The Fire Reborn: The Eres Chronicles Book III

The Fire Reborn

Chronicles of Eres Book III

M.B. Mooney

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2018 MB Mooney

All rights reserved

www.mbmooney.com

This book is dedicated to those that believe in the unity and diversity only possible in the Kingdom of God.

And to Jeremiah Briggs. Wish I could have finished this with you.

Prologue

 

The Right Thing to Do

 

Macarus leaned against the bar with his elbows, took another sip of South Kyran whiskey, and bared his teeth as the cool liquid burned down his throat.

The Mother Sun was filled with elves, rumor and fact swimming together with ale and liquor on their lips. The low, constant rumble of conversation and the dim light should have hidden him well enough, but Macarus hunched his shoulders and allowed the hood of his cloak to fall further over his face.

Discussions, punctuated with curses, floated to his pointed ears from male and female elves around the establishment.

“I did my mandatory twenty years!” Macarus heard from one female elf. “Now our dear emperor drafts us back into the legions because his regulars can’t handle one critty human army? It isn’t right, I tell you.”

Macarus glanced over his shoulder at the thirty or more tables in the tavern; elves filled the space, drinking and talking.

“Well, I’m too old for this draft,” said one older male elf with a slight lisp. “But with the dwarves and Faltiel fighting to the east and this Brendel and his army in Ereland, I’m telling you it won’t be long before the Emperor has to call us all back into service. There aren’t enough militan.”

The bartender sniffed. “How ‘bout you, friend? You called back in?”

Macarus wanted to take the parchment missive in the pocket of his cloak and read it again, even though he had it memorized. “Back in doesn’t really describe it. But yes.”

“Well,” the ‘tender patted his left leg. “Got this in the last one with those men back a few hundred years ago. Can’t go back. Lucky me.” He grinned as he filled another mug of ale for a customer two stools away. The ‘tender limped away.

Macarus returned to his drink.

Go back? I never should have left.

Over the next few hours, Macarus drank and faces came to his mind – Eshlyn, Aden, Carys, Zalman, the Rat, Chamren, and a man with so much steel in his eyes it had to come from his soul.

The Mother Sun emptied. One by one or two by two, the customers left, staggering or frowning or cursing. Perhaps all three. Once the night turned to more of a morning, he glanced up from the bottom of a glass to see bare tables.

The ‘tender leaned over the bar in front of him. “Closing time, friend.” His tone did not suggest that they were friends.

Macarus finished his last drink of South Kryan, the strongest legal liquor in the Empire, winced by habit more than anything, and stood from the stool. He wavered a bit, closing his eyes and gathering his balance. He nodded at the ‘tender and made his way through the tables and chairs.

Leaving the Mother Sun through the front door, he staggered out to the street. He took a deep breath of the clean Kryan air, smelling the salt of the sea from the docks a few blocks to the south. The white and lifeless gas streetlights gave no warmth. Not that he needed warmth on this early summer night.

This was Kryus. His home. On the surface, it was clean and beautiful. It died inside, however, doomed to death. He had met the man that would drive a sword through the heart of the Empire. And the more Macarus thought on it, the more he wished he had stayed to help him.

By the nine gods, that’s insane.

The cool air hit his face. Macarus set his shoulders and walked up the narrow street to the north, towards his home. It took effort to walk in a straight line, and after a few minutes, he only wanted to make it that last kilomitre to his bed.

Focused on the next step before him, he almost missed the movement in the dark alley to his right. Just my imagination. He didn’t usually see things when drunk. And he was drunk. His brows creased as he paused. Squinting, he inspected his periphery. And his right hand snuck under his cloak to his side and the hilt of his sword.

A figure stepped out into the street, a long cloak and hood masking the identity. But the figure didn’t move like a cutthroat or thief.

Macarus gripped the hilt.

Another figure drifted into view from an alleyway behind him.

Macarus turned to face the one across the street with the one behind now on his right. Both figures approached and drew swords. He knew the maker of those swords, had fought with her on the walls of a city a world away to the west. Bladeguard.

With a few quick breaths, he shook his head to clear it. He drew his sword and removed his cloak.

Both elves paused while they let their own cloaks drop to the smooth, perfect stone beneath them. The Bladeguard in front of him had dark hair in a long braid. The one to the left had shorter, blond hair that stuck straight up on his head.

The dark-haired elf smirked at him. No words needed to be said. Two Bladeguard did not visit in the dark hours of predawn to talk. They were here to kill.

He didn’t need to ask why, either. Macarus had stood before Generals and the Empire and praised a human, a man, the same man tearing through the Kryan Legions in Ereland. They had relieved him of duty until further notice. Also, his mother was a powerful senator, a leader of a small but influential group of politicians attempting to curb the power of their Emperor through legislation.

And for those reasons, the Emperor could not abide First Captain Macarus to live. If they were here after him, was his mother safe? He prayed to whoever would listen that she would survive this night. He wasn’t in the position to help her now.

