Souls of Aredyrah 3 - The Taking of the Dawn (14 page)

Gem took a step toward Nannaven, then turned
to Torin and said, “Don’t let the Torch take him, Torin. Don’t you
dare.”

“Never, Gem. I promise,” he replied.

Torin stared at Farris as though in a dream.
He searched the boy’s face for a sign of life, but it was gray and
still. He knelt and ran his thumb over Farris’s pale lips, then
along his eyelids and brows. “What a fine man you would have been,”
he said. He placed his palm on the boy’s chest, determined to feel
it rise and fall. But there was nothing.

Torin shook his head in disbelief. “This
cannot be.”

The world came crashing down around him.
Everything became a blur. Torin pulled Farris into his arms,
sobbing like no man had ever sobbed before. “Give him back to me!”
he cried to the gods. “Give my son back to me!” But the gods had
already taken possession of the child’s soul, and there would be no
returning it.

“Torin,” a voice croaked.

Torin turned to Mya, who was now awake.

He rose with Farris still in his arms and
moved to her side, then laid Farris next to her and settled beside
them. He smoothed back Farris’s hair. “You are my son,” he said to
him.

“He loved you,” Mya whispered. “Very
much.”

“And I him.” Torin moved his gaze to Mya. “I
love you, too. You know that, don’t you?” He leaned over and
gathered her face into his hands, then brushed his lips against
hers. It was the kiss of death, he knew, but it no longer mattered
to him. Death would be welcome if it took him to that place where
Mya and Farris would soon be dwelling.

Their lips parted. “Torin,” Mya said.
“Please, no.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“You are my heart, Mya,” Torin said. “Now and
for always.” He drew her into his arms and held her close, the heat
of her body radiating through his, the salty taste of her sweat
lingering on his lips.

Suddenly there was loud shouting outside the
tent, and the rise and fall of shadows darting past it. Screams
rent the air; the sound of horses thundered in the distance. Torin
eased Mya back onto the pallet, then rose and rushed toward the
exit.

He glanced back at Nannaven who was still
standing with the girls at the far side of the tent. “Stay here,”
he ordered. He stepped through the flap and surveyed the commotion
going on around him. People were screaming, running, and pushing,
but no one seemed to know where they were going. In the distance a
fiery glow filled the night sky. Darks silhouettes of horses and
riders flashed across flickering palettes of orange.

Torin grabbed a man running past and stopped
him short. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“Guards!” the man said, trying to catch his
breath. “The King’s guards!” Then he pulled from Torin’s grasp and
stumbled into the thickening crowd.

An explosion of thunder reverberated through
the air. Lightning crackled like skeletal fingers across an ebony
sky. Torin’s eyes shot upward, then toward the bonfires that dotted
the distant hills. A line of torch fires could be seen snaking from
the pyres toward the encampment, winding like an iridescent serpent
around its perimeter.

Guards on horseback lumbered between the rows
of tents, their long swords cutting a bloody swath through the
crowd. Others, torch in hand, followed behind, igniting tent after
tent into billowing flames.

A whir of arrows sounded overhead, their
sinister shapes all but invisible in the darkness. One
thunked
an inch from Torin’s foot. He jumped back as more
sailed across the sky.

Torin realized the Guard were drawing near,
their torches and weapons just moments away. He pulled his short
sword from his waistband and rushed toward the advancing soldiers.
The arrow-riddled bodies of men, women, and children littered the
ground, but he leapt over them without hesitation. A guard on foot
barreled in his direction. Torin sank his sword into the man’s
chest then shoved him aside. Two more moved in, but Torin stopped
them with a shout and a determined swipe of his blade. Others
approached, but Torin aimed his weapon, daring any man to come
nearer.

The guards continued toward him. Torin backed
away slowly, keeping his blade ready. The line of soldiers stared
at him with steely expressions, but their smirks were nothing
compared to that of the horseman riding toward him through a swirl
of lurid smoke.

The young man on horseback was no guard. His
clothing was pale and fine, not dark and metallic like the Guard,
and the color of his hair and the shine of the glitter painted
around his eyes were as bright as the mid-day sun. But his eyes
bore no warmth. They were icy blue and cold as the deepest sea, and
seemed in such contrast to the boyish features of his face.

