Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series (32 page)

Jackal, teeth clenched, arm muscles tensing,
scratched his hair with his left hand. From out of the forest, a
bolt whizzed towards Kethin.

But he nimbly leaned to the side as a
crossbow bolt struck a centimeter from his shoulder, burrowing deep
into the tree. He didn’t even flinch. “Foul play.” He waved a
finger at them. “You didn’t even give me time to decide.”

Jackal dismissed his concern. “Then go ahead
and be quick about it,” he growled, an ivory tooth protruding from
his mouth. “Or the next arrow will pierce your heart.”

In spite of his bravado, though, fear could
be detected in Jackal’s eyes, and Kethin, plucking the bolt from
the tree, tossed it aside like a rotting carrot, as a cold
expression, dark as an onyx stone, frigid as a steel blade in
wintertime, carved itself into his face.

Smiling through the black ice as a ray of
light piercing through an arcane forest, Kethin folded his hands in
front of him, like a smug duke enlarging his borders. “I’ve made up
my mind.”

“And what’s it gonna be?”

Smiling sardonically, he took a step forward.
Then another. “I refuse your demands.”

Wild rage burned in Jackal’s eyes as he
suddenly swung his axe at Kethin’s chest, but Kethin ducked and
then kicked his leg straight up in the air, knocking the axe from
the leader’s hand. The next series of movements were all done in
rapid, fluid motion. Kethin grabbed the axe, deflected three
crossbow bolts with the sides and head of it, and punched Jackal
hard in the stomach, knocking him over. Then, dropping the axe, he
ran up the tree vertically and kicked off it, jetting into the
one-eyed crossbowman with his head--mowing him over.

In an instant, he was back up again, but at
that moment, Dargo was upon him, and he started to throw punches at
Kethin like a mad boxer or street thug.

But not even breaking a sweat, Kethin managed
to block all of Dargo’s heavy punches with his open palms.

“Getting tired yet?” asked Kethin casually,
while keeping a keen eye on his surroundings.

“You’re a dead man.” Dargo leaned his head
forward while punching, and with his teeth plucked his rusty knife
from the collar of his ragtag shirt. Twisting his head to one side,
he then swung it sideways, hurling the knife at Kethin’s heart. It
nicked his cloak.

“Not bad.” Kethin twirled around, clasped the
man by the hair, and tossed him effortlessly--as one would toss a
sack of flour--into one of the two standing crossbowman, bowling
him over. He then evaded another high velocity bolt from the
remaining archer by casually snatching it out of midair and broke
it in half with his hands.

His face showed no signs of worry. “Are you
done yet?”

“Never!” growled Jackal, not deterred in the
slightest, as he threw five long knives at him in acrobatic
succession.

Skirting all the knives through humanly
impossible physical maneuvers, Kethin sighed deeply as the
boulder-sized man came charging for him. This rebellion was taking
too long. These woodsmen had no respect for him. Pressing his hands
together, he chanted a string of words in the ancient language of
Elayan, each syllable uttered in pristine clarity and sounding like
a tribal chieftain battering down an oaken door.

Immediately, all the woodsmen cried out.
Darkness clung to their eyes, rendering them entirely blind.

Stepping closer to them, Kethin spoke in a
cold tone that sent shivers through them. “Stop this foolishness
before I kill one of you,” he said, as he touched Jackal, sending a
wave of dizziness through his body, making him collapse.

Dargo, trembling, crawled across the ground,
feeling his way with his hands. “What kind of sorcery is this?”

“That’s not important,” he replied. “What’s
important is that you obey me.”

“And how much will we get?”

He smiled. “None. None at all.”

“We don’t work for those wages.” Dargo
repeatedly pounded his fists into the ground. “That’s robbery.”

Kethin waited until he stopped, before
smiling lightly. “Robbery? Yes, I suppose it is. But as criminals
yourself, I’m sure you understand why I’d rather not part with my
money. Besides, you’re not exactly in a bargaining position.”

“Yes we are!” yelled Dargo. “We aren’t
slaves. We’ll never--” He plunged into a dreadful sleep.

A cloud of purple mist shrouded Kethin’s
countenance, his voice ringing with authority: “Any other rebels …
anybody else want to drift off into a tomb of nightmares?” He
scanned the fifteen figures lumped over onto the ground and rubbing
their eyes. “Hmm … I take that as a ‘no’. Well, you’ve made the
wise choice.”

