Chapter 19: Demon Riders (Part 1)

Justin went from dead asleep to wide awake in about half a second.

He had rolled over in his sleep, and the cover of the blanket had fallen off, allowing the rain to hit him full in the face like a garden hose. He wiped himself off in surprise. The light sprinkle was now a downpour, and distant thunder rumbled. It was morning, but he could hardly tell, through the darkness of the clouds. He was about to get up when he heard a pair of hushed, frantic voices.

He turned his stiff neck. Leah was still sleeping with blankets pulled over her head, but Zechariah and Ahlund stood near the doused fire. Both had their hoods up, hiding their faces, and both spoke rapidly. Mid-sentence, as he said something emphatic in a foreign language, Zechariah's arm flung up to point a finger at Justin.

They're talking about me, realized Justin.

He had resolved to continue faking sleep, to see where this heated exchange led, when Leah stirred. Ahlund and Zechariah noticed and quickly separated. By the time she got up, they were making a convincing show of ignoring each other while packing up camp, as if their conversation had never happened.

Justin stood and groaned. His thighs were so sore from riding that he regretted getting up. His hands were bubbled with blisters, and there was a sharp pain in his back from falling off his steed yesterday-multiple times. All he wanted to do was lie back down, but the ground was so uncomfortable that sleeping on it any longer would have only made things worse. Even putting on his boots was painful.

Zechariah marched over to him. "Something has come up," he said.

Justin was about to ask what he meant when he heard Ahlund telling Leah: "We cannot go back to Deen, my lady."

"Because of the house?" she asked. "Surely we can find somewhere else to stay until we move on. Perhaps Zechariah wouldn't mind if we-"

"It's a bit more serious than that," Ahlund said. "Zechariah and I woke in the night. Both of us felt a dark presence."

Leah hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"From the southeast," said Zechariah, stepping in. "An entity shrouded in shadow." He shook his head as if trying to clear a foggy mind. "I can feel it heading for Deen. With malevolent intent."

"You can feel it?" said Justin.

"Yes," Zechariah said. "Aurym."

Leah looked up at Ahlund. The difference in height between the princess and the nearly seven-foot-tall mercenary was almost comical.

"I don't know what it is," Ahlund said, answering her unspoken question.

She set her jaw. "All the more reason to avoid it, I suppose. What do you suggest?"

"Our options are limited here, within the Thucymoroi cradle," Ahlund said. "We can wait and hope it passes us by, or we can head toward one of the towns in the mountain foothills."

"The fortifications of the Ancients run the length of the mountains," said Zechariah, "but there are gates that lead through the walls if the need calls for it. The village of Irth is closest. It is situated just outside one such gate."

"I would rather try that," said Leah, "than be without shelter in the storm."

A loud boom of thunder rolled across the Gravelands, and the wind seemed to pick up in response.

"If we leave now, we could be there by this afternoon," said Zechariah.

"We'll have to move quickly," Ahlund said. "The people of the foothill towns do not admit travelers after dusk."

Justin was amazed. Only last night, Ahlund had wanted nothing to do with Zechariah or Justin. Now, he and the old man were working together. It made Justin wonder what sort of "presence" was enough to rile them like this.

"Are the Irth people superstitious?" said Leah. "Fear of the dark is no reason to turn away travelers."

"There is no superstition involved," said Zechariah. "They sleep at the feet of the Thucymoroi. And there is a reason their town is built outside the walls rather than within. Remember, my lady, Nolia is only one small corner of the world. Things are different in the wilds."

Leah shifted uncomfortably beneath Zechariah's gaze. "Fine," she said. "Anything's better than waiting for trouble to come to us."

Ahlund and Zechariah set about packing up the camp, throwing supplies into bags and loading up the animals. They had commandeered a small herd of steeds from the enemy soldiers and had planned to take them back to Deen. Instead, Zechariah separated their three, found a fourth for Leah, and smacked the rest hard on the rears, freeing them to run wild. Justin, meanwhile, tried to figure out how to re-fit his sleeping mat into the bag he'd taken it from.

"Justin."

He turned. Ahlund looked down at him. He held a broadsword with a three-foot blade in a reddish-brown, wooden sheath. The hilt was encased in a metal basket, a sphere of protective steel forged to cover the wielder's hand.

Ahlund pulled the sword from its sheath a bit, just enough to show Justin some blackened patches on its otherwise shining, steel blade. Scorch marks.

The sword that almost killed me, thought Justin.

Ahlund held it out to him.

"I don't..." said Justin. "I don't want to fight anybody."

"But you will have to," Ahlund said.

Reluctantly, Justin took it. It was so surprisingly heavy that he nearly dropped it when Ahlund let go. The mercenary strode off without waiting for a response.

Justin slipped his hand under the basket-hilt and gripped the handhold. He pulled the blade out a bit and looked again at the black stains on the blade like oil in water. The last man to wield this sword had tried to kill him with it. Instead, he had been swallowed up by Ahlund's fire. It made Justin sick to think what had happened to that man just so he could survive.

What makes me any different from him? Justin thought, staring at the blade. Why am I here and he's not? Chance? Luck?

He had to believe it was more than that. More than a flip of a coin or a roll of the dice. This time, he had lived, but for that to happen-for the scales to tip in his favor-the man who'd carried this sword had to die. That made life a gift, bought and paid for. Silently, Justin promised never to forget that. Never to forget the soldiers in those graves he'd dug. Or the man who had burned in Ahlund's fire. Or the boy who had begged for help as he lay dying. All so that Justin could keep living a while longer.

"Ah!" said Zechariah. Justin jumped. He hadn't heard the old man's approach. "The dirk I gave you will still come in handy, no doubt, but this is much more practical. Allow me." Zechariah eased the sword from Justin's grip and kneeled beside him. "Is this your good hand? Okay, then you put it on the opposite side so you can reach naturally across your body to draw it. Like so." He attached the sheath to Justin's belt on his left side. "There you are. Like the dirk, it's got a single cutting edge, so when slashing-oh, never mind. I'll explain later."