Sacrifice (Book 4) (5 page)

Just as they were about to fire, he turned and ran back between the calves of the Gagon, whistling arrows intended for him peppering the legs of the monster, the heavier arrows of the Uyumaak sinking deeply into its hide.

The Gagon’s tongueless mouth went wide with agony and it fell to a knee, slamming its forearms and fists into the sides of the gaps to steady itself. Thumping its chest loudly, it stood, turned, and ran unsteadily and angrily back toward its own army, head cocked askew as it focused on the front line of Archers with its remaining eye. The Archers cast about frantically, wondering what to do, until the beast tore into their ranks, killing some and scattering the others.

Gen and the Shadan quickly dispatched the remaining Bashers and took cover behind the stone as the enraged Gagon madly slaughtered its frightened comrades. Gen checked the Shadan’s injuries. Chunks of rock had deeply lacerated the right side of his face and head, blood flowing freely. The injuries did nothing to diminish his enthusiasm.

“Mikkik’s breath, what a fight!” he exclaimed. “If I had two hundred horsemen right now I would drive all these Uyumaak into the Abyss. That was a clever maneuver, Gen. You are a smart one.”

Together they peeked around the rocks, finding the Gagon covered in feathered arrows, still stomping and crushing everything around it. As they enjoyed the slaughter, they spied the rear ranks splitting to allow something to come forward.

“What do you think they’ll come up with next, Gen?” the Shadan asked, resting against the rock.

“It is hard to say. It appeared as if their commander was riding to the front, so maybe he will have the sense just to pour his army into the gap. Surely they know that we are the only ones here.”

An earthshaking thud signaled the fall of the Gagon, and they spied on their enemies once more. Their commander approached, riding just behind the head of an enormous, undulating black snake. The hood of his dark cloak was down, revealing a weathered and scarred elven face. He was bald, and even from a distance, Gen could feel the dark intelligence in his eyes. His only adornment was a row a silver earrings edging his left ear. He held no reins, no weapon, and no standard, and after a few minutes of communicating in Elvish to a group of Chukkas gathering around him, he turned and slithered back from whence he had come.

Shortly, the deep booming of drums echoed down the long line of Uyumaak between the canyon walls, and at a final deep drumbeat, the army moved forward as one, feet set for the gap.

Torbrand smirked. “Whoever that dark elf was, he apparently is the genius of the army. I would have liked a chance at the snake.”

“I think I’ve had enough of snakes.”

“This is it, Gen. Let’s hope the Abyss is not as bad as they say.”

Gen swallowed hard and exhaled, turning to scan the trail behind him, unable to see the Chalaine’s party.

Run, Falael. Run, Dason. Get her away from here.

The wave of scaled bodies, claws, clubs, axes, and teeth washed into the gap as Gen and Torbrand stood against it and commenced the work of death. All semblance of planning or thought disappeared, trained instinct commandeering the task of survival. In seconds they had felled a sufficient number of opponents to choke the gap with their bodies, but this did not slow their advance for long as a wall of creatures pushed Gen and Torbrand out of their advantageous position as they scrambled backward to prevent the Uyumaak from flanking them.

Torbrand fought fiercely, the Uyumaak paying dearly for coming within the reach of his blade. In the brief glimpses Gen could snatch of his master, he finally understood why Torbrand would always be his better at the sword. Gen fought out of necessity, the Shadan for pure pleasure. Torbrand yelled, he taunted, he laughed, and—despite being hopelessly outnumbered—intimidated his foes. Gen used his speed to his best advantage, stringing his enemies out so they could not bring their collective strength to bear upon him.

But there were simply too many. How long they had fought, Gen could not guess. Bruises and cuts decorated them both, but the pain merely whispered to their minds, easily ignored, while they immersed themselves in the chaotic swirl of violence around them. Gen heard Torbrand grunt as a Basher cut him down at the knees. A swarm of Uyumaak warriors surrounded the Shadan as he continued fighting from the ground. The Warriors’ clubs pounded him over and over until a wicked strike caved in his skull. Torbrand Khairn was dead.

