Heirs of the Fallen: Book 03 - Shadow and Steel (29 page)

Adham wrapped Ulmek’s arm around his neck and hoisted him to his feet. He glanced once more at Leitos, an unsettling awe lighting his eyes, then turned and carried Ulmek into the gleaming passage.

Leitos pivoted to meet the Faceless One’s next assault. Instead of crossing blades with him, Leitos ducked low and lunged, stabbing his black sword at the burning figure’s heart. The Faceless One easily avoided the strike. Leitos flung himself out of reach, then braced his feet.

The Faceless One laughed. “Fight as you will,” he said, “but you do so in vain. Better to attempt the capture of the wind in your hands.”

As he spoke, he changed from a man into a shapeless figure with a hundred arms, each bearing a flaming sword. As Leitos retreated after Adham and Ulmek, those blades twirled, creating whirlwinds of fire. Leitos inched back, and when a sword snaked out, he blocked it and retreated farther.

“Have you lost the will to fight?” the Faceless One mocked. “Has your hatred turned to cowardice?”

With a shout, Leitos lashed out, slashing and stabbing, but his black blade cleaved only empty space where the Faceless One had been. He tried again, but his foe shifted faster than his eye could follow. Tendrils of worry gripped his heart. If he could not even touch this creature when he wanted to, how could he believe a chance existed for victory?

“You have no hope of defeating me,” the Faceless One admonished. “No matter the puny power you have taken for yourself, you are still but a man.”

“And what are you,” Leitos said, resuming his cautious retreat, “if not a man with those same powers?”

Laughter boomed. “I am a god.”

“A god?” Leitos glanced over his shoulder at his father. Ulmek now tottered along at Adham’s side, keeping one hand on his shoulder for support. The Throat waited not far ahead. He turned back. “Kian Valara, my own grandfather, a god? Long years I spent grubbing in the sand and rock of Geldain, all the while listening to tales of your deeds. Only one story my father ever mentioned spoke of a god—in it, you destroyed the one who named himself so. Is it not strange that you now take that mantle for yourself?”

The many-armed figure drew up short. “Prince Varis Kilvar was a petty fool who did not know his proper place. He thought his gift greater than it was, believed he could challenge and rule over all, even the makers of the world. His pride and ambition destroyed him … as will yours.”

“What pride can a former slave have?” Leitos retorted. “I have no wealth, no station, and no desire for either.”

The fiery shape of the Faceless One leaned near in a posture of curiosity. “Then what do you desire?”

Leitos frowned. The voice was still Kian Valara’s, but the tone had changed, a subtle difference—

“Hurry!” Adham cried.

Leitos looked around. His father waved frantically from the threshold of the Throat of Balaam. Ulmek had already stepped through.

“Tell me the longing of your heart,” the Faceless One urged, as Leitos turned back to face him. “Tell me, and I will bless you with those wants. Tell me….”

Leitos’s smile hid the tumult building within him. Powers beyond reckoning surged, an instant from breaking free. It was all he could do to keep his voice from shaking. “In all the world, only your death matters to me.”

He said it so calmly, so quietly, that the Faceless One did not respond. Leitos filled his mind with an image of the obsidian throne, and upon it the Faceless One, and then imprisoned both within a pillar of black—

Where the demon had been, now only what Leitos had pictured stood before him. Muted shrieks filtered through the opaque cage.

But it was not finished. Not yet. Leitos feared that what he had done, all by means outside his understanding, could just as easily be undone. He must erase the Faceless One from Creation.
But who do I destroy … the creature, or my grandfather?

His hesitation did not last long. He made his choice and focused on creating a vision of Kian Valara sitting within the pillar. His grandfather, a man he had never met, until now. Despite the worthy deeds of his youth, he must have fallen to the lure of power at some point, and become the betrayer of all the world. And upon him, upon that throne, upon the chamber in which it sat, Leitos unleashed all the dark powers caught inside himself.