Stepping over to Jackal, he took the fog away
from his eyes, as he moved on to something that had incited his
curiosity ever since he’d heard it. “Now explain to me who this man
was who freed the mermaid.”

“He had short brown hair, the color of a
Durenx Root.” Jackal’s body shook. “His eyes were the color of
black walnut wood. He was about my height.” He took a short breath.
“And he wore the most unusual clothing.”

“Dark blue fabric, clinging separately to
each leg?”

Jackal’s face tightened. “Yes.”

“Very interesting,” mused Kethin, sounding
mildly annoyed. “Not even an elite Chardin could escape my
siblings’ three-pronged attack.”

“Maybe it’s not who you’re thinking of,” he
said tensely, not catching the meaning of all the words, yet still
understanding the message.

Kethin tightened his belt, disregarding his
words. “Where did he go?”

He hesitated. “He jumped into the lake and
swam away.”

“And you let him get away just like that? No
bolt in his back, no chase?”

“We shot bolts after him and tried to swim
after him, but he was wickedly fast. I’ve never seen anything like
it before. The very water seemed to carry him away from us.”

Kethin’s lips curved into a frown, as he
finished. “Forget about him. We have more important things to
discuss.” He released the blindness from the men’s eyes and freed
Dargo from his horrid sleep. They all sighed in relief, Dargo
shaking with fright. Once they had recovered enough to be sensible,
he spoke again: “Now listen closely. All of you are going to avenge
yourself on the throne.” They all watched him intently. “You will
kill the eldest prince.”

“But--?”

“No interruptions, Tyrin.” He flicked off a
piece of tree bark at him, which struck him on the face. “All of
you are already wanted men; it won’t hurt to add another blot to
your records.” Face stern, he continued. “The crown drives you away
from society, making you live like outcasts, forcing you to band
together to survive.” Gesturing into the wind, he sighed. “You
could have all been princes, judges, kings, but here you are,
abandoned by your families and friends … with a heavy bounty on
each of your heads.” With a tinge of pity, he lowered his eyes,
tears gleaming. “No harsher life exists than yours.”

“What’s the plan?” asked the one-eyed
crossbowman angrily, as he stepped closer into the conversation,
his face inflamed with rage.

Amused by the man’s eager dedication where
there’d been only stubborn mutiny moments before, Kethin smiled as
he pulled his hood over his face, shrouding all but his violet
eyes. “Two days from now, Avarin, crown prince of Sarith will be
spending the night in a friend’s mansion. Though he’ll be heavily
guarded, this is where he’ll be the most vulnerable.” His eyes
twinkled. “If you’re afraid, you can recruit your friends in Sarith
to aid you. I’m sure Cargamur would more than relish such
revenge.”

Jackal’s eyes flew open, as he gave Kethin
such a scowl that his face appeared to be melting under the noonday
sun. “How do you know about my brother?”

“I’m aware of many things,” replied Kethin,
his mouth curving into an evil grin, as he noticed Jackal was
itching to speak again. He didn’t let him have the chance. “Speak
again, Jackal, and you will not wake up for another week.”

As the threat settled, Jackal backed away,
fading into the rest of his group.

“Any other questions?” asked Kethin.

Tyrin, a crossbowman with a bandaged arm,
hawk eyes, and braided hair which came down to his back, stepped
forward. “What do we do if we get caught?”

“If you’re interrogated, tell them an elven
commander sent you.” A wolfish smirk consumed his face.

“An elf … you?” asked Tyrin.

“Yes, me.”

His eyes grew wide. “But you don’t look
like--”

“And how would you know what an elf looks
like? Have you ever been to Amalon?” Tyrin’s pale look said it all.
“That’s right; I didn’t think so.” Kethin stood silent waiting for
more questions. None were raised. “Ok, now that we have that
settled, it’s time to begin your journey.” A quick nod of the head
was all it took to send them scampering away.

Before they’d gone more than twenty feet
though, he threw out an insult, irritation in his voice. “And
they’re not fish women--they’re mermaids,” said Kethin loud enough
for them to hear. “Honestly, get it right.” As they hurried away
from him, faster now, he muttered, “Barbarians.”

