Forest of Demons (28 page)

A chill skittered down Aryan’s spine. “Come on, let’s go tell the commander.”

Fen acted as if he hadn’t heard. He moved back to the items and began examining them one by one. The chill spread as Aryan realized that there would be no need to tell the commander anything, because she already knew.

More footsteps made their way down the steps. Aryan knew any chance of saving the children had gone from slim to nonexistent, and yet he had to do something. He had promised them he would not harm them.

You cannot risk yourself for them.

He ignored the voice, his eyes fixed on the doorway. Darius’s huge frame filled it a moment later. He stepped in, followed by Bojan and Harlow.

Aryan opened his mouth to address his new chief but snapped it closed when he saw his eyes. Silver rimmed with pale blue.

Darius was no longer Darius.

Aryan lay curled up on his furs in the blanket tent he shared with his Hand. It was cramped but warm. The steady rumble of his warrior brothers’ breath should have served to lull him into sleep, but there would be no sleep for him, not for a long time.

The children’s screams echoed in his ears, pulling him from his fitful slumber. He saw their faces, streaked with blood and cloaked in shadow. He squeezed his eyes shut, but their faces were etched inside his eyelids. There was no escape from the guilt, his failure to protect them.

Darius had been ruthless, but then Darius was no longer Darius. Aryan had been forced to feign ignorance to their presence, ignoring their pleading eyes and frightened faces. His gut twisted and a sob crawled up his throat. He pressed his fist into his mouth, biting on the knuckles, relishing the pain. Tears leaked down the sides of his face. He had done many terrible things. He had allowed his son to die alone in the wilderness and had been unfaithful to his life-mate, sending her into a grief so deep she had taken her own life. But this . . . this slaughter of five innocent souls was too much. He was broken.

He allowed the guilt to take him, let the images seep back into his mind and paint the inside of his head with horror.

Stop this. There was nothing you could have done. You know it.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

I will not let you break, Aryan, for you are the only hope of the innocents. If you break there will be no protection for them.

I can’t do this. How can I stop them? Even if I could I would be damning my people. I don’t know what to do.

Let me help you. I promise there is another way. Put your trust in me and I will protect you. I will help you protect them all.

Aryan closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this alone, his heart hurt, his mind screamed for relief from the horrors his eyes had seen. He couldn’t do this alone.

Yes. Help me.

Heat filled his veins, bringing with it a sense of peace. His limbs grew heavy. He could no longer keep his eyes open.

Sleep, Aryan and tomorrow we will forge a new destiny.

Aryan slept.

Morning brought with it the familiar chill and a sense of renewed purpose. Aryan was quick to pack and join his new troop. Darius was giving orders, his face as unreadable as the commander’s. From time to time he would pause and cock his head slightly, as if listening for something or to someone. It brought gooseflesh to Aryan’s skin. He knew he didn’t have long before his comrades’ minds were taken over. He suspected that Darius’s promotion gave him the same abilities as the commander. He would need to watch his warrior brothers carefully and act as they did. His mask was tied to his waist. He would not need it until they reached the next village.

He had been sneaky enough to eavesdrop on a few casual conversations and discovered that the commander was taking her troop north. Darius would be leading them south. It seemed they wanted to leave the center of the isle till last.

He stood in formation, waiting for the command to move. The command did not come. He resisted the urge to ask the warrior beside him what the delay was.

His Hand was in the same row as him, their eyes fixed ahead, spines straight. There was nothing to do but wait, and then came the sound of marching boots. This time Aryan couldn’t resist a peek. The commander’s troops had already left, and his troop was all accounted for, so who was responsible for the marching boots?

He leaned back slightly, surreptitiously peering between rows and almost lost his balance in shock. The marching was the sound of another smaller troop coming to join them. This troop was made up entirely of females; the females that the commander had spared. He counted ten, but knew for a fact there had been at least twenty left alive, so it stood to reason that the commander had taken the rest.

The females were dressed in britches, boots, and heavy furs like the warriors. Their hair had been scraped back into cues at the base of their neck. Their faces were blank canvasses waiting for expression to be painted onto them, but it was the curved scimitars strapped to their waists that told him everything he needed to know.

The troops are growing. We will need to act soon. Soon we will escape, I promise.

He held on to those words, that hope, because if he didn’t get away soon, he feared he would go insane. If he had to kill another innocent, he feared it would claim the last of his humanity.

Just a little longer, my friend.

A little longer . . . He steeled his spine, fixing his gaze straight ahead and emptying his mind.

The warriors came to life and began to move.

Their journey took them across fields frozen flat, but Aryan could tell that it was fertile ground. Things had been planted here and recently harvested. Had this been the village’s source of food? They bypassed the trail, taking the wooded route. In this way they would maintain the element of surprise. The woods ran parallel to the trade trail, so they kept it in sight.

They were making good time. The only sounds were that of the warriors talking quietly among themselves and the crack or snap of frozen bracken on the ground.

If there was any indigenous wildlife, it was absent or hiding. The world around them seemed locked in silence. He glanced up at the sky, looking for the sun. It was still pale. Soon it would turn the color of blood. It was fascinating to behold, this sudden change. It was so much colder when the sun was red. He wondered if this isle had a summer, and if so, what effect the sun had then. He didn’t see the red sun, but he did see a plume of smoke curling up from among the trees in the distance.

Darius must have seen it too. He must have sent a command because the troops changed direction, moving toward the smoke.

It wasn’t far. A small ramshackle hut closed up tight. He imagined the fire within, how warm and cheery it would be. He wondered at the people inside. Were they happy? Were they a family with children, or maybe a young couple in love? He wondered, although he knew it mattered little. The warriors around him had lost their will, their eyes shifting to milk, their masks coming up to cover their faces.

