The Children of Urdis (Grimwold and Lethos Book 2) Read online

  "Why?" was all Thorgis asked, and was also the same question Syrus wanted to ask but dared not. He felt like an intruder on a personal conversation he did not understand.

  "Because it is time for you to have it. I am sending you into danger. Here is the man I spoke to you about. You will recognize him, I am sure. You will travel together to Raffheim and Tsaldalr, a place filled with mortal enemies and worse. You will guard Syrus while he works to discover what he is able."

  Both Thorgis and Syrus stared at Eldegris who did not waver at their quizzical expressions. Thorgis touched the blade as if it would bite him. "Why me? Why this blade? Will it even accept me?"

  "The answers are unimportant, and that you obey your High King is all I require." Eldegris nudged the sword toward his son. "Do not draw this blade unless you must. Once drawn it will serve you as it has me. In time, you will understand the duty that comes with possessing such a weapon. For now, you should only call upon it if you need its strength. I pray you will not."

  Syrus felt more and more like a man listening beyond the door to a private conversation. Thorgis seemed on the verge of tears as he picked up the sheathed sword, caressing the plain leather with his free hand.

  "You must leave immediately. There is little time to waste, for I fear that whatever is in Tsaldalr has been left alone too long. A ship is prepared and well provisioned. Avadur may be defeated, but they still have teeth enough to protect their homes. You will seem as invaders to them. I will trust the two of you to find a way to Tsaldalr and enter it undetected."

  "My king," Syrus said, lowering his head. "There must be another purpose in sending just the two of us into what would seem a deadly situation. With all honor and respect, my king, is there more you have not told me?"

  His heart raced at the boldness of his question, but he felt his life was at risk. Certainly Tsaldalr could not be invaded, so infiltration made sense, but the Avadurians must have secured it for themselves by now. He raised his eyes to Eldegris's and found them sparkling with sad humor.

  "What I have not told you fills all the books in this room. You must have faith that I am doing what is best for Valahur. In time, I believe you will understand. For now, I ask for your obedience to my will."

  Syrus swallowed, his disquiet unassuaged. His smile trembled as he bowed again. "As you command, my king. As a faithful servant of Fieyar and the High King, I will fulfill my duty."

  Eldegris smiled. "Good, for you are leaving before the sun sets. I will have all you require prepared for your departure."

  Syrus glanced at Thorgis, who stared in awe at the sword resting on his palms. Something bigger than what Syrus understood was taking place, and it was Eldegris's unspoken command that he should determine what it is on his own. If that sword was involved, he feared what it indicated. For whatever it had been forged to defeat was a power not of this world. Syrus bowed again, for once unable to find words.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  All around Lethos the clash of battle raged. It was a unique song: the clatter of sword on sword, the thud of ax on shield, and the crunch and snap of mail giving way. Men screamed and fell, one right beside Lethos with his eyeball hanging from its socket and a gash that opened his cheek to expose bloody teeth. Another crumpled into a pile, failing to hold his guts in as the intestines spilled over his arms. Lethos tasted the acid at the back of his throat and turned away from the carnage.

  He hovered over Grimwold, slapping his friend's waxen face. "Come on, wake up. It's just an arrow sticking out of your chest. About a hair's breadth from your heart. No big problem for a war chief like you. Get up."

  The icy finger running along Lethos's back reminded him that he was relying on his echo power of prediction. He knew he was ignored for now, and that the man who had shot the arrow that felled Grimwold was dead. The warriors cursing and shrieking all around him had fallen to their work with gusto, and their first targets had been the dozen archers.

  Lethos knew enough about medical aid to realize he had no business treating such a wound. If his vision had been right, the arrowhead was of sharpened stone, not a barbed tip. Feasibly he could pull it out, but risked breaking the shaft or snapping off the arrowhead. No telling what that might do to a regenerating body. Yet while this wound did not bleed much, it did not heal. Grimwold remained comatose, an arrowhead hovering over his beating heart. Lethos knew this, for he felt the same pain over his own heart. Whether either of them wanted it or not, their lives were intertwined such that the death of one meant the same for the other.

