara drew her sword and started forward.

  “Commander, no!”
A Silren captain named Haukel caught her arm.

  Cara wheeled around. “Not here,” Haukel said, giving her a knowing look. “Not now.”

  “Yes,” said Areyn grinning as he watched Cara seethe. “Those of you who care to listen to women prattle are as much cowards as they are. The Lochvaur have our lands — it is time we took them back!”

  The Silren warriors cheered, drowning out the dissenters. Areyn gave Cara a sly smile. She turned and left, flanked by a few warriors.

  “Then, it is decided,” Silvain said. “We take back the North Marches.”

  The stars shone brightly in the sky as Lachlei thrust the torch into the pyre on which laid the five dead Chi’lan. The other Chi’lan followed, tossing their burning torches into the wood. The dry kindling caught and the flames leapt up, ensconcing the body of Fialan and the men who died to protect him.

  It had taken most of the day to build the pyre on the mountain overlooking Caer Lochvaren. Lachlei had helped the Chi’lan construct the pyre, carrying the logs and branches necessary to feed the flames. The air had a hint of frost in it, and the trees were already changing color.

  A change was in the air.

  Lachlei watched as the flames obscured the bodies. She had tried what she could to remove the foul magic from them, but the stench remained.

  It will not leave Fialan alone, even in death, she thought. What powerful magic could do this?

  Beside Lachlei stood her kinsman, Kellachan, and her personal guard, even though Lochvaur law didn’t require their service to her anymore. Cahal stood loyally by — a reminder of the ardent loyalty Fialan commanded among the Chi’lan. Lachlei thought now about her infant son, Haellsil. He would become a great warrior like his father — if he lived long enough.

  The Lochvaur were vulnerable; there was no great champion now. The other kindreds would sense the vulnerability and gather like wolves awaiting the death of a wounded moose. The pack would draw closer and eventually tear them apart. Unless…

  Unless there was a champion to take Fialan’s place.

  But Lachlei knew there was no Chi’lan warrior alive who could. She knew the Chi’lan and their capabilities, but first-bloods from the line of Lochvaur were rare. Fialan was one; she was another. Lachlei and Fialan had been related only distantly with six generations between a common ancestor. Kellachan was even more distantly related, without the powers a first-blood should possess. No wonder that the Chi’lan turned to her.