It may or may not. Perhaps he is one of the four apparitions.
Uncle, I don't think these are apparitions. One is Silvo Hamartano, I'm certain. Achan kept his eyes on the thin figure.
Then it will be easier to defeat them. I will take the two to your left. You take the other two. One at a time, seek out a mind and storm.
Easy for Prince Oren to give the order, but these men weren't trying to enter Achan's mind. They simply stood there, appearing weaponless, conjuring green orbs. How did one storm? He'd only managed before because he'd sensed Sparrow trying to get into his mind.
Achan concentrated on the knight he thought to be Silvo Hamartano. A familiar, lofty voice chanted words he couldn't understand.
Rabab rebabah rabah yarad. Ruwach aphar mayim esh, machmad parar.
Achan blinked. A dark line obscured part of his vision. He stared at a dazed pale man wearing a doeskin jerkin.
Wait. That was his body. Pig snout! He'd entered Silvo's mind, the black mask obscuring his vision. Why couldn't he stay in his own boots? Had he concentrated too hard?
Silvo's breath hissed, creating warm moisture between his face and the wooden mask. He continued to chant, oblivious Achan had entered his mind. Rabab rebabah rabah yarad.
The black knight on Silvo's right crumpled to the ground.
"Zinder? Zinder!" The wooden mask muffled the panic in Silvo's voice. "Marken? Zinder has fallen!"
Prince Oren had defeated one man.
"Rabab yarad!" a voice yelled from Silvo's left.
"Fine!" Silvo continued to chant the words in his mind. Rabab yarad. Rabab yarad. Rabab yarad. Rabab yarad.
A shadow stretched out in front of Silvo. He glanced back to see four figures-identical to him-closing in. To Silvo's left, another four approached the black knight there. The three remaining apprentices were acting as wielders, calling forth apparitions of themselves.
"Yes," Silvo whispered, looking back to Achan's dumfounded, empty body. "Fight these, stray."
Achan popped back into his own mind. He staggered, surprised to find his muscles weakened. The twelve apparitions glided past their wielders, advancing toward him. He couldn't stand here and be killed. He sprinted toward the fallen man.
"No!" Silvo yelled.
"Concentrate," another knight said.
Achan slid to his knees beside the body. He patted the man's waist, found a sword, and wrenched it from its scabbard. He spun around barely in time to meet a fierce cut from a black blade. He backpedaled and took stock of his opponents. They moved toward him slowly, as if they had overeaten and were too full to move faster. Behind them, the three wielders stood like statues, arms outstretched as if worshipping the green orbs.
A man's voice cried out and one of the wielders crumpled. Four apparitions vanished.
Achan calmed, glad Prince Oren-a capable warrior-fought with him. Eight apparitions now. Better. Still, it might be best to flee. Slow as they moved, he could likely escape.
He sprinted into the dark void, praying the sand remained level and dry. Two clouds of glowing green smoke whirled before him and solidified into two black knights. Achan skidded to a stop, head twisting as he tried to keep all eight apparitions in sight. He lifted the sword to the closest one, hoping he could stall it long enough to drive off the second.
The apparition swung. Achan parried, but the opposing blade sailed through his sword and body. He screamed, startled, and barely remembered to turn and meet the second apparition's blade. This one struck, rattling Achan's arms.
Why were some solid and some not?
Nephew? Prince Oren called.
The other apparitions had reached Achan now. He parried another blow and ducked, wishing there were rocks to throw. I'm here.
What happened?
Uh…I failed. Again.
How do you mean? Speak clearly, boy. This is no time for sarcasm.
I don't know how to storm. I ended up in Silvo's head. I can't understand the difference between watching and messaging and storming. A sword clipped his shoulder. He growled, rammed the offending knight with his other shoulder, and went down, tumbling on the wet sand.
Get back on your feet, boy. You're too easy a target on the ground.
Too late. The apparitions swarmed, kicking and nipping his flesh with their black blades.
Achan cradled his head, squeezing every muscle and groaning against the lacerations and strikes biting his flesh.
Call on Arman, Prince Oren said. Only he can help you now.
Arman? A boot struck lower back. He choked on a scream as the shocking pain flared his old arrow wound. What could he say to Arman? I'm a fool who cannot use the gift you gave me? Please defeat these evil apparitions?
A kick to the side of Achan's head ended his need to figure it out.
*
Achan jerked awake underwater. He sucked in a sharp breath, and tepid water filled his nose and throat. He gagged and tried to hold his breath but there was little in him. Thankfully, someone pulled his hair, yanking his head above the water line.
He coughed and sputtered and opened his stinging eyes. Dark, firelight, before a stream. But the rotten smell left no doubt: he was still in Darkness.
He knelt on sharp, rocky soil before a wooden tub, wearing only his linen undershorts. Water dripped down his face and neck and made winding streaks down his chest. His wrists were shackled behind his back, the metal cool on his skin. He groaned through another cleansing cough. A familiar trace of bitterness coated his tongue. Aleh?
He called out to test his fears. Prince Oren?
Whoever held his hair released it. Achan swayed, head throbbing, chest burning. He sat on his heels and turned. Two black knights stood behind him. Their wooden masks were flat with two straight slits, one long one for the eyes and a smaller one for the mouth. Achan craned his neck the other way. A campfire burned a few paces back. Beyond that, four horses were tethered beside a cart with a mule hooked to the front. Two bodies lay on their backs in the cart. The moisture on the spindly, black trees glowed in the distance, outlining a forest.
But only two black knights. Prince Oren had done well disabling his targets. But how would Achan get away? If they had silenced his bloodvoice…
Achan sniffed. "Where's your leader?" His voice sounded weak.
"He is advising us from afar," a man said. Not Silvo. His accent sounded like Inko's.
"What do you want with me?" Achan gasped in another long breath. "Where are my companions?"
"Lord Falkson wishes to sacrifice you to Barthos in a ceremony to honor our god and master." Silvo. The slender olive-skinned Jaelportian removed his mask and glared down on Achan, his eyes as oily and black as his hair.
Achan's mind reeled. "Lord Falkson is your master?"
"All of Barth will attend the ceremony. The slaying of Arman's king will be a day celebrated for centuries to come."
Slaying? Achan stalled, seeking a way to escape. "Come now, Silvo. You don't believe I'm anyone's king, do you?"
"Unfortunately, I do. You've changed jobs more than my sisters change gowns. First a stray, then a squire, then a servant, then a soldier. It should have taken much longer to work your way up the political ladder, but at least this way I'll see you killed faster."