Lachlei Read online

  “That’s Tamar,” said Cahal.

  The big man looked up on hearing his name. He saw Rhyn and scowled. “So, this is the Chi’lan from North Marches,” he said, sizing Rhyn up.

  “I am,” said Rhyn.

  “Who made you Chi’lan? You don’t look like much to me.” His speech was slurred, suggesting he had drunk more than even his frame could handle.

  Rhyn shrugged. “Chi’lan Ronan of the Marches…”

  “Then, you’re no Chi’lan,” Tamar said. “I don’t know any Chi’lan Ronan. Only Fialan made Chi’lan.”

  “Easy, Tamar, he’s first-blood,” Cahal said.

  “First-blood!” Tamar spat. “First-blood? Does he think he’s better than us?”

  Rhyn stood up. “I don’t want a quarrel…”

  “Then, get out,” Tamar growled.

  Rhyn glanced around. The other Chi’lan seemed mildly interested in the argument, but no one was eager to aid him, save Cahal. But Cahal was young and inexperienced.

  “Tamar…” began Cahal.

  “Cahal, stay out of this,” Rhyn said. “I can defend myself.”

  “Can you?” Tamar said, drawing closer. Rhyn noted that he still held the dagger. “You don’t look like much of a Chi’lan. No scars.”

  Rhyn shrugged. “Maybe I know how to get out of the way.”

  Cahal chuckled.

  Tamar glared. “You don’t drink mead either.”

  “I didn’t know that was a prerequisite for a Chi’lan.” Rhyn smiled. “It’s quite good — you can have mine, if you’d like.”

  Tamar glared. “I wouldn’t want anything that a Shara’kai, half-breed from the North Marches touched.”

  Cahal glanced at Rhyn. The new Chi’lan seemed relaxed and unoffended. “Rhyn, he just called you a half-breed.”

  The god looked bored. “I’ve seen better Ansgar warriors than him.”

  Tamar lunged, slashing with his dagger. Rhyn stepped to the right and used the big man’s momentum to toss Tamar aside. A moment later, Rhyn stood over the Chi’lan, his sword drawn. Tamar scrambled to stand, but was met with the tip of Rhyn’s blade inches from his face. The sword glowed blue-white in the dim light.

  A murmur rippled through the Chi’lan and the entire mead hall became silent. Everyone stared at the Sword of Power and at the man who wielded it.

  “I would be very careful whom you choose as your enemy,” Rhyn said, an edge to his voice. “Especially one who would be your friend.”

  Tamar blinked. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow as he met the god’s gaze. Rhyn smiled and lowered his blade. He offered Tamar his hand.

  Tamar hesitated and then took the god’s hand. Rhyn pulled the big man up and they stared at each other for a moment. Tamar smiled and Rhyn sheathed his sword. Laughter erupted throughout the Chi’lan. Several clapped Rhyn on the back before going back to their mead. Many went back to their business.

  Tamar chuckled but he gave Rhyn an appraising look. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked. “I’ve never had anyone move so quickly that they could take me down.”

  “Chi’lan training,” Rhyn replied grinning.

  Cahal stood beside them and chuckled. “Perhaps, but I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.” He nodded at the sword that hung at Rhyn’s side. “Nor have I seen a Sword of Power. I thought they were all destroyed before the Truce — where did you get that?”

  Rhyn shrugged. “From my father.”

  A lie? Ni’yah’s voice echoed in his head. My, are we taking this mortal thing a little too seriously?

  A necessity, Rhyn’athel replied. He met Tamar’s gaze and saw that the Chi’lan was studying him curiously.

  “You’re more than first-blood,” Tamar said at last. He turned and took another flagon of mead before returning to the knife game.

  CHAPTER Fourteen

  Lachlei left the council’s chambers. The cold air bit into her face as she strode back to the great hall. Laewynd was a fool, she decided. His faith and trust in her were misplaced. She couldn’t lead the Lochvaur against their enemies, let alone to the greatness Fialan envisioned. And yet, there was no one else. There was no other first-blood capable of doing what she could.