Gen swallowed hard and tried to keep his wits about him as a group of Warriors surrounded him and started to close. He was limping badly, and he could barely use his left arm after intercepting a club blow with it. Blood covered him from head to toe. One of the Warriors thumped, and they rushed him.

This is how I end.

Dimly he was aware of the rest of the army now pushing forward through the gap and toward the trail. The thought of them catching up to the Chalaine infused him with enough energy to stage one last rally.

The Chalaine, hearing the booming of the drums, stirred for the first time since Gen had bidden her farewell. She tried peering through the foliage to the battlefield below, but the trees grew too thickly. Twisting, she attempted to see what lay ahead of them.

“Have a care, Chalaine,” Falael warned, accented voice tender, as she jostled the litter. “We would not want to drop you. What do you look for?”

“Find somewhere you can see the battle and stop. I must know what is happening.”

“Chalaine,” Dason said, “I think it would be better if we moved on as quickly as we can. They are buying us time to escape.”

“Stop when you can see, Falael,” the Chalaine ordered, ignoring Dason’s argument. Reaching inside her dress pocket, she could feel the warm animon
and knew that Gen yet lived. Within a few seconds, the battle below was joined once again, and after a steep climb, they encountered a small promontory that provided a clear view of the valley floor.

While the figures below were difficult to distinguish from one another, Torbrand and Gen created snakelike paths of enemies alive and killed as they worked an irregular retreat away from the gap. Clumps of Uyumaak would form around each briefly, only to have to have Gen or Torbrand burst through, a frustrated mass of enemies trailing in their wake and stumbling over their slain companions.

Dason and Falael watched the battle transfixed, chatting gravely to one another and pointing their long fingers at the field below. Gen and the Shadan heroically decimated the vanguard of Mikkik’s army, but elements already passed them by and started toward the mountainside path.

“We should go, Milady,” Dason gently suggested. “The main group now marches toward this trail. The Hunters could catch us very quickly.”

The elf nodded his agreement. But the Chalaine could not tear herself away, a portentous dread, not of fancy or speculation, compelled her to spectate as fate unfolded on the stage before her. Before she could offer a rebuttal to Dason’s suggestion, Shadan Khairn fell underneath an overwhelming onslaught.

“And so passes Shadan Khairn,” Dason intoned softly. The Chalaine barely heard him. Within her heart terror swelled, for there, unmistakable, fought Gen, alone, wounded, and scrambling for his life amid butchered Uyumaak felled by his hand. A group surrounded him and charged, and just as the wave hit, a thunderous peal of drums reverberated through the canyon. As one, Gen’s attackers and the army which slowly poured onto the battlefield below reversed course and commenced retreating back through the gap.

“Lord Kildan has caught them from the rear, I believe,” Falael surmised.

With difficulty and pain, the Chalaine rose from her litter and scanned the carnage below for any sign of Gen. Her heart leapt as she felt the animon
,
still warm within the folds of her pocket. At last she spotted him, using his sword as leverage to push himself up. His left arm hung useless at his side, and he stood unsteadily for several moments before staggering tentatively forward, the sword a crutch supporting a leg that he could barely drag upon the ground.

Easily healed!
the Chalaine thought joyously.
Just one touch is all I need.

She turned to Falael. “I need to get down there as quickly as possible.” But Falael’s eyes remained riveted on the battlefield. The Chalaine turned back, hand coming to her mouth. One of the retreating warriors detoured away from the main body and walked toward Gen, who had managed only a scant few feet in his progress toward the trail. Gen’s back was turned, but he heard the creature approach and tried to turn to meet it, falling to his knees.

It took but a moment. The Uyumaak raised its heavy crossbow and fired it into Gen’s chest at a range of ten paces. The bolt punctured his breastplate and threw Gen backward to the ground with stunning force. The Chalaine flinched and stumbled as if the bolt had struck her instead, landing hard on her litter.

The animon in her pocket shattered.

