“Who are you?” Ryne whispered.
“Me? I am a humble High Shin who wishes to see Denestia prosper as she did in the days of old. Before Materforging corrupted the gods and the great Eztezians. When men lived in peace and our world was joined as one.” Jerem gave Ryne a knowing smile. “Denestia needs you for what is to come as she needs every man, woman, or child of any power. Allow me an inkling of trust to take you with us. If you trust me this once, you may find you may need such services again. Services I would willingly give in your quest to discover your past.”
Instantly wary, Ryne frowned. “In exchange for?”
“Like I said, for our world’s prosperity.”
Ryne was tempted to ask Jerem for his assistance, beg him for his knowledge, but the pain from his torture hung like a cloud about him. He would trust Jerem to bring him to the Vallum, but nothing more.
Jerem cocked his head to one side. “Enough talk about days long lost for now. We leave for the Vallum immediately. The Knight Generals are here.”
As Jerem’s words ended, the tent flap opened. One by one, Knight Generals filed in. First entered a meaty-nosed waif of a man whose white armor inlaid with gold appeared too big for his frame, but somehow he still managed to puff up his chest. Behind him strode a broad-shouldered, red headed man with bushy eyebrows. His armor was scaled leather with several metal clasps at the joints of his elbows and knees, each carved in the shape of dartans. The last Knight General was a man with multiple scars across his face and missing an ear. His left eye was so bloodshot, red liquid floated on his eyeball, and the heavy crimson armor he wore seemed not to hinder him one bit. Each man carried a sword at their hips and held their helmets under one arm. The Lightstorm insignia stood out upon each breast.
The men bowed first to High Shin Jerem, then knuckled their foreheads to Knight Commander Varick. Their gazes took in Ryne, and their expressions varied from lips curled in scorn from the Knight General in white armor, to wariness for the one in leather, and indifference from the scar-faced man.
“Are we ready?” Jerem looked from one to the other.
“Not quite,” Ryne answered. He linked with Sakari and told him to enter.
The tent flap fluttered ever so lightly as Sakari glided into the tent. Feet shuffled for a moment, and the Knight Generals gave Sakari uneasy glances, hands hovering over sword hilts. Then they suddenly relaxed and breathed easier as if Sakari was some peer they recognized.
“Now, we’re ready,” Ryne said.
Jerem nodded, and his wispy brows drew together.
Ryne chose the same moment to open his Matersense. If he was to test his limits, then touching his power while the High Ashishin Forged was the best way.
Mater swirled about Jerem, gathering in thick bands of varied colors. The essences flowed in such a condensed form Ryne found it difficult to tell one from the other.
Ryne’s Scripts writhed, and his bloodlust seethed, so he sought the calm pond as he did when he lay in the Entosis. The voices called to him, one yearning for violence, the other for peace. He allowed the differing pulls to mingle with one another. As they drew together, they stilled each other, and the craving within him dwindled to a dull warmth lost deep in his mind. At peace, he focused on Jerem.
The High Ashishin smiled and thrust his hand out, palm open.
Reality tore. It was as if the air in front of them split down the middle. The world screamed. Vertigo took over and with it came a falling sensation.
A moment later, in bright morning sunlight, the entire party stood at the Vallum.
CHAPTER 39
Ancel inched forward on his stomach among the tall brush until he lay where he could see down into the camp. To his left and right, Mirza and Danvir took up similar positions while Charra guarded their rear. Below them, wispy smoke curled up from the remnants of the campfire’s smoldering coals before dissipating into the still air. Overhead, gray clouds hung near unmoving, heralds of more stormy weather. The four Sendethi soldiers camped below hadn’t stirred in hours, and even their watch appeared to have nodded off. Dampness on Ancel’s back came from a combination of the wet blades of grass and his perspiration. Despite the cool predawn air, sweat rolled down his face. He licked his salty lips both from a need to moisten the dry clay his mouth had become as well as from the anticipation sidling through his body.
Swathed in darkness so she appeared no more than a silhouette, Kachien crept from brush to small tree a few feet from the camp. The lookout’s head dipped a few times, each time stopping before his chin hit his chest. Snorting, he shook his head. Kachien froze. The man mumbled to himself, shifted for a more comfortable position, and settled down once more. Moments later, a snore rose from his position.
Kachien darted out from her hiding place, her body leaning forward, an arrow destined for its target. She moved as swift as a striking viper. The soldier didn’t even manage a grunt before Kachien’s hands swept across the area of his throat. Ancel could picture those black blades she used, hidden right now by the darkness, slicing through flesh and artery. The man slumped forward. Kachien caught him and eased him to the ground.
Slowly, she stretched upright, her head arching back to the sky, and rolled her neck from side to side. Ancel shivered to think about the enjoyment that seemed to ripple through her body. When her stretch ended, her head pointed toward the camp and the unsuspecting soldiers.
Watching in silent horror, Ancel tightened his grip on the small sword she’d given him. His stomach clenched. Gasps to either side of him matched his own emotions as Kachien snuck in utter silence to the first sleeping soldier.
Again, there was a small movement, followed by a jerk from the dead man.
Without pausing, she eased forward, a silent silhouette of death in the darkness. A slight motion and a mumbled curse that died in his throat, the next soldier’s flesh met her blades. The noise woke the third Sendethi.
Judging from her earlier speed, Kachien could have reached the man before he rose, but she didn’t try. The soldier leaped to his feet, fumbling about in his boiled leather armor, the still smoldering coals painting his bearded visage with its ruddy glow. He snarled and snatched his sword from his scabbard.
This time, Ancel couldn’t suppress his own gasp with the swiftness in which Kachien moved. Her form was a blur flashing by the firepit. The Sendethi’s hand rose to swing. He never finished the attack. Black blades flashed across his armor parting it like paper. With a gurgle, he collapsed.
Bile rose in Ancel’s throat, not just from seeing the murder, but sick from what Kachien represented. He bit back the sensation, the sour taste filling his mouth. Struggling to remain calm, he eased down the hill the way they’d come, his legs and thoughts wooden. The feel of the grass and uneven ground were distant brushes against his boots.
How could he have fallen for this woman, this heartless killer? The quick deaths he witnessed moments ago, and the times she’d run off back in Randane replayed over and over. Was this to be his destiny? To be caught within the throes of his power with death being the only way to appease it. He squeezed his eyes tight against the thought.
Despite the revulsion he harbored toward Kachien’s acts, he also pitied her. To be unable to function properly until she answered her power’s craving was a burden he couldn’t begin to comprehend. How did she manage to live in such a way? Even as he thought it, he knew he’d do the same if given no other choice. The idea of killing himself to be free of such a curse was beyond him.
I must’ve been a fool to think I could control such power. Look what a monster it has made of her. What chance do I stand if and when the power takes me in the midst of my emotions?