  But, even as she thought this, Lachlei knew she was wrong. There was Rhyn. Lachlei could sense that Rhyn was as powerful as Fialan had been. Maybe even more so. But Rhyn was a stranger and was not of Caer Lochvaren. Indeed, he was not of any Lochvaur line known to exist. How could the Lochvaur of Caer Lochvaren have missed such a bloodline? Lachlei couldn’t imagine it. Even the North Marches were not so remote when it came to blood kin.

  “I told you Laewynd would make you queen,” said Kellachan as he strode beside her.

  Lachlei glared at him. “Damn it, Kel, I’m not fit to lead the army.”

  Kellachan grinned. “Yes, you are — only you won’t admit it.”

  Lachlei shook her head. “Kel, my husband is dead and I must find his murderers. They have used dark magic against him.”

  Kellachan nodded. “I know,” he said. He met her gaze earnestly. “Lachlei — have you thought that those who killed Fialan were not looking merely to slay him?”

  Lachlei stared. She thought of the demon. “You think it was an attack against the Lochvaur?”

  “What do you think?”

  Lachlei gazed into the starry sky. She had thought the demon killed Fialan because he was a powerful Lochvaur. She had not thought about the consequences of his death. Of course, now that Fialan was gone, there was no one to protect the kindred. She shook her head, lost in her own muddled thoughts. “I think I am very tired,” she said at last. She reached the door to the great hall and pulled it open.

  The noise of the hall poured into the darkness. Lachlei smiled as she saw that the warriors were still drinking. Of course, they would still be drinking. Lachlei would have crept to her private chambers unnoticed if she had a choice. But Cahal spied her as she slid through the door with Kellachan beside her. Cahal stood at attention and other Chi’lan followed, including Rhyn. His silver eyes seemed to cut right through her. The hall fell silent.

  Lachlei frowned. She knew they were expecting her to say something. The weariness of the month filled her. She simply wanted to sleep.

  “It appears that both Laewynd and the High Council have overridden my personal desires,” she said without preamble. She glanced at Kellachan who smiled at her. “The High Council has chosen me as your queen.”

  A deafening roar drowned out her words. The Chi’lan cheered and pulled their daggers from their belts. “Lachlei! Lachlei!” they chanted and pounded their pommels against the tables to their words.

  Lachlei raised her hands for silence, but they only shouted louder. Mead flowed from the barrels into flagons and someone handed her a cup. Lachlei grinned and took a gulp of the spiced honey-wine as the chanting grew louder. Almost immediately, she felt the heady rush from the drink.

  “Lachlei!” Cahal said.

  Lachlei turned and smiled at the younger Chi’lan. “What is it, Cahal?”

  Cahal paused, noting her eyes were bright from the mead. “Perhaps we should talk later.”

  “Perhaps we should talk now,” she said with a smile. “What is it?”

  “The new Chi’lan, Rhyn…” he began.

  “What about him?”

  “He bested Tamar.”

  Lachlei turned to see Rhyn gazing at her from across the room. He had been talking to Tamar and looked up, somehow sensing that she was looking at him. He was handsome, she decided, and a sly smile crept across her face. “Is that so? He bested Tamar?”

  “He has a Sword of Power,” Cahal added.

  Lachlei stared. “Really? Are you sure?” Even in her inebriated state, Lachlei knew the implications.

  “Quite,” Cahal said. “The sword glowed.”

  Lachlei considered Rhyn thoughtfully. “A Sword of Power. This is very interesting, Cahal. Who knows about this?”

  Cahal shrugged. “Everyone. R
hyn took Tamar on right here in the hall.”

  “There are no Swords of Power left.”

  “Rhyn said he inherited the blade from his father.”

  Lachlei shook her head. “No, Cahal. Swords of Power disintegrate when the forger dies. Only godlings have strong enough magic to forge a Sword of Power. Are you sure what you saw?”

  “Ask anyone here if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” she said, glancing at Rhyn. “I just find it extraordinary.”

  Cahal glanced at Rhyn and then back at Lachlei. “Do you think he’s lying?”

  Lachlei shrugged. “Not necessarily, but I think Rhyn isn’t telling us everything.” She glanced at Rhyn, and his steady silver eyes met hers. For a moment, she felt as though he had knocked down her mental defenses with ease. She shivered and broke eye contact, glancing into the empty mead cup. She turned to Cahal. “See that I’m not disturbed,” she said. She strode to the door to her private chambers and left the hall.

