Reaver.
Reaver.
Reaver.
"Alaric, what are you doing?"
Serona stood a few paces away, her eyes wide with alarm. She undoubtedly sensed the energy he used to create the Shadowmeld and followed the traces to trail him. He sighed, wishing she was spared the sight of his weakness. He knew it only fractured her anew to see him drawn to Mothros, the very thing that had separated them.
He managed to tear his gaze away from Mothros to look at her. "Contact the Speakers of the Sects, Serona. Let them know that there is to be a Gathering. They are to immediately report to the Blood here in Aceldama. Many issues need to be addressed."
Serona hesitated at the unexpected command. "Which of the Speakers do you wish to see?"
"All of them. It has been too long since they have been under my eyes. An old enemy has risen again to threaten their existence. They will need leadership to survive. That leadership must stem from the Blood, not their own misguided interests."
She gazed at him, then at Mothros lying menacingly on its unadorned sword rack. Her mouth tightened. "Where is this new interest coming from, Alaric? What is it that disturbs you?"
His head dropped, his eyes fixed on the sword. "It has begun again, Serona."
"What has begun? Why have you come here, when you know what that thing did to you the last time you wielded it?"
"There is no choice." Emotion had fled his being, leaving his voice flat and lifeless. "Mothros would only activate if a Reaver entered into this world."
"A Reaver?" Serona's voice quivered, her hand hesitantly drifted to her mouth. "That's impossible. Their creation requires Elemental properties. Leilavin would have to emerge from her hiding place in Everfell to create another, and we both know that she would never—"
"She dared," Alaric said. His smile was mirthless when he glanced at Serona. "Leilavin finally found the nerve to take a risk, something you and I know she would not do unless she was sure of the odds." His eyes peered at the stark walls as if he could see through them and spy her out. "But the gamble will have tragic consequences for her."
"What do you mean?"
Alaric's gaze drifted back to Mothros, the pulse in his head grew only stronger. "I altered her Threshold when last I saw her. Once activated, it will not open again at her command. She is trapped here, unable to slink back into her protective haven and disappear again. Alert the Legion, Serona. Let them know that their mission is Leilavin and that I want her brought to me alive."
"Easier said than done," Serona said. "Leilavin has always been deadly, even before Stygan took her under his wing. She will be desperate, and that will mean a high death count for any who try to capture her."
"The sheer numbers will be enough." Alaric's gaze never left Mothros. He stepped closer, despite every ounce of reason screaming for him to flee the room. "Not even Leilavin is a match for a full assault of the Blood. She will fall, and then she will be brought before me. Give the command, Serona."
She placed her hands on her hips. Her violet-eyed stare penetrated, reading him almost as if their solestra bond was still in place. "And leave you here with that fusorb? It nearly killed you the last time, Alaric. I remember how you looked when you returned from battling Leilavin. You resembled a corpse. Your body was crippled, your skin nearly transparent. Your hair never returned to its natural color. You should have died, Alaric." She shook her head, her gaze defiantly resolute. "Where your strength came from, no one could explain. But you survived. You came back to us. To me." The glare she directed at Mothros was pure venom. "I won't let it have you again. You should have never bargained for that weapon. It will be the death of you."
"You speak as if I have a choice." Alaric's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "The decision was made long ago, Serona. I'm sorry you had to pay such a high price for what I chose to do. But were I to choose again, I would do the same. I saved our people from destruction then because I was willing to suffer for their sake." He met her anguished gaze resolutely. "I am again willing to do so now. No matter what the cost. There is no one else who can."
His hand closed around Mothros' hilt. And like every time before, the rivers of Alaric's soul disgorged, pulling him into the eye of the maelstrom. Power and destruction, life and death whirred about him in the tempest, waiting for him to choose.
One last time, Mothros whispered.
One last time.
Chapter 27: Darvade
Darvade toted a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other as he strode up the stairway of the Golden Blessing, a luxurious inn on the outskirts of Parand. He stepped to the side as a pair of chambermaids descended, showering him with admiring glances. They could not feel the compelling waves that unconsciously pulled them, the mental stimulation that stroked just the right places in their minds.
It was second nature for him to always have Coercion focused. Like the others of his Sect, it was a natural gift. Coercion could be strongly focused to compel a person into action, but Darvade found that a light touch was all he needed in most circumstances. The human mind was easily manipulated. It was in their nature to follow their baser instincts, despite their attempts at decorum and civilized behavior.
He smiled and caressed their soft skin and bare shoulders with his eyes, rewarded by their flushed faces and embarrassed giggles as they passed by. He paused at the top of the stairway for a moment, watching the pleasant roll of their hips as they continued downward.
Perhaps he would play with one of them another night. He wondered if they had heard the noise from his room. His lovely had been quite loud only a few minutes earlier before she had begged for rest, begged for a drink before she could begin again. The art of lovemaking could be strenuous on one ill-prepared for the challenge.
Well, the bottle of Runet's finest should do for her, and then they could begin again…before he enjoyed refreshment of his own.
He nudged the door to his room open and smiled at the sight. His lovely had rolled over, her voluptuous form covered by the velvet bedcovers.
"Turned in so soon, my sweet? The night is still young, and we have much to do before the sun rises."
The bedcovers were snatched back.
Darvade's eyes widened. His lovely was not there. In her stead was a dark-skinned warrior in a turbaned headdress. His cloak swirled as he rose; killing weapons swung from his sides. He clutched a uniquely designed crossbow equipped with a rounded cylinder in his fist.
The attacker's face contorted in rage. "Odji, the only thing you have to do is die." He pulled the trigger. The bolt hissed as it snapped forward.
Darvade focused Effluvium at that moment. With an earsplitting wail, he dissipated into mist. The bolt passed through harmlessly, striking the wall behind him. More bolts followed, fired from the Huntsman's modified weapon. Darvade would have been impressed by the weapon's design had his life not been in immediate jeopardy.
His vaporous form swirled across the room unharmed by the deadly darts; his howl swelled throughout the inn. He retained his misty form until he reached the window, where at the crescendo of his blood-curdling scream he solidified, hurling out the window in an explosion of shattering glass.
The shards flashed around him, and the air whistled as he fell three stories, landing in a shower of glassy debris. He ran almost before his boots hit the ground. Vaporous clouds exhaled from his lungs, but the cold did not touch him as his long hair flailed and his boots pounded the gravelly street.
He growled a curse when he heard his pursuer land unharmed as well. Heads emerged out the windows from curious lodgers with flickering candles in their hands. Some exclaimed in astonishment, but he ignored them as he bolted down the alley.