Heirs of the Fallen: Book 04 - Wrath of the Fallen (12 page)

“Leave me be!” he wailed.

Rough laughter tore through the gaps in the door, and a last crashing blow ripped it off the hinges. The Alon’mahk’lar ducked into the room and stood straight, lifting a torch with one six-fingered hand, and in the other it held a brutal sword, more like a plank of edged steel. Wavering torchlight danced over the creature’s black-slashed crimson hide and dense slabs of muscle. Its head turned slowly, one pair of twisting horns brushing the ceiling. The second pair curled down around its neck. When it lifted it blunted snout to catch the scent, Ba’Sel saw the telltale glint of dull silver behind its protuberant eyes. He began to tremble uncontrollably.

The Alon’mahk’lar came closer. Ba’Sel tried to edge back from the flood of torchlight, and when he could not, he skittered to another corner. It was no use. There was nowhere he could flee that the demon-born could not follow.

“Long have we sought you,” the beast said, face twisting as if the taste of human words was excrement upon its tongue.

Ba’Sel caught a subtle flicker of movement behind the creature, heard the barest scraping of a boot over the dusty floor. “You do not seek the Brothers of the Crimson Shield, demon-born,” intoned a deadly soft voice. “It is
we
who seek
you
.”

Whirling, the Alon’mahk’lar smashed its sword against the doorjamb. Splintered wood and broken stone flew. The beast’s target had joined with the shadows, shifting one way, then the other, a being cut from the cloth of night. The length of two blades, one short, the other long, shimmered with beads of blood in the torchlight.

Steel flashed without warning, and the demon-born roared a curse that froze Ba’Sel’s blood. The creature’s antagonist spun in, sword darting, dagger slashing, then spun away to rejoin the undulating darkness beyond the light.

Enraged, the Alon’mahk’lar hurled the torch, and a shower of sparks exploded off the wall. A deeper darkness fell over the room. Bellowing, the demon-born became a thrashing mass in the dirty orange murk. Where it blundered, its enemy danced easily away, steel flashing. Another cursing grunt filled the air, and an arc of scalding wetness splattered across Ba’Sel’s face.
Blood
. He recoiled, brushed at it with hectic fingers.

“When you see your mistress,” came that terrible soft voice, “tell her House Valara stands.”

The noise of steel chopping flesh turned the demon-born’s next curse into a bubbling gasp. Steel rang against bone, and Ba’Sel heard two distinct thumps in the gloom.

Whispering footsteps in the dark. The head of the smoldering torch rose up to light a pair of pursed lips. A gentle breath flared the embers. A second breath brought a small, guttering flame that showed a familiar face. Familiar, but different.

“Leitos?” Ba’Sel asked, unsure.

“Did you expect someone else?” The youth chuckled. “I suppose by now Ulmek might be out searching for you. But that is of no matter. Come. Night is falling, and I’m not sure I was able to kill all the demon-born left in Armala.”

The way he said it sent a chill down Ba’Sel’s spine, for it sounded as if he hoped there were more. “Better to hide,” he warned. “Hiding keeps you safe.”

Leitos lifted the torch to light the headless Alon’mahk’lar. His eyes glittered with impatience. “Cowering here in the dark doesn’t seem to have served you so well, Brother. But, if that is your wish,” he said, turning and walking out of the room, “I will leave you to it.”

Ba’Sel hesitated only a moment, then rushed to catch up with Leitos. The youth favored him with a look of pity and weary disgust. Ba’Sel didn’t begrudge Leitos his judgments. The boy simply did not understand the weight of so many long years, of so many deaths.

Before they escaped the building, the allure of the white sands of Eponta once more beckoned to Ba’Sel. He went reluctantly, but he went because his mother was there, and Nazeen, and Ishin, and all those he had lost. Demons also awaited him, hungry for a nibble of his soul. But he had faced them before, over and over again.
Four lifetimes of men
....

Chapter 16

Hours after hearing it, Belina’s mind was still spinning from what Adham and her father had told everyone after they returned from the palace. All that about something called the Well of Creation, and how some folk were washed in its powers, and how those powers changed folk. Of course, she would never have felt
changed
, because she and all her people had been born the same as Adham and Leitos, with certain abilities that most of humankind did not possess. She wondered if her visions were part of it, or something left over from before the Well of Creation was destroyed?

