Son of Ereubus (2 page)

Though the faith prevailed in some, man was not alone, for among those born into the lineage of Ereubus — the ones who served the Laionai — a prophecy was told:

“Among the souls there is a chosen one, the Oni. Carrying the fate of mortal man, he shall through blood procure their end. He shall be the bearer of all things, bridging the divide between life and death. Through mortal fate eluded, he shall bear witness to those who embody light. This will be the first sign of his coming. One who has slumbered long shall arise, bringing the Oni the seal that shall forge the final strength of the dark one. This will be the second sign. The son of light shall fall from great heights, spilling innocent blood upon the steps of Eidolon. This will be the third and final sign. All things in alignment, the Oni will then sit at the right hand of darkness.”

With faith placed in things unknown, both Middengard and Eidolon await the future — the Ereubinians, sitting in a throne of power, await the one who will secure their place of sovereignty while man, through the listless eyes of a soulless vessel, awaits the one who will deliver them.

P
ROLOGUE

The city reeked of sweat and grime. Eidolon’s citizens gathered in the chilly, dank air of the commons, their eyes turned to the cloaked figure standing tethered to a post on the center platform. The crowd was boisterous, pushing to gain a better view, all the while musing over the prisoner’s identity and the offense he’d committed.

Micah rested against the rain-soaked stone of the far wall, his cloak held tightly to him, trying to ward off the cold he’d felt coming on for weeks. He was tall for his age and could wield a sword better than any of his peers, which was the main reason he was allowed to skip this day’s lessons. The other boys would ask and he’d already concocted a dozen exaggerations to relay if the event turned out duller than his imagination.

The prisoner had arrived two days earlier, hood already in place, hands already bound, and apparently gagged, for his only responses to questioning were muffled cries. No one dared touch the hood or even come close enough to examine the undecorated linen shift he wore. Most were content to conjure their own guesses, some stating they knew but had been sworn to secrecy. Micah didn’t believe a word of it. They seemed far too interested in what they supposedly already knew.

Urine stained the prisoner’s clothing; when the breeze shifted direction, the scent of it and where he’d shat himself filled Micah’s nostrils, his congestion doing very little to dull its potency. He coughed and spat, willing away the urge to vomit.

Some had already grown impatient and left, mumbling that the rumor of a public lashing had been just that. He considered leaving, but was too curious. Besides, the crowd alone was more interesting than his studies.

A hush fell over the crowd, every knee bending in reverence as Garren, the High Lord, ascended the shaded stairs beneath the platform. He smiled and walked with a casual stride across the creaking boards, each step echoing in the sudden stillness. He motioned with a turn of his hand for all to rise.

“I see that my display has captured your attention.” He clenched the black hood of the prisoner in his fist and jerked it away, revealing the raw, tear-streaked face of Vallor, ruler of the northern realm of Lycus.

A collective gasp was drawn as the magnitude of the prisoner’s identity set in. Micah couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Had it not been last week that the nobles of the greater houses were singing Vallor’s praises?

“Before you,” Garren said, “is a reminder that nothing goes unseen. All is laid bare before the eyes of the Laionai and the Dark Goddess — even such trivial matters as paying Eidolon what is rightly due.”

Taxes? That’s what this is about?
Micah was stunned.

Vallor moaned and pulled against his bindings. Dried blood stained his mouth from wrestling with the gag, giving him a maddened appearance. The humiliation seemed rather gratuitous to Micah — surely a simple chastisement or financial penalty would have sufficed.

Garren dipped his head in mock sympathy and placed a hand on Vallor’s head. “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. Lycus has been prosperous …”

As he spoke, a shrill and terrifying cry sounded just beyond the commons. That lone cry became a chorus so dark it sent shivers racing down Micah’s skin.
Moriors.
This wasn’t a lashing — it was an execution.

Garren continued speaking as though it were nothing more than the wind they were hearing. “Yet, my generous gifts of land and privilege are not enough for him.”

