Akiri: The Scepter of Xarbaal Page 6

“Do you not want to know what it is I seek?”

  “I assume you will tell me when I need to know.”

  “Indeed.” The king looked searchingly into his eyes. “I wonder… does it not seem odd that I was so close at hand? You executed General Kirlon only three days ago, and yet here I am.”

  “I did not give it thought, Your Highness.”

  “Of course not. You are trained not to question me. Why would you ever dream of such dissent? But now, I want you to consider the situation. I need to know if you can guess what has brought you here before me today.”

  Akiri closed his eyes and gave the matter careful thought. He stood absolutely still and silent for several minutes. Then, when he had what he considered to be a solution, he opened his eyes. The king was waiting patiently.

  “You have it then?” Zemel asked.

  “I cannot say for certain, Your Highness, but my instincts tell me that you knew of General Kirlon’s plan to assassinate me in advance. Your lack of surprise at the events I related when we spoke outside suggests this to be true. As did your statement that you had already heard of the volkar’s involvement. If you were indeed previously aware of these facts, then setting up this trial must have some hidden purpose. Regardless of the House Galliani’s wealth, you would never allow them to question your law that states it was my duty to act as I did. Nor would you have provided them with a warrant for my arrest. Not without a reason I am unaware of. Finally, that yourself, together with sufficient nobles to form the proper number of witnesses, were all close at hand suggests that you timed this meeting precisely. You wanted them to see me accused so that they might spread the word throughout the court.”

  Zemel raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do all this?”

  “Because you intend to find me guilty,” Akiri replied.

  “Yes, I do,” the king admitted. He then smiled. “You are absolutely right of course. Right in every respect. I knew that fool Kirlon would attempt to have you killed. His overblown ego would not allow him anything else. And I knew that you would do your duty when he failed. But I promise you that there is a very good reason behind all this subterfuge.” He nodded to Kortain.

  The old man stepped forward and produced a scroll from within the folds of his robe. Unfurling the document, he held it up so that Akiri could see the drawing of a magnificent scepter heavily bejeweled with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. The handle was etched with strange symbols, and the top crowned with an eagle’s claw clutching a black egg that, assuming the drawing was to some kind of scale, must easily have been the size of a man’s fist.

  “Do you recognize this?” Kortain asked.

  Akiri shook his head.

  “It is the Scepter of Xarbaal.”

  “I have read about it, My Lord,” Akiri said. “It was carried by the Syrizian god of death.”

  “What else do you know about it?” Kortain pressed.

  “Very little. The legend says it was stolen by the King of Syriz a thousand years ago. It drove him so mad that in the end his own children killed him in his sleep and hid the Scepter away.”

  “It is more than a legend,” corrected Kortain. He rolled up the scroll and placed it back inside his robe. “The Scepter of Xarbaal really does exist. Your father stole it from the king, and this is what you must now recover for him.”

  Akiri furrowed his brow.

  “You object?” asked Zemel.

  “No, Your Highness. It’s just that the Scepter of Xarbaal is said to be dangerous. Too dangerous to be wielded by mortal man. I fear only for your safety.”

  “Legends are often exaggerated,” the king said, dismissively. “I wielded this Scepter myself. With its power I attempted to bring peace to this troubled land, but your father was corrupted by my enemies. He stole it and hid it away from me. Because of his betrayal, we have been forced to endure a never-ending war. I want you to help me bring peace at last.”

  “Just tell me what I must do,” Akiri said, bowing his head.

  Zemel drew a breath. “I have recently discovered that your father passed the Scepter on to his brother, Tuvarius. Only he knows of its location. Unfortunately, he is being protected by King Lanmar of Galfaria. I need you to gain your uncle’s trust and find out where the Scepter has been hidden. Once you discover that, you must retrieve it and bring it to me. On your return to Acharia, report to your Dul’Buhar training garrison and await my summons.”

