Lachlei (5 page)

CHAPTER Nine

Cara stood in the hall of the
Silren
king. The sun had set and the torches and firepits were lit. Already the mead benches and trestle tables were out; servants brought prepared cooked meats and wine. Silvain, her father, sat at the head of the noble’s table as he and Akwel spoke.

Cara studied the expression on her father’s face. Silvain looked tired, but was still the great warrior and first-blood. Pale blue eyes, pale skin with a slight silver sheen, and white mane flecked with silver, Silvain was the embodiment of the
Silren
.

As cold as the evening star,
Cara thought.
And as forgiving…

This would be a difficult conversation
—
the
Silren
and
Lochvaur
were traditionally enemies. A son of the goddess Elisila, Silvain resented the power Rhyn’athel and his kindred wielded. Silvain would disown her if he knew she was one of the few warriors of Rhyn’athel within the
Silren
.

Akwel turned and met her gaze and she shivered involuntarily. Something terrible within his gaze that told her Akwel was not quite
Eleion
. Cara took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Father,” she said, interrupting the two men. Silvain looked up. “I wish a word with you in private.”

“Certainly, my daughter,” said Silvain.

Akwel considered her thoughtfully.
And what do you plan to tell him, Chi’lan?

Cara started and stared at Akwel. “Did you say something?”

“What is it, my daughter?” Silvain asked. He glanced at Akwel, who held Cara’s gaze.

Akwel leaned back.
It would be a pity if Silvain learned of the little meeting you and your pathetic traitors called at Silwar.

Cara swallowed once. Akwel knew
—
somehow, he knew of Cara’s allegiance to Rhyn’athel. Cara forced a smile. “Nothing, my father. Nothing.” She turned and left.

*****

Lachlei left the glade. Cahal was waiting for her below, and she knew she had tarried longer than she should have. As she walked towards the rough-hewn stairs, she saw Cahal and Kellachan walking towards her. “Lachlei!” Kellachan waved. “Where have you been?”

“Riding,” she said, looking at Cahal, who nodded. “What brings you here?”

“The Council has finally decided on the next champion,” Kellachan said.

“Good,” she said. “We can stop this nonsense once and for all. Who’d they choose
—
you? Kieran?”

Kellachan and Cahal exchanged glances. Lachlei stared at Kellachan, a lump growing in her throat. “Kel? Who is it?”

“You,” Kellachan said.

Lachlei opened her mouth to speak, but found she could not. She exhaled in frustration and shook her head.

“Listen
—
Laewynd, Moira, and the others in the Council felt you were most qualified. None of us have the powers you…”

Lachlei did not hear his explanation. She turned around and ran up the hill as fast as she could.

“Lachlei!” Cahal shouted, sprinting after her.

*****

Rhyn’athel watched as Lachlei left the quiet glade. She had been oblivious of the two gods who spoke. He turned and met Ni’yah’s gaze appraisingly. “If it is true that Areyn is here, then I have no choice but to act.” He shook his head. “It has been too long since I have been in this world.”

With those words, Rhyn’athel turned his power inward. All at once, he felt smaller and vulnerable. At the same time, he became more aware of everything physical around him, while simultaneously, his other senses dimmed. The cold wind blew against him. The acrid smell of fires from Caer Lochvaren reached his nostrils as he breathed in the air. He shivered in the cold, wrapping himself with his cloak.

Rhyn’athel turned to see that he was still not completely alone. Ni’yah still stood there, though his form was nearly invisible to him.

You’re using your mortal senses,
Ni’yah remarked in mindspeak.
It takes a bit of getting used to.

Rhyn’athel concentrated and found that Ni’yah’s form sharpened. “That’s better,” Rhyn’athel remarked and then stopped. His voice sounded strange to his ears.

Ni’yah was chuckling.
Not quite the resonance, is there?

“No,” Rhyn’athel admitted. He looked at his hand in amazement as he flexed his fingers, relishing in the sensation. “Are their senses always so inundated?”

I’m afraid so
—
it’s one of many distractions they suffer.

“Really?” Rhyn’athel grinned. “How do you deal with it when you’re in their forms?”

In time, you get used to it,
Ni’yah said, grinning back.
Wait until you’re hungry
—
or worse yet, have to relieve yourself…

Rhyn’athel chuckled. “Part of being mortal.”

Ni’yah’s gaze drifted behind him.
So is she…

Rhyn’athel turned and this time, did catch his breath. Lachlei entered into view again, now, with another
Chi’lan
warrior. Rhyn’athel searched his memory.
Cahal,
he recalled. A young warrior recently appointed to her guard.

