The Blade Heir (Book 1) (9 page)

A loud horn blast sounded in the camp, and Silas awoke from his slumber. The men all around him stood up and unsheathed their swords. He looked toward the edge of the forest and saw them. Ranks of Draknoir poured out from within the dark forest. They carried serrated blades and wooden shields with the insignia of Nasgothar—a black face with jagged teeth and crimson eyes—seared on the surface. Their blades were wet with blood, and their yellow eyes glowed in the darkness.

Silas rose to his feet and picked up his broadsword from the ground. It was longer than most swords and made from
efydd,
ideal for cutting through the thick scales of dragons. He unsheathed the sword from its scabbard and joined his fellow Drachengarde. At his command, the men formed a defensive line to meet the first wave of Draknoir invading the camp.

"At the ready," he yelled. The Slayers took their battle stances and held up their shields. They were all superior swordsmen, more strenuously trained than any Aldronian soldier. But the upper hand belonged to the Draknoir, whose numbers were staggering.

The first wave hit them hard. Silas and his second-in-command, Asher, fought beside each other, fatally slashing many of the ungodly beasts. Asher, an older man with a graying beard and steel blue eyes, wielded his sword with ferocious vigor. Two Draknoir warriors attacked him simultaneously from his right and left. He blocked the right one's sword and stabbed the left one in the neck before the Draknoir warrior could strike. Silas then beheaded the creature on his left with a swift swing of his sword. More Draknoir approached them, but they quickly disposed of them in minutes. The Drachengarde survived the first wave without any casualties But as Silas looked toward the forest, he saw dozens of Draknoir assembling and preparing to attack them. He looked all around, desperately searching for the blue and white colors of the Aldronian army's uniforms. But he only saw the scruffy, worn tunics and breastplates of the fourteen Drachengarde around him. He feared the worst, either the Aldronian soldiers had not heard the sound of their horns or they had been wiped out by a Draknoir ambush. The bloodstained swords of the evil minions of Nasgothar a few yards away confirmed the latter.

The Draknoir charged toward them, and in seconds an eruption of clashing steel was heard throughout Ithileo. Silas and his men were surrounded by the cruel beasts. Asher stood behind him, flailing his sword in every direction and avoiding every Draknoir attack. Gradually, their defensive line was divided, and Silas could not see any of the Slayers, except for Asher. He fought harder, slicing and tearing each Draknoir fiend close enough to touch. Asher did the same. Their combined ruthlessness held the ground, and the few Draknoir left retreated to the forest. Blood and carcasses lay all around; he felt nauseated at the growing stench. The victory seemed theirs for a moment, until Silas realized he and Asher were the only two Slayers still standing. The other thirteen men had fallen and laid among the dark corpses of their enemies.

Before Silas and Asher could grieve for their fallen friends, a horn was sounded from the edge of the forest. His heart sank at the sight of two ranks of Draknoir archers lined up behind the warriors who had retreated. They had not retreated, as he thought, but had reassembled their line and now had the advantage of long bows.

"My lord, we must flee," Asher wheezed as his chest heaved from exhaustion.

"There is nowhere to run, my friend. This is our last stand," he gripped his broadsword tight and held it up in view of the Draknoir. The sword shone in the moonlight and many of the dark fiends growled at the sight.

The archers fixed their bows on the two warriors and fired. The arrows whizzed in the night toward their targets but did not find their mark as the two veteran warriors dodged and parried them with their swords. Draknoir warriors charged once more toward them and were accompanied by a second volley of arrows. Silas moved quickly to avoid the sting of the enemy's shots. But he was not fast enough, and an arrow struck him in his right shoulder. He cried in pain and fell to his knees. To his right, he saw Asher stumble to the ground and fall on his back with a solitary arrow standing erect from his chest. Tears welled in his eyes as he crawled to his friend's side.

The Draknoir warriors slowed their pace towards them, knowing his plight was grave and there would be no escaping the impending doom. Silas held up Asher's head and looked into the old man's eyes. The once vibrant blue he had remembered was quickly fading away, as the old Slayer breathed in short, erratic spurts. He gripped Silas' hand in his cold, clammy fingers with what little strength he had left, fighting the unwelcome darkness ahead.

