The Trials Of Ashbarn ( Book 5) (26 page)

Flash

More memories filled his head. More forgotten skills, gifted to him by the fallen spirit. A man who once believed he was the Gate Keeper. A ghost now seeking redemption.

In spirals
of white, clouds of mist began to leave his body, each healing the wounds they exited from. They spun around in a flurry of white, each lending their knowledge, giving their skills to the one who had truly earned the title. Eric’s eyes shone brightly in the dim light. His charred tattoos gleamed with golden light, crackling with energy. 

“Kill him!” roared
the madman, slashing his hand in the air. The first wave of cats rushed in, snarling and clawing, hungry for blood.

C
alm Waters
: Spark flashed around him in an intricate display of whirling slashes, leaving a trail of fire, ash and flesh. It was an ancient technique used to fend off multiple foes at once, a technique he had never learned before, or even heard of. Ears, snouts, and legs rained down around him in a bloody downpour.

Sleeping S
corpion
: Eric calmly sat down on the ground, his legs crossed, looking relaxed. With his sword pointed straight up in the air, eyes closed, he appeared to be completely vulnerable. Smelling blood, the second wave of beasts rushed in. At the last second, eyes still closed, he swept his blade around his head in one complete circle, then brought it back to rest, holding it high above him. Throats opened, spraying blood; the surrounding cats wilted to the ground, a few still gurgling, long, wet tongues hanging out.

Eric’s
eyes popped back open, still radiating light. Leaping up to his feet, he whirled his blade around his back, slicing two more he couldn’t have known were there. His hate-filled eyes locked on the man in white. Even with the remaining beasts diving at him with reckless abandon, he ran straight for the madman.

Ancient T
ree

Foaming S
ea

Gliding H
awk

One after another, the lunging beasts tasted the e
dge of his sword as he performed ancient techniques masterfully, born from memories that were not his own. Executing kill after kill with breathtaking efficiency, he pressed forward. Eric wanted the madman’s blood, and nothing would stop him this time. “Once again you have underestimated me,” shouted Eric, slashing open the last of the cats and picking up speed. “Now you will witness the standards of the Gate Keeper!”

Eye’s wide with terror, the man in white ripped at the a
ir, quickly forming a doorway. In desperation, he bolted through. It began to snap shut before Eric could reach him. “No,” he whispered, reaching out his hand, then spreading his fingers open. “You will not escape me again.” Having closed to the size of a fist, the doorway pulsed like a tiny heart, then snapped back open by pure will of the Gate Keeper.

Eric dashed through
, the doorway shutting behind him. He found himself on an old stone bridge, brittle gray rock crumbling with each step. Down below was a river of thick, red liquid. Hands and screaming faces bubbled up from the red ooze. They begged for mercy, pleading for someone to stop the pain. This dimension must have been some sort of purgatory for these lost souls. A black void, lost somewhere between the living and the dead. The man in white turned back, hands in the air. “No. No, I… How did you follow me here?”

Eric stalked forward, his sword still hungry, even after feasting on so much flesh. Its appetite was insatiable. “I warned you never to cross me again,” said Eric, his voice echoing through the eternal emptiness of this p
lace. “It seems that warning has fallen on deaf ears. Tell me, madman, are you going to beg for your life? All the innocent people you’ve killed—women, children—tell me, did they beg for their lives as well?” His voice boomed, an inhuman rumble. “Did you grant
them
mercy?” He approached the kneeling man, looming over him like a giant while he cowered against the rail.

“Wai
t! Wait,” he cried, appearing small and insignificant, cradling his head with both hands. “Don’t kill me. We can join our forces. Together, united as one, no one could ever stand in our way! The gods have given you a gift. One you cannot waste on righteousness, or the illusion these humans call freedom. You and I were born to dominate those lesser than us.”

Eric looked down at the man, pity in his eyes. The flames pulsing down his sword extinguished with a
light crackling. He slid his weapon back into its sheath. Hoisting the pitiful creature back to his feet, he whispered in the madman’s ear, “That thinking, my friend, is exactly why I cannot let you live.”

With a
shove, he sent the man over the side of the bridge. His shrill scream echoed all the way down, until he splashed into the red ooze. The madman re-emerged, choking, trying to spit the thick goo from his mouth. Slime-covered hands grasped at his flailing body, pulling him down into the blood-red river. Hairless faces covered with red ooze rose up and bit into his flesh, tearing and ripping until he dipped back below the surface.

* * *

A golden doorway ripped the air. Eric stumbled through, then fell to his knees. The men with shaved heads were all still there, looking down at him with blank expressions. Each of them wore flowing, orange garments, with a slash of purple across the chest. Eric’s body had been pushed far beyond its limits. With heavy eyes, he looked up at them one last time before collapsing onto the stone.

T
he men exchanged silent nods with one another. Two stepped forward, collecting his unconscious body. They carried him on a primitive-looking cot made of sticks and vines, then walked over to a large bell seated within a small stone tower. In front of the bell was a thick log, strung up with rope. Two more men approached the log and pulled back the rope. When they released it, the log crashed against the bell, sending its piercing song out across the desert. Using the log, they rang the bell nine more times.

It is said when the Shantie Rhoe is named, the skies will
be bathed in light. The Mountain of Dreams will drop its veil, presenting its true form to the world once and for all.

On the tenth toll
, a brilliant ray of blue light fired up from the tower, striking against the black, cloudy sky. Lightning began to flash incessantly, lighting up the sky as if the gods themselves were at war. A single bolt crackled downward, striking the side of the mountain. It ripped away bits of stone, scattering a spray of red-hot pebbles into the air. Another struck the other side, then another and another. The Mountain of Dreams was suddenly being torn apart by nature’s wrath. Stone fragments cascaded in all directions while the stormy onslaught continued.

