Sacrifice (Book 4) (9 page)

They had hardly gone two hundred feet into the sylvan abyss when a new sound creeping up from behind them stopped every foot and turned every head. Something moved along the forest floor, scrabbling and scraping among the dried needles and branches, coming for them like a wave in a steady, crescendoing roar.

“Lanterns!” someone yelled, the cry echoing through the forest.

None of her Protectors possessed one, but after a few moments, several pockets of light bloomed around them in the gloom. The uneven retreat had scattered the soldiers haphazardly around them, and the Chalaine shuddered to think of what had already become of those too wounded to flee.

Relentlessly, the sound grew, men drawing their weapons to face the unknown threat. This was no Uyumaak horde, the persistent thumping of their language unheard among the approaching cacophony, but when their enemy did arrive among the forward ranks, oaths and screams punctuated the night. The Chalaine, despite her weariness of soul and body could not stifle the scream ripped from her by the revelation of the horror that came for them.

Along the forest floor, a horde of black, lustrous beetles the size of a man’s fist scrambled in an anxious advance toward them, the lamplight casting a fiery reflection along their obsidian backs, giving them the appearance of a flowing river of fire. A single snaking tubule hung between wicked pincers, adding to the uncomfortable appearance of their pointy, jointed legs and ridged backs.

Such was the speed of the insect host that none thought to flee. Swords, boots, hammers, and shields all pounded down with fury on the mass of carapaces, the crunch of popping insects and the explosion of pus and slime bursting all around them. To the Chalaine’s amazement, the creatures avoided her, circling around her instinctively as if she were a warding pillar they could not abide. But her Protectors and every other soldier caught in the unyielding wave eventually succumbed to the beetles, the creatures’ pincers lancing through boot leather, puncturing legs. The insects’ tubules wiggled into the pincer cuts, sucking blood.

The Chalaine huddled against a tree trunk, powerless as the beetles took their fill of the soldiers’ blood, and then just as quickly as they had come, turned and scrabbled away back to the north. Blood dribbled from the beetle wounds, the wounded staunching the blood with their hands.

The pale soldiers around her slowly recovered enough to stand, and as tough and indomitable as the Dark Guard was trained to be, the Chalaine could see in Gerand’s and Volney’s eyes the flicker of fear that would plague lesser men in less dangerous circumstances. No more did screams and yells punctuate the forest, only the pitiful sounds of whimpering and crying from an army of men pushed beyond the reach of hope.

“We’ve got to move,” Gerand said, the first to rise, looking sickly and wan. “Let’s keep the lanterns lit until the Uyumaak give us a reason not to.”

Maewen found them moments later, a haggard Ethris at her side. A stunned, upset Cadaen followed, eyes hollow, Falael bringing up the rear. Several bites gashed Maewen’s legs, though her hard eyes betrayed no weakness. Ethris was untouched, though Cadaen fared as poorly as everyone else. They examined the Chalaine, looking for injuries.

“They didn’t bother with me,” she said to get their prying eyes off of her. “I can walk.”

Maewen inspected the cuts on her legs. “They bit me, but died immediately on doing so. The same for Falael. They didn’t like the taste of elven blood.”

“They liked mine just fine,” Gerand fumed. “What was that?”

“One of Mikkik’s abominations,” Ethris said sourly. “I could feel its mind challenging me just before it attacked. Awful, horrible thing. What it wants with our blood, I cannot guess. We are in dire circumstances, now.”

Gradually, the call to move echoed through the forest, and those with the strength to do so hauled themselves up and forward under the power of fear and will. Cadaen joined her group of Protectors, and the Chalaine wondered what bargain Ethris had struck with the man after awakening him. Whatever it was, she knew he would bolt at the first opportunity to find Mirelle or die in the attempt.

They marched through the night, and the Chalaine could only guess what the toll in men would be between those that simply got lost amid the trackless forest and those who collapsed from exhaustion. From the glances between Ethris and Maewen, she could tell they noticed the same thing as she—the soldiers looked more exhausted and sweaty than they should have. Even their breathing seemed forced.