Lachlei strode right towards Rhyn’athel as he stood in the darkness and at the same time glanced behind at the
Chi’lan
following her. “Leave me alone, Cahal! I won’t accept the throne!” She ran right into the warrior god.

Rhyn’athel caught her and held her for a moment in surprise. The power he had sensed in Lachlei in his immortal form ran through him now like a shock. Amusement played across his face as she gasped and pulled back. “You should watch where you’re going,” he said.

Her sword was out and so was Cahal’s. Lachlei backed up. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I am Rhyn…” and Rhyn’athel’s voice trailed off. He heard Ni’yah chuckling in his ear and shot an angry glance towards his brother. In the heady excitement of becoming mortal, Rhyn’athel hadn’t thought this through.

“Rhyn?” Lachlei repeated.

Rhyn’athel smiled in amusement. “I am
Chi’lan
Rhyn from the North Marches,” he said. “We heard of Fialan’s death.” He was pleased to have thought of this so quickly.

“News travels fast,” said Cahal, eyeing Rhyn’athel suspiciously. “It takes nearly a fortnight to travel from the North Marches to Caer Lochvaren. Assuming we sent messengers…”

Ni’yah’s chuckle turned to a roar of laughter in his ears. Rhyn’athel reminded himself to make the wolf-god pay for his mirth when Rhyn’athel returned to his god form.
Of course, travel was slow here,
he reminded himself ruefully. “I was on the King’s Highway
—
a week’s travel north of here. When I heard the news, I came quickly.” He paused, hoping perhaps that would make sense. “I’m looking for Queen Lachlei
—
the
Lochvaur
guards in the city said she would be here.”

Nice touch,
Ni’yah remarked.

Rhyn’athel made no reply.

Lachlei glared at Cahal. “Does everyone know other than me?” she demanded.

Cahal gave Rhyn’athel a helpless look. “I
—
I’m not sure…”

“Know what?” the god asked and was rewarded with a relieved look from Cahal.

“That I was voted queen by the Council.”

“I had not heard,” he said truthfully. “But it would make sense. Your reputation is well-known throughout the
Lochvaur
lands.” He smiled, meeting her angry gaze. “Even in the North Marches.”

Lachlei met his gaze. The anger within her disappeared, and she found herself grinning foolishly back. Cahal relaxed in relief and they both sheathed their swords. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This has been a very trying time.”

“Indeed.”

Lachlei paused, gazing at the god. “I didn’t expect someone to be here,” she said awkwardly. She paused. “Where’s your horse?”

Ni’yah’s laughter echoed once more in Rhyn’athel’s ears, but the warrior god shook his head. “He’s in one of the stables
—
after such a long ride, I didn’t want to risk an injury on this mountain.”

Lachlei nodded, obviously mollified with his explanation. “You must be tired and hungry from your journey.”

Say ‘yes,’
Ni’yah’s voice echoed in his head.

“Indeed, I am,” Rhyn’athel said.

Lachlei glanced at the
Chi’lan
beside her. “Come on, Cahal, let’s find Kellachan. After I apologize, we’ll show our guest our hospitality.”

CHAPTER Ten

After a brief introduction, Lachlei led Rhyn’athel, Cahal, and Kellachan down the mountain towards Caer Lochvaren. It was dark now and the stars shone overhead. The cold wind bit through them as they walked along the rough-hewn steps leading down to the fortress-city. They retrieved the horses Cahal had tied to a tree, choosing to walk back since Rhyn and Kellachan had no horses with them.

As Lachlei walked beside the new
Chi’lan
, she had a chance to study him. Rhyn was tall even for a
Lochvaur
, being nearly six and a half feet, with a muscular frame that spoke of power. He was handsome too, with a strong, chiseled jaw and silver eyes. His red-gold mane was long for a warrior, and he had no visible scars.

Odd,
she thought. She had never known a seasoned
Chi’lan
to not bear a scar or two. Even a first-blood had scars he or she couldn’t completely heal. Lachlei guessed by his demeanor and build, he might be a few hundred years old
—
young for an
Eleion
, but a veteran for a
Chi’lan
. Most
Chi’lan
met their deaths within their first hundred years.

The name, Rhyn, was odd too. It meant “warrior” in the
Eleion
tongue, but the word was often paired with another to form a name: Rhyn’el,
warrior Eleion
, Rhyn’ar,
warrior spear
, Rhyn’athel,
warrior god-king
. Perhaps it was normal for those
Lochvaur
of the North Marches to use shortened names. Or perhaps Rhyn was not really his name.