I never should have left.

Macarus had always wanted to try his skill against a Bladeguard … but two? He was drunk. And tired. He sighed.

The dark-haired elf attacked with an overhead strike, and the blond was behind him with a slice at his legs. Macarus rose to block the one above him and leapt over the one below. Landing, he spun away with a stab at the blond and ducked the blade coming at his head from the dark-haired elf.

Macarus jumped back as both missed him again, and he grunted with the effort. With another block and slide to his left, he found himself out of breath. The street tipped as he staggered.

But the two Bladeguard didn’t give him pause. They both pressed, and he moved. Macarus felt a cut along his left arm from the blond. Gritting his teeth, he retreated back down the street to the south. He attacked the blond at a good angle, but he was a split second slow. The blond blocked, and Macarus leaned back; the dark-haired elf’s blade split the air in front of his face.

He rotated, kicking at the dark-haired elf, and he deflected another swipe from the blond. His kick didn’t land, and a strike from the dark-haired elf drew blood along his back. Macarus cried out, more out of frustration than anything else. Feeling the effect of the liquor on his quickness and energy, he acted out of desperation and turned his back on the dark-haired elf and attacked the blond with a myriad of quick and powerful strikes, driving him back. The blond bought a feint and Macarus struck him in the face with his palm. The blond sputtered as he fell backwards, and Macarus went in for the kill.

But he felt the other behind him, leaping in the air to cut him in two. Macarus ducked, and at the last heartbeat, spun on the one behind him, avoiding the blow and stabbing up and into the elf’s heart. The dark-haired elf gurgled and blood spit from his mouth as his eyes went wide from the pain and surprise.

The blond had recovered, and Macarus slid to the side and pulled the blade from the dark-haired elf. He deflected the blade as he spun; it still drove into his side before he was able to get space between him and the remaining elf. Panting, he held his side, bowing in pain. The dark-haired elf writhed on the street as the blood left his body.

Macarus sneered at the Bladeguard and raised his bloody blade. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”

The blond wiped the trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

However ready they both were, a new shadow darted from the alleyway behind the blond Bladeguard with a whisper of wind, and the blond turned to face a whirling elf in a long, green gown. Graying hair flowed around her with perfect grace. A long, thin blade easily turned the Bladeguard’s block and attacked. She struck high and then low. She spun and forced the Bladeguard to retreat, moving him toward Macarus.

Macarus straightened, measured, and stabbed to the Bladeguard’s left shoulder. As the Bladeguard moved and blocked, the female elf sliced into his hamstring. He went down on his knee, and as she took the Bladeguard’s sword down with her own, Macarus stumbled forward, swung, and took the Bladeguard’s head from his shoulders.

With a gasp, Macarus leaned over, his left hand pressing against the wound in his side.

The female elf took a wide stance and crossed her arms. “Not bad for being drunk and stupid. Not how I trained you, but not bad.”

He glowered at her. “I had that under control, you know.”

“Is that any way to talk to me?” She pursed her lips at him.

Macarus blew out his cheeks. “Thank you, Mother.”

First Senator Diona nodded down at him. “That’s better.” She grimaced. “You reek of South Kryan.”

“It would be surprising if I didn’t.”

Diona paused a moment and extended a hand to him. “We need to go. It’s not safe here.”

“No crit.” He let her pull him up to standing.

Diona moved his hand away and inspected the wound. “That will need to be seen. Can you walk?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“My son, there is always a choice, like not going out drinking by yourself when you know we are targets for our mad Emperor. But if you can make it a few blocks, I have a safehouse not far from here.”

“A safehouse? You have a safehouse?”

Diona chuckled and looked at him sideways. “Haven’t you been paying attention? The Empire is collapsing before our eyes. I have taken precautions. Stop arguing and come with me.”

His mother led him down the alley to another street, and then they backtracked south towards the docks. The predawn city was quiet, and Macarus’ shuffling feet seemed too loud in his ears. His only desire was to stop, sit down, lay down, even right there on the smooth stone of the street, but he willed himself to continue.

Talking might distract him. “I assume they came for you, as well.”

Diona scanned the street, the alleys. Her silken, dark hair with gray streaks spilled over her shoulder as she glanced at him and spoke in whispers. “The Emperor may have closed down the Senate, but I still have my sources. I was ready. Tanicus is leading legions overseas and leaving the Empire in the hands of his yes-elves, elves more motivated by fear and power than the good of the Empire. Anyone with a brain in their head is a threat to that rule.”

“You. And by extension, me.”

“Normally, yes, but you have angered him all on your own. You returned from Ketan and dared tell your superiors, and others, the truth.”

“I told you before,” Macarus said through his teeth. “I wouldn’t be his puppet, not and speak ill of a man that saved thousands of lives.”

Diona took a deep breath. “And as I said, you did the right thing, and Tanicus was satisfied with dismissing you as long as you were quiet.”

