Laewynd was the most likely candidate with his political maneuverings, but he was not a first-blood, and he had never aspired to take the crown when he could deal behind the scenes. Being king meant shouldering the responsibility for failures as well as successes. Laewynd preferred manipulation to outright confrontation—something unusual for a Chi’lan. Laewynd had supported Fialan only to discover that Fialan wouldn’t be manipulated.
Kellachan was certainly the next first-blood in line, if he had had the first-blood powers. But a twist of fate had made him bereft of all first-blood power; just as fate had made Fialan powerful. Fialan’s son, Haellsil, would prove a powerful warrior in due time, but he was yet too young. The only other first-blood was Lachlei.
Fialan smiled at the thought of her being the next champion and queen. Lachlei could do it, if she wanted it. But she had always been satisfied to stay in his shadow. Yet he knew she could have challenged him—and maybe won. She was almost as powerful as Fialan, and she had been a Chi’lan. Fialan had never discouraged her, yet Lachlei had seemed content to stay away from politics.
Eshe stood beside him and gazed at him. “Was she beautiful?”
Fialan blinked, startled from his reverie. “Lachlei? Why do you ask?”
“You have that faraway look of a man who longs for his home,” Eshe said. She stared out into the barren land. “Lachlei—that was the name of your wife, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “She is very beautiful and a great warrior.”
“Do you miss her?”
“If I told you otherwise, I would be lying,” he said.
“She can never be with you as long as she is alive,” Eshe said.
A shrill, chilling scream echoed across the battlements. Eshe shivered and pulled her cloak around her body.
“What is that?” he asked. “Demons?”
Eshe nodded and lowered her gaze. “There are no animals here—the call you hear is one of the demons seeking victims for Areyn.” She paused. “You are not afraid.”
Fialan lifted her chin with his finger. “Of course I’m not,” he said. “It can’t kill me.”
“It can do much worse—when it takes your essence.”
“Then, perhaps, I will be afraid,” Fialan said with a smile. “But not now.” “How can you be so brave?” she asked. “Have you never feared?”
Fialan met her gaze. “Oh, I have,” he admitted. “Before Areyn killed me, I knew fear such that I had never known.”
“Really? Then, why don’t you fear the demons?”
“Because they can’t destroy me, Eshe,” Fialan said. “They’ve already taken my life, but they can’t destroy what I am anymore than they can destroy you. Don’t you see, Eshe? Lochvaur is right.”
Eshe turned to look over the desert land. “I wish I could accept that. But you’ve never been Areyn’s victim.”
“I haven’t?” Fialan asked wryly.
Silence ensued. “If Areyn slew you, he would’ve feasted,” she said at last.
“As I thought,” Fialan said. He stared into the red sun as it rose. “Eshe, can you see that this is just part of the battle between Rhyn’athel and Areyn? How many Eleion were alive after Areyn destroyed the Nine Worlds?”
“Only those who Ni’yah managed to bring behind the walls of Athelren,” she said. “Or so they tell me. I was already dead by then.”
“The Truce was to bring us back—to give us a chance at life again,” Fialan replied.
“That is what they told us,” she said. “But you have never been to Athelren.”
Fialan paused. “Have you?”
Eshe nodded. “Yes, many of the old Lochvaur have. Athelren was our home, Fialan.”
He stared out at the dead world. “That is why the bitterness,” he said at last.
She smiled ruefully. “You didn’t know?”
“Much of what came before the Battle of the Nine Worlds is lost to us,” he said. “I always thought Elren was our home.”
A loud, piercing cry exploded around them. Eshe trembled and collapsed. Fialan knelt beside her huddled form and wrapped his arms around her. “Eshe! Eshe!” he called.
Another scream made him look up. He was looking into the dark eyes of a demon.
The demon was huge, nearly filling the covered battlement. It was black with shiny scales and had a large head like that of a dragon. Snake-like eyes gleamed beneath horned ridges, denoting supernatural intelligence. Its torso was that of a large man, but its lower body was clawed. It had a long, barbed tail like a scorpion and bat-like wings. An impossible fusion of dragon, scorpion, and man.
Fialan drew the ghost blade, but felt Eshe tug at his arm. “You can’t kill it,” she whispered. “Sheathe your sword.”
Fialan glared at the creature. “No. I won’t,” he said. “I won’t lie down like a coward.”
“Spoken like a true first-blood,” the demon said sardonically. Its voice grated in the cold air. “More strength than sense. But I don’t come for you, this time, Fialan. I come for Lochvaur.”
35
“How do you kill a demon?”
Rhyn turned around and stared at Lachlei. She stood in full mail, arms crossed. It was late afternoon, and the army was breaking camp. Rhyn had supervised most of the preparations for the march ahead. They would follow the Silren until they caught up with Areyn.
Rhyn grinned. “Demons?”
“You promised me you would show me how you kill demons,” Lachlei said.
“That I did,” he admitted. “But there are no demons here.” “Not yet,” said Lachlei. “But that will change.”
“Indeed it will,” Rhyn agreed. “But we have some time.”
“Not enough time,” she said crossly. “Now, are you going to show me?”
Rhyn chuckled. “Yes.” He glanced at the sword, Fyren, that hung at her side. “May I see your sword?”
Lachlei hesitated. “This was Fialan’s sword,” she said, drawing it and holding it up to the sunlight. The adamantine shone bright, except where a large black stain discolored the blade. “No matter what I try, I can’t remove the discoloration.”
Areyn’s blood. Rhyn’athel smiled inwardly as he gazed at it. Fialan had cut into the death god, as Ni’yah had said. “May I hold it?” he asked.
Lachlei nodded and watched as Rhyn took the blade. At his touch, Fyren flashed with a blinding light and glowed. “Sweet gods,” she whispered. “How did you do that?”
Rhyn smiled slyly. “It’s a good blade. The metal is from Athelren. It was forged before the Truce.”
Lachlei nodded in amazement and watched as Rhyn made a few experimental cuts in the air. “I thought the stain was the blood of the demon.”
Rhyn nodded. “It is, but this demon is very powerful for it to have stained the metal in this fashion. Although Fyren is a good blade, it isn’t a Sword of Power. Lochvaur’s Sword of Power disintegrated when he died. This was Lochvaur’s first blade, before he forged his Sword of Power.”
“How did you know this was Fyren?” Lachlei asked.
Rhyn pointed to the runes along the blade. “It says so.”
Lachlei knew the blade was marked, but she was certain Rhyn hadn’t looked to see the blade’s name. How does he know the blade? she wondered. Instead, she decided to try a different tact.
“But what of Lochvaur’s Sword of Power?” she began. “How do you…?”
Rhyn’athel chuckled. “Swords of Power were common among the strongest godlings such as Lochvaur. The gods encouraged these Swords because they channeled their power more effectively. The gods actually created similar devices when they weren’t as strong. You may have heard of Runestones or other talismans.”
“The Runestones of Teiwas?” she said. “I thought they were a myth.”