Lachlei carefully probed his mind and met such a strong mental defense, it sent her mind reeling backwards.
First-blood,
she thought immediately.
A powerful one.
The only one who she had known this powerful was Fialan. The sidelong glance from Rhyn told Lachlei that her clumsy attempts at reading his mind did not go unnoticed. The slight smile that parted his lips told her he was not offended.

Lachlei decided on a new tact. “So, Rhyn, what bloodlines do you come from?”

Rhyn’athel had been expecting such a question. “From Lochvaur’s line, his youngest son, Rhyn’ar, who came to the Northern Marches.”

Lachlei nodded. She remembered hearing of Lochvaur’s son, Rhyn’ar. “I had no idea, Rhyn’ar had any descendants.”

“Do you want me to repeat all ten generations?” he asked wryly.

Lachlei smiled in spite of herself. She found she liked Rhyn. He had a manner about him that put her at ease, even though he seemed a bit mysterious. “Not necessary,” she said. “You’re a first-blood then. We thought that Fialan, Kellachan, and I were the only first-bloods left…” Lachlei hesitated as she realized she had used Fialan’s name as though he were still alive. She stopped and turned away, blinking back the hot tears.

Rhyn’athel stood beside her, feeling helpless. He could sense the emotions that boiling up inside her
—
her anger at both the warrior god and fate for her husband’s death. Lachlei felt as though Rhyn’athel had deserted Fialan when his champion had needed him most.

The god part of Rhyn’athel reminded him that he had been blamed for far worse; but the mortal part of Rhyn’athel stung with the rebuke. He should have been there, protecting his champion, Rhyn’athel thought darkly. If it were Areyn Sehduk as Ni’yah had surmised, Rhyn’athel should have stepped in.

But at what cost?

“Lachlei,” he whispered, gripping her shoulder. Again, he felt the shock run through him, but this time did not release her.

Lachlei turned around, her eyes red from fighting the tears. She took a deep breath and met his gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” he said. “Fialan was a great champion.”

Lachlei wiped her eyes. “That he was, Rhyn,” she said. “Gods, I miss Fialan! I don’t know why Rhyn’athel let this happen.”

The warrior god shook his head. “I don’t know why either.”

*****

Areyn gazed at the small, fortified village of North Marches. The village was not much more than a small grody with a stockade, built on earthen-work fortifications. A few thousand inhabitants
—
Lochvaur
mostly, but there were other kindreds mixed in.
Redel
,
Lochel
, and even some
Silren
made their homes among the
Lochvaur
of North Marches.

It was dark, and the moon, Mani, rose overhead. Twice, Areyn had felt something stir within his god senses, making him uneasy. He scanned the area, searching for the wolf that he had seen earlier, but found nothing. Doubt played in his mind now
—
obviously from being mortal, he decided, but Areyn could not shake the feeling. Something had changed now
—
something he could not quite sense. That bothered him.

Instead, Areyn turned his attention to what lay before him. He gazed at the village with a hunger that could not be suppressed. Although he had taken an
Eleion
body, Areyn was still the god of destruction. Killing Fialan and his guard had only temporarily sated the bloodlust. He needed to feed again.

Areyn’s mount shifted uneasily. He patted the warhorse’s neck.
Easy, Slayer,
he mindspoke to his mount.
We will be feasting on blood soon.

Slayer’s red eyes considered the death god thoughtfully. No living thing would bear Areyn Sehduk even in mortal form, so the god was forced to summon one of his own demons to be a mount. It had taken quite a bit of magic to hide the demon’s true nature from a godling like Silvain, but Areyn had done it. Even so, the
Silren
sensed Slayer’s evil and wisely avoided the horse. Areyn was not certain how long between feedings the demon would go before it started taking
Silren
to sate its bloodlust. Only its fear of Areyn Sehduk kept the demon in check.

“This looks like an easy fight,” remarked Galen, a
Silren
noble who sat beside Areyn Sehduk.

Areyn nodded in acknowledgment, but chuckled inside.
Easy fight, indeed. It will be a slaughter.
There were only a few hundred
Chi’lan
to guard the village along with other soldiers. While each
Chi’lan
was worth five
Silren
in battle, Areyn had ten thousand troops. He had already planned for the logistics of moving the army, having prepared for it months before.

Moving ten thousand troops a hundred miles across the border without being seen had been simple. Areyn used his magic to conceal the troops and speed up their movement. They moved now at demon speeds.

Areyn gazed into the dark night. Something still did not feel right. He turned to Galen and fixed the
Silren
with a cold smile.

“Patience, my friend,” the death god said at last. “We’ll attack an hour before dawn.”