“And now?”

“Now he is throwing everything at your friend, the Brendel, and he cannot leave his back exposed.”

“So he decides to kill any who could possibly threaten him.”

“He did the same three hundred years ago when you left with him to Ereland. It is good strategy, for a tyrant. If it would work. Unfortunately for all tyrants, they can’t kill everyone. A few always survive.”

She took a right down another alley, pausing to let him move ahead for a moment as she searched the shadows to make sure they were not followed. Then she strode ahead to the other end of the alley, glancing before heading into the next street.

“What about the Fifteen?” The Fifteen were the other senators aligned with his mother. “Has he gone after them, as well?”

His mother was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

If Tanicus sent Bladeguard to the others, as well … They were not all swordmasters like his mother. “Do you know how many have survived?”

“Not yet,” she said. “You left before I received news of the attacks. After I dealt with the two Bladeguard sent after me, I went searching for you. Those that survived would come to the safehouse.”

Macarus stumbled. Two Bladeguard. That’s my mother.

Diona slowed, extending a hand behind her as a signal, and they continued at a slower pace. No sound. They reached a warehouse building near the docks, two blocks away from a large pier, and Diona hesitated before opening the door that opened into the street, the sword back in her hand. Macarus drew his own.

They entered through the door, dark with thick shadows up a back stairway. The wood creaked beneath them. Macarus pushed down the pain in his side and ignored the itching cuts on his back and arm, and they stole up to a landing overlooking the vast warehouse, empty except for a few boxes, at least from what Macarus could see.

It took too long, his heart pounding, for them to move across the landing to a door. Diona glanced at him once before knocking five times, three quick, two slow. The knock came back, two slow, two quick. She opened the door, and they entered the room.

There was no light in the room, just figures made of darkness in front of them.

A voice said, low, “Diona?”

His mother tensed. “It is me,” Diona said.

Someone lit a lamp, a warm, yellow light, but dim, and revealed the faces of four elves; two others were too deep in the shadow of the opposite corner.

Diona relaxed and lowered her sword. She pointed at Macarus. “I need help. He’s wounded.”

One of the elves stepped forward, a middle aged male elf with cropped blond hair. Macarus recognized him as Senator Woznius. “I’ve got a bag and bandages here.” He swung a leather satchel from behind him.

Woznius pressed Macarus as if to sit, but Macarus resisted. “I’ll stand.” If he sat, he might pass out.

Woznius shrugged. “Very well.”

Macarus sheathed his sword and removed his tunic, standing bare from the waist up and bleeding all over the floor.

“Thank you, Senator,” Diona said. “Any word from the others?”

Another of the elves stepped forward, a round elf with fuzzy dark hair on his head – Qinus, the Senator from the eastern regions. “Only the four … five, of us so far.”

Woznius cleaned the wounds with some sort of antiseptic and cloth. Macarus winced at the pain, somewhat glad for the numbing agent of the liquor, even though it was difficult for him to stay focused.

“We cannot stay here long,” Diona said. “Others may have been taken and given to the Moonguard.”

Macarus grunted. He had sent prisoners to those Moonguard, as well. Long ago. “They are very good at getting information out of people, not to mention their other talents. We’re not safe.”

A third elf spoke, Nizaul, a female from the south, young and tall. She nodded over at the figures. “What about them?”

Diona pursed her lips. “We have to get them over to Ereland. Somehow.”

Woznius stitched the wound in his side. Macarus gritted his teeth to catch the bile in his throat. He did not want to vomit in front of a room of senators. He gathered himself and peered into the black corner. “Who are they?”

A match struck and fire bloomed before a grizzled face with a black handlebar mustache and a long black goatee. The flame floated to ignite a large, half-smoked cigar, and after a few puffs, the person stood, shoulder high to elves in the room but broad and strong.

A dwarf. He smiled as the person next to him stood, as well. Another dwarf.

The first dwarf sucked on his cigar for another heartbeat, and his head was immersed now in a thick cloud. It did not help Macarus’ nausea. The dwarf showed his teeth. “My name is Sergeant Gunnar Hornswaddle, and this here is my brother Ulf.” The second dwarf was the same height as his brother but with so much dark, shaggy hair that only the eyes and cheeks were visible.

Macarus’ eyes narrowed. “Hornswaddle …” He knew that name. “The mercenaries.”

Gunnar bowed. “We prefer independent contractors, but aye, that would be our moniker.”

Macarus glanced at his mother, his head clearing a little from the shock. “Why are dwarven mercenaries here? Why do they want to go to Ereland?”

“Fascinating, I agree,” Gunnar said. “We have been given quite the sum by our noble King Ironsword to help the man you call the Brendel.”

Woznius finished the stitches. Macarus moaned in pain for a moment. “Why is Ironsword trying to help Caleb?”

Gunnar raised a brow at him. “Our king says he owes your Brendel an enormous debt.”