Passing by many beautiful pastel-colored
buildings, some green, purple, yellow, and blue, Ian saw the
amethyst palace in the distance emanating with beauty, its walls
shining with a dark purple luster, its magnificent turrets and
spires radiating with a lighter purple hue and ascending four
hundred feet from the ocean floor, its windows glittering with
bluish purple gems. Lush gardens of colorful flowers surrounded the
palace, while a diamond dust sprinkled path, surrounded by silver
walls, invited him to traverse upon it, and stately black onyx
doors stood beckoning him to enter.

Gazing upon the palace in rapt wonder, Ian
swam forward in a daze awed by its splendor, while the princess,
noticing his facial expressions, just smiled, a pleased look in her
eyes.

As they swam above the glimmering path for
several minutes, they eventually reached the black doors of the
palace, where they were warmly greeted by several mermen draped in
golden-blue tunics, all of which carried no weapon with them as if
there were no need for such security measures in this place.

Smiling at them, astonishingly not feeling
any disgust towards them, Ian passed by them through the doors
without any fear, his thoughts immediately focusing on the inside
of the palace. Strangely enough, the first seven feet where he swam
were filled with water, while the rest of the twenty feet above him
was normal air.

As the princess led him down a red marble
corridor, lined with elaborate detailed paintings of gorgeous
red-yellow sunsets, dark green forests, crashing tsunami waves,
ominous fleets of ships, and fearsome thunderstorms, Ian suddenly
thought back to the merman king pouring clear liquid out of a vial
onto his fingers and then touching it to his leg, and at once grew
curious.

Hoping to find out what exactly it had done
to him, he turned to the princess. Maybe she knew something about
it. “Princess Taeria, I have a question for you.” It felt strange
speaking underwater, but oddly enough, his words sounded way more
distinct than he’d thought would’ve been possible.

An inquisitive smile swept over her fair
face. “Yes, Ian?”

Her reply was not garbled as he’d thought it
would be, but sounded as clear as if they’d both been speaking on
land. Interesting indeed, but he had more pressing concerns on his
mind: “Do you know anything about your father’s vial of clear
liquid?”

She nodded her head. “Yes. The Araundi vial
is extremely rare and powerful, and its effect is permanent. If
even one drop touches your skin, you will instantly be able to
understand and communicate in every language.”

At this news, Ian stood rapt in wonder,
hardly believing his ears. “Incredible,” he gasped, feeling a
sudden urge to go back to Amalon and speak to Azadar in the elven
tongue. He could only imagine how surprised Azadar would look now
when he saw him speaking in the language that he was supposed to
have forgotten, the language that had only been only given to him
for a short while just so he could feel the brunt of the elf’s
insults. But now, he possessed the language forever.

More than just the elves and Azadar though,
he’d now have no troubles communicating with humans from Sarith,
with the dwarves from Tazik, with the people of Verandur, or with
any other strange race that he could and would more than likely
encounter given his frequent visits to this world. That thought
gave him more than a little comfort as he remembered how awkward it
had been chatting with Azadar before he knew the elven language,
and how miserable he’d felt not being able to say anything to the
merman king at first. Now, these humiliating experiences would be a
thing of the past.

As Ian smiled inwardly, his mind drifted from
here to earth and he imagined what wonders the vial would do for
him there. If the vial affected his language skills on earth, he’d
learn Spanish in a heartbeat instead of the snail’s pace that he
was going, as well as hundreds of other languages and dialects.

He was almost tempted to ask Taeria if he
could take a drop with him in a tiny bottle, but decided against it
as he believed that the magic probably only applied to languages in
this world, and that even if it did work on earth, he’d never feel
right about his future grades in his Spanish II class or in any
other foreign language class he’d take later on in his life. As
much as he hated it, he’d just have to deal with learning the hard
way. Unless, of course, the vial had somehow affected his language
skills on earth. But that just seemed like wishful thinking.

Mixed emotions flooding his face, Ian glanced
at Taeria, as he suddenly wondered why he’d been given this amazing
language gift. He wasn’t even one of them and he’d only met the
merman king a few moments before he’d received these languages. It
didn’t make any sense. “So, why’d your father give it to me?” he
asked, more than a bit curious.