Chapter 64: The first kill

 

Every secret will someday be revealed. It’s best to keep very few of them.

-Rashel

 

Wrend’s legs trembled, and he gaped at Rashel. She was his mother. She would know who his father was.

And she thought it was this man. A leader among the apostates.

In the back of the cavern, the last of the paladins disappeared into the openings beyond, still howling like dogs. In their wake, near the mouth of the tunnels, corpses lay scattered—men who’d failed at defending their families. The screaming from beyond had become softer, more distant, as if the women and children had either fled further back into the caves, or the ones closest to the main cavern had died.

Teirn moaned. His foot twitched, scraping the boot against the dirt.

“Is it true?” the leader again said to Rashel.

She nodded, still covering her mouth with one hand and folding the other across her stomach.

“No,” Wrend said.

He took a step toward Rashel. The fog created by Teirn’s fists had cleared, but new fog rose in his head. He jabbed a finger in her direction. Why would she lie like this? Why did everyone want him to disobey the Master, to prove disloyal?

“I’m the Master’s son.”

“Wrend,” she said, “this man is your father. I promise it.”

“No!”

“When Athanaric chose me, I’d already lain with this man.” She pointed with her chin at the renegade. “Just a week before. I already had the morning sickness. I’m so sorry, Wrend.”

Wrend grasped to understand. His knees wobbled and the tip of the sword lowered to the ground.

“Then how can I use Ichor?”

To reassure himself, he focused on his discernment. Faint Thew emanated from his stomach. He harvested it, bound it to his head, and applied, hoping it would ease the throbbing. Could he use Ichor on his heart to ease this sudden uncertainty?

“I can’t explain it,” Rashel said. “I don’t know why you can use Ichor. I feared for years that when Athanaric tried to teach you how, you would fail and he would kill you.”

Wrend shook his head and looked from Rashel to the leader. The man just stood there, no longer resisting, looking at Wrend with a strange mixture of confusion and pride. The paladins showed no signs of surprise or interest in the entire affair.

“Wrend,” she said, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

He looked her in the eyes. They seemed so sincere, so honest. But she had to be lying. Or at the very least mistaken. His father was the Master, not this rogue. The Master had raised him and loved him, taught him so much and done so much for him. This man was nothing to him—nothing but a task to complete.

He had to kill him.

Teirn groaned and lifted his head, trying to focus his clouded eyes on Wrend. He mumbled something incoherent.

Wrend couldn’t fail, couldn’t disappoint the Master again. He couldn’t forget the Master's expression four nights before, after he’d tried to sneak out with Leenda. He’d never seen such disappointment in anyone’s eyes. The way the Master had shaken his head had felt like a sword slashing across Wrend’s face.

He couldn’t fool himself. Despite all that had happened in recent weeks, and the things he’d done and the doubts that had found root in his heart, he wanted to please the Master. He wanted to make the Master proud—give him reason to celebrate. Not to shake his head in disappointment.

“Wrend,” Rashel said, “please put the sword down.”

“No!”

He had to do this. The Master demanded it.

He wrenched his eyes from hers and turning, took two steps toward the leader and raised his blade. The sword grated as he pushed the point through ring mail into the man’s stomach. The renegade, caught by surprise, cried out and doubled over. The paladins kept their grips on his arms as he lifted his head, meeting Wrend’s gaze in disbelief. That only made Wrend angrier.

This man was not his father. The Master was. He was a demigod. He had accepted a task.

He withdrew the blade and with both hands swung the sharp edge upward at the man’s bowed face.

“No!”

It wasn’t Rashel that shouted it, but Teirn.

Wrend finished his swing and let the momentum turn him away from the gore, toward Teirn. He’d sat up, and an expression of utter despair consumed his countenance. In that instant, as Wrend let the point of the sword fall to the ground, he hated himself for foiling his brother.

“It was my task,” Wrend said. “The Master gave me the task.”

He pushed the guilt away, and anger at the Master rose in him. Why this test that pitted him against his friend and brother?

The paladins released the limp body. It crumbled to the ground behind him, and he took a step toward his brother.

Teirn’s eyes boiled, and he began to stand.

Next to him, Rashel’s knees buckled. She fell to them, hunched forward. Tears flowed, and she looked at Wrend with agony.

His anger shifted toward her. It was unfair of her to put him in this position, to try and stop him from obeying the Master.

“What are you even doing here?” he said. “Are you one of them? One of the apostates?”

He stepped over to her, leaning over and grabbing her arm. He lifted her to her feet with one hand and pulled his face close to hers.

“No.” It came out only as a whisper between the sobs.

He shook her and she slipped out of his grasp, again falling to the ground. How disappointing that his own mother was a traitor. If not now, then at least seventeen years before. No wonder the Master valued him so much. A truly faithful person was hard to find; even one of his favorite wives had betrayed him.

“The Master has to know,” he said, “that you betrayed him.”

“I never did,” she said. She propped herself up on one elbow. “I’ve been faithful to him since he chose me. I didn’t know he was going to choose me that day.”

“Then why are you here?” he said. “If you’re not a traitor, why are you here?”

She looked past Wrend, behind him, shaking her head in sudden panic.

“Teirn, no!”

Wrend began to turn and lift the sword. A blow of double-clenched fists caught him in the side of the head and he staggered to one side, his body bending so his face came down nearly to the level of his belly.

“You little monster,” Teirn shouted.

He kicked high, and his boot caught Wrend in the jaw. This time Wrend flew up and backward, landing on his back. The wind rushed from his lungs, and the sword clattered away from him. He couldn’t inhale. Teirn kicked him in the ribs and pain exploded up through his side—accompanying the sharp crack.

“Teirn, stop!” Rashel said.

Teirn did, but only long enough to bend over and pick up the sword.

“I may not have killed the apostate leader,” he said, standing above Wrend, “but I can kill you.”

Wrend struggled for air and tried to roll, but Teirn stomped on his chest, pinning him down to the ground with a Thew-strengthened foot. He lifted the sword high in both hands, holding the point down, aimed at Wrend’s face.