Lachlei felt the bones begin to knit in her leg. Why does Areyn want me?
The demon laughed again. The tenor was decidedly more unpleasant. You will find out, mortal woman.
Really? To kill me as he killed Fialan? I would’ve thought he’d send a second-rate lackey like you to dispatch me.
Not to kill… the demon said and gazed on her hungrily.
Lachlei suppressed a shudder. Instead, she met the demon’s yellow eyes. How far was she away from Fyren? Could she get to the sword before it could stop her?
You don’t frighten me, she mindspoke to it. She shifted her legs slowly to try to get her feet under her. Areyn doesn’t frighten me. Go tell your master I serve Rhyn’athel.
The demon laughed again. A strange way to serve the warrior god by sending him away, the demon said. You can explain that to Areyn when you satisfy him.
A knot twisted in her stomach at the mention of Rhyn’athel. What makes you think you’ll be able to capture me? A second-rate, soul-less lackey that has less worth than the filth on my boots…
The demon snarled and leapt at her.
Lachlei was on her feet, slashing at the demon, focusing all her power into the adamantine blade. The creature screamed as the dagger buried into it up to the hilt. Its massive tail thrashed and slammed her to the ground. Holding her with one talon, it pinned her to the earth, claws digging into her.
I grow tired of this little game, mortal, it sneered and yanked the dagger from its chest.
Lachlei screamed as she felt the burning poison enter her. The poison was like fire in her veins, and she writhed uncontrollably. As she opened her eyes, Lachlei saw Fyren several yards beyond. She reached out in desperation. “Fyren!” she screamed.
Suddenly, the sword was in her hand. She could not see it any more, blinded by the poison, but felt its familiar hilt. The demon shrieked as she thrust the blade upward, holding onto it with all her strength. Black demon blood poured around her. Her last cognizant image was of the demon falling on top of her. Lachlei fell unconscious.
70
Lachlei awoke cold and sick. How long she lay beneath the demon, she had no idea. She was soaked with blood and melted snow. She tried to move slowly, but every nerve screamed in agony. It was the poison—fortunately, this demon had used it with the intention to sedate her, not kill her. She thought back to Rhyn when he had taken a full shot of demon’s poison. She had healed him then, but now she suspected that Rhyn had helped her quite a bit—no one recovered from those terrible injuries that fast. Not even a first-blood.
Lachlei groaned and pushed the demon off her. Despite the gore, the demon had inadvertently saved her life by falling on top of her when it died. The heat from its massive body had kept her from freezing to death. She sat up and began retching uncontrollably; her stomach emptied its contents. After a few minutes, she stopped when there was nothing left but bile. She knew it was the poison that made her so ill.
Lachlei looked around. It was late afternoon by the long shadows of the trees. There would be other demons looking for her now that she had slain an arch-demon. She stared at the creature’s bulk, still smoldering hot against the grass. It had melted the snow around them. As she looked at the creature, it began disintegrating. She stood up and staggered. For a minute, her body threatened more retching fits, but it subsided. She focused on shapeshifting into a wolf, but it took too much power and left her feeling sick and exhausted. She had to find shelter—a place to make a fire and dry her clothing before she froze to death. Without food, she doubted she would have enough energy to do much anyway.
Is this how Rhyn intended her to die? Sick from demon poison; cold and alone? Lachlei inadvertently recalled the nights she had spent in his arms, so close to loving him, and yet, so distant. Despite herself, she missed him terribly.
“Rhyn,” she whispered. “Forgive me. I spoke rashly.”
Do not call on me in your darkest hour, for I will not hear your cries.
Lachlei nodded. She did not expect forgiveness. She searched for her dagger and found it lying on the ground, not far from her. She pulled Fyren from the arch-demon’s fading corpse and smiled grimly, looking at its blade. Rhyn had said its adamantine came from Athelren—of course, it would slay demons. Areyn had felt its bite as well, she thought. The evil she had sensed along the darkened blade could only be Areyn Sehduk.
Her enemy.
She looked at Fyren and thought of Athelren, something nagging at her poison-addled brain.
Ni’yah.
There were three Athel’cen. Rhyn had said that all three Athel’cen were in Elren. If the Laddel had been involved, certainly Ni’yah had been with them. Her mind brought forth the image of Telek. So like Rhyn, and yet, different. She had seen the sibling likeness and thought that Telek and Rhyn were related somewhere by blood. Each time she had seen Telek, she had seen Rhyn conversing with him. Of course, they had been brothers.
Odd that only once had she actually heard a portion of their conversation and they had broken it off. Rhyn had been exhausted then from destroying the Braesan and Telek had been distracted. Even so, they would slip in their familiarity with each other in front of her. Their conversations about the demons seemed odd then, but made sense now that Lachlei knew who they were.
Ni’yah was the god of her mother’s kindred, the Laddel. Ni’yah had been her mother’s god. Lachlei, having been raised with the Lochvaur, had been a follower of Rhyn’athel, not the wolf-god. But she was half Laddel and a first-blood of Ni’yah. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Telek.
“Ni’yah!” she whispered. “Wolf-god, I’ve never prayed to you, but I do so now. Rhyn’athel has abandoned me through my own fault and will not hear me. If you have any pity for Rhyn’athel’s fallen champion and your kinsman, aid me.”
The cold wind whispered its reply.
Lachlei stumbled to the edge of the melted ground, scooped up a handful of slushy snow and shoved it into her parched mouth. Survival was the first step. She could cut a lean-to with her dagger, but she doubted it would give her much protection against demons should they come around again. She scanned the area, but she could see little of the terrain in the dense pines. Still, she suspected higher, rocky crags might be more defensible and would provide adequate shelter against the wind.
She turned and walked parallel to the road. Her horse was gone and she doubted she’d be able to find it again in so much timber, assuming the demons hadn’t killed it. She could see rocky crags not far from where she stood. She followed the ridgeline, trudging through calf-deep snow, her feet becoming numb. In the waning light, she could now discern that the rocks ahead were not a natural formation, but ruins from an earlier time.
A lone howl rose up from somewhere in the fading light. It was close. Lachlei felt a supernatural chill run through her. She hesitated and drew Fyren once more. Using her powers, she tried to sense the presence out there, but sensed nothing—not even a wolf. She stared at dark forms of the trees and shuddered. Her cold mind must be playing tricks on her, she decided.
She made her way up the small hill to the ruins and halted. The stones were flat gray and stood like sentinels of an age long past. This had been a small shrine to the gods of light. It was very ancient and covered with dead vines and snow. She walked over to the shrine and dug away some of the vines with her cold fingers. The runes marked this clearly as an Athel’cen shrine—a shrine to Rhyn’athel and Ni’yah. As she traced the runes with her fingers, she could still feel the power within their cuts. It offered sanctuary.