The Moriors had black scales and fleshy wings that extended twice the breadth of their body, their man-like countenance complemented by a tall, skeletal torso and long talons that extended from deceivingly frail hands. Their feet were hooved like cattle. Shrieking still, they circled the platform before landing.

Garren pulled his sword and Vallor’s eyes washed in relief. When the blade sliced through his gag, rather than mercifully beheading him, Vallor lost what little composure he had.

“If I take your head how will I hear you scream?” Garren asked.

“Lord, be merciful!” Vallor’s wailing died against the sound of rushing wings and gnashing teeth, but Micah could read his lips and the words chilled him to his core.

Micah wanted to look away — wanted to sink back into the stone of the wall, or retire to his chambers to read a book, or practice his swordplay — but he could not tear his gaze from the platform as the Moriors ripped flesh from Vallor’s bones, eating him alive.

The gruesome scene silenced all who witnessed it, magnifying the sounds of the carnage. Eventually, only bones remained, gleaming eerily white in the waning light of day.

Garren, jaws clenched, eyed the crowd. For several minutes, he flexed his hands at his sides and paced. The Moriors stood sentinel behind him, their heads hung in obedience, though it was not Garren who commanded them, but the Laionai, and none present questioned it.

Micah had never seen them, nor had any ordinary Ereubinian — only the higher ranks had seen the Laionai, and even then selectively, but he’d heard their description more times than he cared to.

The Laionai, their eminence, had eyes that were solid black orbs deeply set into pallid skin. Their hair, thin and white, swept the ground behind them, blending with their robes of the same color. They stood much taller than a man, nearly eight feet. Though they stood as six individuals, they were one consciousness, their words spoken in unison. Once men, they now ruled over Middengard in the name of the Dark Goddess Ciara. Anything decreed from the High Lord’s mouth came straight from their eminence.

Garren’s laughter shook Micah from his musings.

“Do you take me for a witless fool?” Garren asked.

No one dared answer him.

“Truly, there is not one among you who will admit to flawed judgment? Come, speak openly. Who thought even one small share would go unnoticed?”

Micah looked around at the shocked faces. Some were visibly shaken, others deathly still in their fear. There was not a single heart that didn’t flutter with Garren’s dangerous questioning.

Garren leapt from the high platform, an unnatural act, and landed on the cobbled street. The crowd parted only to fall again to its knees once out of his way.

He walked up to a portly gentleman with a sandy beard and a bright blue tailored cloak. Tucking his sword under the man’s chin, he leaned into his face, laughing low. “And what about you?”

Sweat rolled down the man’s face and into his eyes. The cold weather certainly did not make him swelter so.

“My Lord, I have the utmost faith in the Goddess and their eminence. I beg you not question my loyalty,” he pleaded.

Garren removed the sword and nodded once. “By your own admission then, you are not guilty of treason.” He turned on his left foot and, just as Micah had convinced himself that Garren was going to return to the platform, the High Lord gripped his sword in both hands and with a swift stroke severed the man’s head from his body.

Garren snatched the cloak from the ground and wiped the blood from his blade before addressing the crowd again. “Let this be a warning. The lack of faith, and thereby obedience, that once went unnoticed will no longer be so; no matter the nature of the betrayal nor how slight. All will pay for the sins of one, innocent and guilty alike.

One last human stronghold remains, and nothing will keep Palingard from the Goddess’ rightful reign.”

It was long into the night, well after the High Lord and his forces had departed for Palingard, that Micah no longer heard Garren’s words resounding in his head.
All will pay for the sins of one.

C
HAPTER ONE

N
OT
H
UMAN

F

or years, she’d risen before the sun would even consider it and yet, on the day she was relying upon an unnoticed departure, Ariana overslept. She rolled out of bed, groaning, and reached one hand under the night table to snatch the packed satchel she’d tucked there. She’d changed the night before from her thin evening shift into a well-worn linen tunic and pants that were in an even worse state of disrepair. Her intention was to slip out before daybreak, but sunlight blistered the horizon, washing the room in shades of bright pink and red.