For the young Queen, time stopped flowing. All thought halted. All emotion evaporated. Her breath pulled back into her chest and died. She existed, stunned and frozen, in the moment just before the Uyumaak loosed the fatal bolt, unwilling to step forward into an unfathomable reality. In this space the Chalaine hovered for many moments, but grief could not be denied, clutching its victim’s hand and dragging her forward into an unwanted life. She lay still, for how long she cared not.

“What is your will, Lady?” Falael asked, face concerned.

“Go down.”

“No!” Dason countered. “We wait until we are sure of the outcome. Should Lord Kildan fail. . .”

The Chalaine pulled herself from the litter in frustration. Weak and tired she stumbled down the path, Falael and Dason pleading with her to stop and lay back on the litter. She ignored them, tired of resistance. She wanted nothing to do with anything or anyone. She tripped and fell so many times her knees bled. Dason tried to help her, but she shoved him away.

Dimly she heard Falael comment that the horses of Mirelle’s army had emerged onto the plain, but the Chalaine barely registered anything around her. She existed alone in a barren country of anguish until she reached the bottom and picked her way across the field to where Mirelle sat amid the wrack cradling Gen’s body in her arms, weeping in unchecked agony. Cadaen crouched beside her, pained. Only when the Chalaine joined her mother on the ground could she admit the presence of another into the arms of her grief.

When the Chalaine had read of the epic battles of the past, they always started with two armies gathered against each other on opposite sides of the field, horses stamping and footmen nervous as the leaders parleyed in the center of the field. Parley failing, the leaders returned, and after raising a shout, two waves surged across the intervening space to mash against each other in chaotic thunder.

After General Harband and Lord Kildan fought their way through one of Mikkik’s lesser legions at Butchers gap, they heard the drums of war arrayed against them again, but not the percussive thunder of the Uyumaak. The combined armies of Tolnor and Aughmere now pursued them on their southward track. Lord Kildan and General Harband had pushed Mirelle’s forces on through the night, but the soldiers behind them matched them for speed and endurance.

Spies of the Church of the One had no doubt warned Athan and the Padras that a sizable force marched on the floor of the canyon, and that Mirelle rode in command. The Chalaine could only imagine what they thought of her mother, Gen’s unflinching supporter, who had, to their view, attempted to slay Eldaloth on the day of his reemergence into Ki’Hal. How would she and her mother ever convince them of the truth? What arguments could they possibly proffer to persuade the Churchmen that the bright shining being that now favored them with such beneficence was indeed the force of evil that they had so long feared would wrap his crushing embrace about Ki’Hal and destroy it?

Even worse, the Chalaine marveled at how she hardly cared about what became of the world. She had failed, and neither of the dreams that had plagued her for so long had come true. The man she had married to save the world had died without a whimper. The man whose love she sacrificed to save the world had died in a valiant struggle to save her when it was worthless to do so. The world would fall, and any comfort she could have taken in Gen’s affection would have faded as the deceitful Mikkik destroyed them all.

But oh, how she had wanted her faithful friend and Protector!

The young summer days brought sunshine and little shadow to the vast stretch of flat prairie that slid by her in a tear-soaked blur. The Chalaine’s body hurt from the birth, her head spun with weakness, and her heart felt so numb with grief that she of doubted it beat at all. Her Child was gone. Gen was gone. Her hope was gone.

Her mother rode to her side, her mask of control set aside so that sorrow could roost upon her features and project clearly to anyone that her heart had broken. The Chalaine doubted she had ever seen Cadaen so pained as he rode dutifully behind, powerless against the enemy that tormented his charge. The Chalaine had caught glimpses of her mother’s love for Gen in the past, but now that oft-hidden text read plainly in her eyes, forced to light by the loss of one most dear.