“What debt?” Macarus stood straight, testing the stitches at his side.

The dwarf Sergeant smirked. “Our king would not divulge such information. And with the payment, we didn’t require it.”

Macarus appraised him. “Your band, the Steelsides, are they with you?”

Diona answered. “We have them hidden in another location.”

Macarus frowned. “You’ve been busy.”

Diona squared her shoulders and faced him. “The Emperor has dismantled the Senate, completely piffing in the face of the will of the people and our law. His aggressive policies continue to send us into conflict after conflict with other nations, sending us further and further into debt, and he feels he must oppress the humans of Ereland to support those conflicts. But they only bring more conflict upon us, as the rebellion in Ereland makes clear.” She breathed deep through her nose. “Additionally, there is even rumor that our Emperor is a Worldbreaker, those ancient wizards, which has been illegal for centuries because of the madness and the destruction that follows. He drags us into the Underland with his policies.

“So yes, I’ve been busy.” She took in the other senators in the room. “We’ve been busy. Our hope is that the Steelsides will get to Ereland and help the Brendel defeat Tanicus.”

Woznius moved to give Macarus’ torn tunic back to him. Macarus gave him a bitter chuckle and shook his head. Woznius gathered the torn tunic, his materials, and moved back with the others.

Macarus raised his brow. “I’ve heard Tanicus is filling almost every ship in the Kryan Navy with close to thirty-five thousand elves to crush this rebellion, along with griders, trodall, and who knows what else. No offense to our friends, here, but even with their help, Caleb can’t win. It’s impossible.”

“He has proven more than once, even by your own testimony, that he is capable of the impossible,” Diona answered. “Nevertheless, that is only one part of our plan. This is an opportunity.”

Macarus blinked slowly. Of course. Here it comes.

“While Tanicus is engaged in Ereland, and legions struggle to the east with Faltiel, then we can stage a coup here, removing the Emperor’s lackeys and reestablishing the Senate. Even if Tanicus wins against the Brendel, it will take him time, and he will return to a very different Kryus.”

The other senators glanced at her intently, the implication hanging in her words.

Three thousand years ago, one of Macarus’ ancestors, Romanus, was the king of Kryus, during what some would claim the “golden age” of Kryus. Macarus considered that term somewhat romanticized, but here was Diona, the great-granddaughter of King Romanus.

“You’re going to get the High Nican and the Senate to declare you Emperor.”

Diona hesitated. “No. You.”

“I must have had more South Kryan than I thought. You can’t be serious.”

She glided closer to him. “You have been loyal to Kryus while standing against the will of the Emperor. You are a hero of several battles in the War of Liberation. You helped defend a city against demics from the Underland. And you have the bloodline. We need someone the military would support, respect, someone disconnected from the Bladeguard, Moonguard, Sunguard, all of them. You could rally the veterans that are left here in Kaltiel for the coup. And you could help us achieve peace your friends in Ereland, whoever is left after this war is over. You are the best choice.”

Macarus lowered his head.

He could be Emperor. Make peace with Faltiel, broker a transitional peace with the nations of Ereland, give the legions of Kryus rest, time to recover and become strong again, get out of debt …

As he looked at his mother there in the dim light of the lamp in a room over an empty warehouse, her strength, resolve, and power emanated off of her. Always had. And as much as he respected and admired his mother for her work in the Senate, he was sober enough.

He would be Emperor in name alone – a figurehead, a symbol, a puppet of his mother. He understood the battlefield, but in politics, Diona was the master, more skilled even than she was with a blade.

Macarus’ heart fell.

“How are the Steelsides getting to Ereland?” he asked.

His mother stared but didn’t answer.

Qinus said, “The plan was for one of us to hire a merchant ship and smuggle them into Landen. The legions have lost control in that city. Then they would meet up with the human army from there.”

“The plan was for Senator Windal to do it,” Nizaul said, her voice soft. “And he is not here.” He didn’t make it. Probably dead.

Macarus clenched his fist. “Very well. I will do it. I will go back with them.”

Grunts and shifting around the room.

“No, Macarus,” his mother said. “We need you here.”

“I never should have left,” Macarus said to no one in particular, simply voicing the thought that had ruled his mind for months. His heart pounded.

Diona clenched her jaw. “You will be seen as a traitor if you join that rebellion. You will never have a home in Kryus again. If you go, I can’t protect you.”

“I understand,” he said. “You can’t protect a traitor and come to power to make the changes you see necessary.”

“That’s what you think of me?” She sneered. “I’m the only reason you’re still alive Not only tonight, with your drunken stupidity, but favors called in to generals and others to keep you safe. You can’t take the life I give you and throw it away on another continent.”

Macarus lifted his gaze. “I can’t escape the feeling it’s the right thing to do.”

“Stubborn child,” Diona mumbled then stabbed a finger at him. “I forbid you to do this.”

Macarus gave his mother a sad smile. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Mother, I love you, but I’m not asking your permission.”