After a final bolt crashed near the top, everything went quiet.
The light from the tower faded away, the blazing skies now quiet and calm. Many of the men looked over the side, gazing down at the shocking transformation. The mountain had become squared off with four flat sides. Carved directly into those newly shaped cliffs were ancient symbols, similar to those burned into the Gate Keeper’s arms.

The ancient st
ories were true. The Mountain of Dreams had revealed its true form. The Shantie Rhoe had been named...

* * *

Seated on a mound of straw, Ilirra leaned back against the cold stone wall. A single oil lamp hung from an iron hook just outside of her cell. It flickered a dim but welcome light. Wearing nothing but a torn brown tunic, she was filthy and covered with soot. She had been forced to stay in this cell while Filista carefully integrated her band of crytons into the city’s political system. But that was not the thing that hurt her most. Her monarchy had been given away, and no one had the right or power to dispute that. She did what needed to be done, and there was no room for regrets.

But the
looks on people’s faces when the crytons had marched up to Taron’s walls... Queen Ilirra Marosia, hands bound behind her back like a common thief. The expressions of horror on the children. Men at arms lined along the great wall, dropping their weapons and lowering their heads in shame. The look on Azek’s face when he met them at the gate, forced to allow them to parade their prize through the streets of Taron.

These were the
lingering images that would haunt her the rest of her days...

She heard footsteps and the jingling of keys just outside of her cell. A moment later,
the door opened and Filista stepped into view. Covered in fine gold jewelry with her hair pulled back, she wore a long, yellow dress. With her was the short cryton. He still did not look comfortable with the idea of being her interpreter. She hissed and popped a few guttural words to him, but kept her eyes on Ilirra.

“
You must come with us now
,” he said, avoiding Ilirra’s eyes. “
Before the torch can be passed, the people of Taron must see you in a certain ‘light’ for them to fully accept the coming change in leadership
.” Filista added a few more words. “
Do not worry
.
The temporary disgrace is just for show. No harm will come to you
.”

I
lirra held the confident woman’s gaze but said nothing. Filista gazed back at her curiously, then muttered something else. “
You’ve abandoned your crown, all for the sake of saving the lives of a bunch of commoners,
” he repeated. “
You’ve lost everything
.
Don’t you have anything to say to me?”

Ilirra’s lips tightened, the hint of a smug smile
slowly creasing her face. “Why would I ever second-guess your actions? After all, you are
now my queen.”

Filista’s grin faded
with each word while the man translated. With a huff, she snapped her fingers, then turned away. Two more crytons entered the cell. One hoisted Ilirra off the ground, the other pulled a black sack down over her head. They bound her hands, then guided her away. She heard the loud
bang
of the cell door shutting behind her.

Covering her face
had been the same trick they used to bring her down here in the first place. She really wasn’t sure which cells these were. After walking for a time, they stopped, then hoisted her up onto some sort of platform. Following the unmistakable feel of a noose tightening around her neck, a soldier spoke softly, “Forgive me, my lady. My orders came straight from the Qu—” Choking up, he couldn’t even finish his sentence.

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Ili
rra, her voice steady and sure—as always, the very depiction of poise. “I am no longer your queen, hence you’ve committed no crime in my eyes.”

Whatever
contraption they had her standing on began to move. Wheels creaked loudly, the immediate, squeaking echo assuring her they were in some sort of corridor, not in the streets as she had first suspected. A second sound, the screeching of metal on metal, a sharp, shrill note she had heard far too many times to not recognize, sent a sinking feeling through her gut.
Moxis, the great arena,
she thought with a shiver. The iron wheels grinding as the main gate opened were an unmistakable sound. So that’s where they had been keeping her. She should have guessed. Whatever Filista was planning, she most certainly wanted to make a glorious spectacle of it.

When the grinding
came to a halt, Ilirra could hear the calls and jeers associated with a packed arena. Once her wheeled wooden scaffold neared the entrance, a vocal explosion rose up from the crowd. Some cheered, chanting for her head. Others cried out forgiveness, begging for mercy for their queen. Both sides made their presence known, displaying great passion in their choice.

Ilirra heard
hollow
thumps
all around her: angered spectators throwing old fruit and potatoes. “You made a deal with the demons! You gave them our city!” a woman cried out.

“We love you
,” came another call, this one sounding closer. “Our children live because of your sacrifice! All hail Queen Ilirra.”

A boy and his mot
her looked down from the upper balcony. The woman didn’t want to be here, and certainly didn’t want her eight-year-old son to witness to this madness. But Filista’s people had chosen households at random, forcing those families to attend. Many were here in attendance against their will. “Mommy,” said the blue-eyed boy, bits of greasy blond hair hanging out from under his gray cap. “Why is the Queen tied up? What are they doing to her, Mommy?”

“I don’t know
, dear,” replied his mother, a thin woman, wrinkled beyond her years from a hard life. Her long, dark hair was streaked with white. “But whatever happens, you must do as I say. If I tell you to close your eyes, you listen to your mother.”

“Mommy.”

“Did you hear what I told you?”

“Mom,” the boy repeated.

She turned in her seat to face him. “What is the matter with yo—” She froze, mouth hung open. Her son nestled in close against her, trying to move away from the stranger sitting next to him. The mysterious man, wearing a loose black cloth mask, sat perfectly still. He turned towards them slowly, bringing a hushing finger up to where his lips should be. The mother swore she saw a smile crease underneath the black fabric.