“A mercenary?” Rhyn said, amused. “Let us say I am older than I look, and I fight those battles I deem necessary.”
“But you’re unscathed for a warrior,” she noted.
Rhyn shrugged. “Luck, I suppose.”
“Not luck,” she said, studying him carefully as if for the first time. She had thought him maybe a few hundred years old, but now, she began to wonder. “A warrior like you survives because you’re a good fighter. I saw you fight, Rhyn. You’re better than any warrior I’ve seen. Where’d you learn to fight like that? And don’t tell me the North Marches.”
Rhyn chuckled. “No, not the North Marches. No one taught me how to fight.”
“A natural fighter?” Lachlei eyed him. She drained her cup and felt the herbs take effect. “There is more to you than meets the eye.”
“Perhaps—but we should discuss this some other time,” Rhyn remarked. “Unless you find the mail comfortable to sleep in, I suggest you remove it.”
Lachlei didn’t argue when he helped her pull off her boots, armor, or padded arming shirt. Beneath her armor, she wore a tunic and breeches. While they were stiff from sweat and grime, they were comfortable enough. She was so tired that she hardly noticed him leading her to the cot or covering her with the thick blankets. Rhyn sat beside her for a moment as she dropped off to sleep before kissing her. He ran his fingers through her red-gold hair and gazed longingly at the form beneath the fur blankets.
Rhyn’athel stood up. Patience, he reminded himself. The Web of Wyrd showed a future that in time would unfold.
If the warrior god was patient enough.
33
Morning dawned bright and cold when the Silren halted their retreat. They had come to the edge of the valley leading up to the northern end of the Shadow Mountains where the peaks jutted eastward towards the Silren lands.
A great rolling plain stretched for miles as the Silren army followed the King’s Highway northward towards the ransacked village of North Marches.
Five thousand troops dead and half again wounded. Fatigued and battle-weary, the Silren halted their forced march as the sun rose in the sky. Too weary to set up proper tents, they chose to bivouac in the frosty air.
Areyn Sehduk strode through camp. His demon steed dead, no living creature would bear him. The Silren glanced up at him, terror mixed with exhaustion in their eyes. Without Galen and the other nobles to lead, there was no defiance. Most of the injured would not live beyond the day, much less a week; their wounds were either too serious or had already begun to fester.
At any other time, Areyn would have delighted in the Silren’s misfortune, but now he found it a terrible inconvenience. Their lives were his already, but without the destruction of the Lochvaur kindred; they had not served his purpose.
The Chi’lan warrior who had rescued Lachlei troubled Areyn. Was it Rhyn’athel? The Lochvaur had called Areyn Sehduk by name and destroyed Slayer. Moreover, he wielded a Sword of Power, the likes of which Areyn had not seen since the War between the Gods. And yet, Areyn could not sense if the Lochvaur was Rhyn’athel in disguise or whether he was only a first-blood. Had Rhyn’athel grown so powerful in the two millennia since their fight?
The old fear began to gnaw at Areyn. As much as he hated Rhyn’athel, Areyn knew he could not hope to defeat the warrior god. In their last fight, Rhyn’athel had threatened to chain Areyn for eternity. Areyn didn’t relish the thought. Perhaps that kept the death god from becoming too bold. But, Areyn knew Rhyn’athel couldn’t keep truly him chained for that long. There would be mistakes—errors that would be costly. All it took was one of Areyn’s minions to slip by a Guardian, and Areyn would once again be free. And both gods knew that if Rhyn’athel dared to chain Areyn, there would be nothing left of the Nine Worlds if he were ever to get free.
Stalemate—as it had always been. But the game was far more complex than a board game. Areyn could never gain the upper hand, and Rhyn’athel could never destroy him fully. The gods of light against the gods of darkness.
And yet, there was something else that hung in the balance…
“So, the warrior god is here,” came a voice.
Areyn turned and saw the Eltar sorceress standing beside him. How did she do that? he thought. “I was wondering when you would show up,” he said irritably.
“I am not your slave, Areyn,” Imdyr replied.
“All are my slaves,” the god remarked. “And all serve me in the end.”
“Then, why do you fear a single warrior?”
Areyn glowered at her. “I didn’t see you anywhere nearby when the battle started.” He started walking away.
“The warrior is a god,” she said.
Areyn halted, the old fear starting to rise in his gorge. “Is it Rhyn’athel?” he asked, still not looking at her. “Do you know for sure?”
“It might be,” she said.
“You don’t know.”
“No,” said Imdyr. “Not that it matters…”
Areyn turned on her, snarling. “It matters!”
Imdyr fell silent and Areyn wanted to kill her desperately. He wondered now if she was withhold something from him—something he would gladly kill her for. But if she were dead, he could do little to coax that information from her. As hungry as he was for mortal blood, he needed to know more.
“If the warrior is Rhyn’athel, then why hasn’t he challenged me directly?” the god asked.
Imdyr shrugged. “He did challenge you, but the Silren attacked,” she reminded him. “And there is a little matter of the bitch he keeps.”
“Lachlei?”
“Yes—or are you Wyrd-blind now that you’ve taken mortal form?”
Despite her goad, Areyn turned his gaze to the delicate strands of the Wyrd. In them, he found the answer.
“Lachlei…” he murmured. He turned to the Eltar sorceress. “She is why Rhyn’athel is here.”
“Indeed, and Lachlei is why Rhyn’athel will not force another war,” Imdyr said. “For as long as she is alive, she and her sons will tip the balance of power.”
Areyn gazed into the Wyrd again. It showed two paths clearly—one with the sons of Rhyn’athel; the other, with the sons of Areyn Sehduk. “Lachlei,” he repeated.
“Seldom does the Wyrd bring the opportunity for victory with one defining moment.”
Lachlei…
The fate of the Nine Worlds lay directly with the Lochvaur champion.
34
Night passed into day and Fialan gazed at the swollen red sun appearing on the horizon. He stood on the battlements that had been hewn from stone long ago. The shelf above him made a natural shelter, overhanging the battlements and protecting the warriors as they kept watch.
Fialan stared out at that bleak land and thought of Lachlei and his son, Haellsil.
He had accepted that he was dead. Not because of anything Eshe said, or because of his meeting with Lochvaur, but because there simply was no mind-link. It was as though the mind-link had never existed. Gone, too, was his ability to sense things with his mind. Everything was flat and emotionless around him. He felt blind without his powers.
Fialan wondered if Lachlei and his son were all right without him. Lachlei was a survivor, he decided, and she would do everything she could to make certain both she and their son lived. He missed them terribly, but he certainly didn’t wish to see them if that meant they would join him here in Areyn’s realm.
Who would become the next Lochvaur king and Chi’lan champion? he wondered.