Heartened by the small victory, the Chi’lan archers were notching and firing what few arrows they had left. Those who emptied their quivers mounted their horses and drew their swords, preparing for the onslaught.
The Silren charged, and the Lochvaur Chi’lan met them head on. Two Silren charged Lachlei on horseback, swinging their broadswords. She parried one, but was unable to block both, and the Silren’s sword slashed deep into her horse’s neck. The horse screamed and collapsed. Lachlei leapt off as more Silren charged, wielding their blades. She dodged one as he passed. She turned and cut into the second horsemen’s legs as he bore down on her. Fyren bit deep through bone and flesh and into the horse, itself. Both horse and rider went down and she quickly dispatched them.
Lachlei turned as another Silren warrior tried to run her down, armed now with a mace. Unprepared, she barely brought Fyren up to parry. The force of the blow sent Fyren flying from her grasp and threw her backwards. The Silren turned the battle horse and spurred it towards her, intending to trample her under the hooves. Lachlei leapt to her feet in time to see the warrior swing the mace. She dodged and with first-blood speed grasped the man’s arm as he swung.
She wasn’t heavy enough to pull him from the horse, but she unbalanced him and used his arm to leap behind the warrior. The horse bolted downhill into the Silren lines as they struggled. The Silren warrior flailed, trying to knock her from behind, but Lachlei grasped his head and with a quick snap, broke the man’s neck. She pushed the dead soldier from the horse and reined it to a stop. At that moment, she spied the demon.
He was as Rhyn had described him: a tall Silren wearing black armor astride a black charger with glowing red eyes. Lachlei hesitated. She had lost Fyren in the fight. A hand and a half bastard sword forged of fine adamantine hung from a scabbard on the horse’s saddle, but she doubted it could kill a demon.
Still, this might be her only chance to avenge Fialan’s death. Lachlei drew the sword and with a yell, spurred the horse towards Areyn Sehduk.
30
Kiril led them through a stone archway leading into the fortress. It was dark, save for the occasional torch and firepit. Like the fortress itself, the interior was red sandstone, and the sconces cast eerie shadows across the narrow corridors. The acrid smoke from the ironwood and coal wafted through the corridors, stinging their eyes and throats.
Fialan had expected the fortress to be empty, but it was far from it. They passed many Chi’lan warriors, hooded and cloaked as if to hide their identities. Most were huddled in groups beside firepits. Their furtive glances as he passed suggested that they had no desire to reveal themselves, although they were curious over the new warrior who strode through their halls, unafraid to show his face.
Here are the kings and the warriors of Rhyn’athel, Fialan thought angrily. Brought down to huddling around tiny fires. Look what the Truce has brought us.
Kiril led them deeper into the fortress until they came to a wrought-iron door. It was crudely forged, but impressive given the lack of raw materials. The two Chi’lan who stood at the door gazed at Fialan curiously, but said nothing and let the three pass. Fialan could see their eyes gleam in the darkness.
Fialan blinked as he entered the room. The room was well lit compared to the rest of the fortress, with a large firepit in the center that burned red hot with coal and ironwood. The walls, doors, pillars, floors and ceiling were all carved with runes. Fialan recognized them as being from the ancient tongue—the tongue of the gods. Some were used as wards against demons; others were prayers to the gods of light. Rhyn’athel’s rune, the rune of Teiwas, figured prominently throughout. The room was thick with smoke, and the ruddy light cast ethereal shadows throughout it.
Chi’lan warriors stood or sat on either side, many with their cowls drawn, but some were bareheaded like Fialan. They turned to see the newcomers and to stare at Fialan as he strode into the room. But, Fialan’s eyes were fixed on the warrior who sat on the throne at the back.
“Welcome, Fialan,” the warrior said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Fialan stared at Lochvaur as the son of Rhyn’athel stood to greet him. Here is the warrior’s god’s own son, he thought. For Lochvaur was every bit a godling. He stood proud and tall; his frame muscular and battle-hardened. Fialan saw the resemblance between himself and the godling immediately—their features were similar enough to suggest a blood-tie. And yet Fialan knew the blood of Rhyn’athel ran thin in his veins compared to Lochvaur. Lochvaur’s eyes held power that Fialan couldn’t begin to guess. This was a man who slew demons and Jotunn fearlessly.
In his life, Fialan had heard himself compared to Lochvaur. But, standing before Rhyn’athel’s son, Fialan knew there was no comparison. Lochvaur was power incarnate.
Fialan glanced at Eshe. “I thought you said that Lochvaur has none of his former powers.”
Eshe shook her head. “He doesn’t.”
Fialan steeled his jaw and stepped forward. “My lord,” he said as he strode towards Lochvaur.
“Fialan,” Lochvaur smiled warmly and gripped Fialan’s arms in the traditional Chi’lan greeting. “We don’t stand much on ceremony here with so many warriors and kings around.”
“I would imagine not,” Fialan said wryly. “But how do you know me?”
Lochvaur grinned. “Areyn can’t quite take all my power from me. I can’t foresee everything, but I can gain glimpses into the Wyrd.”
“You’re still linked with the Wyrd?” Fialan breathed, not daring to believe his ears.
“Oh yes—despite what the naysayers would claim,” said Lochvaur. “I have more power than even Areyn suspects, but he knows I’m dangerous, so he leaves me alone.”
“Why haven’t you challenged him?”
“Because Areyn is a god—and I am not quite. Even Ni’yah can’t defeat Areyn—and he is the most powerful of the gods of light next to Rhyn’athel. Rhyn’athel is the only god who can defeat Areyn.” He paused. “You’ve brought me something. Something I should see?”
“I and my personal guard were attacked along the King’s Highway,” Fialan said. “A single warrior attacked us. I was able to thrust Fyren into his chest, and yet he lived.” He drew the ghost blade. The black blood glowed as he held it up for Lochvaur to see.
Murmurs ran through the hall as Lochvaur gazed silently at the ghost blade. “May I take it?” he asked at last. Fialan nodded and offered the blade. Lochvaur took the sword and a slight smile crept across his face. “Fyren, my old blade,” he murmured. He turned to Fialan with a smile. “Not quite Fyren, but close. It was my first sword as a Chi’lan.”
Fialan nodded. “What of the blood?”
Lochvaur’s grin widened. “I’m sure Areyn didn’t appreciate being bested.”
“Areyn? Areyn Sehduk?” Fialan asked incredulously.
“Oh yes,” Lochvaur laughed. “He would’ve killed you for your impudence, if naught else.”
Eshe and Kiril stared at Fialan. “Are you saying Fialan fought the death god himself?” Eshe asked. A look of wonder filled her face.
“Not just fought,” Lochvaur replied. “He bested Areyn.” He grinned wryly at Fialan. “Not bad for one of my heirs.”
“Then, the Truce…” Fialan began.