  *****

  Lachlei found that she couldn’t sleep at first, despite the mead. She had checked on her sleeping son and Wynne, his nanny, before collapsing in exhaustion. She had wept for weeks since Fialan’s death. Now, she could weep no more — instead, she began to think about the demon that killed Fialan.

  She felt edgy — as though something was about to happen. The Sight did that to her frequently, but gave her only hints and clues as to the future. A random image here or there or a fleeting thought would come to her. It didn’t come when bidden, but sometimes Lachlei could summon the visions without controlling what she was summoning. The Wyrd — the fabric of the past, present, and future — was like that. Only the gods had the ability to see the entire Wyrd, but even they could not control it. Very few first-bloods had been able to summon visions and those had been primarily godlings.

  Lachlei let herself drift, allowing the Sight to permeate her senses. Fialan had better control over the Sight than she had, but he too found it difficult to interpret. The Sight certainly didn’t save Fialan’s life — if Fialan had seen the demon, he would have avoided it.

  Lachlei saw nothing save darkness. It would be dawn in a few hours and she knew she would need her rest for the work ahead. Exhausted, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

  CHAPTER Fifteen

  Fialan followed Eshe across the plains as the “sun” rose into the dark sky. Unlike Sowelu, the sun of Elren, this sun was swollen and red, but cast little heat and almost no light. It provided little warmth in this barren place. Fialan wrapped his cloak around himself, but the cold wind cut through it.

  Fialan marveled that he was still dressed much the same as he had when he died — assuming he had died. He didn’t quite believe the Chi’lan named Eshe. She didn’t talk or look back as she walked across the barren landscape towards what appeared to be cliffs in the distance.

  And yet, the world was as alien as anything Fialan had ever dreamed of. It was bleak and red, obviously due to a play of the sun’s light on the land. As his eyes began to adjust to the dimness, he could see other Eleion wandering the vast plains. Some huddled in groups; some alone. Occasionally, a few considered him with interest, but most ignored his presence and none spoke to him.

  Fialan caught up with Eshe and grasped her arm. She had drawn her cowl over her head and wrapped the cloak tightly around herself against the cold. “Will you talk to me?”

  Eshe paused. “Why?”

  “You spoke to me earlier.”

  “That’s because I had to,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp.

  “Why?” Fialan asked.

  “Because I had to,” she said and turned to leave. He caught her arm again. “Leave me alone, Fialan.”

  “No,” Fialan said. “How long have you been here?”

  “Time doesn’t mean anything here.”

  “It must,” Fialan mused. “You said you served Lochvaur in the Battle of the Nine Worlds?”

  Eshe glared at him. Fialan held her arm. “Yes,” she said at last. “Let me go.”

  “No. I won’t unless you answer my questions.”

  “I could use my polearm.”

  “And I could use my sword,” Fialan said. “But if what you say is true, and I am dead, then you can’t kill me again.”

  “You’ll feel pain,” Eshe replied.

  A smile played across Fialan’s lips. “Really?”

  “What’s so amusing?” She stared at him.

  “You and I could fight each other and not die,” he said.

  “You’ll regenerate your body.”

  “Courtesy of Areyn Sehduk?”

  Her eyes hardened — steel points within the darkness of the cowl. “Yes.”

  “But I am Rhyn’athel’s champion,” he said.

  “Were Rhyn’athel’s champion,” she said. “Rhyn’athel has no power here.”

  “Why do you say that?” he said. “You’re Chi’lan — you’re Rhyn’athel’s warrior.”

  Eshe shook her head. “I was Rhyn’athel’s warrior,” she said. “Rhyn’athel abandoned us to Areyn after the war. Areyn took the dead, Fialan. We are beholden to the death god.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Fialan said.

  “You’ve just died, you don’t know…”

  “Don’t know what?”

  Again, the hatred glowed in her eyes. “You’ll learn…”

  “Learn what?”

