Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (9 page)

Elias gained his feet and surveyed the now innocuous sword. The
slightly curved blade had a single edge, like a saber, which glinted blue in
the afternoon sun, and left him wondering if it had been forged from some alloy
foreign to him. The blade was comparable in length to a long sword, and almost
as wide, with an edge fine as a shaving razor that showed not the slightest
sign of wear. The sword was expertly balanced and felt no heavier than the
wooden staves and foils he had trained with, and if it was as sturdy as it was
light, it would prove deadly in battle.

Elias sheathed the sword and then donned the baldric
attached to the scabbard, which strapped to his right shoulder and left the
sword hanging at his left hip. The design of the baldric would allow him to adjust
the strap to carry the sword on his back while he rode.

He bent to a knee. The chest only contained one more item—his
father’s shield, the badge of his office.

The badge fit in the palm of his hand and was shaped like a
kite-shield. Silver, the shield bore the heraldry of the House of Denar at its
center: A stag standing in front of a tree with a circle of seven stars caught
in its boughs. The words
En Targa
were embossed in a banner below the
heraldry. Elias did not know their meaning but the ancient words gave him some
measure of comfort.

He attempted to pin the shield to the duster, and found that
the pin, though sharp, could not penetrate the thick leather. Try as he might,
the duster would not yield to the shield. After a moment of frustration, he
discovered a pair of tiny holes in the left breast of the coat, which allowed
for attaching the shield. Once in position, the shield rested over Elias’s
heart and refracted the slices of sunlight that wedged through the windows.

Elias closed his eyes. He could smell his father and sense
his presence on his effects. Soon, he would avenge the murder of his family—or
join them. Elias pulled his rancher hat down, adjusted the baldric to rest his
sword on his back, and walked out of his father’s room, closing the door behind
him.

†

Lar and Bryn entered the edge of Lurkwood that bordered
the Mayfair Manor.

Bryn motioned for Lar to stop with an outstretched hand. Her
eyes narrowed as if she were intently focused on something. “
En Anora Iska
,”
she chanted under her breath. Her eyes remained squinted for several heartbeats,
and then she nodded to herself, as if she had just heard some expected news. “We
should cover the rest of the way on foot,” she said as she dismounted.

“What was that there?” asked a bewildered Lar.

“I sense a fair deal of magical energy ahead. Someone has
been casting spells of no small consequence,” she said blandly. “Elias’s
instincts are correct—something is very wrong here.”

Before leading them off into the wood, she went to her
saddle bags and retrieved a small crossbow. Lar marveled at the weapon, which
was made of a black wood and small enough to fit in one hand. It boasted a
repeating cartridge that attached to the underside of the barrel and lacked a
cumbersome stock. He guessed it ineffective at long ranges, but in close
quarters could likely deliver half a dozen bolts with deadly rapidity.

A skilled combatant, bearer of advanced weaponry, and an
arcanist to boot—Lar wondered just who the Tax Bursar really was.

“Come on then,” Bryn said. “Try to keep quiet and alert.”

Bryn took the lead as they wound cautiously through the
wood. She moved from tree to tree, staying low, seeking cover relative to the
direction of the Manor. When she stepped she rolled her foot from the blade to
the instep to minimize the sound of her passage. Lar attempted to move in kind,
but he could not be sure if he did so successfully, for he heard only the throbbing
of his heart.

As they approached the edge of the wood, Bryn held up a hand
to halt Lar in mid-step and placed an index finger to her lips. The manor
loomed a few hundred yards ahead. Bryn nodded toward a massive oak. They took
position behind it and dropped to their haunches.

Bryn leaned in and whispered into his ear, so close that he felt
her breath on his skin. “I can’t see anyone, but I sense someone is near. He
may be in the house. There is a field of magical energy in front of the door,
so he may be standing there but is hidden from view.”

“Is there any sign of Elias? Should we wait for him?”

Bryn shook her head. “He may not have arrived, or he may be
inside already. We have no way of knowing, but we can’t risk it in case he
needs our help. We should try to enter from the back, but there is no cover on
the sides so we will have to cross open ground. I will keep an eye on the front
door as we circle around while you scout ahead. Got it?” Bryn waited for his
nod and then they set off, abandoning the relative safety of the wood.

