The shield collapsed, and the ethereal fire consumed all in its path.
The living Eleion broke ranks and fled in terror. Only the demons remained. Areyn drew on their dark power, such as it was, and established a shield. He turned to a demon captain. “Flank them!” he shouted. “Take five thousand and crush his army while I attack with the rest.”
Areyn watched as the demon captain left. Rhyn’athel and Ni’yah had somehow effectively broken his link between his own world and this one.
And his own dead were given him nothing in power—nor had the living, for that matter. It was as though his power source had simply vanished. Without the dead to feed from, Areyn was weakening. He would have to return to his realm, accepting defeat once again. Unless…
There was still the Fyr—the Eternal Fire.
82
Lachlei gazed at the slaughter below them. She turned to Rhyn’athel who grinned at her. “How?” she asked. “Rhyn, how did you stop Areyn?”
“Areyn relies on the dead for his power, beloved,” Rhyn’athel said. “He assumes he can bring as many dead as he needs.”
“You had Ni’yah close the Gateway in the north,” Lachlei said, the answer dawning on her. “Areyn used the Gateway to bring the dead through.”
“Normally, he would use his own powers to bring them forth, but his time in this world has weakened him,” Rhyn’athel remarked. “He’s had to feed to keep the Silren guise and has had to feed to keep both the living and dead under his control. And, he has had to maintain a shield to keep me from finding him…”
“But you have had to maintain your body and keep yourself hidden from Areyn,” Lachlei said.
“But I do not control you or these forces,” Rhyn’athel said. “Nor does my power come from destruction. My power is in creation, Lachlei. Areyn and I are opposites.”
“But you can destroy…”
“Just as Areyn can create,” he remarked. “But Ni’yah and I chose long ago where we would draw our power.”
“Then, the battle is won…”
“Not quite,” Rhyn’athel said, gazing below. “I must still confront him, and I must take from him that which is rightfully mine.”
Lachlei met his gaze. “Will Areyn accept it?”
Rhyn’athel grinned. “Probably not, but it is not his choice any longer. The Chi’lan belong to me, beloved, be they alive or dead. Areyn can take those who follow him, but Ni’yah and I will deny the source of his power.”
“How?”
A battle-horn rang across the fields. Lachlei felt a chill run through her. She turned her horse and saw an army along the hills of Darkling Plain. She turned to Rhyn’athel. “Who are they?”
“Chi’lan,” Rhyn’athel replied.
She stared as the army stood ready. “Chi’lan? There aren’t any more Chi’lan, Rhyn,” she said. “Lochvaur and Fialan will be leading the warriors against the demons.”
Lochvaur reined his horse, and grinned at Fialan, Kiril, and Eshe who sat on their own warhorses beside him. They had appeared on Darkling Plain, sandwiching the enemy between themselves and the Lochvaur and Laddel lines.
“Hold your position!” Lochvaur shouted as he rode down the front lines.
“We won’t be fighting our own any longer! We fight for Rhyn’athel now!”
A cheer rang over the plain as the godling’s message was passed through the Chi’lan ranks.
Fialan stared at the godling. One moment, he had been kneeling beside Eshe, weeping for her; the next moment, he was here, astride a warhorse.
Fialan looked down at his body. Armored in mail, his surcoat bore the colors of Rhyn’athel, not Areyn. He took a deep breath, allowing the acrid air to fill his new lungs and turned to Lochvaur in wonder. The godling rode up to him and grinned. No longer did the godling have the pale skin and red cast around his eyes; he looked Eleion, not Braesan. None of the former Braesan did. They looked like a powerful Chi’lan army.
“Feels better to have a real body, doesn’t it?” Lochvaur remarked.
“It’s real?” Fialan asked. “You mean that we’re not tied to Areyn any longer?”
“No,” Lochvaur replied. “Though technically, this body doesn’t belong here either. We’re tied to Athelren now—not Tarentor.”
“Athelren?” Fialan repeated. “Then, then—we’re Rhyn’athel’s warriors again?”
“As we always have been,” Lochvaur said with a wry smile.
“What if we choose not to fight?” Kiril asked. Fialan turned to look at the Shara’kai in wonder. In his new body, Kiril looked impressive—a more fearsome warrior, Fialan could not imagine, save Lochvaur, himself.
Lochvaur became somber. “That is your choice, Shara’kai. My father will not control us the way Areyn controlled us. It is not in Rhyn’athel’s nature to do so.”
Kiril grinned. “Then, it’s true—the warrior god has freed us.” He laughed. “I will fight for a god such as Rhyn’athel.”
“What of you, Fialan?” Lochvaur asked. “You have grievances against the warrior god.”
Fialan turned and looked at Eshe. She was more beautiful now, and she smiled at him. Fialan felt a twist in his gut as he realized how much he loved Eshe. He had chosen to stay with her—to die with her rather than save himself. What of his loyalty to Lachlei?
Even as he wondered, he already knew the answer. His death had severed the bond between him and Lachlei. Death did change things. He smiled wryly at Eshe, before turning back to Lochvaur. “Damn you!” he growled in mock anger. “You planned this…”
“Did I?” Lochvaur said. “I don’t see how—I hadn’t any powers while I was under Areyn’s control.”
“I don’t believe that,” Fialan said. “By Rhyn’athel’s blood, Lochvaur, you know I’d follow you back to Tarentor if you asked. Don’t you think I owe that much allegiance to the warrior god?”
“This is why I chose you as second-in-command.” He grinned. “How would you like to be known as a demon-slayer? Flayer is bringing five thousand against us.”
“Demons,” Fialan laughed. He drew his blade—no longer Fyren’s doppelganger, but a broadsword made from Athelren’s adamantine. “It would be a pleasure to see one writhe on my sword.”
Areyn shuddered as he felt Rhyn’athel’s power bear down on him. Rhyn’athel’s power surrounded him, threatening to crush him from this world. The Braesan were gone—wrenched from his grasp as though he never had control over them. Their deaths could no longer feed him, and his link with Tarentor was slipping fast.
Lochvaur’s mocking words haunted him now. The godling must have known Rhyn’athel’s plan. Yet, how Lochvaur kept the knowledge from Areyn, the death god did not know. Areyn mistrusted Lochvaur even though the godling had been under his control the entire time in Tarentor. Lochvaur was not like his sire in one crucial way—Lochvaur’s desire for vengeance was beyond anything seen in the Nine Worlds. It rivaled Areyn’s hatred for Rhyn’athel. That alone had made Lochvaur dangerous. But Areyn knew Lochvaur would get his chance at vengeance now that Rhyn’athel and Ni’yah had torn away his power. He could go to the Gateway, but his Sight within the Wyrd showed a Gate Guardian. He could defeat it, but he would be forced to flee back to Tarentor. No, the Fyr was the only way.