She supposed none of it really mattered. Their enemies were the same as ever, and fighting them was the only choice. If she had a wish, it was to know how Leitos fared.
He is well
, she thought.
He must be, for the sake of us all.

With some effort, she concentrated on Nola. Gently, she brushed back the fall of dark hair from her sister’s sweaty brow. Nola moaned softly, wincing in her sleep. There was no telling if it was pain or horrible dreams that troubled her. Likely both. Watery blood had soaked through the bandages swaddling her cheek and eye, and would soon need changing.

For now, Belina tucked a thin blanket up under her sister’s chin, wishing she could do more. She had the same feeling for her wounded clansmen spread around the floor. Ulmek and Adham had decided to house the wounded in the large gathering hall of the barracks, the same place Adu’lin had used to confine the Brothers of the Crimson Shield. “Better here than anywhere inside that accursed palace,” Adham had said, and Ulmek agreed.

Something terrible must have happened to them at the palace, but neither were inclined to speak of it. If Belina had to guess, that was where Adu’lin allowed a host of Mahk’lar to possess the Brothers.

“You should get some sleep,” Damoc said, grimly clutching his walking stick to keep from falling on his face.

“I’m fine,” Belina lied. She unconsciously cut her eyes toward the doors, which were guarded by a pair of able-bodied Yatoans. Hidden around the grounds, Damoc had also positioned several archers. Hours had passed since Leitos went after the Fauthians in the watchtower, and now night lay heavy over the city.
Where is he?

Damoc gazed at her, winnowing out her concerns. “The boy faced the Bane of Creation and destroyed the Throat,” he said with a murmur of awe. “I expect he can handle a few Fauthian runts—even a stray Alon’mahk’lar or three. I learned the hard way that he has uncommon skill with a sword and dagger.”

“Even the greatest warrior can die,” she answered quietly, and immediately wished she could take it back. She did not want to think about Leitos dying.

Grunting and sighing, Damoc slowly settled himself to the floor next to his daughters, then leaned against a wall. He sat with his legs stretched out, one with a bandage around an arrow wound taken when breaching Armala’s wall, and the other with a wrapped ankle. In the frantic rush to catch Adu’lin before he reached the Throat of Balaam, Damoc had been able to disregard his hurts. Now pain etched his features, and there were dark hallows under his eyes.

“How is she?” he asked, hesitating briefly before resting his palm on Nola’s brow.

“Better than she should be,” Belina admitted. When she had first seen her wounds, she had been sure Nola would perish. Now it seemed she would only suffer terrible scarring.

Only
, she thought dismally as she looked at her sister’s face. She was unable to speak aloud the nature of the grievous wound. Nola had never been vain, but she had been beautiful....

Belina gave herself a shake, and fled from the thought that her sister would resemble one of the sea-wolves, who purposefully disfigured themselves with ugly brands. Nola was alive, that was what was important, and the chances were high that she would be on her feet in a few days.

“She’s always been stronger than most,” Damoc allowed.

“Some of the others will not survive the night.”

Damoc’s lips moved, but made no sound. He closed his eyes, let his chin rest on his chest. In moments, he was snoring softly. Belina let him sleep.

Across the room, Sumahn sat at a table with Daris. When the stern young brother thought Belina was not paying attention, he cast furtive glances at Nola. He grimaced each time his gaze fell on her, as if her pains hurt him. And perhaps they did. Without question, they had grown close in a short time. Belina had seen the same thing happen often amongst those who shared in battle.

Seated near the door at another table, Adham was talking in hushed tones with Ulmek. He had wanted to mount a search for his son, and still did. So far Ulmek had placated him, reasoning that it was better to avoid dividing what few warriors they had to scour the city. Like Damoc, Ulmek was positive Leitos was safe. If Leitos did not arrive soon, Belina knew Adham would go looking on his own, despite Ulmek’s objections. If he did, she would join him.