He did the same, wondering all the while, why? Why make a detour for one small hut?

Leave no evidence, no witness.

Help me.

I am.

No, you’re not. Help me to make them stop!

Soon.

He watched helplessly as Harlow kicked down the door and disappeared inside. Fen followed.

They reemerged a moment later dragging a young man by his dark messy hair.

“Stop, please, who are you?” The man clawed at Harlow’s fist. “Let me go!”

Harlow threw him to the ground and Fen pinned him there like an insect. Harlow unsheathed his sword and raised it vertically above the man’s chest.

“No, no, NO!”

The blade came down cutting his scream into a gurgle. He struggled weakly for a moment against the steel anchoring him to the earth and then went still. Harlow withdrew the blade, wiping it on the wet ground.

The warriors began to fan out, searching for others. Aryan joined them, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Bojan trudged abreast of him for a while then split to the left. Aryan continued forward, he caught a flash of red and the thud of an axe. There was someone up ahead. He had to warn them, scare them off. He broke into a light-footed run. The man came into view. He was chopping at a tree, his back to Aryan. He turned at Aryan’s approach, taking in the mask, the sword, his generally giant build. To his credit he didn’t run off screaming like a female; instead, he gripped his axe tighter, his dark eyes widening in alarm in his pale-brown face.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Then it hit him, he understood the stranger. He had understood the man they had dragged from the hut and murdered. He licked his lips wondering . . .

“Run. Run fast and do not return. Your friend is dead.” The words sounded normal to his ears, nothing foreign in them, but the man took a step back, shaking his head in horror.

He understood.

Why wasn’t he running?

Instead he took a step toward Aryan, toward the hut. Was he crazy? “Go, before they kill you too. Please!”

The man froze at the sound of footsteps, the crunch of frost and ice.

They were near. There was no time.

Aryan raised his sword menacingly, and finally the man dropped the axe, turned and ran.

Bojan broke into the clearing, he looked at the slice in the tree then off into the distance. Aryan set off in the opposite direction from which the man had run.

Bojan followed.

They camped a mile from the next village. They would attack in the middle of the night. The hour fast approached, and Aryan’s gut twisted itself into complicated knots. He hoped the man he had warned had escaped. He hoped that he had managed to warn the village. He needed to believe that some lives may be spared.

The men around him were still milky eyed, silent and eerie. It was taking a strain on his sanity. They hadn’t bothered with fires, as they would simply attract attention. No tents had been put up, as they would be pitching them in the village once the residents had been slaughtered. No one had said these things out loud; these were simple deductions based on his observations.

He found a spot and sat silently, waiting. He had caught a quick reflection of his eyes in the shiny steel of his sword. They were milky like the others; his hidden friend’s doing no doubt. He called to him now, needing a friendly voice even if it were only in his head.

Tell me now that we have some time. Tell me what you are, what The Divine is.

There was silence and his heart sank. Had the voice holding the last thread to his sanity deserted him too?

We were a trinity, brothers, one and the same. We created, we preserved, and if need be, we would destroy and begin anew. We aided mankind, counseled, and listened. They felt us in their hearts, and turned to us for guidance. Their belief, their faith, was a balm that kept us whole. I fought alongside them on more than one occasion; I became one of them to aid them when evil reared its head. I preserved what we had created.

We are made of boundless energy, a multitude of hopes and dreams, but by entering our creation we made ourselves vulnerable. So many worlds, so many realities, and we were a part of each. Yes, we grew weary. We decided to retire, to leave mankind to its own devices. We believed we could forge our own paradise, exist alongside mankind, not within. For a while it was so, but time is cruel on the hearts and minds of mankind, and we were soon forgotten by all but a few. Our paradise crumbled. My brother, the one you call The Divine, slept. He dreamed, and your race was born. I believe that he is trapped now, unable to awaken, in a nightmare of his own making. I believe that left unchecked, his nightmare will spread, threatening everything we created. It is his will that guides you. It is a misguided will.
You
are misguided creations, but I believe that you can be saved.”

So you’re a god?

No. I am simply lost. Trapped. Until you stumbled into my grove and entered my wasteland I was merely rage. I’m sorry about your friend. I was crazed with hunger and loneliness. The light within your heart gave me hope. Together I believe we can help each other. I will help you free some of your people, and in turn you must help me find the third and final piece of the trinity.

What? Why some and not all?

The Divine’s grip is powerful, and I am not at my full strength. I can help you break his hold on two or three of your warriors. Any more than this, and I would render myself useless to you.

Aryan thought this over. If it was the best offer he was going to get, he would take it. Three was better than none.

What do I have to do?

There wasn’t much time. He could feel the urgency like an ache in his bones. Soon they would march on the tiny village. There would be death and mayhem, and it would serve as a distraction. He hated the idea of using a massacre as his modus of escape, but it was his only option.

He had chosen his men, it hadn’t been difficult. He had chosen his Hand—Bojan, Fen, and Cadoc. They were sworn to him and him to them. If he succeeded in freeing them, he knew they would follow him to the ends of this isle if need be. Their loyalty could not be questioned.

The problem lay in how to lure them away from the group.

One at a time.

Yes, yes, but on what pretext. Will Darius not feel it?

The connection will be severed quick and clean. Do not allow your motives to be in question. If your warrior believes in what you say, then my brother will not be alerted.

Aryan thought for a long moment, and then inspiration struck. He decided to approach Cadoc first for the simple reason that he was alone.

Aryan crouched by him, plastering a mischievous grin on his face. “Cadoc, I have some red brew left. I would happily share it with you. A drink before we march?”

Cadoc rubbed his hand together. “I’m no fool to turn down a brew.”

Aryan stood and beckoned his brother. They walked casually into the cover of trees.