Koen, her canine companion, looked up from where he rested on the floor and sniffed his disapproval.

“I’m not interested in your opinion Koen. You’re only in it for the food,” she whispered. Shaking her head, Ariana turned to the window and pushed open the weathered wood.
Three days and the winter festival will be over, everything will return to the ordinary and mundane.

“Are you interested in
my
opinion?”

Ariana sighed, dropping her head. Without turning around, she knew the doorway to her bedroom was occupied by a head full of hair the color of spun sugar.

“Not particularly, but I fear I have little choice in the matter.”

Sara seated herself on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “Let them have their fun, Ari. It does everyone good to celebrate the victory, however small it may have been.”

Ariana let go of the window frame and rested her back against the wall. “I don’t need to remind you who was lost in that
victory.
”

Sara gave her a graceful smile. “Hiding won’t bring her back. Wouldn’t she want you to enjoy this time with us?”

Ariana unconsciously toyed with her mother’s necklace as she considered this, then tucked it safely into her shirt. “Perhaps — but I am
not
my mother, nor am I as gentle a soul as she was.” As she spoke, the sounds of the hearth in the main room grew louder as Bella began to cook for the day. This was not going as she had hoped. “Why are you here at this hour?”

Sara giggled. “You think me completely daft, do you?”

Ariana’s stomach growled and, as much as she hated to admit it, the smells drifting from below the door had begun to hold her attention.

“I suppose I was coming to bid you farewell. And maybe ask where you were planning on hiding this year, so that if you fail to show up after a few days I’ll know where to send everyone.”

“Tell them I’ve gone to Eidolon in search of my father,” Ariana grinned. “That should keep them occupied for at least a few days.”

“Be serious. Are you really avoiding the whole affair?”

Palingard was not the fortified kingdom of Sara’s ancestry. It was squalid in some places and simply poor in others. The festival, while lavish for their resources, was nothing that could rightly be called an
affair.
More than anything it was a complete waste of resources that would be needed sorely in the coming year.

“Sara, we have this same argument every year, and every year the result is the same. This is idiocy — to celebrate a victory some fifteen years old. What have we learned since then? How have we improved our safeguards? There aren’t any, and the few who held to what my father taught them are no longer here. Don’t you think if your fairy tales were real, they would have come true by now? What about the few seasons running when nearly every crop we had withered and died? What then? Your mythical saviors didn’t swoop in to teach us how to rotate crops; we had to figure that out on our own. I just can’t be around it right now. It’s too much.”

The silence was drawn out to what felt like an eternity. Finally, the mild exasperation in Sara’s eyes shifted back into her traditional congeniality, tinged with a bit of sadness. “Then at least tell me where you’re going so I won’t worry about you.”

Ariana had a habit of being hard around the edges, even bitter at times, but deep down she was heavy-hearted and regretted her tone. “Sara, forgive me. I have been horrid to you lately. I don’t mean to be, it’s just — I’m sorry. I’ll be near the bluff or just south of it.”

Bella called from the kitchen, “Your breakfast is cooling while you take your time chattering away, and don’t even think about bringing that troublesome friend of yours to the table.” She was referring to Koen, whom she didn’t particularly care for. Most of the time he played games with her, like seeing how much priceless bacon he could steal, or chasing the livestock.

Sara made a face at Ariana.

“So like a proper
lady,
” Ariana quipped. She walked past Sara and opened the door into the main room.

Bella was bent over a kettle that bubbled and filled the room with the smell of stewed apples. Mixed in was the scent of freshly baked bread. Ariana, not needing to ask what they were for, walked over and picked a steaming sliver from the kettle, sliding away from Bella’s scolding hand.

“They’re not ready yet, and they’re not for your mouths anyhow.”

Ariana smiled, biting into the half-cooked apple. “If you didn’t intend them to be for our mouths, then perhaps you shouldn’t have made them smell so good.”