CHAPTER TWO
Excerpt from The Book of the Damned,
Second Warlord of Tiyan
The demon’s power enabled me to save a life today. I never felt such gratitude as I did in the moment the little girl’s eyes opened! If I’d known how to use this magic last summer, I might have saved my dear queen and our daughter after they were attacked in the forest.
Father never warned me the demon would speak to me, but it does. It’s been my only companion since my father died many years ago. He insisted I stay within the walls, never take a life, remain faithful first to my people, second to my family. How I miss him! My uncle - -his most trusted advisor - -is now mine, a man I trust but do not like. The demon does not care for him, either, and tells me stories too frightening to be true. It says my uncle killed my mate and daughter, not the bandits.
And yet, the creature is generous and lets me take as much of his magic as I need, enough to build our walls in a season’s time and make them stronger than the walls of my enemies. Its words are poison but its magic protects my city. We defeated the last of our enemies - -tonight is a feast in my honor, only none save my uncle and I know it was the beast who saved us all!
My son nears the age where my uncle says the demon must claim him as a host. I remember my own host day. If I could spare my son the pain…but it must be so. The demon protects us, heals us. I will teach my son the demon’s power and warn him about its lies. It yearns to be free again to destroy.
In the mind of a weaker man, it would drive him to madness. My uncle tells me this is why I must wait until my dear son is six or seven summers. He tells my heir the same words my father told me: do not leave the walls, never take a life, remain faithful to your people and family. To this, I remind my heir of my father’s creed: Tiyan above all else.
* * * * *
When a strip of yellow lit the edge of the night sky, Taran returned to his perch in a large window facing the sunrise. He tied a piece of black cloth around his eyes as the sun’s rays peeked over the neighboring buildings.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself to be one of the great cats he tracked in the forest. They were magnificent, powerful creatures in varying hues of gold and brown. He admired the graceful predators and often tracked them when he wanted to escape Landis.
The woman rose, her honey musk teasing his senses as she moved around the chamber. She approached him finally, and he snatched the small hand reaching toward him. She gasped and pulled away, but not before his thumb grazed her calloused palm.
"Your hands are rough," he said
"I work beside my men," she said. "What ails your eyes?"
"Light."
He moved into the shadows of the chamber and pushed up his eye-band to see her.
Rissa was dressed in clean men’s clothing, her hair braided once more. Two daggers perched at her rounded hips, and her brilliant eyes glowed in the sunlight. He looked her over.
"Your arm is healed," he said.
Rissa looked down self-consciously and clasped her arms behind her back.
"You will remain here for twelve nights," she said. "But if I ask you to leave, you will do so without questioning me."
She was small to make such demands, but he had learned from years of watching his mistresses plot that even a small woman was capable of great manipulation, deceit, and power.
"You would deny me refuge if I seek it?"
Her jaw clenched. "You must serve me as I ask, and then go. I would be foolish to let you free within my walls."
"I don’t think you’re foolish, but I’ll leave when I wish and no sooner."
"If it is refuge you seek, you will only be granted it by swearing allegiance to us."
"That I will not do," he said with a shake of his head. "I swore no allegiance to Landis. I swear none to you."
"You’re not a servant of Landis?"
"I am a slave of Landis, nothing more. One day I will take my freedom."
A knock at the door prevented her response. She searched his face before relenting and crossing to the door. He listened to the hushed conversation that devolved into a hushed fight.
Rissa slung the door closed and moved toward a small table where her sword waited. She froze as her hands reached for her book rather than the sword.
The air of the chamber stilled and grew heavy, as if it meant to suffocate him. The hair on the back of his neck and forearms rose. He moved closer to her in case the unseen threat attacked, hands on the hilts of his daggers.
"You can read."
The inhuman monotony of her tone made him realize she was the threat.
"I can."
Her hand rested on the book. She lifted the wooden cover before dropping her hand as if the book were hot enough to scald her.
"How is your leg?"