The Chalaine tried to choke down her own distress, but something within her bid her to simply stop, dismount, and let the wave of soldiery knock her to the ground. The thundering hooves would pound away what miserable shred of life she could still lay claim to. At the very least, she wished they would return her to the side of Gen’s quiet body so she could fade away with him into the dust. But haste had denied him even the small courtesy of a proper burial. The only honor they could bestow besides the sad volume of honest tears was to arrange his body so that he was embracing his sword as he was wont to do, only now in the grasp of eternal sleep.

Lord Kildan and General Harband called for a halt, her mother working at her own hair and face in an attempt to fashion a mask of dignity. The Chalaine cast her gaze over her shoulder, finding that the pursuing horde of men had also stopped about a mile away. Their metal glinted in the sunshine, the number of soldiers easily doubling the small force commanded by her mother’s leaders.

“It appears they wish to parley,” Dason informed her, riding close. “Do you see the emissary?”

Between her veil and her tears, nothing in the distance could be seen easily, but after a few minutes, a number of horsemen approaching at an easy pace resolved to her vision. Lord Kildan and a contingent of soldiers separated from their ranks and rode out to meet them. Murmurs and whispers broke out among the soldiers who, for the most part, had obediently followed them despite not knowing the full drama of what had occurred at Echo Hold.

With Gen dead, the Chalaine was the only witness of Mikkik’s duplicity. Aldemar had shown her the face of her enemy, and that vision alone held the truth that the being masquerading as Eldaloth was a fraud. Her mother believed her implicitly, as had all those connected with her. But hopelessness welled up within her when she realized that no one else would. Who would embrace the horror of truth while the rest of the world reveled in victory?

Lord Kildan returned from his parley on the plain, and the inner circle of Mirelle’s leadership gathered at the center of their forces. The Chalaine wanted no part of it, but her mother—somehow functioning despite her grief—helped her daughter down from the horse and brought her into the circle where Duke Kildan, General Harband, Ethris, Maewen, and Gerand waited.

“Who commands the host?” Mirelle asked, unable to mask the unsteady quiver in her voice.

“It is Padra Athan,” Lord Kildan answered. “He’s got enough scars to rival Gen, now.” It took Mirelle looking away and wiping her eyes for Kildan to realize his blunder. “I apologize, Milady. I express my condolences.”

“What does he want?” Ethris asked, eying Mirelle with concern.

“At first,” said Lord Kildan, “they just wanted Mirelle, and anyone connected with her, to be held for interrogation and prosecution for aiding Gen. Besides trying to kill Eldaloth—or who they think is Eldaloth—they believe that Gen murdered the Chalaine by tossing her off the bridge. I informed them of the truth, which brought them great relief but new demands.”

“What terms?” Mirelle asked, crawling on top of her emotions.

“They want you and the Chalaine to return with them to Echo Hold immediately, claiming they are under orders from Eldaloth himself. They wish for Ethris, General Harband, and me to disperse the troops immediately and submit ourselves to their custody. If we do not obey these terms, they will purse us and take what they want by force of arms and magic.”

“Did you inform them of Mikkik’s fraud?” Ethris asked.

“I tried,” Lord Kildan answered, “but they mocked me for even suggesting it, demanding proof and witnesses. Are we sure that the being that appeared was Mikkik and not Eldaloth?”

Lord Kildan’s eyes communicated his desperate desire to avoid bloodshed.

“It is Mikkik,” the Chalaine confirmed. “With Gen . . . gone . . . I am the only witness. I could open my mind to Athan so he could see the vision Aldemar gave me, so he could know Mikkik’s face and voice as I do.”

“If you get within eyesight of Athan, he’ll take you,” Harband warned.

“I agree,” Lord Kildan said.

“I can get the memory from her and share it with Athan,” Ethris suggested. “He may not believe me, but it is worth the attempt. Lord Kildan, do you think that Athan would agree to a council if we promised to offer evidence of our claims?”

Lord Kildan thought for a moment. “I cannot say with certainty, but I can attempt it. We must try. They claim to outnumber us three to one, and from what I could spy from my vantage point, I believe them. If we are forced to fight, we will lose.”