  “It will be done,” said Akiri. “I will leave at once.”

  “I’m afraid it will not be so easy,” Zemel told him. “Tuvarius is far from a fool. He will know very quickly if you still have any connection to me. Should that happen, then all this business of bringing you here will have been for nothing. The only way to succeed is if you are truly separated from my power… and from your own. This will leave you vulnerable of course, but it is the only way you will be able to get close enough to him.”

  “How will this separation be achieved?”

  The king held up the oath stone. “I must release you from your bond. Once done, all the strength and power that you receive from this stone will vanish. You will become a normal man, possessing only the gifts with which you were born.”

  The idea of losing his bond with the king – and with the Dul’Buhar – was devastating; far more daunting than the prospect of merely losing his strength. While still considering the consequences, Akiri realized that he had been staring at the floor for an uncomfortably long time. He lifted his head to meet the king’s eyes with firm resolve. “I will carry out your will, Your Highness. Regardless of the cost.”

  The king took a step forward and placed his hands on Akiri’s massive shoulders. “You will be richly rewarded for your service. This I swear.”

  “I would ask only that once the Scepter is in your hands, I am allowed to once again take my oath and return to my duties with my men.”

  “Should you succeed, I will grant you far more than that, Akiri.”

  Zemel gave him a fond squeeze before backing away. “What comes next may be unsettling, and what follows, even worse, but I trust you can endure.”

  Akiri steeled himself and nodded. “I will, Your Highness.”

  Fully extending his arm, King Zemel held out the oath stone in his open palm. “Jarduun Malakar!” he shouted, his voice booming like thunder.

  The oath stone rose and hovered just a few inches above the king’s hand. Akiri felt an odd warmth penetrating his flesh, saturating him to the very core. Zemel then pulled his hand sharply back, and in a puff of dust, the suspended stone vanished.

  At once, the warmth became a searing heat. His body stiffened and his eyes were blinded. Mercifully, this lasted for only a matter of seconds. As his sight returned, the pain subsided. But a moment later he found that his legs could no longer support his own weight. He fell hard to his knees. Every muscle in his once powerful body had been completely drained of strength.

  “This condition will last only for a day or two,” Zemel assured him. “Though your former powers will not return until you once again swear on the oath stone, you will still retain the strength of a normal man. And with your many other skills, that should be enough.”

  Akiri wanted to respond, but instead fell over onto his side.

  “Bring the fools back in,” the king told Kortain. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As the line of nobles re-entered, Akiri could hear the shocked whispers at seeing him lying helpless on the floor. Carlotta and Freidris came to the fore. The smug grins on their faces filled him with anger. They would get what they deserve soon enough, he consoled himself, remembering what the king had in store for them before departing the manor. For now, though, they were savoring their imagined victory.

  “I have found Commander Akiri guilty of murder,” Zemel announced. “The penalty for this is death.”

  Freidris smiled viciously. Akiri could tell that he was already imagining himself dealing the fatal blow.

  “But I have taken into account his loyal
service,” the king continued. “Therefore, I will be merciful. Commander Akiri is to be expelled from the Dul’Buhar and exiled from my kingdom.”

  A loud gasp flew from Carlotta’s mouth. “But, Your Highness!” she cried out.

  Her outburst drew a furious glare from the king, but she pressed on regardless. “A member of my family has been murdered, and yet his killer is allowed to live. How can this be?”

  “You will hold your tongue,” snapped Zemel. “Or I will have it cut out.”

  The threat was sufficient. Carlotta regained control and lowered her head.

  The king continued. “As you wish to have retribution, Akiri will endure thirty lashes at the hands of Lord Freidris. This is the end of the matter. The sentence will be carried out in the morning.”

  Rough hands pulled Akiri to his feet and dragged him outside, then tossed him back into the cage. He could feel a little of his strength returning, but not enough to do more than roll over onto his back. As he did so, a voice sounded.