  Eshe took a breath. “You have no will save Areyn’s. You will do as he commands.” She looked on him in pity. “Fialan, Rhyn’athel has abandoned us to our fate with the death god. Rhyn’athel has abandoned his own son, Lochvaur, to Areyn for the sake of the Nine Worlds. No one, save perhaps Lochvaur and a few of his followers believe that Rhyn’athel will return for us. It has been so long, Fialan.”

  “So, you believe you should just give up?” Fialan asked.

  Eshe shook her head. “Fialan, I used to believe as you do. But Areyn uses us; he drains us of our life force like a leech until we can barely survive. But, we are creations of Rhyn’athel and we grow strong again — only to feed Areyn.” She shuddered and pulled herself away. “It’s awful — and we don’t speak of it ever. You’ll learn.”

  Fialan let her go and she shuffled away from him. The thought of having his life force drained filled him with horror, but he pushed it from his mind.

  “Lochvaur hasn’t given up — why?” Fialan asked.

  Eshe stopped and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Eshe — wait!” Fialan called to her. At first, he thought she would continue forward, but she stopped and turned around. “I’ll leave you alone after this — I promise.”

  Eshe’s eyes glinted under her dark cowl. “What is it?”

  “I have been the strongest Chi’lan champion since Lochvaur. No mortal creature slew me, Eshe.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. It matters not just to me, but to the Nine Worlds. I was Rhyn’athel’s champion and the creature that killed me should have died when I thrust my blade into it.”

  Eshe lowered her hood. “You killed it?”

  “It was supposedly a Silren, Eshe, but it killed my Chi’lan warriors with a glance. I struck it in the chest. It would’ve killed a first-blood, Eshe. My sword was a magical weapon.”

  Eshe paused. “Your sword was adamantine?”

  “From Athelren. Nothing could’ve survived Fyren’s blow.”

  “Fyren?” she whispered. “Fyren?”

  “You know the blade, then?”

  “Fyren is a legendary demon slayer,” Eshe said. “It was Lochvaur’s blade before he forged his own Sword of Power. No demon could withstand that sword.”

  “Whatever killed me did,” Fialan said. “I buried Fyren into its chest. It prevented me from using my powers.”

  A glint of hope shone in Eshe’s eyes. “There are very few that could withstand that blade. That who could withstand Fyren, would violate the Truce…”

  Fialan grinned. “My
thoughts exactly.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “Take me to Lochvaur,” he said.

  CHAPTER Sixteen

  Something wasn’t right.

  Ronan walked along the stockade fencing of North Marches, his senses at peak awareness. As commanding Chi’lan, Ronan was in charge of North Marches defenses, such as they were. Although he was not first-blood, Ronan came from ancient lines, and his instincts were sharply aware of both magical and non-magical dangers. His instincts told him something was about to happen.

  Ronan nodded to one of the sentries he passed along the earthen ramparts. It was quiet tonight, and the soldiers were making their rounds as they always had. It was routine, and yet…

  Ronan gazed into the darkness. The forest that surrounded the village of North Marches crested a hill to the north — the beginnings of the Lochvaren Mountains lay to the north and west. To the east lay the Silren lands. Ronan had never been fond of the Silren — what he had seen of them. Most avoided the village of North Marches, but a few did make their way here. Despite the Lochvaur attempt in friendship, most Silren preferred to avoid the Lochvaur.

  “Silren,” he muttered as he walked towards one of the other Chi’lan stationed along the ramparts. “Alasila, do you see anything tonight?”

  “Ronan,” the woman nodded. Alasila was one of the many women Chi’lan in North Marches. “Nothing save the cursed moon.”

  Ronan chuckled, looking up at the pale moon. “Tomah and Iamar don’t even show themselves with that evil thing. I was wondering if you had seen anything to worry about.”

  Alasila shook her head. “Nothing.” She gave Ronan an appraising look. “Do you sense something?”

  “Maybe,” Ronan said. He gazed out at the forest and saw a shadow creep along the ground. “What do you make of that?”

  Alasila looked out at the shadow as it crept towards the village. “Fog, maybe?”

  Ronan frowned. “The fog comes from the valleys, not the hills.” He stared at it for a minute. “Signal the watch,” he said. “It’s an army.”