“You will raise your sword against elves?” she asked.

“Is that not what you’re asking me to do here?” he responded. “I’m going back to Ereland with the Steelsides.”

Sergeant Gunnar beamed and the cigar in his mouth bobbed as he spoke. “Yes. We should withdraw posthaste. I have greatly desired meeting this Brendel of yours. He must have testicles the size of catapult stones to believe he can destroy the Empire. I wonder if he can walk.”

Mychal pointed to the elves riding by on fine horses. “They are arrogant and useless,” he said to his brother, Yon. “They have no part in Yosu’s army.”

Yosu glanced back at the brothers as they strode into battle against Sahat the Younger. “What do you know of the First Race?”

“We know the legend of how all races were one in history past,” Yon said.

“It is no legend,” Yosu explained. “It is truth. Mychal, remind us of the story.”

The others walked closer as Mychal spoke.

“In the beginning, El created one race, the Elinim. Over time, the Elinim grew wicked, and the Sahat brothers began to gain a following. Before the Sahat brothers could unify the Elinim, El divided them according to their weakness. For those obsessed with power, he made them elves. For those who desired great wealth, he made dwarves. And for the violent and lustful, he made human.”

“Sahat the Elder and his closest followers were sent away,” Yon added.

“You speak well,” Yosu said. “And why do we fight, then?”

“We fight against Sahat the Younger because he is evil,” Gabryel responded.

“That is not why we fight,” Yosu said. “We fight for the redemption of Eres. Defeating the Sahat is only a step on that path.

“El made you one, and redemption is returning to one. Your redemption cannot happen apart from that of the elves and dwarves. See them as your enemy and you only delay the redemption. See them as brothers and sisters and hasten it.”

• From the Ydu, 3rd Scroll, translated from the First Tongue into common by the Prophet

Chapter 1

 

A True Believer

 

“We’re here to fight in the Brendel’s army,” the young man said, a young woman at his side. A guard stood behind them.

Eshlyn stood in the central courtyard in Taggart before the couple. The busy courtyard bustled with men and women rushing to the next round of training or work, most of them eating a bread wrap on their way. The warm sun burned away the fog from the dawn just a few hours ago.

She wore her parted skirts with a white blouse, her feet comfortable in leather boots. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders.

The guard from the southern gate of Taggart, she couldn’t remember his name, hovered. “Thank you,” she said, dismissing him. The guard bowed and left.

Eshlyn nodded at the man and woman. “What are your names?”

The man bowed. “I’m Robben, Lady.” He was Xander’s age … or how old Xander had been. Robben was tall and thin but muscular with dark skin and thick hair in locks like Athelwulf’s, only shorter so they stuck up on his head. Robben put his hand on the woman’s back. “This is Aimi. My wife.” She came up to his shoulder. She had dark skin, as well, with longer hair in two braids down her back.

They both wore long pants, moccasins, and simple tunics, their clothes worn and dirty with little holes and tears in them. Robben carried a makeshift bag, an old blanket tied together with a leather cord.

Over the past month at Taggart, people from all over the south and east had made their way to join the revolution they heard about, men and women, old and young, trickling in day by day.

People just like Robben and Aimi.

Aimi fidgeted with a braid. “You … you’re Lady Eshlyn?”

Eshlyn restrained from rolling her eyes. “I am.” At least they didn’t call her Bashawyn.

They both straightened. “It is an honor to meet you,” Aimi said. “Truly. We’ve come far to be here.”

Haven’t we all. “Thank you. It is an honor to meet you, as well. You’re lucky. Most of the day, finding Caleb – the Brendel – can be a chore. We usually have to track him down. But since it is the morn, I know where he will be.”

Robben and Aimi shared a glance. “And where is that?”

“The eastern wall. Come.” She began walking and the couple jumped into step behind her. “Where are you from?”

They exited the courtyard onto the main street that led east past larger buildings that now housed the meeting areas and some living quarters. The buildings were made of cut gray stones with clay tiled roofs, most of them vaguely oval in shape.

“From a plantation south of Botan, Lady Eshlyn,” Aimi said. “Near the foothills of the mountains.”

“You’re from Lior, though,” Eshlyn said.

“We were bought from there, yes, Lady,” Robben said. “You know Lior?”

Eshlyn held her hands behind her back. “I’ve been there. You were sold at a young age?”

“Very young,” Robben said. “Our parents sold us into slavery to have money for food. It is bad there, in Lior, Lady Eshlyn. Bad bad.”

“I understand.” Eshlyn had a flash vision of Esai, bloody and dead at her feet and a city of fire, and Athelwulf and his broken body. She shook her head to be rid of the images. They didn’t go away. She blinked and focused on a flying tiger. He was near. How near, she didn’t know, but it calmed her. “You know each other before or did you meet at the plantation?”

“We met at the plantation,” Aimi said.

“And you fell in love there,” Eshlyn stated.

