Akiri: The Scepter of Xarbaal Page 2

  Ragnir’s broken wings continued to beat furiously, at least slowing their descent sufficiently to save them from a truly devastating impact. Even so, when contact came, it was still hard enough to rattle every bone in Serhan’s body. But there was no time to worry about that. Sharply aware that they were well behind King Zemel’s lines and completely surrounded, he jumped clear of Ragnir and was ready in an instant, sword in hand. His eyes darted back and forth, seeking attackers. But the enemy soldiers nearby were already backing away. No one among them was fool enough to challenge a Tul’Zahar and his dragon, even when they were so obviously wounded.

  Ragnir’s tail was riddled with deep gashes and both wings hung limply, broken in the middle. Her back leg had been mangled beyond healing by Drewin’s dragon. After blowing out a guttural breath, she limped forward to meet him.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” Serhan told her. He drew in what little power he had remaining and used it to ease the dragon’s suffering. She lowered her massive head, pressing it into his chest while moaning softly.

  It was a short respite. The ground shook as the three traitors landed a few yards to his back. Even though his wards were still in place, he knew there was no way for him to fight them all successfully. He spun to meet his enemy with rage-filled eyes.

  “Don’t be a fool,” warned Drewin. “It’s over.”

  “Face me, you coward,” Serhan challenged. “Or has the king taken your courage as well as your honor?”

  Drewin sneered. “To face one as accomplished in single combat as you is not an act of courage… Commander. It is rank stupidity. No. I think it would be much better if you just throw down your sword.”

  By now, Thradus and Sadich had urged their dragons to the left and right. Cruel little smiles appeared on their faces. He read it as eager anticipation. There was a certain kind of warrior who savored the killing to come. They belonged to that breed.

  Serhan glanced down at the jewel that held the aspect of his beloved wife. “Very well, I will submit,” he said. “But only on one condition.”

  “And what is that?” asked Drewin.

  “Find a way to spare my family.”

  Drewin heaved a weary sigh. “I wish I could help you. I truly do. But King Zemel has plans for them. The boy in particular.”

  Serhan’s grip on his sword tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “I see.”

  There was nothing else left to debate. All he could do now was go down fighting and die with the honor expected of a Tul’Zahar commander.

  The sinews of his powerful legs tensed. He could hear the dragons creeping in on either side of him. Drewin, on the other hand, maintained his position further back. Shrewd as always.

  In a blur of speed, Serhan ran left, straight toward Sadich. Startled by this unexpected assault, the young dragon reared up, throwing its rider momentarily off balance. Before the creature could lower its head to offer a defense, Serhan dived low and rolled. Sadich twisted in the saddle and thrust his blade downwards, but Serhan easily avoided the strike. An instant later, he was back on his feet. With a grunt of satisfaction, he brought his sword hard down on the young man’s shin. The razor sharp steel sliced effortlessly through armor, flesh, and then bone. Sadich instantly dropped his weapon, a wail of agony bursting from his mouth.

  Serhan stepped in to finish the job, but just as he raised his sword, a mighty swipe from the dragon’s talons struck him in the center of the back. It was like being hit with a battering ram. The sheer force sent him flying more than ten feet through the air. As he thudded back down onto the ground, violent spasms of pain gripped him, and he could feel blood already soaking his back. Only the superb craftsmanship of his armor had saved him from being ripped to shreds. Gasping for air but with sword still in hand, he somehow struggled onto his side.

  Sadich had fallen from the saddle and was writhing on the ground, his lifeblood spilling over. The dragon, seeing its rider’s distress, was standing over him defensively.

  Serhan cast his eyes over to the right, wondering why no attack had come from that flank yet. It was quickly explained. His beloved Ragnir, though severely injured, had her jaws clamped tightly around the other young dragon’s neck – a fatal grip from which it would never be able to struggle free. Thradus could see the inevitability of this and was scrambling to dismount, though not fast enough. With a sharp flick of her head, Ragnir flung the lifeless dragon contemptuously aside with Thradus still clinging atop it. She then turned her attention back to Serhan. With wings dragging and limping even more heavily than before, she started toward where he was lying.

