Lachlei (2 page)

CHAPTER Three

Lachlei awoke shivering.

She huddled in the thick blankets, her silver eyes staring into the blackness of the room. She ran her hand through her red-gold mane and tried to remember the dream. Lachlei had dreamt of a battle
—
a slaughter. Five
Chi’lan
cut down in cold blood.

It was just a dream,
Lachlei told herself.
A terrible nightmare.
But Lachlei’s dreams had a habit of becoming reality. It was the price of being first-blood, and the price of having the Sight.

Lachlei slid out of bed and wrapped herself with a robe. With a single word, the candles in the room jumped to life, filling the darkness with a soft glow. She strode to the cradle where her son, Haellsil, still lay sleeping. Lachlei looked down on the infant and smiled. Haellsil looked much like Fialan. So much so that nearly every
Chi’lan
warrior had proclaimed Haellsil would become a great warrior in his own right.
How could he not, being Fialan’s son?

How could he not being Lachlei’s son?
Lachlei added silently. Lachlei glanced at her old sword, hanging on the wall. She too had been
Chi’lan
. Lachlei had been a good warrior, serving the old king, Lochalan, before he died in battle. Fialan, Lochalan’s son, had proven himself in battle and the
Lochvaur
Council had made Fialan king after Lochalan’s death.

Lachlei had fallen in love with Fialan. She had accepted his proposal, giving up her sword to become the
Lochvaur
queen. She hadn’t regretted the choice in the three years she had been Fialan’s consort. But occasionally, Lachlei missed being
Chi’lan
.

Yet now, something was amiss. Lachlei dressed and slid from her private chambers to the mead hall where the
Chi’lan
warriors slept. The room was dark save for the ruddy glow from the firepit’s dying embers and the stars that glowed above through the hole in the roof where the smoke could escape. The mead hall was hewn from thick oaken logs, with exposed beams and rafters. On one end were hers and Fialan’s private quarters, behind the small dais where massive oaken thrones sat. The firepit lay in the middle. The mead benches and tables that usually stood around it were pushed to the side to make room for those
Chi’lan
who were the king’s personal guard to sleep. Lachlei stepped carefully over sleeping warriors and past the great battle hounds. One dog looked up at her curiously, and she ran her fingers through its coarse, curly fur as she passed by.

Lachlei pulled on one of the oaken double doors that led from the mead hall to outside. At the door stood a
Chi’lan
sentry. It was Cahal
—
a tall, young
Lochvaur
who had recently made
Chi’lan
.

“Lachlei, my queen,” Cahal stammered.

Lachlei raised a finger to her lips and he fell silent, his silver eyes almost smoke-gray in the darkness. “When is Fialan expected to return?” she whispered.

“The day after next,” said Cahal and then hesitated. “Certainly, you know that…”

But Lachlei’s eyes widened. “Fialan!” she gasped. “No!” Pain shot through her as she felt the mind-link sever between herself and Fialan. Lachlei collapsed, but Cahal caught her before she hit the ground.

“What is it?” Cahal said, holding Lachlei as she wept.

The torches within the mead hall sprang to life.
Chi’lan
warriors poured from the hall, some with swords drawn. They stood in bewilderment to see Cahal holding Lachlei.

“What happened? What is it?” Voices babbled around her.

“What is it, Lachlei?” Cahal asked, this time gently.

Lachlei shook her head. “Fialan,” she whispered. “Fialan is dead.”

*****

“It was Areyn Sehduk,” the wolf said. He glared at the god, his brass eyes glinting menacingly.

Rhyn’athel, the warrior god, sat on his throne in the Hall of the Gods, his silver eyes revealing his doubts. God of the
Lochvaur
, the kindred bore his silver eyes and red-gold mane. He wore mail and sat on his throne beside the other thrones of the nine gods and goddesses of light. All were empty now, save his. “How can you be so certain it is our old enemy, Ni’yah? After all, you say you saw a
Silren
kill Fialan.”

