“I am king…”
“I know who you are, Fialan,” Areyn replied coldly. “Your precious titles mean nothing to me.”
At that, the other four Chi’lan drew their swords. Not that it mattered, Areyn thought. With a single glance, all four horses and riders fell over dead. The horses screamed and thrashed, bloody foam spewing from their nostrils as they collapsed. The men screamed once before collapsing with their horses. Their swords clattered uselessly to the ground.
Now, Fialan was alone.
Fialan stared at the dead men and then back at Areyn Sehduk. Fear crept into Fialan’s eyes for a brief instant, but the Lochvaur king steeled his gaze, much to his credit. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword, who are you? What manner of wizardry is this?”
Areyn Sehduk grinned. This would be great sport. “Why don’t you come down from your horse and find out, King?” he taunted, drawing his dark blade.
There was no hesitation now. Fialan dismounted, drawing his adamantine blade. Areyn had seen the look in the king’s eyes before many times. Fialan showed no fear, but it mattered not. It was still the look of a dead man.
Fialan circled warily, keeping his guard up. Areyn lunged, swinging his sword. Fialan parried and riposted. Areyn parried.
They broke off and circled.
“Who are you?” Fialan demanded. “Silvain and my father signed a treaty nearly a hundred years ago. The Silren and the Lochvaur are at peace…”
Areyn chuckled. “No longer, it would appear…”
Fialan attacked now, swinging the long sword. Areyn slid to the side and parried, but too late—Fialan’s blade sliced through Areyn’s armor into flesh. Pain shot through Areyn, but he ignored it. Instead, the death god laughed.
Fialan stared. Blood poured from the Silren’s chest as Fialan pulled his long sword away. The blow would be a mortal wound to any Eleion—even to a first-blood, those born with gods’ blood in them.
“What are you?” Fialan demanded. “Demon?” Sweat dripped from his brow, and Areyn knew Fialan was afraid.
Areyn grinned. “I am your death,” he replied. “I grow weary of this game.”
With that, an invisible force ripped Fialan’s sword from his hands. Areyn Sehduk approached, and Fialan found he could not move; some infernal power rooted him to the ground. Fialan could do nothing but watch helplessly as the death god, almost lazily, plunged the sword into his chest.
Fialan collapsed, writhing in pain for a moment before lying still. His silver eyes stared unblinking into the dark sky. Areyn chuckled. “I suppose it is some consolation to know that you would’ve won,” he remarked. He pulled the dark blade from the dead king and gazed at the blood as it rolled down its edge. “But no mere mortal will defeat me.”
Areyn Sehduk turned and for a moment saw movement in the dark forest. Ice-blue eyes scanned the silent pines and caught a glimpse of a wolf padding away. He turned back to the dead king and grinned. “And now, the fun begins.”
The wolf waited until the death god had passed. It watched as Areyn Sehduk turned and walked northward along the King’s Highway. Then, it slowly crept from its hiding place to survey the damage.
It was a large beast—nearly twice the size of a normal wolf—with black-tipped agouti fur. It padded around the bodies of the dead Chi’lan and then halted as it stood before Fialan, gazing with his brass-colored eyes at the dead king.
“A terrible loss,” the wolf said to no one in particular. He turned and disappeared into the forest.
3
Lachlei awoke shivering.
She huddled in the thick blankets, her silver eyes staring into the blackness of the room. She ran her hand through her red-gold mane and tried to remember the dream. Lachlei had dreamt of a battle—a slaughter. Five Chi’lan cut down in cold blood.
It was just a dream, Lachlei told herself. A terrible nightmare. But Lachlei’s dreams had a habit of becoming reality. It was the price of being first-blood, and the price of having the Sight.
Lachlei slid out of bed and wrapped herself with a robe. With a single word, the candles in the room jumped to life, filling the darkness with a soft glow. She strode to the cradle where her son, Haellsil, still lay sleeping. Lachlei looked down on the infant and smiled. Haellsil looked much like Fialan. So much so that nearly every Chi’lan warrior had proclaimed Haellsil would become a great warrior in his own right. How could he not, being Fialan’s son?
How could he not being Lachlei’s son? Lachlei added silently. Lachlei glanced at her old sword, hanging on the wall. She too had been Chi’lan. Lachlei had been a good warrior, serving the old king, Lochalan, before he died in battle. Fialan, Lochalan’s son, had proven himself in battle and the Lochvaur Council had made Fialan king after Lochalan’s death.
Lachlei had fallen in love with Fialan. She had accepted his proposal, giving up her sword to become the Lochvaur queen. She hadn’t regretted the choice in the three years she had been Fialan’s consort. But occasionally, Lachlei missed being Chi’lan.
Yet now, something was amiss. Lachlei dressed and slid from her private chambers to the mead hall where the Chi’lan warriors slept. The room was dark save for the ruddy glow from the firepit’s dying embers and the stars that glowed above through the hole in the roof where the smoke could escape. The mead hall was hewn from thick oaken logs, with exposed beams and rafters. On one end were hers and Fialan’s private quarters, behind the small dais where massive oaken thrones sat. The firepit lay in the middle. The mead benches and tables that usually stood around it were pushed to the side to make room for those Chi’lan who were the king’s personal guard to sleep. Lachlei stepped carefully over sleeping warriors and past the great battle hounds. One dog looked up at her curiously, and she ran her fingers through its coarse, curly fur as she passed by.
Lachlei pulled on one of the oaken double doors that led from the mead hall to outside. At the door stood a Chi’lan sentry. It was Cahal—a tall, young Lochvaur who had recently made Chi’lan.
“Lachlei, my queen,” Cahal stammered.
Lachlei raised a finger to her lips and he fell silent, his silver eyes almost smoke-gray in the darkness. “When is Fialan expected to return?” she whispered.
“The day after next,” said Cahal and then hesitated. “Certainly, you know that…”
But Lachlei’s eyes widened. “Fialan!” she gasped. “No!” Pain shot through her as she felt the mind-link sever between herself and Fialan. Lachlei collapsed, but Cahal caught her before she hit the ground.
“What is it?” Cahal said, holding Lachlei as she wept.
The torches within the mead hall sprang to life. Chi’lan warriors poured from the hall, some with swords drawn. They stood in bewilderment to see Cahal holding Lachlei.
“What happened? What is it?” Voices babbled around her.
“What is it, Lachlei?” Cahal asked, this time gently.
Lachlei shook her head. “Fialan,” she whispered. “Fialan is dead.”
“It was Areyn Sehduk,” the wolf said. He glared at the god, his brass eyes glinting menacingly. Rhyn’athel, the warrior god, sat on his throne in the Hall of the Gods, his silver eyes revealing his doubts. God of the Lochvaur, the kindred bore his silver eyes and red-gold mane. He wore mail and sat on his throne beside the other thrones of the nine gods and goddesses of light. All were empty now, save his. “How can you be so certain it is our old enemy, Ni’yah? After all, you say you saw a Silren kill Fialan.”