  Serhan opened his mouth to cry out a warning, but before he could utter a sound, Drewin’s dragon leapt forward to seize Ragnir from the rear. First its talons sank into her back; then its jaws clamped down around her muscular neck. It was a similar deadly grip to the one Ragnir herself had used only moments before. And like the young dragon, there was no escape for her either. Had she not been in such a severely weakened condition, she might have stood a fighting chance. As it was, she had none at all.

  Unable to bear the terrible sight, Serhan closed his eyes and let out an anguished scream.

  He attempted to rise, but it felt as if his back had been shattered by the dragon’s blow. Helpless, he could only lie there and desperately tried to shut out the sound of Ragnir’s death cries. When they finally ceased, something inside – a final acknowledgement of her bravery perhaps? – compelled him to look over at her ravaged body. Blood glistened across her beautiful scales, shimmering in the glorious sunlight and for one precious moment seeming to be so alive still, despite the fact that her eyes stared lifelessly into oblivion.

  “This is your own fault,” said Drewin, sliding down from his saddle.

  A short distance away, Thradus was knelt beside his dead dragon, frantically trying to use his healing magic to restore her life.

  “Tend to your brother instead,” ordered Drewin.

  The young man straightened his back and wiped his face. His gaze then fell on the fallen and helpless figure of Serhan. Springing to his feet, he ran headlong at him, eyes blazing with vengeful intent. Drewin moved swiftly to block his path and wrap restraining arms around his body. Thradus struggled and twisted violently for several seconds in an attempt to wrench himself free, but Drewin was far stronger and held him easily.

  “Sadich is dying,” he shouted, forcing the youth to look at him directly. “Go help him. Serhan will suffer for what he has done. I promise you that.”

  Slowly Thradus calmed and was allowed to pull away. After casting one more hate-filled glare at Serhan, he hurried over to tend his brother.

  Drewin loomed menacingly over Serhan. “Well fought, Commander,” he said. “The others didn’t last for more than a few seconds. But I knew not to underestimate you, even when outnumbered and taken by surprise. A pity Sadich and Thradus weren’t as careful.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. The inexperience of youth.”

  “Do what you came to do,” Serhan growled, lifting his chin to meet the eyes of his one-time friend. “I don’t care to hear your treacherous voice.”

  Drewin shook his head. “Defiant to the last. But you’re right. There is no need to prolong this.”

  After muttering a few words, his hands began to glow with a faint blue aura. He reached down and touched Serhan lightly on the forehead. The effect was immediate.

  Serhan saw a flash of brilliant white light… then utter blackness.

  * * *

  Consciousness returned once again. How many days he had been held, he could no longer tell. The stench of urine and feces mingled with the odor of burning coals. Sweat and blood blurred his vision, but he did not need sight to know where he was.

  The slow groan of the iron door followed by a thud of heavy boots told him that it must be time once again. Time for more pain.

  “I must say I’m impressed. I never imagined anyone could hold out for so long.”

  It was Drewin speaking. Serhan never had any troubl
e in recognizing his treacherous voice. He wanted to reply, to curse him as a coward, but his throat was too dry and swollen.

  “I thought you’d like to know that the allies are now in full retreat.”

  Serhan turned his head. He could make out only the misty outline of Drewin’s body. A few seconds later, he felt a cup filled with water being lifted to his lips. Much as he wanted to spit the liquid back into the man’s face, his thirst was too great. He couldn’t help but gulp at it greedily. A cool rag then cleaned his face and eyes. Drewin smiled down at him and took a step back.

  Seeing the traitor filled him with uncontrollable rage. He struggled violently against the chains securing his arms and legs to the rough wooden table, ignoring the pain caused by both the injuries suffered in battle and the days of relentless torture that had followed.