Near morning, they encountered a pleasant glade blooming with wildflowers and bisected by a gurgling stream. There they ordered a halt, Lord Kildan and General Harband crossing to where Ethris, Maewen, and Falael talked in Elvish. Both leaders appeared as wan and unsteady as the men.

“The men, well, all of us are of a fever and weakening,” Lord Kildan said. “We go no farther.”

Maewen shook her head. “We should at least get to the treeline on the other side so the Archers can’t butcher us on a whim. I know the men are weak, but it must be done. It’s not far. . .”

Lord Kildan collapsed to the ground insensate, twitching with fever. All over the glade, men dropped prone as if compelled to a sudden slumber they could not refuse. In minutes, the entire clearing appeared like a battlefield where the battle had long ended and only the corpses were left behind. Only the fitful fever sleep revealed that something else was at work.

The Chalaine, Ethris, Falael, and Maewen still stood amid the stricken army to witness the sun cresting the tall pines, revealing a glorious morning. The beauty of the glade and the teeming life of insects flitting among the blossoms mocked the terror of the passing night and the moaning men scattered everywhere.

“Ethris,” Maewen said, voice empty, “do you have anything to aid this?”

“I will try,” he replied, “though I am close to spent. Is there any elven lore that might help? Falael?”

Falael shook his head. “Not that. . .”

Maewen aburptly stood erect, eyes distant, her hand going to her chest. Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to exclaim, but she snapped her mouth shut. While the Chalaine couldn’t be sure, it seemed some thought or hope had struck the half-elf.

“I . . . I remember now,” she finally said, “a woodsman I once knew who used to frequent these woods. He used to dwell in a place not far from here. He may have wisdom to aid us. Let me see if I can seek him out.”

Ethris furrowed his brows. “Would he know more than you?”

She nodded. “In some things, yes. He is the only hope I can see for us now.”

Sore Kam helped his sister Sarina arrang
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Gen’s lifeless body on a white granite boulder in the heart of the Black Forest where the old trees grew tall and round. Night had fallen, and the fireflies attended them as they waited for their father and Aldemar to come counsel together, the last of the Millim Eri.

“Let us remove the armor and clothes,” Sarina said, “and wash the body. He deserves that service, at least, for what part he played.”

Together, brother and sister went about their work, discarding the ruined armor and torn clothing, fetching water from a pool formed by a clear, flowing brook.

With a tender touch they washed the blood away from the cuts and the gaping hole of the crossbow bolt. When finished, Sarina arranged his hair and limbs to afford him dignity, while Sore willed the leafy vines of the forest to shroud his nakedness, leaving his still face uncovered. Fireflies flew about his head, their yellow glow on his pallid skin lending his cheek a false color of life. A cool summer breeze teased the mighty pines about them, the moons clear in the sky above them.

Two ravens crossed the sky and then fluttered to a clear space at the foot of the boulder. As avian feet touched the earth the birds transformed into Aldemar and their father, Norus Kam. Like all of their race, their father was built powerfully. While he enjoyed the eternal youth of those of powerful blood, the white hair and the faded blue irises of his eyes aged him. He had the wise and troubled countenance of one who had seen the passage of centuries and the death of three gods.

He and Aldemar stared at the body for a moment before Norus spoke. “I see that you bear the fruit of your meddling, my children. I have watched this drama unfold with great interest and with great sorrow. Even I began to hope that my advice to you to remove yourselves from the affairs of men would be proved wrong. But woe has always followed whatever attempts we have made to right Mikkik’s wrongs. It had been better if our strength could have veiled Trys forever than to have Ki’Hal suffer this shameful fate. But we are weak now, and all our devices have failed. It is time for us to enter our rest.”

“Not so, father,” Sore disagreed. “It is true that Mikkik has turned our carefully crafted prophecy and its prepared actors against us and will now accomplish his design. Yes, it is a pity that the race of men is so weak and we are so few. But you must see that there was in this man something more, as in the time we elevated Aldradan Mikmir and helped him save many peoples.”