  "This isn't funny anymore," he said, cupping Grimwold's head. "In fact, it was never funny. But honestly, I don't know what to do here. Your power was supposed to carry the battle."

  He listened for a whisper in his mind, even over the din of the warriors shoving each other in a dance of death, but Grimwold did not answer. He was as good as dead to him, though Lethos still felt the bond. It was a trickle of power between them like the steady dripping of a melting icicle. He had that at least. He had nothing more.

  "Stay here," he said to Grimwold, letting his head down. He seemed almost placid but for the furrow of his brow. Years of staring into the glare of the sun while sailing the seas, and generally being a depressing and angry man, had worn creases of worry into his face. Lethos knew him to be much kinder than he appeared.

  He removed Grimwold's sword after unbuckling and pulling a half-dozen tries. Despite being the most obvious targets, none of the raiders had made a move to finish either of them. Perhaps Grimwold's command still held sway, or luck was on their side. Lethos had no time to care, for he had to nudge the battle back to their favor. While one barbarian seemed quite like another to Lethos, he could at least tell from which side men stood on who were the raiders.

  And they were prevailing.

  Lethos snapped his head up. Another man, a raider for certain, leapt at him with sword held high. Lethos had no time to pull his own blade free, and had little skill with barbarian weapons in any case. The cold water on his spine vanished again, and Lethos had no idea which way to dodge. The enemy's blade crashed into his shoulder.

  The pain was brief but sharp. A line of blood appeared through the cut in his shirt, and he staggered under the blow. The barbarian screamed in victory, likely assuming Lethos's head would flop to the side at any moment. Yet he paused when Lethos merely slapped at the superficial cut like it had been a mosquito.

  Let me out of this pit, said a guttural voice in the recesses of his mind. Let me out to kill. It is the only way. Your friend is dead. His men are defeated. I will bring you victory and life.

  "Lies!" Lethos shouted, springing to his feet. The attacking barbarian gawked at him, his sword drooping. He stepped back as Lethos argued with the voice in his head. "Stay in your pit. Don't ever come out!"

  A bass laugh rippled through his mind. Where is the master? it asked. What keeps me in darkness still?

  "I do!" Lethos slashed at the air with his sheathed sword, his mind filled with the image of a mad black bull. He might have snorted, but was not certain. During the war of the trolls, Amator had used blood sorcery on him to force a bull spirit into his body. He became what the people of his country called a Minotaur, a massive bull-man of rage and muscle. Grimwold had tamed it and driven it into hiding deep within his heart. Yet the beast remained active and always sought to dominate Lethos.

  The raider remained staring at Lethos, his sword limp in his hand. Lethos's vision blurred and he began to sweat. The bull was taking him over, and if it did there would be no controlling it. Not with the sickly sweet stench of blood on the air.

  "Stay down!" he shouted. The raider shook his head then jabbed at Lethos, driving the point of his sword into his ribs. Again a dull pain, nothing a grown man couldn't handle, radiated from the impact. The sharp sword turned on his flesh and the raider cursed.

  Lethos's world became a blur. He was consumed in heat and his mouth filled with the taste of ashes and blood. He was suddenly looking down on the raider, who
se face had sunk to his knees and dropped his sword.

  A mad, long bellow came from deep in Lethos's chest. The part of him that still held on watched in terror as his two massive arms, covered in glossy black fur, reached down for the raider--his arms now transformed into those of a Minotaur. He tore off the man's head as if he were a doll stuffed with bloody rags. He flung the head and body in different directions, then bounded off for the next group, lowering his head to bring massive horns to bear. His mind screamed for the beast to stop, but the voice grew smaller and smaller as the bull gained control. Soon, he vanished completely.

