Lachlei
To Larry, as always.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank to following people for their help on Lachlei (in no particular order):
• My husband, Larry, and my good friend, Deb Eldredge, for being first readers. My husband, Larry, for being my editor as well.
• The good folks at Yard Dog Press (www.yarddogpress.com) who introduced fans to this world. If you’re interested in other stories, check out my other books, Prophecy of Swords and Runestone of Teiwas, which are in the same universe. A huge thanks to Selina Rosen and Lynn Stranathan. Thanks to Lynn for edits.
• My thanks to Gwen Gades, publisher at Dragon Moon Press, for taking this book on, and Brian Hades of Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy.
• Thanks to the guys at Podiobooks.com, the coolest bunch of people around. Especially to Evo Terra for giving me another way to promote. Listen to their books. Thanks to Tee Morris, who actually inspired me to submit to Dragon Moon Press.
• A huge thanks to Laura Diehl, for the awesome cover.
1
The world was gone.
Rhyn’athel, the god of warriors stood on the charred mound that was once a towering peak within the Shadow Mountains. Nothing but burnt and smoldering ruins and corpses filled the land to the glowing red horizon and beyond. The acrid smell of burning flesh and death reached his nostrils. To a mortal, the stench would have been overwhelming.
But there were no mortals. There was nothing living now. All the races were gone along with the green fields, the majestic forests of pine, oak, and elm, the streams, the rivers, the mountains and the valleys. All laid waste in one single battle.
Rhyn’athel doubted anything could have survived the torrent of flames and the massive destruction that followed. He sheathed his sword, Teiwaz, in anger and pulled off his helm and mail coif, revealing the red mane streaked with gold.
Such waste! The gods of light would have to begin again.
Rhyn’athel was a tall god, but he could see no further than perhaps a mile. The thick clouds of smoke were too dense and piles of burning corpses too tall to see beyond. His silver eyes scanned the battlefield.
He caught movement and drew Teiwaz once again. Had the demon god returned? What could Areyn Sehduk, the god of death, want with this world now? Areyn had razed the world with the Fyr, the Eternal Fire, and nothing could stand in its way.
Teiwaz, the Sword of Power, glowed a menacing blue-white against the blood-red sky. Rhyn’athel relaxed when he saw the movement was a silver wolf padding through the piles of ashes and charred remains.
“Ni’yah,” Rhyn’athel said.
The wolf transformed into a god wearing mail. He was shorter than Rhyn’athel, with a wolf-gray mane and brass-colored eyes. Still, the familial resemblance remained. “Brother,” he greeted the warrior god. “Where is Areyn Sehduk?”
“Back in the world of the dead, I hope,” Rhyn’athel replied. “What of the other worlds?”
“Much the same as this,” Ni’yah said. “Except our own world, Athelren. The other gods and goddesses were able to hold off the Eternal Fire to protect the Hall of the Gods.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
Rhyn’athel shook his head. “Then the Eleion…”
Ni’yah grinned wryly.
Rhyn’athel stared. “Why do you smile? Areyn destroyed everything! Everything!”
“Not completely, my brother.”
Rhyn’athel blinked. “What?”
“You don’t think I would let the Eleion perish, do you?” Ni’yah asked. “They were, after all, my idea.”
A grin spread across Rhyn’athel’s face. “Who’s alive?”
Ni’yah shook his head. “I couldn’t save all. But it’s enough to return the Eleion and the Ansgar races to this world. There’s enough of each of the Nine Kindreds. But yes, your son, Lochvaur, is alive.”
“You brought them to Athelren—to the Hall of the Gods?”
“It was the safest place—considering there were no safe places,” Ni’yah said.
“So, what did you get out of Areyn?”
“A truce,” Rhyn’athel said. “We’ve divided the Nine.”
“Equally?”
Rhyn’athel nodded.
Ni’yah frowned. “Next time, have me negotiate. We won, my brother—we should’ve gotten the majority.”
“I tried—but even with Teiwaz run through him and pinned to the World Tree, Areyn wouldn’t concede his four,” Rhyn’athel said. “And this world, the fifth world, can’t be touched by either side until the end of time. It’s neutral ground.” “What of the Eleion and Ansgar?”
“This will be their world now.”
“No bargain,” Ni’yah said. “The Jotunn and demons can still walk these worlds—they’ll decimate our people.”
“Neither the Jotunn nor the demons can enter this world– not while under the truce,” Rhyn’athel said. “But neither I nor Areyn can enter this world as long as the truce is in effect.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Ni’yah said, crossing his arms.
“You will abide by it.”
“No.”
Rhyn’athel glared at his brother. “You dare defy me?”
“Yes,” Ni’yah said. “This is foolish—you brokered no peace, brother, you simply delayed the inevitable.”
“And what would you do?” Rhyn’athel demanded. “Areyn can’t be destroyed anymore than you or I. Without a reasonable offer, Areyn has no motivation to keep the truce and then, we are back to this.” He waved a gauntleted hand at the desolation.
Ni’yah shook his head and said nothing. His brass eyes hardened as he gazed at the destroyed world. “What Areyn did is unforgivable.”
“What would you have done?”
A silence ensued. At last, Ni’yah nodded. “I would’ve brokered peace the best I could,” he admitted.
“Which I have done,” Rhyn’athel replied. He gripped his brother’s arm affectionately. “I know it’s a delay, but what else can I do?”
“Let’s hope it’s enough,” the wolf-god replied.
2
The air smelled of death.
Areyn Sehduk watched the small band of warriors ride towards him. The death god smiled as their horses skittered nervously to an uneasy stop. He had chosen to wait here for them—here along the King’s Highway—amid the fir trees and dark pines under a moonless night. Few traveled this stretch of road that wound from the North Marches to the city fortress Caer Lochvaren. They weren’t far from the Silren’s border—no doubt the Silren would take the blame for what Areyn Sehduk was about to do. That suited the death god just fine.
There were five in all. They were none other than Chi’lan warriors—men sworn to serve Areyn Sehduk’s enemy, Rhyn’athel,. They wore red and gold, the colors of Rhyn’athel. The colors of the Lochvaur kindred.
The colors of the enemy.
One warrior rode forward. He was handsome with a lean, muscular build and a flowing red mane streaked with gold, typical for the Lochvaur. He wore a gold circlet on his brow, denoting his rank. His piercing silver eyes met the death god’s gaze.
This one is Fialan, the god thought.
“Who are you?” Fialan demanded. “Why do you seek to waylay us?” He drew his sword.
Areyn Sehduk laughed. Even in his mortal guise, the laugh grated on Areyn’s ears. The body he took was of a tall, lanky Silren with a long, white mane and ice-blue eyes. It fit him well, although he preferred the dark hair and eyes of the Eltar. His mail was dark, but he wore the traditional colors of the Silren: a silver eight-rayed star adorned his blue surcoat. “I will waylay whomever I please.”