  “Calm yourself, Commander,” Drewin said. “I’m here to help you.”

  “Save your lies,” he croaked.

  Drewin put the cup against his lips once more, and again he drank. But this time he was able to hold back from swallowing the final mouthful and spat it back full in the face of his betrayer. It was only a very small victory, but it felt good nonetheless.

  Drewin calmly dried himself, seemingly unmoved by the display of contempt. “I understand your anger,” he said. “And I believe you when you say that you don’t know where the Scepter is hidden. Unfortunately, despite my assurances, the king does not. He still thinks you do.”

  “And if I did, do you think I would tell him?”

  “No. I am certain that you would not. Regardless of how long they torture you, you will say no more than you choose. But I also believe you would be more helpful if you were properly motivated. Perhaps if your wife and child were to be set free?”

  Serhan turned his head away. He could still see his wife’s face. And their son, Baylin, only five years old. The image of his raven curls, green eyes, and innocent features was too much. He did his best to choke the tears back. “You’ll kill them both anyway,” he muttered. “No matter what I do or say.”

  “Oh no,” Drewin retorted. “They will live. Even if you refuse his offer, the king will see to that. What you get to choose is the manner in which they live.”

  For the very first time, Serhan felt his resolve weakening. The hell King Zemel would put his family through was unimaginable. The door opened again.

  “Look,” said Drewin. “Your son is unharmed.”

  Serhan heard tiny footsteps entering the room. Slowly, he turned his head back. There stood Baylin. He was gazing up at him, his tiny face twisted in confusion.

  Immeasurable sorrow washed over Serhan. It was harder than ever to keep his tears at bay. “Are you hurt, son?” he asked.

  Baylin shook his head, but said nothing.

  “And your mother?”

  “She’s… she’s with the king,” he replied, his voice uncertain and meek. “They told me she has to stay there until you do something for him.” He took a small, nervous step forward. “Will you do it, father?”

  Serhan looked into his child’s eyes and forced a weak smile. “I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?”

  Baylin nodded.

  “Then no matter what happens, just remember that I love you.” He twisted his face to one side. It was impossible to contain the tears any longer. “Take him away and then do what you must.”

  Drewin sighed. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy. I was sent to give you the king’s offer. Should you refuse, I am to kill you… while your son watches.”

  Serhan clenched his fists and stifled his sobs. He would not die sniveling like a coward. “Then do it,” he commanded. “Do it quickly.”

  After a lengthy pause, Drewin pulled a dagger free and placed the point directly over Serhan’s heart. “I was to make you scream and wail first. But even I have limits.”

  Serhan looked up and nodded. “For that, at least, I thank you.”

  Drewin nodded in return. “Farewell, Commander.”

  He leaned in, and the blade sank deep. Serhan gasped just once, and then went rigid.

  As the light of life faded, he could hear the whisper of his son’s cries.

  Chapter One

  The chirping of crickets and the lonely calls of wolves blended in perfect harmony with the wind as it whistled through the pine needles high above the ground. From this lofty position, a lone shadow watched patiently. He had been there for two days, his eyes fixed resolutely on his target, never moving a muscle and never tiring. With only soft leather shoes and a thin pair of black cotton trousers to cover himself, the chill air bit sharply at his exposed flesh. But he did not shiver. Nor did the thought of a warm fire and a soft bed enter his mind. His focus was absolute, and his will could shatter steel. The mane of jet-black hair hanging down to his shoulders was tied into rows of tiny braids and bound together at the tip by a single onyx bead. A dagger fastened to his belt was his only weapon. This was to be a killing of a quick and quiet nature, and a sword would only weigh him down. In any case, should he find himself in unexpected need of such a weapon, he knew he could always claim one easily enough from the dead.