"You fought bravely today, my lord ... you've brought no shame to the King or me," Asher gasped.

"Be still, Asher, old friend. Do not let the darkness take you, please."

"My time has come, my Prince. You must flee ... to the Feilon River ... all hope is lost if you die beside me ... go."

"I cannot leave you here." Silas looked up to see the Draknoir slowly approaching down the hill at the foot of the forest. Their yellow eyes glared at him like vultures encircling a carcass.

"You must go now, my lord ... fly. Fly to the Feilon," he said with a strained voice. Then his grip on Silas loosed, and his body grew limp. A final rasping breath escaped his lips as his eyes looked toward the night sky.

Silas felt rage and sorrow fill his mind as he held onto Asher's hand among the hewn bodies of Draknoir and Drachengarde in the night. His mentor and friend had been taken away by the demonic beasts who now wished to lay a final blow upon him. Everything within his soul urged him to fight them to avenge Asher's death and the death of so many innocents slain by their filthy hands. But he could not deny Asher's last request. He must flee to Feilon River. If he died in this field, there would be no one left to avenge his fallen friend, his fellow Slayers, or more importantly, his sister. He fought back the painful memory of her death so many years ago and willed himself to stand—to run.

Silas stood amid the stench of blood and death around him. The glowing yellow eyes of Nergoth's followers gleamed as they gathered a few feet from him. They watched him with crooked smiles that revealed jagged teeth. Their mouths uttered foul words he could not understand, but their eyes and movements revealed their intentions.

"You will not bring me down this night, nor any night, before the blood of your kind runs fresh on my sword," Silas growled. He grabbed the arrow lodged within his shoulder and yanked it out in defiance.

The Draknoir warriors snarled and raised their swords, ready to pounce on him. Silas gripped his sword tight in his right hand, and with his left he searched for a smooth, iridescent pebble inside his belt pouch. He clutched the pebble in his hand and whispered the words, "
qui cum coram caeco
.
"
He then threw the stone near the Draknoirs' feet. A bright flash engulfed the unsuspecting fiends, and they shrieked in horror, blinded by the light before them.

Silas ran through the night, toward the faint sound of rushing water from the Feilon. The angry cries of the Draknoir filled the air as they realized what had transpired. He heard them running behind him and felt their arrows fly all around. His heart beat rapidly through the trek downhill to the banks of the river. A thick fog suddenly surrounded him, shielding him from the sight of his pursuers. He glanced back, seeing only fog, but hearing the war cries close behind.

When his legs began to tire, he heard the rushing waters of the Feilon less than a yard ahead of him. A few feet further he saw the glimmering moonlight on the water at the bank's edge. He stopped abruptly on the bank and sheathed his sword. The current was too strong to allow him passage to the other side.
Nergoth's blood! What now, Asher, old friend?

The Draknoir were approaching fast, and he did not have time to think. He sighed deeply.

"Yéwa, protect me," Silas cried before he dove into the murky waters of the Feilon River.

Cold, rushing water overtook him as he plummeted to the river bottom. He fought the current and rose to the surface. He gasped for air while the river pushed him westward to the roaring waters of the Dulan. At the bank where he dove, the Draknoir warriors watched him float away and cursed at him in their black tongue. The longbow archers began to shoot their arrows at him, but he was out of range.

Before Silas could allow the thought of victory to enter his mind, he felt the rage of the river's current pull him under. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs to ascend once more. Within moments, he resurfaced and realized he had reached the fierce river rapids of the Feilon. Black rocks jutted from the surface of the river and around each bend. His body was hurled to and fro on several quick drops as the Feilon narrowed within a gorge. By some miracle, he was able to keep his head above the water and fight the weariness in his body. Every muscle in his arms and legs ached in agony with each stroke to avoid drowning in the dark waters. Before he could reach the end of the river's torrents, another drop sent him freefalling beneath the water, and his head smacked a stone underwater. Pain swelled from his forehead, and a cloud of blood formed in the water. He fought to stay conscious, flapping his arms to reach the surface again. Humid air entered his nostrils as his injured head rose above the water. The river current had slowed, and he swam toward the bank, feeling nausea and pain ripple throughout his body.

