Circle of Reign (57 page)

“Feeble fear is more succulent, refined,” Rembbran said, looking at Therrium. Then he turned to the younger man, a guard of some kind. “Not as raw as young fear. They both will do, however. I thank you.” His voice was deeper than most growls, unnatural but devilishly fantastic. “Steady, Alrikk,” he heard Therrium whisper.

“We do not fear you!” the younger man, Alrikk it was, snapped. He held two swords between them.

The chase-giver made a show of taking in a deep breath through his nose, flaring the gill-like slits that ran up the bridge of his nose and exhaling with shudders of ecstasy. A knowing smile manifested itself on Rembbran’s face.

“Ah, the naiveté of youth.” Alrikk was not a boy, but compared to a Helsyan that could live with vigor beyond a century, most human races were short-lived by comparison. This guard seemed no more than a youngling holding a toy in his hands.

“Your kind has fallen before to one of my warriors. And recently at that,” Therrium reminded him.

Before Rembbran could respond, Alrikk strode forward and attacked. The chase-giver parried but Therrium was right behind his young guard, not withholding from the fight. The forest was thinner in the northern parts where they now battled. Trees were still ubiquitous, but less so, giving more room for the contest to develop. As the sound of steel against steel trumpeted forth, Rembbran found his rhythm in the fray and began to drive them backward. Fast as they were, he was able to dodge and counter every blow levied against him, forcing both of his targets to defend rather than attack. It was a scene of majesty, he thought. What it would be to witness a Helsyan in full thrust against two Arlethians at once, driving them both mentally and
physically into defeat. His self-glory emanated from him as he gained more and more momentum, forcing his prey to become more desperate. He could smell it, the fear and anxiety that were building before erupting into acceptance of defeat, acceptance of his dominance over them.

The guard skirted around Rembbran, narrowly escaping his latest volley of blurred steel. Lord Therrium attempted to feint forward and draw his attention, but Rembbran did not bite. He knew Alrikk was behind him now and would attempt to run him through. He raised his arms with his sword above his head and lunged backward as he knelt down to one knee. The point of his sword behind him pierced something, the sound of it like a sack of wet leaves. And then, he knew. The scent of warm blood in the air intermingled with the fear. With a mighty overhead thrust, he launched Alrikk’s impaled body thirty paces through the air until it collided with a gnarled old oak. The body lay motionless, shattered. Immediately, more strength and ferocity filled the chase-giver as one more prey fell in fulfillment of his
Dahlrak
. Now came time for the end of it, for its climax, as he would dispatch the ultimate point of the Charge.

As Banner Therrium looked at Alrikk, Rembbran smelled the regret and sorrow from the Prime Lord.

“It is interesting,” Rembbran said, “that you do not feel rage after seeing one you obviously cared for now in death’s embrace.”

Banner collected himself. “I feel regret for his loss of life, but know that he stood strong despite his fear.”

“And the sorrow—”

“The sorrow is not for him, but for you. And pity. How terrible it must be to live your life on a leash, not able to make an existence for yourself, always waiting for the next command to bring some semblance of life.” Banner actually managed a sad smile that came across as more than a little condescending.

The Helsyan flared his nostrils and did indeed detect pity. He became incensed. “How is it that you pity me or my kind? We are to be envied! Feared! Loathed! But not pitied!”

“I find pity for all slaves,” Therrium replied. “I may fall today, but I will die free. You will return to a master and await his next bidding. And our people, we have always triumphed and we ever shall. Your treacherous Duke has made a grave error in supposing me to be an important figure to our people or that they will fall because I do not lead them. Arlethia has always been greater than a single man, slave.”

Therrium had the demeanor of a father when he spoke. It was obvious to the chase-giver this man was secure in his place within the world and with who he was. Such innate peace was foreign to Helsyans as they saw themselves as alien to life in general, though they longed for peace and understanding, to know their place in the world.

Rembbran screamed in defiance and anger. “You know, Prime Lord, I have never consumed one of my prey. It hasn’t been practiced since the Ancients ruled us, I am told. But for you, I am willing to make an exception.”

Banner backed away and stumbled slightly, finding hold on a tree. Reaching his hand around his back, he made a connection against the bark. He felt peaceful as he listened and took in the sounds of the forest, its grandeur and venerable serenity. Calm was spoken to his soul. Despite trees burning south of them and filling the night with smoke and embers, they did not seem to notice or mind. The roots would likely live and grow anew, stronger. Banner felt that the trees somehow understood this and accepted it as necessary from time to time. He looked up and saw the Helsyan, this chase-giver, saying something. His words, however, were completely inaudible to him as he prepared himself to join the forest eternally.

But then his peace was shattered. The sound that reverberated through his skull—where did it come from? He wasn’t hearing it with his ears, he realized. He opened his mouth so wide he couldn’t breathe in response and clenched his eyes. They watered from the
pressure. He blinked rapidly trying to clear his vision and saw his assassin looking down at him with curious amusement. Therrium’s hand gripped the bark of the tree he had connected to with such strength that the bark started to break free under his grip. The palm of his hand began to feel hot, to burn almost. Was this just in his mind? The sound was high pitched and thunderous all at the same time. The fright this caused in him was unbearable, fear beyond what should be possible for anyone to feel and yet live.

“The trees!” he gasped in a desperate voice. “They scream!” And then, silence. Nothing remained, no sound that he could discern. He tried but failed to reconnect with the forest, with the tree he rested against. His eyes opened wearily and it felt like sand filled them as he looked around, scraping the undersides of his eyelids. Indecipherable blurry images spun. He had slumped down in his forced anguish and the chase-giver towered over him, but this seemed like a small thing to him in this moment. He tried again to reconnect, opening his hand wider in an effort to expand his palm and hopefully make another connection. It was cold, the bark of this tree. Rough and hard.

