“No!”
Ni’yah grinned evilly. “Yes—I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t you dare…”
“Or what?” the wolf-god laughed.
Rhyn’athel drew his sword.
Ni’yah vanished.
37
Bright light blinded Fialan for a moment, and he held his hands up to shelter his gaze. He could hear quiet, mocking laugher as his eyes adjusted to the blinding glare.
“Some protector, Lochvaur,” came a voice. A familiar voice. “He can’t even see.”
“Give him a moment, Areyn,” Lochvaur’s voice rang clear. “I’d love to see the scar he left you with on your last encounter.”
A silence ensued, and the world came into sharp focus. It was daylight, bright and warm. The world they were in was brighter than Tarentor. Fialan could now tell that they were in a tent, but where, Fialan couldn’t fathom. It felt familiar somehow…
Areyn Sehduk stood in the form of a Silren—the Silren that Fialan remembered before his death. But now the guise looked incomplete, as though the Eleion shell would not hold. His eyes were a mix of black and ice-blue; his hair was not quite white. Yet his mannerisms still shone with unspeakable power.
Lochvaur held the death god’s gaze boldly. Indeed, Lochvaur looked more enraged than afraid of Areyn Sehduk, and there was a glint of something within Areyn’s eyes. Fear?
Fialan had seen enough fear in other’s eyes to recognize the fear in the death god’s gaze. Why does Areyn Sehduk fear Lochvaur, when the god holds our very souls?
Because it is not what I have done, but what I can do. I bide my time, Areyn, you know this…
Areyn laughed, breaking eye contact first. “Your threats are unfounded, Lochvaur…”
“Are they?” Lochvaur asked. “Then, why do you bring me here? Rhyn’athel knows you’ve broken the Truce.”
“So, it was Rhyn’athel I fought,” Areyn mused. “He seemed very interested in preserving the Lochvaur bitch…” His eyes glinted as they fell on Fialan. “Lachlei.”
Fialan nearly jumped at the mention of her name. “Lachlei?” he said. “What does she have to do with any of this?”
Areyn grinned. “Why, she’s Rhyn’athel’s new champion—and little wonder—since she holds the key to the Nine Worlds...”
Fialan stared. “What do you mean?”
“Enough, Areyn—you wanted me, remember?” Lochvaur snarled.
“It would be difficult to watch a loved one fought over like a scrap of meat between two dogs. Or should I say gods? The Wyrd has woven some very interesting possibilities…”
“Enough!” snapped Lochvaur, drawing his Sword of Power. The Sword glowed brightly in the tent.
Fialan stared speechlessly. How was Lachlei involved, and why would both Rhyn’athel and Areyn Sehduk want her? How could she hold the fate of the Nine Worlds? He looked questioningly at Lochvaur, but the godling’s gaze was fixed on Areyn.
“Why did you bring us to Elren?” Lochvaur demanded. “Certainly, not to torment us.”
“We’re in Elren?” Fialan asked.
“Indeed,” Lochvaur said. “Why, Areyn?”
“Select your best men, Lochvaur. I need them.”
“I won’t give them for you to drain—choose your own!”
“Not to drain—to fight for me,” Areyn replied. “I need warriors to fight the Chi’lan.”
“Have your own demons fight for you—or choose some other Undead,” Lochvaur replied. “I won’t lead a charge against my own people.”
“You’ll do as I say—you have no will,” Areyn replied. “Or I can make Tarentor very unpleasant.”
“Burning rivers of flame? Frozen wastelands?” Lochvaur asked, his voice now mocking. “Come now, Areyn, you can think up far worse tortures.”
“I have—and have done so,” Areyn smiled coldly. “I have taken your will. You have no choice but to obey me. Yes, yes, I’ve allowed your foolish attempts at defying me, but in the end, Lochvaur, you are still mine. Go, select you best men. If you do not, I will choose them myself and any that fails me, will serve me in other ways.”
Lochvaur stood rigid, his steel eyes cold and filled with hate. “You would make me go against my father and my blood?”
“Indeed,” said Areyn. “Pity, that you have no choice.” He paused. “Are you going to use that weapon, Lochvaur, or merely threaten me with it?”
Fialan watched as he saw a great struggle of wills ensue. Lochvaur raised his sword as though to strike Areyn, but something caught him as though invisible hands gripped his arms. Lochvaur shook under the power, fighting it desperately. Areyn smiled coldly as the godling’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. The Sword fell from his hands and clattered against the floor. Fialan wanted to rush forward to help Lochvaur, but found himself unable to move.
Areyn casually stood before Lochvaur. The godling’s face was filled with hate and rage. “Remember, son of Rhyn’athel, who owns you.”
“There will be a day, Areyn, when I will exact my revenge.”
“Really? Or will you let your brother do that?” Areyn sneered. “Pick up your sword, Lochvaur, and choose your men. I’ll send Flayer for them within a Tarentor day.”
Lochvaur glared as he stood and retrieved the Sword of Power. “There will come a day, Areyn…”
Areyn laughed, and the world spun around them. Suddenly, both Lochvaur and Fialan stood on the battlement as though they had never left.
“Lochvaur!” Kiril gasped as the two appeared. The other Lochvaur stood around them, staring at the two men.
“Fialan!” said Eshe. “What happened?”
Lochvaur looked grim and said naught. He nodded to Fialan and strode away without a word.
38
Lachlei entered her tent and found that almost everything had been packed. She unfolded one of the chairs and sat down. Her face was red and when she rubbed it, she found that she had been crying. Why?
It was one kiss—just one. But that kiss held unspoken passion behind it and she had responded. Had her love for Fialan been so cheap that she would throw it away for desire? Desire that she never knew she had?
Lachlei looked at Rhyn differently now. Had she encouraged this? She had been comfortable around him and willing to give him command of the army—because he was capable? Or because she wished him to be around. Certainly, Cahal and the other Chi’lan were just as capable, weren’t they?
Lachlei knew the answer. No one was quite like Rhyn. He was as though a legend had suddenly come to life—a first-blood from a time before the War between the Gods. He was a demon killer and wielded a Sword of Power—something that hadn’t been known to exist. How could someone not love a legend?
And yet, there was her love for Fialan…
Lachlei cursed silently. Her reaction had been all wrong. First, she had responded to him, and then she had pulled away in fear. Was this the reaction of a Chi’lan? Of Rhyn’athel’s champion?
It was her reaction. She hadn’t wanted to be queen, but she was. Her warriors had faith in her, but her success was due to Rhyn…
“Have you seen Rhyn?” came a voice.
Lachlei turned to see Cahal standing in the doorway.
“What?” she began, feeling her face flush.
“Rhyn isn’t in camp,” Cahal said. He gazed at her for a moment. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she stammered. “No. I mean, I haven’t seen Rhyn.”
Cahal studied her briefly. “I thought you were going to ask him how he killed demons.”
“I did,” Lachlei said. “Perhaps he’s overseeing the archers.”
“I checked—he’s not there.” He paused. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes steeled. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find Rhyn someplace.”