"I heal quickly, though not as quickly as you."
"Can you read these symbols? I cannot," she said, flinging a hand toward the desk.
"I can."
His response made her turn, and he stared. Black pupils swallowed the color of her eyes. The darkness peering out of her eyes was ancient and evil. Coldness slithered through him. Her face stilled until she looked as cold and lifeless as a statue.
He didn’t know what magic she possessed, but it was unlike anything he’d ever seen.
* * * * *
She knew this man. He had come to her in the dream in which he killed her. His face had been blurry, his dress different. Before the moment when she saw the book, she hadn’t wanted to connect the spectral figure of her mind with the very real man before her.
The hibernating creature within her shook itself awake and began crawling through her blood. It was cold, so cold it seared. It had not been awake for five years, since…since she had killed her father.
The monster stirred when she was threatened, but had never awoken completely before. This time, the demon would not fall again into its deep slumber. The demon had chosen her successor, as her father said it would.
The man before her was poised like an animal on a hunt, his penetrating, dark eyes pinned on her.
She’d never seen a man quite like he who stood before her. He was built like any warrior, but it was the sharpness of his gaze that made her uneasy. His eyes were observant and restless, his eyebrows thick and low, and his features hard. Scars were visible on one cheek, on the back of his neck, and on the wide upper body that was exposed the previous day.
He was the perfect host for the demon: strong, confident, intelligent.
She blinked and released her breath. Her muscles were tense enough to ache. She turned away, seeking to suppress the beast, and grabbed her sword.
"Come, slave," she said, and started for the door.
She felt sick.
* * * * *
The disturbing sensation of being in a room with an otherworldly creature faded as he followed her into the hallway. He lowered his eye-band once more, engaging his other senses. He sensed her tension slide away, and with it, the darkness.
He soon felt the heat of morning as they stepped from the immense building out of a side door and into the fresh day. Sirian waited, his dark eyes going from Rissa to Taran, where they settled.
This danger Taran understood. He felt the warning in Sirian’s intense glare. It made his blood hum with impending battle fever, but he ignored the silent challenge. He was not there for the woman, not there to take Sirian’s position.
Several burly guards bowed to Sirian and Rissa and trailed them into the street. He followed at a distance, keeping to the shadows in order to lift his eye-band and peer at the world around him. Rissa's sharp glance found him twice, as if to ensure he continued to follow them.
The sun pushed aside the shadows as it emerged from the depths of the distant sea until it sat on the horizon, casting long shadows and brilliant bars of light into the walled city. Dwellers of the many buildings around him stirred with the rising sun.
He took in the different manners of dress, the different features and colors, and the variety of accents and languages he heard as he walked. There were three women to every one man he passed. The women were of all ages while the men were either young or elderly, their numbers gutted by war. Even Landis, which was constantly at war, did not have such a void of able-bodied men within the city.
There were a great many children whose cheerful voices and tiny forms darted by him several times. In Landis, the children were closeted away for fear of being snatched and sold into slavery.
Why did they not seem inflicted by the harshness his people knew? There were no signs of famine or diseases that oft struck Landis, no fights in the streets for a higher position in the warlord-king’s court or among his chosen men, no brawls over who would mate with a woman of age. The oddities of Tiyan made him recall the wives’ tales told about the city’s magical powers.
"Taran! Keep up!"
Rissa's voice drew him from his thoughts. She waited for him to catch up then ducked through a door leading from the inner city beyond the walls, and he followed. His shoulders hunched instinctively as he felt the eyes of the guards atop the walls on him. No swarm of arrows pierced his back as he walked away from the walls.
It was as he exited the walls that he saw where the men of the city were. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of white tents were neatly aligned outside the wall. He squinted to survey Tiyan’s western defenses. The kingdom perched on a cliff overlooking an ocean of velvet blue. Lines of tents were tucked between the outer wall of the city and the edge of the cliff.
The heavy scent of fragrant sea swept over him, the chill of the ocean kept out of the city by its thick walls.