In a single, focused blast, the Powers of Creation, those never intended for the hands of men, turned all in its path to dark, smoking glass. At the same instant, Leitos swooned drunkenly, for a moment his mind and body seemingly in two different places—

When his mind caught up to the rest of him, the darkness of the Faceless One’s chamber fell swiftly away, as if a curtain had been torn back from a window that opened on a world of pure white.

Squinting against the sudden glare, Leitos fought to stand against a screaming gale, its breath colder than anything he had ever known, cold enough to turn tears to ice. Wind-driven snow stung his cheeks, pricking his skin like ground glass.

Where am I?
The thought filled him with terror. He did not know if what he had done to destroy his enemy had failed. And if he had failed, then the Faceless One, the Bane of Creation, had won.

“No,” he murmured in disbelief, his voice swallowed by the white storm. Louder, a shout of outrage and regret.
“NO!”

Then, straight ahead of him, carried on the back of the shrieking wind, he heard a dwindling shout.

He bent his head against the storm and struggled forward, each step sinking to his knees in feathery snow. He avoided thinking about the white cold, about where he was, and about how he had gotten there.

Out of the storm materialized a sprawled shape. A man, facedown, clad in leathers and furs. Beyond him, almost lost amid the shifting white gale, stood a black stone tower of graceless construction.

Of their own volition, Leitos’s feet slowed, and his hand sought his sword. A memory flitted through his mind when he touched the hilt, of how the weapon had looked while in the Faceless One’s throne room, black as the demonic souls of its forging.

But this was not that accursed blade, and the power to forge it had fled him.

He yanked at the hilt of the blade given him by Ba’Sel, and found that ice had welded it into the scabbard. He tried again, but it was no use. It did not matter. He would not need it.

Leitos halted above the still figure, working his cold, stiffening fingers to keep them supple. He kicked the figure onto his back, and found that he was again just a man. Kian Valera.

Leitos stared into the unconscious face of his oppressor, a face so like his own, and thought of Zera’s sisters, Belina with her visions, and of Nola, who looked so much like Zera. He thought of his father and the pain of revelation that must be, even now, crushing his spirit. He thought of Ulmek and Ba’Sel, of Sumahn and Daris, of Halan and Ke’uld, of all his lost brothers and dead Yatoans. And he thought of all the lands and peoples this man before him had crushed under his heel, slaying and enslaving, simply because it was within his power to do so. For those who yet lived, and for those who were not yet born, Leitos passed his silent judgment upon the Bane of Creation.

Teeth bared in a rictus snarl, Leitos knelt in the snow, wrapped his fingers around his grandfather’s thick neck, and began to squeeze.

Be sure not to miss

Lady of Regret

the second novel in James A. West’s series

Songs of the Scorpion

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Chapter 1

“O-ho, there’s
always
a price for favors such as you ask, dear one,” Mother Safi said, sitting beyond the candle’s pool of dim light. Her knotted fingers stroked a weasel lying curled on the table, her cracked yellow nails rustling through the vermin’s sable hair.

“A price, you say?” Wina said, trying in vain to hold her breath against the hovel’s stenches, which were made all the more oppressive by the heat rising off the bed of coals on the hearth behind the old woman. At the edges of her sight, in every corner of the room, shapes flitted in the murk. She felt the weight of eyes and unkind intentions upon her, but could not pinpoint the source.
I never should have come here
.

But she had come, and she had made her request. Turning back was no longer a choice. Lady Mylene and those still alive at Raven Hold were counting on her to return with a cure. Would that she had been able to retrieve a remedy for the plague from anyone else, but none could heal such maladies as Mother Safi. And if the old woman demanded a price, it must be met.
But what price?

Mother Safi said, “Of course there’s a price, girl. Compassion and generosity can no fill the bellies of my wee ones, now, can they?”

Wina’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth when she caught the weasel staring at her. Intelligence shone from its blood-red eyes, a knowledge far greater than should be possessed by a lowly animal. She swallowed, wishing for a cool drink to cut the sudden dryness from her throat.

“Have you no answer for Old Safi?” the crone asked, voice light, cajoling. She shifted her considerable bulk, making her chair creak and groan. She went still, enveloped by shadows.