They both hesitated. Robb stumbled but recovered. “Yes, Lady,” Aimi said.

“How did you leave the plantation?” Eshlyn asked. “Did the elven lord there let you go?”

“No,” Robben’s voice hardened. “He did not.”

Eshlyn led them through more residential areas, more like barracks now, and the wall rose before them, beyond a few paddocks filled with animals. She looked over her shoulder. “You fought him?”

“Not the Master directly, Lady, but two of his elves, elves that worked there,” Aimi said.

Eshlyn slowed for a moment. “Did you kill them?”

Robben spoke with a low voice. “We did.”

Eshlyn nodded as they passed the paddocks of horses and cattle, smelling the dung and the dirt. They smelled like home, far away to the west on the plains of Manahem. “And you escaped and came here.”

“We heard about the revolution, about the Brendel, about you, Lady Eshlyn,” Aimi said. “We talked about it with others, but they were afraid. We were the only two who came.”

They reached the eastern gate, and Eshlyn brought them to the left along the wall. “How long have you been married?”

Another silence. “Only a few days, Lady,” Aimi said.

Eshlyn stopped before the wooden stairs that would take them up to the top of the wall. She half turned. “You didn’t get married at the plantation?”

Robb shook his head. Aimi fingered a leather cord bracelet around her wrist.

“Then who married you?” Eshlyn asked.

Robben and Aimi shared a confused glance. “No one, Lady,” Robben said.

Eshlyn raised a brow at them.

“We heard of a god who was everywhere and could see everything,” Robben said. He reached out and took Aimi’s hand. “The slaves began to speak of him more and more as we heard of this revolution. And so we asked him to be our witness. Do we need something more?”

That wasn’t how it had been done in Manahem, to the sure. “Don’t know. I’ll … ask.”

“Pardon,” Aimi said. “But who do you need to ask? Aren’t you the queen here?”

“Queen?” Eshlyn exclaimed. “No. Not at all. We don’t … look, it’s not like that. Break it all, I’ll ask someone. But until then, don’t worry about it. Just come.”

“Yes, Lady,” they said in unison.

Eshlyn climbed the stairs. They followed. She reached the top of the wall.

Caleb stood at the wall, leaning against the parapet on his elbows, his hair pulled back out of his face. He stared off to the east, like he attempted to understand it, or perhaps like something called to him. He wore his standard leather pants, boots, and a white shirt. The unforged sword hung at his waist. The Kingstaff was in his hand.

Was he praying? His steel eyes glistened with both fire and stone, hard and passionate.

“Caleb,” she said.

He blinked, not startled, but like an awakening. He turned to her, and there was that long, ugly scar across his cheek. His beard didn’t grow where the scar fell toward his jaw. As usual, she could see the weight upon him, like he carried the whole revolution upon those broad shoulders.

“Eshlyn.” He said her name with both respect and familiarity. “Good morning.”

“Good ‘morn.”

Caleb regarded the young couple. “Who have we here?”

“This is Robben and Aimi. They came to the gate this morning.”

“You did, did you? Well met. Welcome to Taggart. What can I do for you, Robben and Aimi?”

Eshlyn retreated and pushed the young couple forward, an awkward move on the narrow wall walk. They shuffled forward.

“We came to join the revolution,” Robben said. “We came to fight.”

“Ah, yes,” Caleb said. “You want to fight.”

“Yes,” Robben said. “With you, the great Brendel.”

Caleb grunted. “Call me Caleb. My name is Caleb De’Ador. My father was a farmer on land owned by the elves, and when they found out he was helping people who believed in El, they killed him and my mother.” Caleb brought the Kingstaff off of the wall and held it against his shoulder. “Do you understand?”

Both of them stood, frozen.

Eshlyn sniffed. Here it comes.

“You call it a revolution,” Caleb said, “and it is. But that means war. And make no mistake, we are in a war. And in a war, you grow closer to those beside you and around you than any you have ever known. They will be closer than any brother or sister. They will be one with you in ways you cannot express.”

Caleb paused and fixed them with a stare.

“We are targets of the most powerful Empire this world has ever known. Tanicus would see us all dead. I cannot guarantee your survival. I can guarantee you will see those you love cut down before you, fall to the violence and battle. Even in victory, there will be death and greater sorrow than you can imagine now. Do you understand?”

Robben and Aimi nodded slowly.

Caleb added, “If you fight and give your life for this, you will be fighting for the freedom of humanity and the redemption of all things. And one way or another, we will all see it. That is your reward.”

Caleb allowed silence to reign and time to process what he said.

“I give you until tomorrow to make your decision. You will have food and a place to stay today until then. But realize, if you stay, then there is no turning back. Best to turn back now.”

“We … we can’t go back,” Aimi said.

“None of us can,” Caleb said. “But your place may not be in the army. You have until tomorrow. Find Duglas at the service building near the courtyard. He will provide what you need.”

