“Be careful how you sling insults, Areyn,” Lochvaur said. “Especially to the man who bested you in a swordfight.”
The death god’s eyes narrowed. “A small accomplishment—he is still dead.”
“Small, perhaps, but notable,” Lochvaur said. “Why are you here? You have what you want.”
“My Silren and Eltar will be here soon,” Areyn said. “You are to take orders from my captains.”
Lochvaur said nothing, but anger smoldered in his steel eyes.
Fialan stared. “You’re going to obey?”
“Of course,” Areyn Sehduk said. “He’s going to be the good soldier who follows orders, aren’t you, Lochvaur?”
A muscle twitched in Lochvaur’s jaw, but the godling merely gazed at Areyn.
With a yell, Fialan leapt at Areyn, swinging his sword. Flame surrounded the former Lochvaur king, and Fialan dropped to the floor, writhing. “Enough, Areyn!” Lochvaur snapped. “Leave him—your quarrel is with me.”
“Indeed,” Areyn said. The flames disappeared, and Areyn met the godling’s gaze. “Remember, Lochvaur, who is your master,” he said as he strode out.
Lochvaur glared after Areyn and then knelt beside Fialan’s motionless body. He touched Fialan’s forehead. “Fialan,” he said. “Fialan, awake!”
Fialan started awake and stared at Lochvaur. Anger shone in his eyes, but Lochvaur shook his head. “Let us not quarrel, Fialan. For I am not your enemy, but your ally.”
“My ally? You, who have doomed me to fight for Areyn?”
“Areyn would have you fight regardless.” Lochvaur helped Fialan up. “Patience, Fialan. I know it is hard to trust me, but trust me, you must. No one—not even Rhyn’athel—holds my vengeance against the death god. Two thousand years or ten thousand years—I am a patient man, and I will have my revenge.”
Fialan gazed into Lochvaur’s eyes and shuddered. He could see the anger and hatred for the death god within Lochvaur’s gaze. “You would’ve taken Areyn’s anger though it was directed at me.”
Lochvaur shrugged. “I have felt the death god’s punishments before.”
Fialan looked down. “There must be a way out of this—now that we are back in the world of the living.”
“But our bodies are not part of this world,” Lochvaur said. “We are tied to Tarentor as surely as if there were a chain around us.”
“What if we tried to escape?” he asked.
“Don’t,” Lochvaur said. “If you did try, you are likely to feel terrible pain—worse than the jolt Areyn gave you.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We obey orders and we wait—for the moment,” Lochvaur said.
“That is not my nature,” Fialan said. “I won’t fight my own people.”
“That remains to be seen, my young friend,” the godling replied as Fialan left the tent.
The demon was huge—a massive, dark creature that loomed over them. In the light of the third moon, it looked more imposing yet. It hovered above the encampment, dark and ominous. To Lachlei it looked like an amalgam of different creatures fused together haphazardly. Its head was that of a wolf; its body of a fireworm. Its bat-like wings beat furiously as it displayed its fierce, saber teeth.
Rhyn had been the first outside, his Sword of Power drawn. Lachlei stood beside him with Fyren, followed by Telek and Laddel. The Laddel warriors gathered around with spears and swords, torches lit. Some drew their longbows and nocked their arrows, awaiting Laddel’s orders. Lachlei could see the hatred burn in their feral eyes as they looked upon one of the ancient enemies of the Eleion.
The demon screamed again, prickling Lachlei’s skin and hair. Everything within her nature told her to hate it. She had never had such a visceral experience, except in the heat of the battle against Areyn. Perhaps it was the blood of the Athel’cen that coursed through her veins. She looked at Rhyn, whose expression was darker yet.
“Heath-stalker,” Rhyn said. “Stay here.” He glanced at Telek, who nodded and drew his sword. Lachlei stared. The Laddel warrior’s sword glowed in the darkness; he carried a Sword of Power as well. They walked forward, Rhyn circling left and Telek circling right.
Lachlei started forward after them, only to feel Laddel’s firm grip on her shoulder. “Don’t—they’ve killed many demons before,” he said.
Many? Lachlei turned back to Rhyn and Telek in wonder. How could Rhyn have killed many? And what of Telek?
The demon screeched, seeing both gods circling it. Rhyn’s eyes burned with a bloodlust that Lachlei had only seen palely reflected in the Chi’lan. It was as though she had been transported back over two thousand years before. Was this how the battles between the Eleion and Areyn’s creatures were before the Truce? Rhyn and Telek seemed to have stepped out of those times.
The demon struck at Rhyn. Rhyn parried and Telek charged, his brass eyes flashing in the cold moonlight. The demon twisted to meet the attack, only to have its talons severed as it sought to rake Telek. Rhyn swung his Sword, and the blade bit through the demon’s armored scales. The Sword of Power cut through its neck, and the demon collapsed in a vile-smelling heap.
Rhyn’athel grinned as he met his brother’s gaze. “It has been a long time,” he said to Ni’yah. “I forgot how much I hate these things.” “Stupid heath-stalkers,” Ni’yah remarked. “Areyn may not realize you’re here yet. Or he may not admit it.”
“Heath-stalkers?” Lachlei asked, looking at the body as it disintegrated into foul-smelling smoke. “There are types of demons?”
“Of course,” Rhyn’athel said. “The heath-stalkers are fairly weak—a good adamantine sword can dispatch them.”
“Then, Fialan wasn’t killed by one of those.”
“No,” Rhyn’athel replied. He turned to Ni’yah. “Why would Areyn send a lesser demon?”
“A test, perhaps?” Ni’yah remarked. “They take little to create.”
Lachlei stared at him. “What can we expect?”
“Arch-demons, certainly,” Laddel said.
“And maybe worse,” Rhyn’athel replied. “It depends on how far Areyn will go with this.”
“One thing is certain… Rhyn,” Ni’yah remarked, pausing and emphasizing Rhyn’athel’s mortal name. “We’ll be seeing more of these before the war is over.”
44
Fialan returned to the tent where he had left Eshe sleeping. She was no longer there, and she had left her bedroll unmade. Fialan gazed at the bedroll in puzzlement and turned to Kiril as he entered the tent.
“Kiril,” he said. “Have you seen Eshe?”
Kiril shook his head. In the bright sun, the big Shara’kai looked more formidable with his larger Ansgar frame and heavier bone. Not as fast as an Eleion, thought Fialan, but he’s probably stronger than any of us, save perhaps Lochvaur. “I haven’t seen Eshe at all—maybe she’s getting something to eat.” “Eat?” Fialan repeated. “You mean we can eat? We need food?”
“You’ll get hungry and thirsty soon enough,” Kiril remarked. “It’s almost like being alive. If I hadn’t been in Tarentor for so long, I might actually think that I’m alive.”
Fialan paused. How close might these be to our real bodies? he wondered. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Within his mind’s eye, he felt the unmistakable touch of the Wyrd, and with it his power. His power wasn’t entirely there, but his link with the Wyrd had returned. Just then he saw Eshe in his mind’s eye with a small bundle in her hands, running as fast as she could away from the encampment.
“Eshe, no!” Fialan whispered.