Fialan grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Take me to Lochvaur,” he said.
16
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.”
“An army?” Alasila glanced at the shadow. She could see nothing unusual about it.
“Do what I say!” Ronan snarled. “We need all available warriors here now!”
The bells of North Marches pealed across the land. Deep within the mist, the Silren army rode with Areyn at the lead. Areyn swore and reined the demon horse as the watch fires along the North Marches’ ramparts sprang to life.
“They’ve seen us,” said Galen.
Areyn almost killed the commander, but held his temper. The fool would die soon enough, but now Areyn needed him. “Give the command to charge,” Areyn said.
“But the ramparts…”
“I’ll take care of the ramparts,” Areyn said. “Lead them!”
Galen nodded and turned to his warriors. “The order has been given! Charge!”
All at once, the mist blew away, revealing thousands of Silren riders. Galen brandished his sword and with a cry, spurred his horse forward. The entire cavalry charged with him.
Areyn gazed at the ramparts. With a single thought, the entire wall blew apart, throwing soldiers and Chi’lan everywhere. Areyn Sehduk felt the surge of power as he sensed the soldiers deaths. He grinned, almost giddy. It would be a good night.
Ronan lay half covered with rubble. The explosion had thrown him and the other soldiers from the rampart. Even now, he could see the Silren cavalry ride through the breech. He realized they had made a tactical error by stationing so many guards along the ramparts. Still, he hadn’t expected the Silren to destroy the wall so easily.
The chaos of battle surrounded him, but Ronan could do nothing. He couldn’t feel his legs. Blood was everywhere, and Ronan could see that his lower body was twisted at an odd angle. His sword was gone. Alasila lay nearby, her eyes half open and glazed over.
Chi’lan fought against the mounted warriors, but there were too many Silren. One man, cleaved from shoulder to chest, collapsed on top of Ronan, but the dying Chi’lan could do nothing. He heard those who were still alive sound the retreat and flee, leaving him alone to die.
Then he felt it. Cold seemed to grip his very soul, and Ronan turned to see the dark rider as he rode through the breech. The rider approached slowly, carefully, as though studying the dead. He halted at Alasila and his mount lowered its head as though to inspect its grisly work.
“Leave her alone!” Ronan said, without thinking.
The dark warrior turned towards Ronan, a sardonic smile on his face. “Well, Slayer, one still lives.”
The beast turned its gaze towards Ronan, and Ronan stared at the demon. Gone were the trappings of a horse. Instead, red eyes glowed above a maw of sharp teeth. Its legs weren’t horse-like at all—instead it was muscular with sharp claws. Why had Ronan thought it was a horse?
“By Rhyn’athel’s sword,” Ronan whispered.
The rider was grinning broadly now. “Rhyn’athel has no power here,” he said. “But I do.”
The beast rose up and turned on Ronan, silencing the Chi’lan even before he could scream.
Lachlei awoke in a sweat. She sat up straight, shivering violently. The last thing she could remember was some thing leaning over her, drinking the life from her body. She shuddered, pulling the bedclothes around her. She tried desperately to recall what she dreamt, but only violent images remained. A battle? It seemed more like a slaughter.
The mead hall was silent now, leaving her in the darkness and alone.
Lachlei slid from the bed and leaned over Haellsil’s cradle to check on him. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest assured Lachlei he was all right. She hastily dressed in a tunic and breeches, fastened on her swordbelt, and opened the locked doors to the hall.
Outside, the guard was standing there. A quick shake of her head told him that he was to say nothing. Lachlei peered out and saw that the fire in the firepit was dying and cast the entire hall in shadows. The warriors lay stretched out around the fire, sleeping the mead off in their bedrolls. A few quietly played dice in the corner, but overall, the room was still.
A hand on her shoulder brought her around abruptly. It was Rhyn, and his expression was grave.
“North Marches has just been attacked,” he said.
17
“Are you sure?” Lachlei whispered as Rhyn led her past the sleeping warriors.
“Quite sure—you dreamt it too, didn’t you?” Rhyn said, anger and helplessness glinting in his silver eyes. “I should’ve listened to my brother—he warned me…” he said more to himself than to her.
“How could your brother know?”
Rhyn paused and realized what he had said. “He couldn’t,” he said quickly. “Listen, what you saw tonight was the Wyrd. You saw the attack of North Marches.” “It was a slaughter,” she whispered. “You saw it?”
“I did,” he said grimly. “It woke me too. Tell me what you saw.”
“A creature bending over me—wanting to suck out my life.”
Areyn, Rhyn’athel thought darkly. Or a demon.
“It’s the same creature that killed Fialan, isn’t it?” Lachlei asked.
Rhyn’athel stared. “What do you know about the creature that killed Fialan?” he asked sharply.
“It was a demon, wasn’t it?” she asked.
Rhyn’athel gazed at her dumbfounded. How did Lachlei recognize Areyn Sehduk or his demon mount? Rhyn’athel began to wonder if perhaps he had underestimated the Eleion, and especially, the Lochvaur. “A type of demon, yes,” said Rhyn’athel at last.