The two would-be rescuers crept a dozen paces when a
sardonic laugh cut the silence. Bryn realized her mistake at once and spun on
her heels, crossbow raised to fire, but she knew she was too late as tendrils
of dark magic, writhing like black snakes, wound around her, sapping both strength
and will. She managed to half turn her head toward Lar but he too had frozen, sword
half drawn, eyes wide with terror.

Slade leapt from the tree he had hidden in and landed in a
crouch. Despite having been perched some twenty feet in the air, he landed
easily with a felid resilience. He smiled warmly at his quarry as the oily
tentacles of his fell power enveloped them.

“Welcome to the party. I am ever so glad you decided to join
us.”

†

Elias reined in his horse. He promptly dismounted and
tied Lar’s stallion to a gnarled, towering tree. He figured it better not to
announce his presence by galloping right up to the front door. Stealth seemed
prudent, even though he had an abiding feeling that his nemesis awaited him
even now.

He tried not to dwell on the morbid images that wanted to
flash through his mind: Asa’s dead stare fixed on him; his wild-eyed sister
reaching for him as she tumbled from the carriage; the tears in his father’s
eyes as he looked on his son for the last time. Instead, Elias focused on the
black river of rage roiling inside him, for it alone had the power to sustain
him now.

He rested his back against the tree and drew the potion
Phinneas had given him from the saddlebags. A prickling tickled up his spine as
he leaned on the tree and Elias felt the peculiar sensation that he was being
watched. He pressed himself from the tree and dropped into a combat crouch as
he scanned the wood. He saw no one.

He turned back to the tree and the pins-and-needles rushed
back up his spine. A wytchwood. He laid a hand on the ebony, craggy bark. It
felt warm to the touch. Taken aback, he withdrew his hand and looked up into
the twisted network of branches that reached high and wide.

The last time he had seen a wytchwood he had been but a
child on a foray into the Lurkwood with his mother to gather herbs and berries
to make a tonic for one of Danica’s fevers. His mother had shown special
delight when she found the wytchwood, for she said it was a sacred tree whose
spring berries possessed mysterious properties. She had told him more, but the
details eluded him, fogged by the passage of time.

“Be with me now, Mother,” Elias said, “for I go to avenge
your husband and save your daughter, if she’s still alive.”

A brisk breeze stirred through the Lurkwood and tugged at
the brim of his hat and the flaps of his coat. Elias shivered despite the
warmth of the day. He spun about, half expecting to encounter a shade, as the
sensation of being watched redoubled.

The wind died as fast as it had come. Elias scrubbed a hand
over his face. He knew that the same anxiety that was causing him to tarry was
likely playing tricks with his mind. He gave the wytchwood a final glance
before returning his attention to the tonic Phinneas had given him.

He uncorked the flask and quaffed its ruddy contents. The
brew tasted bitter and earthy but it sat well enough. A feeling of warmth
radiated from his stomach at once, spreading through his trunk and then his
limbs. His bodily pains washed away and his muscles loosened. The doctor was good
to his word, thought Elias, as a rush of profound energy overtook him.

A noise startled him. He looked up to see a sparrow flutter
through the canopy. Its movement seemed sluggish as if it flew through molasses
instead of air. Afraid he had wandered into a trap and triggered some fell
spell, Elias waved his hand back and forth in front of his eyes to see if he
too had been slowed. To his surprise he noticed that his dexterity seemed
unchanged. His pulse quickened of its own accord, but he did not feel unwell. Epiphany
struck a moment later as he realized that the tonic Phinneas had given him that
so rapidly increased his energy and ebbed his pain must also have hastened his
reflexes.

Not wanting to waste any advantage provided by the potion,
Elias struck out toward the manor. He abandoned the path and traveled the
remaining distance in the thick of the wood, seeking cover and stepping
delicately as his father had taught him during his tracking lessons. After a
quarter of an hour he approached the edge of the wood. What he beheld when he
peered through the foliage chilled him to the marrow.