“Yes, Brendel,” Robben said. Caleb glared at him. “I mean, Caleb, sir. Thank you.”

They turned and scurried past Eshlyn.

Eshlyn waited until they were gone. “Do you have to try and scare everyone away?”

He raised a brow at her. “What?”

“They’re just a young couple, in love, married. You have to be so serious?”

“They need to understand the cost. I would think you would understand that as much as anyone.”

She saw their faces again – Xander, Esai, Athelwulf. “I don’t discount the need to have them know what they’re committing to. But do you need to be so heavy handed? You sound like … like that Prophet you talk about.”

He frowned at her. “You like breaking my gruts or something?”

She leaned forward. “No, I only …”

“Eshlyn! Caleb!” the voice came with rushing footsteps on the wooden stairs below them, and Aden bounced to the top of the wall.

His bushy, black hair was long enough now to be pulled back with a cord. She thought he was about to address Caleb, but his eyes met hers. “They’re here.”

“Wait …” She licked her lips. “They’re here?”

Aden smiled. “At the western gate.”

She spun on Caleb. Those from Ketan. Here. “Javyn!”

Caleb grinned. Warm. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

Aden hugged the parapet as she walked past him to the stairs. Eshlyn took the stairs quickly, and when she landed, she launched into a brisk walk.

My son, she thought. That ache that was both torturous and familiar, never forgotten. He’s here.

She began to smile even as the stench of the animals of the paddock wafted to her. Tears hit her eyes. A small laugh escaped her throat. She considered taking a horse to arrive faster, but no, her own legs wanted to carry her. By the time she reached the residential barracks, she was running.

She raced past Robben and Aimi, her shoulder clipping Robben’s. “Lady!”

“Sorry!” she cried over her shoulder as she kept going.

Eshlyn sprinted through the courtyard. Through her blurred vision, people gave her space, parting for her with knowing looks. Those that were with her in Taggart from Ketan and the Ghosts cried out, “Lady Eshlyn!” Those from Lior shouted, “Bashawyn!” Her hair bounced behind her and into her face.

The crowd gathered at the western gate. They noted her approach and made way. The guards at the gate – including the young man she couldn’t name – stood inside the wall with Bweth, her arms crossed over her pregnant belly, a glare on her face.

Heaving breaths, Eshlyn slowed, ran a hand through her hair, and jogged over to Bweth. The scene was tense and silent. Lyam stood outside the gate. His chest expanded, but he couldn’t meet her stare. Eshlyn walked towards him and gave him a mother’s look, a look of disappointment, and he wilted.

Behind him, however, Eliot and Morgan Te’Lyan stood next to a wagon pulled by two horses. She smiled at her parents. In Morgan’s arms was a young child, a boy, a toddler now.

In a moment, Eshlyn froze, wondering if her son might hate her for leaving, for going away without him. Her stomach clenched, and her hand went to her abdomen. She found it difficult to breathe.

Misty-eyed, Morgan whispered something into the boy’s ear and set him on the ground.

“Mama!” It was a sound of joy, desperate in its purity. And it threatened to stop her heart.

Javyn, her son, waddled into a run towards her, crying her name over and over. Eshlyn heaved a sob and tried to take steps toward him, but her legs failed. People gasped as she landed on her knees, wide eyes spouting tears.

“Mama!” he cried.

Her voice cracked. “Javyn.”

Eshlyn’s arms extended, and Javyn leapt, his face within the crook of her neck, and her own in his.

She rocked him, kissed him, weeping, and kissed him some more. And she guffawed through the sobs, odd to the sure. She didn’t know how long she held him there, but he didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t either.

She whispered in his ear. “My boy, I missed you, I love you so much …”

Eventually, she pulled back. He beamed back at her. “Mama.” A sound of satisfaction, contentment. It broke her heart and made it soar all at once.

“Hey, baby.” She ran her hands through his dark, bushy hair, hair like hers, hair like his father’s. Kenric.

He frowned. “I not a baby. I big boy.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “So sorry. You’re right. You are a big boy. So big.”

Javyn smiled again.

“You want to come with me?”

He nodded.

She brushed her hair behind her ears and lifted him. She wavered a bit at his weight. “Wow. You have gotten big.”

“Gramma made me eat.”

Eshlyn turned, and her parents stood at her side. She embraced her mother and her father.

Xander’s name, his death, went unmentioned but understood. The messengers would have told them. But together they swam in sorrow, the emptiness of his death.

“Thank you,” Eshlyn told her parents.

“Of course,” her father, the strongest man ever, said.

Eshlyn’s only desire was to hold her son, never let him go, and grieve with her parents.

She had one thing to do first.

Eshlyn turned to Lyam, and now Aden and Caleb stood with Bweth inside the gate. Everyone watched her. She addressed Lyam.

“I’m going to visit with my parents and hold my son for the rest of the morning. Get settled. We will speak this afternoon.”

He hesitated, glancing over at Caleb first, and then he nodded back.