“It was Areyn,” Ni’yah repeated stubbornly. “No
Silren
, not even Silvain, could use that magic. When will you learn, my brother, that Areyn uses the Truce to keep you out of his way?”

Rhyn’athel frowned. “And when will you quit meddling in the affairs of the
Eleion
? You will bring the war back to the Fifth World if Areyn recognizes you in your current form.”

“Then, let him!” Ni’yah snapped. “This charade has gone on long enough, my brother. Areyn is in
Elren
, and you are a coward for not standing up to him.”

Rhyn’athel’s face darkened. He stood up, his hand straying to the sword hilt at his side. “Who are you calling a coward, Ni’yah?” he growled. “I don’t slink around like some common cur, meddling in affairs I have no business in.”

Ni’yah transformed to his god form. He was shorter than Rhyn’athel nearly half a foot, but the other god’s impressive stature did nothing to intimidate him. “Are you threatening me?” Ni’yah demanded. “If you are, then you choose your battles poorly, my brother. You can’t defeat Areyn Sehduk without me.”

Anger glinted in Rhyn’athel’s steel eyes, and for a moment the two brothers stood, gazes locked. Then, Rhyn’athel began to chuckle. “Damn you, Ni’yah!” he said, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible! If you were anyone else…”

Ni’yah smiled wryly. “You’d teach me a terrible lesson
—
but you won’t.”

Rhyn’athel gazed at his brother. “Someday, you may get yourself into trouble that not even I can get you out of.”

“Perhaps,” the wolf-god shrugged. “But that time is not now. Fialan is dead. Areyn killed him…”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know the mark of an immortal’s work. Who else would desire to destroy the peace we’ve achieved?”

Rhyn’athel shook his head. “It could be followers of Areyn ...”

“As long as the Fifth World remains under both your and Areyn’s control, there will be no peace. Areyn will not settle for the Nine Worlds being equally divided.” Ni’yah sighed. “With Fialan dead, the power will shift
—
you know that.”

“Fialan was my champion,” Rhyn’athel agreed. “There will have to be another.”

Ni’yah frowned. “You said that when Lochvaur died
—
and there has been no equal to him. That was another time when you gave into Areyn’s demands…”

Rhyn’athel’s gaze hardened and Ni’yah knew the barb had hit its mark. “Don’t you think I rue that decision, Ni’yah? Lochvaur and I agreed that for the sake of the Truce, he should remain in Areyn’s realm. You, I remember, talked me into it.”

“You’ve given too much for peace, brother.”

Rhyn’athel’s face was expressionless, but Ni’yah knew he had pushed the warrior god past his limit. “Don’t you think I regret every day that Lochvaur stays under Areyn’s power? Don’t you think I regret that my
Chi’lan
feed that demon god’s power? Ni’yah, if it were not for the living…”

“And now, without a champion, we risk that, too. There’s no other living right now who could rival Fialan,” said Ni’yah. He paused and a glint entered his eyes. “Save one.”

“Who?”

“Lachlei.” Ni’yah’s eyes gleamed now. “She could do it.”

Rhyn’athel scowled. “Fialan’s consort?” He searched his memory for the
Lochvaur
woman’s image. None came readily to mind.

“Lachlei is
Chi’lan
,” said Ni’yah. “She trained under Lochalan; she’s a distant cousin. And she’s half
Laddel
as well. Her mother Ladara was Laddel’s granddaughter…”

“Then, she’s first-blood,” Rhyn’athel mused.

“Oh yes, she is,” Ni’yah grinned. “She’s
twice
first-blood, from both the
Lochvaur
and
Laddel
lines. Very powerful
—
if she’d use her magic. She was an exceptional warrior before she became Fialan’s queen.” He paused and glanced sideways at his brother. “She’s beautiful, too.”

Rhyn’athel stared at Ni’yah. “You’ve been among the mortals for far too long.”

Ni’yah chuckled. “I have
—
I won’t deny it. I’ve learned to appreciate what the Fifth World has to offer.” He paused. “But Lachlei can’t handle Areyn Sehduk alone, my brother. She’ll need your help.”