  “Just because the king has given you mercy, don’t think you’re going to escape justice.” It was Lady Carlotta standing beside the cage. “And after Freidris has beaten the hide off you tomorrow, I’ll see that you receive it. Count on that, dog.”

  Akiri managed a weak laugh, which from the hissing curse spat at him, only served to infuriate her further. He smiled, imagining the look of surprise and horror on her face when the king unleashed his wrath upon her and her whelp. Still, he knew he should not take her threat lightly. She had clearly set something in motion with the intention of ensuring his death.

  He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him. There was nothing else to be done for now. He needed to recover his strength. Without that, even walking away into exile would be an insurmountable obstacle.

  That night, his dreams were troubled. Strange, disfigured faces shouted out from the heart of a raging inferno.

  Do not seek the Scepter. Flee, or you will die.

  But even in a dream, he would not bow down to fear. He was Akiri. Flee? Never. He would find the Scepter, and then rejoin his brothers… and his king.

  Chapter Four

  The chill morning air urged Akiri to wake just before dawn. Only the servants and guards were already up and about, busily preparing for when their masters saw fit to rise. He was now able to sit upright and lean against the bars while contemplating the coming day. The prospect of the lashes did not bother him at all. His limbs were still weak, but his mind remained perfectly strong. He had trained all his life to endure pain that would shatter the will of most men. He would not wail. He would not give them the pleasure of a single sound.

  It was well into the morning before the king emerged from the house. He didn’t look at Akiri at all – though Akiri was certain this snub was merely to make everything look as convincing as possible.

  In ones and twos, the nobles gradually gathered around the cage. The guards and servants spread out further back amongst the tents, all of them jostling for the best vantage points. Freidris was standing with his mother alongside the king, a coiled leather whip with a vicious steel tip in his hand. He grinned malevolently at Akiri, who simply smiled back and gave him an elaborate wink. It had the desired effect. Freidris’ face turned crimson with rage, his knuckles turning white with the tightness of his grip.

  King Zemel nodded to a soldier standing beside the cage, and the door opened on tired hinges. Akiri was dragged out, tied to the bars, and his shirt pulled from his back.

  “Get this over with, Freidris,” Zemel ordered. “I have no desire to be here for any longer than I need be.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” he replied.

  Akiri quieted his mind. He knew what to expect; he had felt the lash of a whip like this before. It took a focused mind to get through the pain. And a strong will.

  The snap of the first blow echoed from the surrounding trees. Waves of agony shot through him, but he remained silent, accepting the pain as a part of his self. A part of his reality. There was nothing he could do to avoid it, so instead he embraced it fully. Again the whip struck. But this time the sensation was dulled. It was as if his flesh had now become a suit of armor, protecting him from much of the stinging impact. Again and again Freidris let the whip fly, his loud grunts attesting to the effort he was putting behind each lash.

  Akiri heard the whispers coming from both noble and commoner alike. “Why does he not cry out?” they were all asking.

  He wanted to shout, Because I am Akiri of the Dul’Buhar. But he held his tongue.

  When the final blow was struck, he could hear Freidris panting and wheezing behind him.

  “Release him,” the king ordered.

  When the bonds were cut, he refused to collapse or even to slump low. Keeping on his feet with his head held high was essential to his pride. Quickly he put his shirt back on. He would not allow Freidris the pleasure of gazing upon the brutal damage he had inflicted an instant longer than was necessary.

  After a few deep breaths, though he was still feeling pathetically weak, enough of his strength had returned for him to walk without the need of support. In reaction to this, the sell-swords he had seen when first arriving pushed their way through the crowd and surrounded him. He noticed a sinister grin on Carlotta’s face. Whatever her plan, it was likely to involve one or more of these men.

  “Move it,” growled a large sell-sword with a broad scar across his right cheek. Grabbing Akiri’s arm, he shoved him in the direction of the road. It came as a shock to realize how much more powerful than himself the man was. It was an unfamiliar sensation.