Wina forced herself to look away from the weasel, and peered into the pocket of darkness concealing Mother Safi. She could not understand how the woman stayed hidden when candlelight easily bathed the length and breadth of the roughhewn table between them, with its litter of arcane objects and devices, bundled herbs; its arrays of rounded flasks filled with bubbling and noxious fluids of every pestilent hue, assorted skulls … and
other
things, those that did not bear considering. Mayhap the shadows clinging to Old Safi were just some trick, akin to those she had played on the children of Raven Hold before Lord Gafford had sent her off twenty years ago. Safi had always been one for devilishly elaborate pranks.

“Answer me, child, or be gone,” Mother Safi said, all wheedling gentleness now absent.

“Perhaps not of its own accord,” Wina said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “but compassion of the heart can guide the hand that provides food.” She wondered at these wee ones Safi had mentioned. Surely a woman of her years could not had conceived a child, let alone more than one. “Trust that if you require food for recompense, why, Lady Mylene will gratefully fill your larder.”

“My
larder
?” Mother Safi abruptly tossed the weasel aside, and thrust her face full into the candlelight. Milky spittle flecked her lips, more wetted her chin. “Think you to come trade breath and promises for the magic of the Wight Stone? Think you Mother Safi is so unwise as to trade a bite of bread for such power … or is it your mistress who judges me the fool?” As she spoke, the fingers of one hand curled into a fist, ragged nails digging into her palm. A single drop of blood squeezed out and fell to the tabletop.

Stark terror froze Wina.

Mother Safi loomed nearer, a wrinkled hag rumored to have lived three lifetimes, each and every day of those lives bitter and torturous. Yet hers was more than an ugliness of creases, rheumy eyes, and bones ancient and bent. Within her lay cruelty sheathed in spite.

Wina mustered courage enough to speak. “It’s known within Raven Hold, the Tanglewood, and all through the Iron Marches, that you are no fool,” she said evenly. “And but for urgent need, I wouldn’t have come at all … for it’s also known that you do not idly suffer guests. As to prices, speak your desire, and what is within my strength and authority to give I shall make it so.”

“Shall you indeed?” Mother Safi’s fingers tightened, and a second drop of blood joined the first.

Wina grimaced, imagining she could feel those fingers at her throat, wrapping tight. But that could not be. Surely not. It was just one of Safi’s unkind tricks.

“Give me the cure I seek to end the plague and restore the sick,” Wina said, unable to speak above a fearful whisper, “and…….” She trailed off, unsure if she had the courage to add her mistress’ sole condition. But she had to say it, for things must be clear between Mother Safi and the people of Raven Hold. “Fill our need, and after your cure has proven its worth, you shall be paid.”

“Service
before
compensation, is that the way of it?”

Wina drew herself up. “That’s Lady Mylene’s one and only condition.”

For a long time, Mother Safi weighed that, her bland expression revealing nothing. Wina feared she had gone too far in her demands, but then the old witch spoke.

“Very well, child, I will make known to you that which will heal Raven Hold.” With her bloody hand, Mother Safi caught hold of a wolf’s skull resting between them. Tipping it, she shook vigorously. Flaky bits of dried flesh and a few hairs sifted down, then an amulet and chain rattled out of the eye socket, and dropped onto the table….

Catch the rest in June 2013!

About James

My name is James, and I live in a fantasy world. Okay, not really, but I write about them. It’s Stephen King’s fault. I read The Talisman when I was thirteen, and I’ve lived in my fantasy world ever since. As soon as I finished that book, I was hooked. I knew I was going to be a writer. Of course, someone forgot to inform life about my plans, so I’ve had several different jobs. I proudly served in the US Army, spent a year as a long-haul truck driver with my wife (who is also my high-school sweetheart), and I attended the University of Montana. While I was there I enrolled in a creative writing course, and I couldn’t resist the call of writing any longer. Next thing I knew, words started to flow and worlds were born. Now I live and write in Montana with my wife and my bodyguard, a Mini-Schnauzer named Jonesy. I also eat copious amounts of chips and salsa :)