Kiril eyed Fialan mistrustfully. “Indeed,” he said.
“I would have no quarrel with you, Kiril,” Fialan said and turned his gaze on the blade he held in his hand. He hadn’t drawn it since he died, but now he gazed at it in amazement. It looked like Fyren.
“What’s wrong?” Eshe asked as she noticed Fialan’s interest.
“This is Fyren, but it’s not,” Fialan said, studying the blade.
“It’s a ghost weapon,” Eshe said. “Same as your armor and body. Like what you had in life, but not.” Eshe grinned at Kiril. “Thankfully.”
“Why is that?”
“A Jotunn axe separated Eshe’s head from her shoulders,” Kiril said with a grin. “You came here in one piece didn’t you?”
“A ghost weapon—then, it’s not real?” Fialan asked.
“It’s real, all right, but it’s a doppelganger of the real thing. Right down to the metal, but it doesn’t hold the essence of the other blade,” said Kiril.
“The only exception to that are the Swords of Power,” Eshe added. “Those are real.”
“Is that really Fyren?” Kiril asked, looking at the blade inquisitively.
“Look, you can even see the blood where I cut the demon…” Fialan began and stopped, staring at the blood. It glowed blue-black in the dark and dripped down the blade as if he had just used it. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping the blade.
Kiril and Eshe glanced at each other. “Kiril—you fought demons before—have you ever seen anything like that?” Eshe asked. Her eyes were wide with fear.
Kiril shook his head. “Never—and I’d bet no one else has seen such magic—save perhaps Lochvaur.” He looked at Fialan in respect. “What did you strike?”
“Something that should’ve died by my sword but did not. Something that robbed me of my first-blood magic.”
A cold wind blew through them. A lone cry echoed across that desolate land. Eshe shivered. “We’d better get inside, Kiril.”
Kiril nodded. “Sheathe your sword, first-blood. I think Lochvaur will want to hear what you have to say.”
27
Fog began to seep down the hills and into the valley where Rhyn’athel knew his enemy lay in wait. The warrior god rode forward, flanked by Cahal and Tamar. The King’s Highway was barely a road here, just wide enough for horses to scramble through. The road was marked with occasional cairn stones, carved with ancient runes. Rhyn’athel glanced at them—they spoke of the builders of the roads—Eleion who were no more. At one time, they had been Rhyn’athel’s warriors; now they belonged to Areyn Sehduk.
Rhyn led the warriors down the narrow ravine, through the talus and scree and into the deep pines, silent in his musings. He had lost many warriors to Areyn—too many. Areyn’s power came from the energy of those who died.
“Strange,” said Cahal, interrupting the god’s thoughts. He glanced apprehensively at Rhyn’athel.
“What?” the god asked. He glanced around in the growing dusk. The fog made the pine trees look ethereal, but he could sense nothing worrisome.
“The fog,” the Chi’lan said. “It moves with us. Fog normally comes from the valleys, not the hills.”
Rhyn smiled slyly. “Then, we are indeed fortunate—it will hide our actual numbers,” he remarked.
Tamar glanced at Cahal. “Sorcery of some sort or I’m not Chi’lan,” he growled.
“Perhaps,” Rhyn shrugged. “Perhaps not. As long as it remains in our favor, I am not concerned.” He halted his stallion and held up his hand, scanning the area where he knew Areyn’s troops lay in wait. While Rhyn’athel couldn’t quite sense Areyn Sehduk, himself, Rhyn’athel could feel the death god’s power. There was no disguising Areyn’s stench and the warrior god bristled in anger at the thought of Areyn being within this world.
Areyn is bold if he thinks I will stand idly by and let him tilt the balance, he thought darkly. For a moment, he felt a dark power that seemed to reach out and brush his mind, but he turned it aside. Areyn is getting bolder, he thought.
“The Silren will expect us to attack through that cleft,” said Cahal. “It’ll be suicide for us to attack them there—they’ll cut us down.”
“But there is no other way through,” Tamar said. “The cliffs are too steep for our horses.”
Rhyn’athel grinned. “Don’t worry—just be prepared to attack when I give the signal.”
Imdyr frowned. “Something isn’t right,” she said as the mist crept forward into their lines. She shivered and pulled her cloak around her tightly as though to ward off a spell. A silence had fallen over the Silren army as they waited amid the trees. Hours passed and still the Lochvaur army failed to charge through the gorge. The last rays of the sun went behind the mountains, throwing everything into shadow.
Imdyr tried to sense the Lochvaur and was abruptly swatted aside like a gnat. She tried again, only to find greater resistance.
“What is wrong?” Areyn said, seeing her vexed.
“I’ve never seen such power,” she murmured.
Galen rode beside Areyn. “Akwel, there’s something amiss with this fog—it comes from the wrong direction.” He stared at Imdyr. “What is that doing here?”
Areyn glanced at Imdyr. “She is a sorceress…”
“Demoness!” Galen spat. He drew his sword and pointed it at Imdyr as she huddled in her cloak. “The Eltar are Fala’s minions!” Areyn gazed at the Silren warrior in boredom. Pity he would have to kill Galen now…
Screams rang through the army, and the Silren broke ranks. Flames shot from behind the lines as an army on horseback attacked from behind. Thousands of Lochvaur warriors seemingly appeared out of nowhere, charging directly into the Silren flank.
Areyn reined Slayer, cursing. “Damn it, bitch!” he snapped at Imdyr. “I thought you said they were attacking from the cleft!” Before Imdyr could reply, Areyn rode towards the warriors, brandishing his sword. “Attack! Attack!”
The Silren turned and attacked. Suddenly, the army vanished before their eyes. Bewildered, the Silren soldiers halted.
Areyn stared wide-eyed, realizing the trick too late. “What kind of treachery is this?” he snarled, turning the demon mount. A battle cry rang out as the Lochvaur attacked. Rhyn led the Lochvaur through the cleft and attacked the Silren on what was now their flank. The Silren were thrown into complete confusion, many breaking ranks and fleeing.
“To me! To me!” Areyn shouted, hoping to rally the Silren. He spurred the demon horse and rode towards the Lochvaur.
Rhyn’athel swung the great Sword of Power, cleaving through mail, sinew, and bone. The Silren warrior he had fought shuddered and collapsed as the warrior god withdrew the Sword, felt the man’s final death rattle and saw the light fade from his eyes.
The waste, Rhyn’athel thought. He hated killing mortals—especially Eleion—but it really couldn’t be helped. Not while Areyn had the Silren under his sway. Demons, undead, and Jotunn were more to Rhyn’athel’s liking—they already belonged to Areyn.
He hadn’t expected the illusion to work as well as it did—especially against Areyn Sehduk. Areyn is out of practice, Rhyn’athel thought wryly. In the wars before the Truce, such deceptions were commonplace and most gods saw through them. But Areyn did not know he was fighting a god now—certainly not Rhyn’athel, himself.