The horror struck him. Banner Therrium raised himself up and turned to the tree. An elm of considerable size, certainly full and beautiful in life, confronted him. It was not beautiful now. He stepped back one pace and looked up to see branches that were off from their natural color. White. Gray. Still, despite a breeze. Dead. Turning his head, he saw this forest had become a garden of stone. It was too much to accept, too much for any wood-dweller to view. Banner could not contain his terror and began to moan like a child in ineffable pain. How could Alrikk have ever recovered from such a visceral experience? Being connected to the forest as it dies? Therrium did not know, but he did know the horror of it now. Looking down again to the trunk he saw wetness, a dark fluid that glistened crimson.

He had not felt the sting of the chase-giver’s steel enter him in his state of marveling. He coughed blood and felt weak suddenly. The horizon turned vertical for Prime Lord Banner Therrium as he collapsed.

FORTY

General Roan

Day 30 of 1
^st
Dimming 412 A.U.

GENERAL ANTIOUS ROAN TORE THROUGH
the enemy camps like a vengeful ghost, a maelstrom of steel and speed, moving from one enemy to the next faster than their blood could fall to the earth.
I am a sturdy bough rooted deep in fertile soil
. His armor had been shed in the forest, searing hot from the flaming pitch with which he had been splashed. Mud and blood were his armor now.
I am iron and steel, molded from the fires of adversity. I am life to those behind me, death to those in front
. Flesh tore and blood stained his sword.
I am Arlethia, and she is me. I am her silent shield, her impenetrable armor, her terrible sword
. The ground quickly became soaked and stained crimson as men around him were returned to the earth.
She is my strength and my all. Those who stand against her stand against me, and shall swiftly fall
. The orange glow from the burning forest west of the enemy’s lines imitated the arrival of dawn, as if the sun were rising on the opposite side of the world.

Why not?
Roan thought.
All else in the world is skewed, so why not the sun?

Few of the enemy soldiers had any warning of his approach before their lives were dispatched, their focus being on the battle and blaze in the forest. Here, just behind the enemy’s lines, few
had been held in reserve. Field and infantry marshals along with their staffs as well as those required to operate the siege weapons. Antious Roan did not discriminate as he dealt out his lethal aggression. After few brief moments, several catapults were left unoccupied save for the corpses that lay motionless around them.

As he worked his way northward, up the enemy’s line, some of the enemy soldiers noticed the cessation of ordnance from most of the siege weapons. Seeing their fellow soldiers dead on the ground, they shouted forth warnings of something being awry. It was not long after that Roan was spotted cutting down yet another group. Knowing his time as an invisible force was now over, Roan sped as fast as his mortal frame would allow him to move, darting from the enemy’s view faster than they could follow in the dim light. He hunkered down beneath the top of a tall grass field and waited. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, and even from this distance he could feel the heat coming from the blaze in his forest. General Roan dug his fingers into the soil, below the grass roots, and listened. Felt. Without the aid of a speaking tree or the massive intertwined root systems of the forests of Arlethia, the vibrations were more difficult to discern. Amplifying the burden were scores of thousands of men locked in the chaos of battle. Nonetheless, Roan persisted.

Anxiety was difficult to force down as the battle unfolded in rough visions within his mind. He felt and therefore pictured several enemy soldiers tentatively looking for him. Their footsteps were slow and nervous, headed in the wrong direction. He ignored them and flushed that image from his mind. Tapping other segments of vibrations, he brought to the forefront of his mind’s eye the scene of the forest. It was convoluted and chaotic, but he knew he was getting a better understanding of the scene than was possible with eyes alone as the smoke would have obstructed much of his visual perception. In the images created from the vibrations, smoke and ashes could not mar the view of the observer. It was obvious to him that his men were fighting valiantly against overwhelming odds. The disorganization of Tulley’s men aided his
own soldiers’ efforts. He tried to single out Colonel Bohdin from amongst the thousands of seismic indicators he was feeling, but this proved too great a task without the aid of the forest directly.

Suddenly, Roan caught hold of a new vibration: heavy and swift footfall penetrating through the fray like an avalanche of terror. The strides were longer and faster than mere humans could achieve and heavier than any wood-dweller would produce, commanding his attention as the other vibrations faded to the background. They were emanating from within the Arlethian borders, within the forest.
How could only five people produce such force?

The confrontation changed
dramatically
and the General felt his soldiers’ posture and cadence change, becoming more frantic and hurried. They were…retreating. He felt his forces less and less as the moments flew by, their signals and vibrations becoming a thinner portion of the overall cacophony. And then something frightful happened.

His connection through the ground was severed. No, not completely severed, but dampened to a degree that he could no longer discern anything. The vision in his mind blurred and diminished until it was a marred collage of dark, muted images. It was like becoming deaf and blind suddenly in mid-conversation. General Roan felt a bulge catch in his throat. Though severely attenuated, vibrations still issued forth from the forest, but they were strange. Sharper, blunter. More staccato-like, less rich. And then, it ceased. The rhythm and quick-stepped movements halted. There was only one reason the enemy would have ceased. Then confirmation came of his dread. A cry of victory rose from the forest that he knew was not from his men. He opened his eyes and raised himself enough to peer over the top of the high grass he hid beneath.

For interminable moments, Antious had no thoughts. His mind was wiped from any semblance of coherency. Staring back at him were not the beloved trees of his homeland, not the thick frondescence of his native dwelling. The fires had been miraculously extinguished. Unnaturally quenched. Stone, after all, does not burn.