  “He is to be taken to the border,” said the king. “If anything happens to him along the way, I shall hold each one of you responsible. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Very clear, Your Highness,” said another man, presumably the leader. He was tall and lean, with wavy auburn hair and sharp features. His leather armor was in better condition than that worn by the others. “He will arrive unharmed. You have my word on that.”

  Akiri was shoved again, this time almost losing his footing as he stumbled. He could feel blood oozing freely from the many open wounds across his back. His legs felt unusually heavy, and his arms hung limply at his sides, but he moved forward with as much purpose as he could muster.

  The walk to the eastern border would take at least three days. Once there, he would need to find a way of acquiring a weapon, clothing, and enough gold to sustain himself for the journey to Galfaria. But before any of that, he would need to survive whatever Lady Carlotta had in store for him.

  It was on the first night after they had made camp that more differences to his past life became apparent. The sell-swords secured him to a tree, then set about drinking and fighting until late into the night. Though his vision was still keen, he could no longer penetrate the shadows in anything like the way he had done before. Nor could he pick out the sounds of small night creatures that had previously come to him so easily. The pace of the day’s march had hit him hard too. Normally, even after a whipping, it would have presented no challenge at all. Now, the sheer fatigue had him dozing involuntarily.

  The chill morning air woke him just before dawn. Though his legs were still sore, he felt stronger and far more capable of travel. The mercenaries awoke less than an hour later. After a meager breakfast of flatbread and a few mouthfuls of water, they were soon underway.

  This stronger start did not last long. It was not even midday when the first waves of nausea began to wash over him. He tried to focus his mind and control the churning in his stomach, but it was soon apparent that he could not. Unable to stop himself, he dropped to his knees and began vomiting repeatedly. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, while a sharp pain inched its way spitefully through his skull.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” demanded the leader. Akiri had heard him referred to as Borna.

  Akiri was incapable of responding. The nausea was overpowering, and within moments, he had emptied his stomach complete
ly. Utterly helpless, he was unable to control the violent spasms running through his body.

  “We can’t let him die,” one of the men said. “King Zemel will flay us alive.”

  He felt a rough hand lift his chin. “He’s white as a ghost.” His shirt was then lifted. “Look here, Borna. His wounds. They’ve already pussed up.”

  “So that’s it,” remarked the leader. “I bet that bitch of a whore Carlotta poisoned the poor bastard.”

  “We should kill him and bury him in the woods,” a low grumbling voice suggested.

  “If we do, King Zemel’s sure to know,” Borna shot back. “He’s a demon, that one. Eyes everywhere.”

  “What then?”

  Borna knelt down to examine Akiri for a few moments. He then looked up to the others. “There used to be a healer living not far from here. Mended my leg a few years back. She might know what to do if she’s still around.”

  Although he was unable to speak, the word poisoned repeated itself over and over in Akiri’s mind. The thought of dying in such a way infuriated him; it was death through trickery, the lowest form of deceit. It was now obvious that Freidris had poisoned the whip, though it had to have been with something slow acting, so as not to rouse the king’s suspicions. He tried to go over in his mind the different poisons he had come across in his studies, but it soon became too much. His head was now swimming crazily, and he was unable to move his limbs even the smallest amount.

  The last thing he felt before darkness closed in was his body being lifted by two pairs of hands.

  * * *

  The dim light of dawn filtered in through his half-closed eyes. Akiri lay on his back. He struggled to rise, but with his hands shackled behind his back and straps fixed tightly across his neck, waist, and legs, it was impossible. His head was resting on one side, allowing him to see that he was in the rear of a wagon.

  “Good,” said a soft feminine voice. “I was hoping you would wake before they arrived.”

  “Where am I?” he croaked. His mouth was dry and his tongue swollen. The wagon shifted as someone climbed up. “Why am I in chains?”