“Gen proved that the race of men can be noble and strong,” Sarina joined in, Norus listening expressionlessly. “Mikkik owned his body, but for one created without a soul, he was indeed powerful. Oddly, our guiding hand had little to do with what he accomplished in the end. His love for the woman we chose and for her mother guided all his actions. If only the Ha’Ulrich could have loved the world or the woman as much, then this might have ended well.”

Norus nodded. “It is as I have always said. To make a man a king is to make a man a ruin.”

“It would not have ruined this one,” Sarina said, indicating Gen. “He possessed the power of knowledge and the firm purpose of love. He despised fame. He craved no authority.”

Norus grasped his daughter’s shoulder. “Perhaps, Sarina, but he is dead now. And from what I saw of his heart, it was a small tent that only admitted a few.  For Gen to have succeeded in his purpose, he would need to have enough room to love the whole world. He would have failed, too, I am afraid.”

“But he could love, and purely,” Sarina argued. “If one has the ability to love just one other selflessly, then to love more just requires a little stretching. He could have done it. The Chalaine did it.”

“Her love was not for the whole world,” Aldemar contradicted, surprising them all. “I saw into her mind and her heart. She was willing to sacrifice all for the love of a few, Gen among them.”

Norus raised his hand. “It is enough, Sarina. We could not have anticipated this. Mikkik is too clever. However far along the path we think we are, he has walked farther and left snares for us to fall into. There is nothing more to do! He will glean what power he can from their diluted blood until he can silence the beating heart of Elde Luri Mora forever, and Ki’Hal will wither and dry like the autumn leaf fallen from its home.”

“The Chalaine’s blood still has the power to kill him,” Sore said. “Eldaloth’s blood runs in her veins. A weapon could be crafted!”

“We do not craft the implements of war with blood magic, as he did!” Norus said, voice rising. “Eldaloth forbade it, and only Aldemar among us knows its secrets from his former master. Creating the Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich using Eldaloth’s blood was blasphemy enough. I only permitted it to appease you.”

“I know, father, that you see no hope,” Sarina said, voice soft and placating. “But if we are to pass into our rest, then let us at least use what power is in our blood to make such a man as never has been known upon the face of Ki’Hal! If the world is meant for its end, there can be no harm in this one last desperate attempt to thwart our ancient enemy.”

“Just what exactly do you propose?” Norus asked, face concerned.

“Here in this bower we have masters of Myn, Duam, and Trys. In our blood flows the pure sensibility to the power of those moons. Never before has a human been a Master of Three. Aldemar can use his knowledge to put within him our blood, and the blood of immortality. Let us fashion this one last hope for men. If all is doomed to fail, as you say, Norus, then whatever harm you think he could do is irrelevant.”

“And so then is the attempt!” he retorted. “Can you do this, Aldemar?”

“I can, Norus,” Aldemar answered. “It is the same magic I used to help them create the players of the prophecy during the time of my mourning.”

Norus shook his head. “We saw what happened when we gave the power of Trys to the humans during the Mikkikian wars. I regret that choice to this day.”

“But it saved them,” Sore added. “Yes, it caused division and destruction, but in the end they survived.”

“They survived because our people exhausted themselves shrouding Trys’s light to weaken Mikkik’s power,” Norus contradicted. “Were there enough of us now, I would do it again.”

“But there aren’t, father,” Sarina said. “Besides, with no soul, Gen can never have progeny. The magic will stay with him and him alone for eternity or until he decides it is time to end his existence. If there is the slightest chance, we must try! There is no need for us to spill our blood uselessly on the ground when it might offer some hope, however slight. If you withhold, father, then Sore and I will contribute our essence to this task, but a Master of Three, where Trys is the third, has a greater chance than only a Master of Two! Please father, humor your children this one last time. Let this man carry some part of us, whether it be to this world’s ending or to its salvation. Let him be the legacy of our race.”

Norus paced around the body, face calm and eyes upon the countenance of the youth on whom Sore and Sarina had placed such heavy expectations. Patiently his children waited. Aldemar stood beside them with a look of solidarity. Four hours they waited as Norus paced, the night waning and the stars dimming as dawn approached. At length he stopped at the head of the boulder.