Torin drew a sharp breath. “Whyn!”

The young man barked for the guards to stop
their approach and urged his black stallion to the front of the
line. “Well, we meet again,” the young King said as he looked Torin
up and down. “Torin, isn’t it?”

Torin stared at him in silence.

“I believe the last time we met you were at
my table, signing a…what did we call it…peace treaty?” Whyn
laughed.

“Why are you doing this?” Torin asked
angrily. “The Jecta have done nothing to you.”

Whyn’s pale eyes flashed crimson. In that
moment Torin realized he was not looking at the same young King
he’d met at the negotiating table. That king had been beaten and
vulnerable. This one was fiendish and cruel, armed with sword and
bow, yet strangely feminine in his persona.

Whyn tossed his blond head. The gold painted
around his eyes and upon his lips glinted in the fiery darkness.
“Ah, Torin…of course they have done something. They have brought
impurities to our door, and now they must be purged.”

“What do you mean, purged?”

Whyn nudged his horse closer. He glared down
at Torin. “You know of what I speak. It is impurity that has
brought sickness to our land. It must be stopped before it reaches
those not deserving of it.”

“So you would kill innocents for the sake of
your own?” Torin exclaimed.

“Of course. The gods demand it.”

“Whose gods?”

“
My
gods! The only gods!” Whyn
snapped. Then he smiled and glanced around. “Is my brother with
you?”

“No,” Torin replied. He stepped back, his
weapon still raised.

Whyn looked toward the tent at Torin’s back.
He motioned to a guard. “Let us see what the Shell Seeker is trying
so hard to defend.”

A guard swept a blade to Torin’s throat
before he could react. Torin lowered his weapon slowly as his eyes
darted amongst the guards. One snatched the short sword from his
hand and tossed it aside. Another threw back the flap to the tent
and thrust his torch-bearing hand inside.

In the flickering light, Nannaven stood with
her arms around Nely and Gem. Mya lay in the shadows, embracing
Farris’s body, her eyes white with fear.

“There is no one here of concern to you,”
Torin said.

“Is that so?” Whyn threw an order to the
guard who was holding the torch. “Bring the old woman out…and the
girls.”

The guard did as instructed, dragging out
Nannaven and the little girls who were still clinging to her
skirts.

Gem pushed away from the Spirit Keeper,
clenching her fist at Whyn. “You leave us alone!” she cried.

Nannaven pulled Gem back. “Hush, child,” she
commanded. “You hush now.”

Whyn eyed Gem up and down. “Is this your
woman, Torin? Or is it the old crone?” He laughed. “My, but your
taste does run in opposite directions.”

Torin took a threatening step toward Whyn,
but a guard stopped him short. He glanced into the tent.

Whyn followed Torin’s gaze. “Ah, my mistake,”
he said. “Clearly that is where your affections lie. Was the boy
yours?” He shook his head. “Pity.”

“What do you want?” Torin demanded.

“What do you think? I want Tearia brought
back to her grandeur and the impure ones wiped out once and for
all.”

“You’re insane,” Torin said.

“Perhaps, but that is not relevant. I have
the Lion on my side and you have, well, nothing.”

“We have the Unnamed One, and the
Transcendor!” Torin said, though he knew the Unnamed One had
returned to Kirador and would not likely be back.

“Do not bore me with your myths.” Whyn turned
his attention to Nannaven. “Guard, bring the old woman closer.”

Nely and Gem were yanked from her grasp, and
Nannaven was shoved before Whyn.

“You are a Memory Keeper,” Whyn said.

Nannaven did not respond.

“Your silence does not hide the truth. I met
another of your kind not so long ago. Tenzy I believe her name
was.”

Nannaven stiffened.

“You knew her then,” Whyn said.

“She was my sister,” Nannaven said. “She
defeated your Priestess, I believe.”

Whyn’s face seemed to morph momentarily into
that of a woman, beautiful, yet sinister. “The Priestess cannot be
defeated,” he said. “She is eternal.”

“Where is she then?” Nannaven asked.

“She is here, in me.”

Nannaven scoffed. “I see no Priestess here.
Only a boy who has confused his identity with that of a woman. If
the Priestess has a future, then I fear that you, Whyn, do
not.”