Rhyn’athel shook his head. “I’m sworn by the Truce to not become involved.”

“Then, at least come to
Elren
and see what Areyn has done,” Ni’yah said. “Observe what has happened first hand, and then tell me this is not the work of the death god.”

Rhyn’athel hesitated. He knew Ni’yah had a good reason for being persistent, even if his brother was a rogue. Rhyn’athel stood for a moment, arms crossed, vexed at the choice he had to make.

Ni’yah smiled slyly as he watched his brother weigh the options, his brass eyes glittering with mischief. “Observe
—
that’s all,” Ni’yah said. “You don’t need to act…”

“Observe,” repeated Rhyn’athel. It sounded harmless, but it was Ni’yah and Rhyn’athel knew it wasn’t. Ni’yah had one final trick to play. He sighed. “Very well,” Rhyn’athel said, at last. “I will observe
—
that is all.”

“That’s all,” said Ni’yah, triumph ringing in his voice.

Rhyn’athel fixed him with a stare. “That
is
all,” he said with finality.

CHAPTER Four

Lachlei watched the wagons enter Caer Lochvaren. The iron gates swung wide to admit the slow and somber procession. All along the wall, walks, and towers of the fortress city,
Chi’lan
warriors turned in respect towards the wagons bearing the bodies of the king and his guard.

By
Eleion
standards, Caer Lochvaren was a small fortress city. It had a single keep and bailey, with no other towers and no buildings larger than two stories. The whole fortress was little more than the fortified settlement it replaced. Only the keep and curtain walls were made from stone. All other buildings were wooden, built from timber taken from the surrounding forests. Another cluster of homes and shops lay just beyond the walls, protected by a palisade and moat as a secondary defense.

Not much more than a grody,
Fialan had said. Lachlei smiled sadly at her husband’s words. Fialan would never get the chance to see the
Lochvaur
to the greatness he envisioned. Of all the
Chi’lan
, Lachlei believed Fialan could have done it. Fialan had the strength, determination, and the power to make the
Lochvaur
into the greatest kindred.

Now, Fialan was dead.

The
Lochvaur
had never been the largest kindred of the Nine. Even so, the
Chi’lan
warriors had become legendary as they defended themselves against larger, more aggressive kindreds like the
Silren
,
Eltar
, and
Redel
. Warriors who preferred peace to war, the
Chi’lan
had always sought to settle their differences with treaty, but were never afraid to fight or die.

Now, the
Chi’lan
and the
Lochvaur
were leaderless.

Lachlei walked slowly from the mead hall. Gone were the tears, replaced by cold anger. Gone too was the finery of the office. Lachlei now wore her old mail and badges of a
Chi’lan
warrior. Her surcoat and cloak still shone bright red-gold, and her old broadsword hung at her side.

“My queen,” Cahal said, standing by her side.

“
Chi’lan
Lachlei,” she corrected him. “I am no longer your queen, Cahal. I ceased being your queen when Fialan died
—
it is up to the Council to decide who will be the next king.”

Cahal stared for a moment and then shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Fialan is really dead,” he said.

Lachlei smiled sadly. The ever-present mind-link that connected her with Fialan was gone. “It isn’t to me.” Her silver eyes followed the slow procession. Each wagon, draped with red and gold cloth, bore a warrior. Two horses drew each wagon. The last one, Lachlei knew, was Fialan’s.

A tall
Chi’lan
approached Lachlei. Kellachan, her cousin, stood beside her. “Lachlei, the Council will meet…” he began.

Lachlei held up her hand. “Not now, cousin,” she said.

“I will ask that they choose you as…”

“No.”

Kellachan blinked. “But you are the queen.”

“I
was
your queen,” Lachlei said bitterly. “I have neither right nor title to the throne, save perhaps being first-blood. The Council has not chosen me, nor would I accept it. I don’t deserve it.”