“Uncover him, Sore,” Norus commanded. With a word, the enveloping leaves retreated. “If he is to be a king and a new creature, then his body must be clean and strong.”

Norus stretched forth this hand, and Sarina stepped forward. “Do not undo the branding on the center of his chest. It is his connection to the Chalaine.”

Norus nodded and concentrated, and the multitude of scars and wounds that crisscrossed Gen’s body faded, his skin renewing and undoing the marring of Torbrand’s cruel instruction.

“The virtue of our blood will provide all else he requires,” Norus said. “It will be a majesty that the humans will not see, but they will feel it about him. What knowledge of Trys you left with him will remain, but we must imbue him with the arts of Myn and Duam. Sarina, Sore, bestow the knowledge upon Aldemar, and he can pass it to Gen when life again courses through his veins.

Aldemar placed his hands on his companions’ heads, the deep knowledge of Sore and Sarina passing into his mind. The ever lightening sky brought a chorus of birdsong, another brilliant summer morning waiting to be born.

“Let us be about it and march to our ending,” Norus said as Aldemar finished. “I am weary of the world and its trouble, and I long for peace.”

Norus concentrated and, with the power of Trys, created within the boulder a depression around Gen’s still body to hold the blood they now prepared to spill. As one, they placed their arms inside the new bowl, and Norus used Trys to undo the skin and the walls of the veins in their wrists. Golden blood spilled freely as Aldemar looked on, face doleful. Sarina and Sore smiled at each other in a last farewell.

As Norus weakened, he turned to Aldemar. “You will be the last of our kind, old friend. Do not be afraid to come to us. You heart and your conscience are clean. It is because of you that there was any chance at all.”

Aldemar nodded and watched as his companions gradually slumped over the side the boulder, closed their eyes, and then fell to the ground. The tears that he had long cried for the horror of Eldaloth’s death returned, brought forth by a new pang for the loss of his friends and the end of his race.

Breathing deeply, he arranged Sore, Sarina, and Norus respectfully among the trees, wishing each a farewell, and then he returned to the boulder where Gen’s body waited. The warm, golden blood did not quite cover him, and Aldemar used his hand to ladle it over the corpse until his skin was stained with its hue.

Drawing upon the knowledge of his former master, Aldemar thrust his hand into the pool of blood, its combined power staggering to his perception. He spoke the dark words, the blood seeping into Gen’s skin, destroying the old blood and filling Gen’s veins and body. Pulling in the remaining virtue, he gave Gen life, his heart reigniting and his chest rising and falling just as dawn broke fully into the sky. The blood now spent and gone, Gen stirred within the hollow of the boulder

Before his eyes could flutter open, Aldemar used the power of Mynmagic to put Gen into a sleep, allowing him the opportunity to infuse the young man’s mind with the learning that Sore and Sarina had shared with him. Once done, Aldemar looked upon the creature he had created, remembering his encounter with the Chalaine. There was good in the race of men, and he hoped that Gen reborn would retain the love and devotion he once had and not succumb to the pride and vanity that so often plagued his race.

“I give you one last gift,” Aldemar said. “If you are to be our legacy, then it is wisdom that the legacy is passed on to be as immortal as you.”

Aldemar gave his gift, a gift Norus did not intend.

He blessed Gen with a soul.

Lifeless, Aldemar fell to the forest floor with his companions, never to rise again.

Gen sat upright, the memory of the savage crossbow bolt loosed upon him shocking him awake. He had known that he was too far gone to even attempt to avoid the attack and awaited the terminal blow that would finally end his tempestuous life. The impact had come, his body thrown back with the stunning force of the missile. Surely it had killed him.

But instead of the sandy cliffs of Butchers gap, the dark bark of pine trees surrounded him, and by the position of the sun to his east, he saw that morning had come instead of dusk. Weak light provided scant illumination, but he found he could see quite well. The unnatural scoop in the boulder where he lay and his nakedness brought him up short, his mind struggling to fabricate an explanation for his whereabouts.