She eased her back against the wall, and began muttering vague prayers for his safety under her breath. Between one and the next, weariness overcame her, and her eyes drooped and her murmurs trailed away.

At a commotion from outside the hall, Belina sat up, and began chastising herself for sleeping after she had assured herself she wouldn’t, not with Leitos still missing.

A sharp warning froze everyone in the hall. Belina leaped to her feet. Damoc waved his hand at her, and she paused long enough to haul him up. Before she reached the door, it swung inward and Leitos stepped into the light. Belina halted abruptly, and Damoc careened into her back. She felt her mouth fall open in shock.

Dried blood covered Leitos’s sand-hued robes and snug trousers. His dark hair, longer than she had seen any man wear save for Ulmek and Sumahn, stuck out in stiff maroon-tinted strands. His eyes, blue as a dawn sky, seemed feverish, eager, as if he was only stopping by long enough to say he was leaving again to resume the hunt.

Hand gripping the hilt of his sword, Leitos took in every face at a glance, then motioned to someone behind him. All eyes turned when a dark-skinned stranger came shuffling in. His shoulders were hunched, and his black eyes rolled wildly. Everything about him spoke of a man adrift on a sea of fear. Robis came in after them, bow half-drawn. He flashed an uncertain grin at Belina, but she ignored him, much as she always did.

“Ba’Sel?” Ulmek said to the newcomer, slowly rising out of his chair.

Belina frowned at the name, having heard it before. “He’s their leader.”

“He’s also a madman,” Damoc said cautiously.

Ulmek moved to Ba’Sel, tried to take him by the shoulder, but the fearful warrior reared back, slamming into Robis and knocking him flat. Ba’Sel’s frightened cries had roused the rest of the Yatoans in the hall before Ulmek and Sumahn could subdue him. Raving, still thrashing, they carried him into another room. Leitos watched them go, his face blank, unreadable.

Belina went to him, reached out, but he leaned away.

“I’m fine,” he said. “The blood isn’t mine.”

Relief flooded through her, and she tried to embrace him, but he caught her shoulders and held her back.

“Now is not the time,” he said coolly.

Stung, Belina backed away.

Then Adham was there, jostling his way through the tightening press. “Gods!” he growled, wrapping Leitos in a fierce, inescapable hug. “You gave me a fright, boy!” He pushed Leitos to arm’s length, taking in his shabbiness. “Did you have to bathe in the blood of your enemies?”

Leitos’s mouth worked, and then he laughed, and some of that furious light left his eyes. “Never say Fauthians and Alon’mahk’lar don’t bleed well.”

Having climbed to his feet, Robis snorted, but rousing laughter overrode his disdain. Shouts of, “How many?” and, “Did you leave any for us?” rang out.

Leitos made a courageous bid to keep his features neutral, but in the end he failed miserably. In time, he was laughing and joking with the now cheering Yatoans.

When the good cheer settled down, Damoc eased Belina aside, and clasped Leitos’s forearm. “It’s good to see you, boy.”

“And you, Elder Damoc,” Leitos agreed a little uncertainly. Doubtless, he was remembering that her father had tried to kill him the night before, when Damoc still believed Leitos was a threat to the clan. That
attempt
had almost cost Damoc his life.

“No need to stand on ceremony,” Damoc said. “You’re a hero, and our gratitude will never be payment enough for what you have done for me and the clans of Yato.”

For the first time since coming into the hall, a look of unease flitted over Leitos’s features. “There are no heroes, only survivors, and too few of us at that. But we will need them all, and soon.”

“Be that as it may, we’re all alive because of you, and what you did. Besides, there are more of us than you think. Why, we have nearly two thousand warriors who could join us on the morrow to defend this city and all the isles of Yato.”

“Our fight is not to hold Armala or Yato,” Leitos said stiffly.

“Fight?” Robis blurted, as Ulmek and Sumahn came back into the hall after tending to Ba’Sel. “What need have we to fight anyone? According to Damoc, you’ve singlehandedly wiped out the Fauthian scourge
and
the Bane of Creation. Who is there to fight?” He didn’t bother to conceal his doubts about Leitos’s accomplishments, but some of his fire dwindled under Damoc’s stony expression.