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Year of the Fire Lily.
It sat squat and sturdy-built, a fortress of raw stone with trees sprouting from the ragged cliffs like living spires. Half the darkening sky lay hidden beyond the stone monoliths looming over him. The Ta'varyh mountains.
A yawn cracked between Zekarian's teeth. He released the hilt of his sword, covering his mouth to keep the dust hanging off the road out. The scabbard's tip tapped hard against his burning calf as he moved. Hissing, he snapped his hand down to stop it. A persistent throbbing forked its way up from his blistered feet on each step like lightning sparks. He should have taken a gryphon, the danger of flying be damned.
It had been eleven days of walking, but he was almost there. Close enough he could see it, and taste the mountain breeze. If there'd been a mountain breeze to cut through the sweat soaking dry heat of this place. Zekarian squinted at the dull sky, now nearly void of any light. It would be twelve days before he made it.
Twelve days without seeing Ce'ara. His fingers brushed over his lips. It seemed her kisses should still linger there, a presence against his skin. He could almost taste them, if he focused. Zekarian shut his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. Honey and flowers, sweet like nectar and soft like feathers.
She'd been angry. At him. At not being able to stop it. Ce'ara and powerlessness mixed poorly. But mostly, she'd been mad at the god, and at the war which made even a few weeks' travel perilous.
The message had been simple, and the human who'd been sent with it wary, he'd been from the Kingdoms after all. It was good to watch your enemies with fast eyes, sometimes it was all that kept you alive.
The name at the end of the letter had changed his life. Elegant and graceful, almost delicate, so odd it would be when it came from him.
Eshengael.
Zekarian hadn't even know his father knew he existed.
The closer he grew, the more his mind crowded itself with thoughts of it. That, and her. He let his fingers drop from his lips as he looked up. The mountains drew slowly closer, filling up the whole northern horizon.
In a few hours he would meet hid father.
Zekarian felt his lip pull into an almost too wide smile. He was finally going to meet the man he'd heard of only in stories and fables, soft tales whispered around the fire lest they somehow bring bad luck.
He was going to meet Death.
╗─╔
╒╪╬╪╬╪╕
╝─╚
Dawn's fingers hadn't yet begun to touch the cloudy sky when his hand first touched the side of the mountain, too sheer to walk up. He began to climb, still cloaked in near darkness, and the thick shadows clinging to the sides of the cliff.
Sweat slicked his palms in a slippery coating as he worked his way up the bluffs. Excitement buzzed tense in the tips of his fingers and along his spine, as if he were a bow string someone had plucked. Gripping the rough rocks above his head, he pulled himself up over a small ledge and stood, reaching up again with a shaking hand. Fear of the fall battled against the need to move faster.
He set a foot and pushed himself higher, clinging to the rocks. He wouldn't fall. He'd rather fall then keep the god waiting, anyway. Each foothold came quicker than the last, each fingernail's grip a heartbeat faster than the one before.
YOU ARE READING
Herald Of Shadows
FantasyA darkness rooted itself in the world long ago. Like a festering seed, it sprouted and grew, spreading over the land and across all in its path. Cities were consumed and became Islands among the deadly mists of the Shade. Then, as fast as it had beg...