Must stay awake ... please stay awake.
He reached for the edge of the bank—half of his body still floating in the water. The moon shone on the bank, revealing the many scrapes and cuts on his arms and face from the fury of the Feilon. He clawed the dirt, pulling himself towards the grassy knoll beside the river. But before he could feel the tufts of grass at his fingertips, his entire body went numb and darkness swirled all around him.

 SEVEN

A New Dawn in Sylvania

The sun rose on the green fields outside of Verdania, ushering in a new day to young Lucius and his elven brother, Siegfried. The elf had been awake an hour before the dawn, plotting the best course to take on their way to Sylvania. Meanwhile, Lucius lay asleep beside a smoldered campfire wrapped in a wool blanket.

"Lucius," Siegfried shook him, "it is time for us to head on."

Lucius rubbed his eyes with his hands and yawned loudly, "Already? The sun has just risen. Don't you elves believe in a good night's sleep?"

"Why yes of course. But the sun beckons for us to wake and begin our journey. Come now, get up." Siegfried pulled the wool blanket off of him, stuffing it inside his brother's pack.

Lucius groaned as he sat up, "Fine, I'm awake. But now you have the honor of feeding me."

"Fair enough." Siegfried pulled something from his pouch and handed it to him. "I picked these while you snored on like a mountain bear."

"Berries?" He furrowed his brow. "Is this all? This is a poor substitute for what I would qualify as breakfast."

"They are Marsolan berries, easily capable of filling an ogre's stomach, even one as hungry as you," he remarked snidely.

"Very funny." Lucius crammed the berries in his mouth as he stood up. They tasted incredibly sweet, and he found himself quite satiated after swallowing them.

"Ha! You were right; these are filling," he said.

Siegfried smiled delightedly.

"So, which way is the fastest to Sylvania." Lucius looked to the east.

"The Barren Road is the fastest way to Sylvania. It heads eastward to Sylvania and splits off to Jun-Jun Pass in the north and Joppa to the south. If we head out now, we can make it to Sylvania before the noontime." The tall elf began to walk.

"Off we go, then." Lucius grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder.

The walk to the Barren Road was a brisk one. Siegfried always managed to keep a faster pace than Lucius and occasionally would break into short sprints, to his disdain. They reached the road before the sun was directly above them. The Barren Road was no more than a flattened dirt road, which stuck out in the green landscape all about them. Lucius noticed the wagon wheel trails embedded in the dirt and wondered if they would run into any wayward travelers like themselves on the way. A warm breeze began to blow his messy hair from his eyes and until then, he hadn't noticed how hot it was outside. It was summer after all, but in Verdania, the temperature always seemed just right, even in the winter. Never too warm or cold
,
he thought. But out here in the open country, he felt the perspiration on his brow and the heat of the sun upon him.

In about four hours, they had covered nearly twenty miles on foot. It was a silent walk for the most part, a few remarks here and there about the landscape or a short conversation on what they would do once they reached the city. Never anything deeper than the present matters, but Lucius had become accustomed to it while living amongst the elves. They were a quiet people, always introspective and calm. Many times he wished he could be the same, but he wanted to talk about his dreams and his fears. Helmer was the only elf who he had ever talked to about such things, but even he could not relate fully to his experiences since he was not a man. As much as he loved his adoptive elven family and his home in Evingrad, he longed to be with his own kind.
I must know my people ... my true family.
He wondered if he would ever meet his father or mother on this quest. Could they still be alive or had they fallen by the sword of Draknoir hunters? He tried not to think too much on it, but Helmer's revelations in his study had left him longing for answers.

"Look, Lucius," Siegfried interrupted his thoughts, "the city of Sylvania is within sight."

Lucius looked to the east at the faraway city of Sylvania. He could make out thatched roofs and billows of smoke coming from chimney tops. A wooden fence surrounded the small city that housed brick towers with guards sitting inside. The gateway to the city was wide open, but would no doubt close before evening.