Mirelle stood tall. “Let me be clear about one thing, and this is for all of you. I will not turn my daughter over to Padra Athan. I would ask that if the need arises, that the forces loyal to me buy time for the Chalaine to escape southward and then west to Rhugoth. She must live.”

“No, Mother!” the Chalaine exclaimed amid the nods of assent. “My life is not worth the blood of these men! Let me go, if Athan requires it. I would rather join Gen in death than see the blood of good men spilled to save my worthless life! I have failed, and nothing can change that! My time is over!”

“Mikkik wants you,” Ethris said tenderly, taking her by the shoulders, his gaze boring through the veil. “If you weren’t important or a threat to him, then Padra Athan would let you go. I’m sure that in his mind, he simply wishes to return you so that Mikkik can usher you out of this world. But the truth is that you are the only member of the prophecy of his destruction that still exists, and you are the only hope we have!”

The Chalaine wrenched herself from his soft grip. “I will not. . .”

“You will!” Mirelle interrupted, face severe. “One of the best men I ever knew just sacrificed his life so you could live. You will not dishonor his memory by throwing that life away.” Her mother closed her eyes and steadied herself. “I do not mean to burden you or be cross during this time of mourning. You know I feel this wound as deeply and as painfully as you, but do not compound it by suggesting I give away what I have treasured above all.”

The Chalaine nodded in acquiescence, and the council relaxed.

“It is settled, then,” Ethris said to solidify the decision. “Chalaine, I must intrude upon your thoughts. I need your memory of Aldemar’s vision and what passed between you and Mikkik on the bridge of Echo Hold. Will you allow me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, dear,” he said tenderly. “Do not let pain overwhelm you. We cannot see all ends. When I am done, Mirelle and Lord Kildan will accompany me to talk sense into Athan. There may be a way out yet. Lord Kildan, please approach Athan again and let him know we have evidence of our claims.”

The Chalaine bowed her head as Ethris placed his hand upon it, but despite his comforting words, no serious hope took root in a soil she feared too hardened by tragedy to let any seed creep in.

Mirelle kissed the Chalaine’s cheek before she mounted her horse, joining Ethris, Kildan, Cadaen, and a retinue of soldiers ready to ride toward the center of the yawning space between the amassed armies. Athan had agreed to hear their arguments, though Mirelle doubted the conniving Churchman would take them seriously.

Mostly, Mirelle was grateful for Ethris, a Mage powerful enough for Athan to respect and a loyal friend who had generously taken up the slack in her leadership that the fog of her grief had left. She hardly had the will to command anything or anyone, having Gen’s pale face and marred body cradled in her arms the only memory that mattered to her. Only the need to protect her daughter had roused her to activity, and she clung to that steadying purpose to will her mind to turn again toward strategy and negotiation.

They moved at a steady pace toward a pavilion that Athan had ordered erected in the field between the two factions. Mirelle tried to understand the matter from the perspective of everyone at Echo Hold, save those few who knew the truth. The day before had proceeded just as prophecy had dictated—until Gen had stabbed the impostor Eldaloth in the back and wounded him, turning the bliss of victory into terrifying uncertainty. That Mikkik had commanded Athan to retrieve the Chalaine and her supporters meant that the dark god had survived Gen’s attack on the bridge and was in command.

What terrified Mirelle the most was Athan’s pride. He would take his inability to control Gen as a personal failure that had led to the wounding of his god. This task from Eldaloth would provide him a way to save face in a small way. If Ethris’s demonstration of her daughter’s memory was not sufficient to convince the Padra of the true identity of the being he thought a god, there would be no way to avoid bloodshed.

The noon sun shone warmly upon them as they approached the pavilion, a cadre of eunuch Eldephaere ringing the outside and stiffening to attention as they dismounted. Padra Athan stood outside in his robes of office, eying Ethris and Mirelle as they approached. Padra Nolan stood at his side. Athan’s face and hands bore recently healed scars, but the power of his piercing eyes remained alight, filled will divine purpose. Without a word he stepped aside and signaled for them to enter.