“Lachlei,” said Cahal. “Reconsider this. Of all the
Chi’lan
, you alone can see our kindred to greatness.”

Lachlei shook her head as she walked towards the wagons. The lead
Chi’lan
, astride a battle horse, raised his hand to halt as he saw her walk forward. As Lachlei approached, the stench of death filled her nostrils. She fought the gorge that threatened to rise in her throat.

Instead, Lachlei turned to the commander of the accompanying
Chi’lan
. “Kian, how did they die?”

Kian turned to her, his face ashen. “Fialan took a blade to the chest,” he replied. “The others…” He shuddered.

Lachlei turned to the first wagon. She stepped up on the running boards and peered at the corpse. A wave of dark magic assailed her, and she shuddered involuntarily. Despite her nausea, she pulled the cloth back from the corpse. Bright red blood stained its mouth as though the man had just died.

Lachlei frowned. She didn’t want to touch the thing
—
it reeked of foul magic
—
but she had to know. She reached out and touched the corpse on the forehead.

Hot pain shot through her. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword!” she yelped, pulling her hand back. She looked at her fingers and saw blisters form on them.

Cahal stood beside her. “What is it?”

Lachlei showed him her fingers. “I would wager all the bodies are like that,” she said.

“Magic?”

“Dark magic
—
a heinous kind.”

“Did you feel anything when you touched the corpses?” Cahal asked, turning to Kian.

Kian shook his head. “No, but we didn’t touch the bodies directly.”

Lachlei focused on her fingers. The blisters absorbed into the skin and healed. Part of the powers of a first-blood was the ability to heal oneself and others
—
even from terrible wounds. She gazed at the corpse. “He didn’t die through normal means,” she said at last.

Kian and Cahal glanced at each other. “What happened?” Cahal ventured.

“His heart and lungs burst,” she said. “Were all the others like this?”

“All save Fialan.” Kian suppressed a shudder. “The horses, too.”

Cahal met Lachlei’s gaze. “Do you know what caused it?”

Lachlei stepped from the wagon’s footboards. “Dark magic,” she said. She walked towards the last wagon, dreading what she knew she would find.

Cahal caught up to her and gripped her arm. Lachlei turned towards him, her eyes haunted. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

Lachlei shook her head. “But I do, Cahal. I do.” She glanced at his hand. “Let me go.”

Cahal released her and Lachlei climbed onto the running boards of the last wagon. Fialan’s corpse was covered with a red shroud. Lachlei hesitated for a moment and then grasped the shroud, pulling it back. She caught her breath as she gazed into her husband’s dead face.

A wave of emotion flooded her as she looked in his unseeing eyes, glazed with death. Pain and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her again, but this time she fought it. She focused on the anger as it welled inside. Some
thing
had done this to Fialan. Lachlei was going to find out what.

Fialan’s pale face betrayed nothing of the horror he had felt in the last seconds of his life. Like the others, his body stank of foul magic. Lachlei didn’t dare repeat touching his body for fear of the same result.

Lachlei forced herself to look away from the face and look at the blood-soaked armor. She saw only one wound to his chest
—
a single sword cut. She frowned. Fialan was too great a warrior and too powerful a first-blood to let someone surprise him. If thieves or soldiers had caught him, Fialan would have fought and suffered many more wounds than this. Seldom did
Chi’lan
die with only one sword wound.

Her gaze drifted to the long sword,
Fyren
, which lay beside him. Lachlei reached out and touched the adamantine blade’s hilt lightly, half expecting to be burned. Instead, the blade felt cold and hard to her touch.

“What is it?” Cahal asked as she picked up the sword and held the blade to the sun’s rays.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, gazing at the discolored blade. She stretched out with her powers, hoping to gain a sense of what had killed Fialan.

Death.

Lachlei recoiled in horror, almost dropping the sword. Her mind reeled.

“Lachlei?” Cahal grasped her shoulders.

She shuddered and then gazed at Cahal. “By Rhyn’athel’s sword! It’s the blood of the thing that killed Fialan.”