Lachlei decided on a new tact. “So, Rhyn, what bloodlines do you come from?”
Rhyn’athel had been expecting such a question. “From Lochvaur’s line, his youngest son, Rhyn’ar, who came to the Northern Marches.”
Lachlei nodded. She remembered hearing of Lochvaur’s son, Rhyn’ar. “I had no idea, Rhyn’ar had any descendants.”
“Do you want me to repeat all ten generations?” he asked wryly.
Lachlei smiled in spite of herself. She found she liked Rhyn. He had a manner about him that put her at ease, even though he seemed a bit mysterious. “Not necessary,” she said. “You’re a first-blood then. We thought that Fialan, Kellachan, and I were the only first-bloods left…” Lachlei hesitated as she realized she had used Fialan’s name as though he were still alive. She stopped and turned away, blinking back the hot tears.
Rhyn’athel stood beside her, feeling helpless. He could sense the emotions that boiling up inside her—her anger at both the warrior god and fate for her husband’s death. Lachlei felt as though Rhyn’athel had deserted Fialan when his champion had needed him most.
The god part of Rhyn’athel reminded him that he had been blamed for far worse; but the mortal part of Rhyn’athel stung with the rebuke. He should have been there, protecting his champion, Rhyn’athel thought darkly. If it were Areyn Sehduk as Ni’yah had surmised, Rhyn’athel should have stepped in.
But at what cost?
“Lachlei,” he whispered, gripping her shoulder. Again, he felt the shock run through him, but this time did not release her.
Lachlei turned around, her eyes red from fighting the tears. She took a deep breath and met his gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be,” he said. “Fialan was a great champion.”
Lachlei wiped her eyes. “That he was, Rhyn,” she said. “Gods, I miss Fialan! I don’t know why Rhyn’athel let this happen.”
The warrior god shook his head. “I don’t know why either.”
Areyn gazed at the small, fortified village of North Marches. The village was not much more than a small grody with a stockade, built on earthen-work fortifications. A few thousand inhabitants—Lochvaur mostly, but there were other kindreds mixed in. Redel, Lochel, and even some Silren made their homes among the Lochvaur of North Marches.
It was dark, and the moon, Mani, rose overhead. Twice, Areyn had felt something stir within his god senses, making him uneasy. He scanned the area, searching for the wolf that he had seen earlier, but found nothing. Doubt played in his mind now—obviously from being mortal, he decided, but Areyn could not shake the feeling. Something had changed now—something he could not quite sense. That bothered him.
Instead, Areyn turned his attention to what lay before him. He gazed at the village with a hunger that could not be suppressed. Although he had taken an Eleion body, Areyn was still the god of destruction. Killing Fialan and his guard had only temporarily sated the bloodlust. He needed to feed again.
Areyn’s mount shifted uneasily. He patted the warhorse’s neck. Easy, Slayer, he mindspoke to his mount. We will be feasting on blood soon.
Slayer’s red eyes considered the death god thoughtfully. No living thing would bear Areyn Sehduk even in mortal form, so the god was forced to summon one of his own demons to be a mount. It had taken quite a bit of magic to hide the demon’s true nature from a godling like Silvain, but Areyn had done it. Even so, the Silren sensed Slayer’s evil and wisely avoided the horse. Areyn was not certain how long between feedings the demon would go before it started taking Silren to sate its bloodlust. Only its fear of Areyn Sehduk kept the demon in check.
“This looks like an easy fight,” remarked Galen, a Silren noble who sat beside Areyn Sehduk.
Areyn nodded in acknowledgment, but chuckled inside. Easy fight, indeed. It will be a slaughter. There were only a few hundred Chi’lan to guard the village along with other soldiers. While each Chi’lan was worth five Silren in battle, Areyn had ten thousand troops. He had already planned for the logistics of moving the army, having prepared for it months before.
Moving ten thousand troops a hundred miles across the border without being seen had been simple. Areyn used his magic to conceal the troops and speed up their movement. They moved now at demon speeds.
Areyn gazed into the dark night. Something still did not feel right. He turned to Galen and fixed the Silren with a cold smile.
“Patience, my friend,” the death god said at last. “We’ll attack an hour before dawn.”
11
Fialan awoke to darkness. He lay against hard ground and groaned. How long had he been out? he wondered. Not long, he thought, as he gazed into the dark sky. It had been night when they had been attacked on the King’s Highway. Perhaps it had only been a few hours.
And yet, Fialan’s mind whirled with the inconsistencies. Something was different now. Despite his dizziness and confusion, Fialan felt no pain. The night had been a rare moonless night, but now as Fialan opened his eyes again, he realized that there were no stars. It was truly dark here. Fialan sat up. The memories flooded back. He had been in a forest when the Silren had attacked. No, not a Silren, Fialan corrected himself. It had been a demon of some sort. It had killed his entire personal Chi’lan guard and their horses with a glance. He had wounded the demon and it had…
No!
Fialan looked around frantically for some familiarity, but saw none. He was no longer in a forest, but instead sat on a cold, windswept plain covered with dry grasses that looked sharp to the touch. The sky was beginning to turn blood red in what he could only guess as being east.
He shut his eyes again as he remembered the demon looming over him. The intense pain as he felt his very life force sucked away to feed it…
“So, you’ve finally come around,” came a voice. A feminine voice.
Fialan turned and saw a female Chi’lan standing next to him. She was tall, wearing old-style scale mail sewn into a jack, and a conical helm with a noseguard. She leaned against a polearm as she offered him her hand.
Fialan took her hand and stood up. He could barely make out her features in the dim light, but he could tell she was beautiful. “Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”
She looked as if she had answered the questions many times before. “I am Eshe, Chi’lan warrior. I died in the Battle of the Nine Worlds, killed by a Jotunn. You’re in Areyn’s Realm, called Tarentor. You’re dead.”
The walk from the mountain to Caer Lochvaren had tired Rhyn’athel. While his body was in peak condition, the god hadn’t expected the limits a mortal body imposed. Rhyn’athel had eaten no food, and he suspected part of the weariness was due to lack of it. He could augment his strength using his own powers, but Rhyn’athel thought it might attract unwanted attention from Areyn. If he couldn’t handle the basics of being mortal without using his powers, what chance did he have convincing Areyn Sehduk he was simply a mortal?