“You are in no position to speak of futures,
old woman.” Whyn whipped his sword from its sheath so quickly that
Nannaven had no time to flinch. He plunged the blade into her belly
as she gasped in disbelief.

Nannaven ran her eyes over the golden lion at
the sword’s hilt, then over the blade as it was pulled slowly from
her gut. She lifted her fading gaze to Whyn’s face. Blood dribbled
from her mouth as she spoke. “You may have taken my life,” she
said, “but there will be another to take my place.” She fell to the
ground, dead, but her words lingered in the air.

“Nannaven!” Torin screamed. He reeled toward
her, but soldiers grabbed his arms and dragged him back.

Whyn flicked his hand toward a guard. “It is
time for this place to be purified,” he said. The guard stepped
forward and handed Whyn a torch.

“No!” Torin cried.

Whyn eyed him, then glanced from the girls to
the tent. “Very well. I will give you a choice.” He pointed the
sword toward Nely and Gem with one hand, the torch toward Mya and
Farris with the other. “What will it be, Shell Seeker? The living?
Or the dead?”

Torin’s heart pounded. “Wh—what?”

“You heard me. Choose.”

“You are letting us go?”

“Only you, and the two you feel worth saving.
Who will it be, I wonder? The girls…or the corpses?”

Torin looked to the tent, then back at Whyn.
“But Mya is not dead,” he said.

“She will be. Now make your choice. My
patience wears thin.”

Torin glanced between the two small girls
cowering in the grasp of the guards, then at the forms of Mya and
Farris in the far reaches of the tent. His mind raced. “I
can’t—I—”

“Choose!” Whyn shouted.

Torin thought the contents of his stomach
would spill into the dirt. He stepped slowly toward the girls.

The guards let go their hold, and Nely and
Gem ran to him. Torin gathered them up into his arms, but his limbs
were so weak he did not know how he could hold them, much less
carry them to safety. Tears filled his eyes and shame filled his
heart. But the sorrow of what he was doing to Mya and Farris filled
him even more.

Whyn smirked. “Now, Shell Seeker, you may
cart your rubbish back to Meirla. When you get there, give my
brother a message. Tell Reiv I expect him to leave Tearia once and
for all.”

“Leave? But where would he go?”

“I do not care, but he has three days time in
which to do it.”

“But if I return to Meirla, I risk spreading
the fever.”

“It is too late for that,” Whyn said. He
waved his hand toward the south. “You see? The rabble is running in
that direction as we speak. They will likely reach Meirla before
you do. How unfortunate. Regardless, if you wish to see the sea
again, or anything else for that matter, I suggest you run.”

A chill raced down Torin’s spine, telling him
to flee, but strangely his feet refused to obey.

Whyn narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps some
incentive then.” He tossed the torch into the tent. More guards
surrounded it, their flames pressed to the canvas.

“No!” Torin screamed. He made a move toward
the tent, but a line of guards blocked his path.

Whyn removed his bow from his shoulder, then
slid a gold-tipped arrow from the quiver hanging at his back. He
notched the arrow and pulled it back slowly, aiming it at Torin. “I
suggest you run, shell-rabbit,” he said with a grin.

Torin spun before he could think what he was
doing. With a girl in each arm, he dug his toes into the dirt and
pushed his legs forward. Nely and Gem pressed their knees into his
sides and clung to his neck, screaming in high-pitched terror. But
before he had gone any distance at all, a pain as hot as fire tore
through his back. He staggered, and looked down to see the tip of
an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Blood spilled down his
chest, smearing the legs of the girls still pinned to him.

“I suggest you run faster,” Whyn’s voice
shouted after him.

Then Torin heard the clank of the black
stallion’s harness, and the pounding of its hooves as Whyn
commanded it forward. Gem began to struggle, sending a burst of
pain radiating down Torin’s arm. “He’s coming!” she shrieked.

Torin grimaced, but dared not look back. He
tightened his hold on the wriggling girl and ran as best he could,
but his speed was nowhere fast enough. For a moment he thought to
give up. He could not hope to outpace Whyn who was now on the hunt.
Would it not be better to stand and fight, regardless of the
outcome? The loves of his life were gone and his pride all but
demolished. What did he have to live for?