Dozens of men sparred in small groups along the cliff. His blood quickened at the idea of joining them. He loved war, the all consuming sensations of battle from the metallic scent of weapons and blood to the burn of his muscles as he fought beyond his normal capabilities. There was nothing like battle to make a man feel alive!
Rissa, Sirian, and the guards headed toward the sparring men. He held out as long as possible before his watering eyes forced him to lower his eye-band. His senses painted a scene in the darkness behind his eyelids.
Sirian partnered with Rissa while the guards fanned out around them, one alert while the other four paired up to spar. None of them made any move to invite him to their practice, so he moved away, toward the closest group of five.
He watched quietly until one of the men eyeing him approached. He raised his eye-band to meet the gaze of the warrior, a man with dark eyes and hair and cocoa skin.
"I’m Kellin," the warrior said, raising his chin in greeting.
"Taran."
"We saw you fight last night," Kellin said, and drew his sword. "Can you fight without your eyes?"
"I can," Taran confirmed.
"How?"
"I learned to fight in the dark," was all he said, not wanting to invite more questions by mentioning his time in the catacombs.
"Never heard of anyone fighting in the dark," Kellin said with a small smile. "You are either a liar or very good!"
"Very good," he said without hesitation.
"Join me!"
Taran nodded and stripped off his tunic and excess weapons before dropping into a fighting stance opposite his challenger.
Kellin struck first. The Tiyan warrior fought with efficiency, skill, and determination. Better yet, he was eager and passionate about battle, a rare trait among the warriors of Landis, who were forced to fight or starve!
Taran settled into a comfortable morning with the good-natured warriors of Tiyan. His skill, agility, and strength went unmatched and quickly won him solid admiration among the men. He bowed out after several rounds to watch a heated match between two warriors casting loud taunts at each other as they battled.
Unlike Landis warriors, who were suspicious others meant to take their places, the Tiyan warriors accepted him quickly.
Make me proud, Jame would have said.
He smiled to himself as he thought of the ancient man. Jame would have been happy at Tiyan. If the elderly man had only waited a few more years to die, he might have left the underground hell and lived to see this wonderful world. Taran doubted the people of Tiyan would spit on an elder like Jame as the people of Landis did.
Taran’s attention swept to the walls behind him, and he felt a pang of yearning and regret. What was it like to have a home worth fighting for? With the thought came an image of Jame, who told yearning tales of such a place he recalled from his youth.
He looked in time to see Sirian fling Rissa over his shoulder. She landed hard on her back. Sirian stood over her and planted his hands on his hips, frowning. The guards around the two glanced at the older man with visible unease.
Taran resisted the urge to protect her as he might Jame from Landis warriors, reminding himself of what he felt in her presence earlier.
Sirian and Rissa glared at each other with animosity that bespoke a brittle relationship. Sirian snatched his tunic and stalked away. Taran waited only a moment longer before approaching. The woman tossed her head back and breathed deeply.
"Spar?"
Dark circles smudged the delicate skin beneath her clear eyes. Her face was flushed from exertion and anger. Her eyes skimmed over him. After a small hesitation, she nodded. He settled into a fighting stance, unusually satisfied at the prospect of engaging her at any level.
She struck first fearlessly. Taran met her blows and then attacked without his brute force, instead assessing her ability to react. She was unafraid and sure-footed, agile, and well-disciplined. He grudgingly admitted that Sirian had trained her well. She fought hard and with her heart, a combination that thrilled him.
He identified several major flaws in her defense, struck them multiple times to confirm, and caught her wrist to stop her. Her attention went from his body to his face, and she stepped away.
"You need more of an angle when you deflect," he told her. He raised her sword arm and angled her sword while explaining. "If you angle your sword, the blow glances off. Otherwise, your head will be cleaved in two."
Rissa looked at him hard. Her breathing was regulated but heavy, her scent and heated nearness aiding battle fever in agitating his blood.