For the life of him Elias couldn’t figure out how Lar had
managed to enlist the aid of Lady Denar and head him off. At least they still
lived, or so it seemed, despite the predicament of being bound in ribbons of
opaque, inky energy. However, he had no doubt that the sole reason they yet
lived was to serve as bait. Be that as it may, Elias had lost much in the last
twenty-four hours, and he vowed that no one else would fall victim to his
malefactor.

Given what he surmised about Slade and men of his ilk, he guessed
the assassin would hunger for the close kill or the satisfaction of a duel, to
satisfy his bloodlust. Thus, Elias hoped Slade would select to engage him in melee
combat rather than snipe him from afar.

Ignoring his ensorcelled friends, Elias stepped out of from cover
and scanned the edge of the wood across from the crescent shaped clearing that
nestled Mayfair Manor.

Although Lar couldn’t move a single finger, he remained
conscious and aware of his surroundings. At first he didn’t recognize the man
who walked across the lawn with long, smooth strides—the walk of a man who had
cause to hurry but would not debase himself by running—rancher hat pulled down
low, the flaps of his brown coat fluttering in the wind. Lar wondered how fast
word had traveled to have drawn the presence of a Marshal, especially
considering how few remained. Then, as the man drew nearer, recognition dawned
on him. Had his jaw retained its autonomy, it would have fallen open in shock.

It’s a trap, Elias!
Lar screamed in his mind.

Elias stopped some thirty yards from the edge of the wood
opposite the one he had emerged from, and peered into its depths. Even now he
did not turn to his friends, for he knew the moment he let down his guard his
adversary would pounce. He couldn’t see anyone, but he again felt the peculiar
sensation of being watched. A blur of movement registered in Elias’s periphery.
He pivoted, readying himself for battle, but saw only empty space in the
clearing before him. He could have sworn that he detected a distortion from the
corner of his eye, like the way a magnifying glass blurred at the edge of the
lense.

His father had taught him to trust in his instincts, and he
did so now. Elias continued to focus on where he had seen the blur and said,
“Slade, I know you are there. Have you enough honor left to fight me face to
face, or are you too much a coward?”

“Your father was right about you, at least in part,” said a
disembodied voice. The air before Elias churned as if it had become as viscous as
water. The distortion cleared to reveal Slade leaning back on his heels, one
hand placed casually on his scimitar. “Hello, Elias. Kind of you to join us,
although you are a little late. I briefly entertained gutting these two like
your father, but decided it would be much more fun to force them to watch me
kill you first. Maybe I’ll have fun with the girl like I did with your sister.”

A wild mania danced in Slade’s eyes, which were lambent with
a shadowy energy. Elias’s blood went hot, and he felt the impulse to charge
Slade and cut him down, but an inner voice rose from within him and bid him to
be patient. He knew that Slade’s taunt was designed to manipulate him into rash
action, but he refused to take the bait and squander his opportunity for
vengeance.

Elias laid a hand on his sword but did not move to draw it. “You
are insane,” he said.

“Well,” Slade replied, “you have a point. Nevertheless here
we are.” He slowly circled toward Elias.

“Is my sister alive?”

“Lay down your sword, and I’ll tell you.” Slade crept
closer. “I’ll let you and your friends go. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Elias’s hand tightened on the hilt of his father’s sword. “Not
a chance.”

“Then I’m afraid this conversation must come to an end.”

“Tell me one thing, Slade. Who hired you?”

Slade shrugged. “I suppose I owe you that, but don’t you
already know?”

“Still, I want to hear you say it.”

“I met Macallister at the Summit Arcana. A ridiculous affair
if you ask me. You would think the gentry of your kingdom have nothing better
to do with their time than pretend to the mysteries of the universe. Imagine my
surprise when that dandy described in idle conversation the very man I had been
hunting for so long.”

Bryn, who looked on with keen eyes, cursed to herself, and
shouted a silent warning at Elias, in the vain hope that the distiller could
sense her thoughts. Slade was stalling to give himself time to gather his
power, for he had spent no small amount of it in binding herself and Lar.