With her parents following, she clung to her son and took him past the crowd and into the city.

*****

The elf knelt before the nine gods in the small chapel of the monastery high on the cliffs east of the Kryan city of Helia. He could smell and taste the nearby ocean far below them. The chapel was dark, lit with the long golden candle of Ashinar before his statuette. The round room made of brown stone housed the shelves and the statuettes and nothing else. He wore no clothes, naked before his gods.

He was bald except for a long lock of stark, white hair he had braided. The braid fell down next to the burn scars across the right side of his face as he bowed. He kissed the dirt floor in front of the god furthest on the right and rose to face a pregnant god with the face of a skull.

“Virile Yor, god of the animals, I beseech thee, bless me with the cycle of death and life, one to the other, the cycle of all natural things. May my life and death be one with the cycle.”

The elf considered his long life and how death was always near. He was thankful.

He bowed, kissed the dirt, and rose to face the next idol, the figure of a woman whose face was half joyful and the other half in agony.

“Vast Jeph, god of the sky, I beseech thee, bless me with both dreams of joy and great despair. Assist me in the balance that neither abounds nor lacks within me.”

He had known both, seen such pain and terror in his life, and now he could rest, his reward of a life of service.

Another bow and kiss in the dirt. He faced a carving of a man asleep and content but with flaming swords in his hands.

“Deep Olinar, god of the oceans, I beseech thee, bless me with your fury when faced with your enemies and your constant peace within.”

He did not need to touch the burn scars to feel them. He was glad of the peace.

He worked his way through the gods, one after the other – Beautiful Taghta the forest god of love and hate, Proud Lindor the mountain god of victory and defeat. Next were the three moon gods, all of them gods of darkness, Motali, Vysti, and Cynadi. He considered his life, thousands of years, and thanked the gods for their blessing as he had worshipped them with all his heart, all his life.

The elf’s hand twitched at the footsteps outside of the chapel. One of the Nican monks. He bared his teeth. “You dare interrupt me now?”

The monk shuffled his feet. “My lord Julius, mercy, please, but an envoy from the Emperor is here for you. We told him you were occupied in your morning prayers. He … he cut the hand from another monk and threatened more abuse if we did not send for you immediately.”

Julius took a calming breath. “That is the problem with Kryus today. We don’t make the sacrifice for our worship, respect it, and so we dishonor the gods. You know the words of the ancient priests.”

The monk gulped. “I do.”

Julius looked at the tattoo on his forearm – a tree growing from a gray stone. “Then you will wait while I finish my prayers.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Julius took his time bowing, resting his lips into the dirt. He rose before Ashinar, the god of the sun, the god of all light, all power. Ashinar was a tall, beautiful elf with the sun behind his head.

“Bright and blinding Ashinar, god of the sun, I beseech thee. Show me the light. Give me your fire and your life, for you are the source of all.”

The elf stood and raised his arms. “May all nature be one.”

The monk spoke the blessing. “May all nature be one.”

The elf turned to the monk, a slight, thin elf in a blue robe, a Nican monk of Olinar. “Where is this messenger?”

“At the archgate.”

“Very well. Bring me a black robe.” The robe of darkness.

“My lord.” The monk scurried away.

Still naked, Julius left the small chapel and walked through the extensive garden that surrounded it – trees, bushes, vines, all types of vegetation fashioned into perfect specimens of order and beauty. The elf strode through the simple but strong brown stone buildings where he and the other monks slept and ate.

Another garden met him as he trod the pebble path to the gate, a simple arch of wood and vines at the entrance to the monastery.

Julius had come to the far northern shore, here to the cliffs, more than 150 years ago. He recruited eight other Nican, one for each god but Ashinar, and they built the monastery with simple tools. He had retired to this place because he did not want to be disturbed. And now he was disturbed.

Seven monks stood at the archgate before two elves in armor, one Captain and a Lieutenant, and both held drawn swords. The monk of Taghta, in a green robe, knelt before the three armored elves and held the bleeding stump of his left hand, sweating from the blood loss and the pain.

Julius walked up to the Captain. “Who touched this holy one of Taughta?”

The Captain, a female with short blond hair, raised a brow at his nakedness. “Are you Julius the Bladeguard?”

The monk of Olinar brought him his black robe. Julius drew it over his head. Then he regarded the Captain again and pointed at the Lieutenant standing over the Taghta monk. “Is this the fool that touched an anointed?”

The Captain looked from the monk, to the Lieutenant, and back to the elf. “You did not answer my question. I am here on orders from the Emperor. Are you Julius the Bladeguard?”

Julius stepped to the side, and before any could react, he grabbed the Lieutenant’s sword arm, pulled it down, and struck him in the throat. While the Lieutenant choked, Julius grabbed his gladus, and with a swift stroke, he severed the officer’s right hand from his arm.

That was a preview of The Fire Reborn: The Eres Chronicles Book III. To read the rest purchase the book.

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