"Try," he ordered, and stepped back.
He thought her ready to refuse, but when he struck, she made an effort to block as he said. He adjusted her arm again and stepped back, hammering at her until she reacted the way he wanted. He corrected one other movement and slowed their pace until it resembled that of the youths being trained a short distance away. He watched her form as she struck and defended.
"Rissa." Sirian’s cool voice broke into his quiet focus.
Rissa bristled but straightened.
"You’ve done enough. It would not be wise to tire yourself," Sirian informed her.
His eyes were on Taran.
"I’m actually learning from him, Sirian," was Rissa’s arch response.
Sirian’s gaze returned to hers, and the two exchanged a look that made the hair on the back of Taran’s neck rise once more. Sirian caved first.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "We are riding into the forest today. Since you choose to deliver the magic waters yourself, we can't risk losing Oceanan's support as you did Nilian last night. Their messenger won't wait long."
Rissa’s frame relaxed. She sheathed the sword.
"It would behoove us to leave before midday’s heat hinders you."
Taran stayed the sudden urge to challenge Sirian to a round. His tone was beyond insulting. When Rissa merely nodded, accepting the insult, he felt the urge to shake sense into the oblivious woman.
"Get your things," she ordered him. "You will come with us."
Taran obeyed before Sirian contradicted her.
"Taran!" Kellin called, trotting to join him as he pulled on his tunic. "Heed yourself. The old man has his eye on you."
Taran felt Sirian’s hard gaze again. He nodded once before following the woman. Sirian gave him a cold look as he passed. Ignoring him, he took his place at the rear of the procession and adjusted his weapons.
Aside from the dark moods of Rissa and Sirian, Taran sensed nervousness in the guards. The air was hot and heavy and promised to become unbearable quickly. They left the protected area behind the kingdom and started into the woods on a two-man trail. The shaded forest was cool and quiet, as if all the animals and trees watched and waited.
His skin crawled. Danger hedged the kingdom. It was not within the walls, the encampment on the cliff, or within the passionate people themselves. He couldn't pinpoint what made his instincts restless, but he also saw apprehension in the tense frames and roving eyes of those riding before him. Rissa was braced in the saddle as if expecting attackers at any moment.
The cool forest shade was soon defeated by the lack of air movement. The hot horse between his legs made him want to walk rather than ride. He loosened what clothing he could and rolled his sleeves. Those ahead of him grew more restless with the passing time, eerie quiet, and stifling heat.
He heard a distant sound and cocked his head to listen. It did not come again; it would not. Stationary scouts shifted only when necessary. He gauged the watcher to be a good distance away, close enough to see their movement and numbers but far enough not to see their armament. Another rustling followed, this one much closer and to the left of their trail.
One scout meant observation; the second, danger.
Taran nudged his horse forward into a slow trot. He maneuvered past the two trailing guards and slowed his horse behind Sirian.
"We’re being watched." He spoke loudly enough for Rissa to hear.
"This is a safe route," Sirian returned, unconcerned.
"There’s more than one scout," Taran said, eyes on Rissa’s back. "We must retreat or risk falling into an ambush. The forest does not lie about these dangers."
Rissa turned to look at him, then Sirian.
"Sirian?" she queried.
"The route is safe, Rissa," Sirian said firmly. "I would not have brought us this way if not."
They continued. Irritated at the rebuke, Taran prepared himself.
He sensed the ambush long before it came. He heard the distant movement as attackers neared, the adjustment of the men’s emplacement, even the loading of arrows and stretching of bows. He inched closer to Sirian’s horse but said nothing. Rather than warn them again, he tied his reins to his horse’s mane, freeing up his hands to draw his knives. He guided the horse with his legs, testing its sluggish responsiveness as the attackers prepared to pounce.
He amused himself briefly with the thought of eliminating Sirian himself once the battle began. His gaze fell to the woman’s back. For her sake, he hoped they were being stalked by inept bandits and not by bloodthirsty warriors like those from Landis.