  When he finally regained consciousness, he was still in the shape of a Minotaur, but the sun had slipped across the sky and now settled in the west. He was walking aimlessly, his fur matted with blood that seemed to seep into his flesh. He did not recognize the land. Trees surrounded him on all sides, their leaves turned brilliant autumn colors of gold and orange. Dead leaves rolled along the patchy grass where he walked. He grew colder with every step and the ground drew closer as he walked. Suddenly he fell on his face, a stone knocking him in the teeth. He lay silent on the ground, letting the cool damp of the earth flow over his naked body.

  The bull had exhausted itself and withdrew. Lethos immediately felt the pain over his heart, a dull ache like a strong man had just landed a punch. He scrambled up and huddled against the cold evening air. Last he remembered it had been early morning.

  "Not good," he said to the emptiness. The birds returning to their roosts for the night sang a discordant song not unlike that of a battle among men. He watched their dark shapes flit among the distant trees before he stood. He was full of strength, feeling as if he could run for hours. The possession of the bull never left him exhausted but instead filled with unnatural vigor. He had to learn what happened with the raiders and, more importantly, what happened to Grimwold.

  The location of Grimwold, his Prime, was always foremost in his mind. He had only to think of him and Lethos could nail the location. He tried reaching out with his thoughts again, but got nothing more than a dull hum in return. He jogged across the fields, realizing he was on the southern end of the island. A lone farm squatted in the distance as he ran, the A-frame house and the surrounding wood fences stark shapes against the sky. He skirted the farm, for his nakedness but also for fear of what he might find there. All along his path he saw the deep tracks of bull hooves. If he had come this way while lost in rage, he did not want to see what he might have done.

  At last he returned to the site of the battle, and the sun was now blasting red into the clouds as it reached the horizon. Dead bodies and body parts scattered the brown grass. Broken spears pointed skyward and colorful shields were scattered like dried leaves. Sunbirds with red head feathers glowing brilliantly in the final daylight lingered, but most had gorged themselves on the flesh of men and sat contentedly at the edges of the field. Lethos staggered through the maze of the dead, stepping over a lost helmet or bent sword to pick his way to where Grimwold still lay.

  All around him deep hoofprints marked the earth. Lethos found the cloak he had lost during his transformation and pulled it around himself. He crouched over Grimwold, and his friend still remained in a deep sleep. The arrow shaft still protruded from his chest, the gray fledging stirring in the evening breeze like a small flag. Grimwold's body was sprayed with gore, probably from when Lethos had dramatically ripped an enemy in half. Lethos licked his lips and looked around for the rest of his clothes. He found them, torn and bloodied. He would need other clothing. There was plenty to choose from on this battlefield.

  "I guess we sent the raiders off," he said to Grimwold as he peered toward the village. The sky remained clear of smoke, meaning the raiders had at least missed it. Reifell was a large island with many small communities, but these raiders had sought the fatter prizes. So Lethos assumed whoever survived had taken to their ships and fled. In essence he recognized that transforming to a Minotaur had probably succeeded in driving the enemy back into the sea. He frowned.

  "I can't lose control like that," he said, half expecting Grimwold to agree. A sunbird screeched at another that had encroached on its carrion prize, the only answer Lethos received. "The bull can't control me. It's too dangerous. There must be a way to rid me of this curse."

  He surveyed the mangled bodies all around him, then clenched his fist. Corpses from both sides were savaged with inhuman ferocity, many bearing wide puncture wounds in their torsos. All wore expressions of terror in death.

  "Let's get you back to your hall," he said to Grimwold. Lethos possessed great strength as part of his bonding with Grimwold. He would be able to carry his huge friend back to where someone more expert than him could help. "Just let me get dressed and we'll be off."

  Grimwold said nothing, his eyes shut and his skin as waxy as a dead man's.