  The small cabin just a hundred feet away to the north stood dark and unoccupied: a hiding place for rogues and bandits that was seldom used and – out of necessity – difficult to find unless you knew where to look. He had watched small animals enter through the broken windows, scavenging for whatever scraps might have been left behind. On one occasion a black bear had lumbered up to use the rough corner of the building to scratch its massive back. He had seen them all come and go. But they had not seen him. He had to ensure that no one did. Not until it was too late. That demanded a level of control few possessed; to be so utterly in command of your own body as to move soundlessly, lost to the naked eye. He was patient. He was fast. But most of all, he was deadly.

  The jingle of steel and the hiss of voices reached his ears. They were still some distance away, but his hearing was unusually keen, as it was with all of those who belonged to the Dul’Buhar. This ability had been a gift from their king and was a secret they guarded jealously. Their physical prowess was legendary, as was their skill in combat. But no one knew the full extent of their powers, nor were they allowed to ask. Doing so meant death.

  After several minutes, six torches appeared in the darkness to the east where the trees thinned and the ground became rocky and uneven. The assassin’s eyes penetrated the night and looked closely upon the faces of the men. At once, he knew. The one he was waiting for had arrived.

  Six men would be easy enough to dispatch. Particularly if they were the sort of sell-swords commonly found in the employ of merchants and lesser nobles. Though truth be told, he had almost been hoping for a greater challenge.

  This particular noble – Lord Yelsing – must have earned himself some very special interest. General Kirlon had handed him this assignment personally, insisting that it warranted his immediate attention. It didn’t matter in the slightest what the lord had done to merit a death sentence, but it was unusual for the Dul’Buhar to be sent on such a mundane mission. Normally, a small group of soldiers would have been considered more than sufficient to handle things of this nature.

  As the target drew closer, he took note of the sell-swords’ weary steps and sagging shoulders. It took them several attempts to force open the cabin door before they filed inside. Only a few minutes later, the windows glowed from lamplight.

  He waited for another hour before descending from his perch, leaping with uncanny agility from branch to branch in complete silence, then dropping the final ten feet and landing lightly on the balls of his feet. Drawing his dagger, he crouched low and moved forward. The fool hadn’t bothered to post a guard at the door. Not that it would have done him any good, even if he had.

  While easing closer, he kept a close watch for any shadows moving in the windows. But all was still and quiet. He took a moment to reassess his approach and position. Something wasn’t quite right. It was way too qu
iet. Men who had traveled to the point of fatigue would certainly fall asleep easily enough. But even when sleeping, they were by no means silent. Yet no hint of snores or groans reached his ears, nor any of the other sounds familiar to him from a life spent in a camp filled with warriors and soldiers.

  With all senses on high alert, he crept cautiously onward. Upon reaching the cabin, he immediately ducked beneath the window and closed his eyes to further enhance his hearing. Still not a sound from the sleeping men reached him; only the scuttle of mice, the wind, and the music of the forest. His grip on the dagger tightened.

  The unnatural silence was suddenly broken.

  “There’s no need to sneak about,” called a voice from inside. “I know you’re out there. Do come inside.”

  Springing upright, he backed away a few paces. Almost no one should have been able to hear his approach. Even one of his own would have had difficulty. But the fact was, whoever had called out had heard him… or at least knew he was coming.

  “Are you going to stand out there all night?”

  He took a few seconds to think. He had been betrayed. That much was without doubt. But by whom? And to what end? With no other course open to him, he walked to the door with determined strides and pushed it open.

  Sitting at a table over to the left was his target – Lord Yelsing, elegantly dressed in a black satin robe stitched with interlacing patterns of gold and white. Beneath this he wore a finely tailored white shirt with polished silver buttons and matching pants. His black leather boots were clean and unmarked, for all the world looking as if they had never so much as touched the ground before. An elegant, gold-handled sword hung from his belt. He was slightly built, with close-set eyes, a hawk-like nose, and a prominently jutting chin. A mop of curly golden blond hair fell loosely to his shoulders.