  And a stone-tipped arrow sticking up from his chest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Avulash could see again. No longer was he limited to water and white mist. True sight of the real world. His ancient homeland, the stones and grasses of this land calling to him. No, screaming to him. The fragments of Sathkera left behind when the gods had broken it from the world. He set his foot down upon the land and it revealed itself to him, like a scroll flung open across a dining table. All the rich colors, the same as he remembered them from his first discovery, flooded his vision. Here on the shore, where the dull waters of the sea lapped against a beach of gray stones and pebbles, he gazed up the slope of sun-browned grass and saw the explosion of reds and golds awaiting him in the distance. A forest, just as majestic as Sathkera's, hemmed off the beach from the inner islands.

  His chain and plate armor was heavy upon his shoulders as he waded out of the cold surf onto the beach. He felt Sharatar's calling spell vibrating against the center of his forehead. It had guided him through the mists, back again from trackless Sathkera, into the old world once more. Sharatar had done what no seeker had ever before accomplished, and Avulash had done what no other captain of a white ark had ever achieved. As he stood on this shore, the white mist rolled back into the distance, he had both found the path to the old world and confirmed it again with a round-trip to Sathkera.

  He had opened the way.

  The mud sucked at his feet as he trudged ashore. His escorts remained on the rowboat, allowing their captain the sole honor and pride of this historic landfall. Avulash spread his thin, tired arms and let his white hair fall back as if he were embracing an old lover. In many ways, he was. The cold breeze caressed his high cheeks. The stones of the beach lifted his aching feet. The song of birds and the rustle of grass filled his ears.

  "Welcome me, my dearest, for I have come from afar to be at your side once more."

  His forehead rippled with tension and the calling spell vanished. Avulash opened his eyes and lowered his head. Atop the slope Sharatar had revealed himself. He wore a gray cloak stained white with sea salt and a hem tattered from an age of seeking. His wiry body and pale flesh bent over a struggling form, a human woman if Avulash correctly recalled the scent. Downwind it was a thick and repugnant spoor, and he wondered how any true Tsal would ever think to lay with one of these. It would be like lying in dung.

  Sharatar's pale yellow hair spilled out from beneath his cowl as he dragged the woman behind him down the slope. The degenerate humans of this age possessed no strength of any kind. Sharatar pulled her along like an empty sack even as she twisted and whimpered, and she was no small woman but an overblown sow barely differentiated from the males of her kind. Sharatar dropped her as he went to his knee before Avulash. Tears stained his sharp face and his amber eyes caught a flare of the glorious sun.

  "My captain," he said, choking on the words. He grabbed the hem of Avulash's violet surcoat. The shell pattern embroidery was still visible even after the centuries.

  "Rise, and be welcomed back to your ark. Your spell guided me through the mists, as strong as the call of an Aerax bull."

  Sharatar clamb
ered to his feet, beating away dead grass that clung to the wrappings about his knees. The human woman, rosy-cheeked with a frizzy mess of golden hair that spilled out from a blue head cover, writhed on the ground like a worm trying to flee back into the earth. Sharatar kicked her into stillness, then lowered his head once more.

  "I never doubted your return, Captain. Of all the thousands of white arks that have disappeared into the mists, I knew ours had a special destiny. I felt it in my heart-eye." Sharatar touched a fist to his chest. "The way to Sathkera is open now?"

  "Yes, and a thousand times a thousand white arks will fill with the scions of the great Tsal families. The First People have begun their return from exile, and we have paved that road."

  Avulash's heart pumped hard enough to feel it in his throat. Both he and Sharatar now turned toward the sea. To his sight, the world beyond the shores was still lost in mist. This was the curse of the gods, a blindness to the world that condemned them to see only Sathkera and nothing more. In that blinding mist, the ethereal shape of his white ark shined out to Avulash. He never dreamed of viewing it from this distance, from a shore of the old world. It looked like a massive ghost ship that towered above the waves. Its five masts and three rows of oars had carried it an inconceivable distance, and Avulash could do no more than shake his head at the thought of it.

  "Now you must have a report for me," Avulash said, returning to Sharatar. The human woman had begun to squirm again, as persistent as a cockroach in its will to survive. Both ignored her for the time. "Was Amator able to capture all these islands and their inhabitants for us? I fear he has failed, for no slaves are here to greet me."