The Name of Death Page 5

Chapter 5

  Night had come and the darkness in Shayol Domier was bottomless. The glow of the fire at the base of the statue illuminated only a hair’s breadth beyond the heated embers.

  Drada touched Seigfeld’s forehead and recoiled her hand. His fever was blistering. The yellow seepage leaching from the wound on his leg and chest seeped more now than it had a handful of hours ago.

  “He is dying,” Drada said. “The poison is in his blood.”

  “Anneinda,” he murmured, eyes closed. His voice was as faint as his breath. His body convulsed.

  Drada gritted her teeth. “Humans and your use of poison…”

  Farthr stood over her, crossing his arms. “A warrior of the Crimson Sun killed by a simple trap. He will find no glory in the afterlife.”

  “I expect not considering the feats of heroism I have heard thus far.” Drada stood up, rubbing her hands together.

  Farthr glowered. “He was a noble man.”

  “Maybe.” Drada lifted her head to the Svet. “Still, I do not see any reason for us to stay here.” She pointed to the dead Dreka, adding to the rotting aroma. “You found your demon, and I am not going to go beyond those doors again.”

  Wrylyc emerged from the stairs behind her. “I have studied the room below, and I think I discovered the source of the spears. A line, hidden beneath the dust, has been brushed on the flooring to mark the safe pathways. He stepped off the path.”

  Drada picked up her shield, fastening it to her back. Her eye rested on Seigfeld. “It does not matter, Wrylyc. We are not going to go into the room again. It is not worth the risk.”

  “The risk?” Wrylyc cocked his head. “I thought Uvil did not retreat. Are you really afraid of going in there?”

  “I am not afraid.” Drada snipped. “A fine line rests between courage and stupidity. You do not rush into a fire after watching another get burned.”

  “But you have not discovered death’s name,” Wrylyc argued.

  “Quiet,” Farthr growled. “Something comes.”

  The earth beneath Drada’s feet quaked. Heavy stomping thudded toward the entryway of the keep. Wrylyc scooted back near Seigfeld, who exhaled to never inhale again. Farthr dropped his dark gaze to his lifeless companion before lifting them back to the wooden doors leading outside to the courtyard. The foot falls drew closer.

  Suddenly, a large creature crashed into the doors, cracking them under the impact. A howling resounded, followed by several more howls, and yipping. The beast struck the doors again.

  Farthr lifted his crossbow. “We might survive this, Uvil, but not without bleeding.”

  Drada grabbed her arm-guard once more and raised her sword at the ready. “Whatever comes, be sure its blood flows more freely than ours, Farthr. Stand with me.”

  The door cracked again, a panel falling away to uncover the moving shadows. The centaur released a bolt through the opening striking flesh. And another. And another.

  The timber rattled against the massive strength of the unseen beast chipping away piece by piece until Wrylyc lastly shouted. “It’s a simargl. And many Dreka.”

  No more had the Kras identified the beasts than a Dreka leapt through a smaller opening in the door. Its grey skin eclipsed the animal in the subdued light, charging at Drada with its horned head bent with intent for ramming.

  She lowered her shield and battered the demon to the side, sinking her sword into its flesh without delay. Farthr dropped a second with his bolt. A third and fourth skittered across the dirt toward Drada, gnashing the rows of sharpened teeth.

  Again, Drada smacked the first with the shield, and swung her sword to hit the second. Blood sprayed. She ignored the gushing stench of death pouring out from the hideous beasts. Instead, her attention was on the simargl busting through the keep doors.

  “Farthr!” she cried.

  The centaur wasted no time loosening the bolt from his heavy crossbow. The bladed shaft tore through the animal’s skull, felling the monster.

  More bays filled the courtyard. The ground quaked once more.

  Drada spun and thrusted her sword into the back of the remaining Dreka. The unearthly howl erupting from the demon’s jowls caused her to fall to her knees, and release her sword. She covered her ears, feeling the room spin under the echoing death bawl of the beast.

  Farthr grabbed her by the shoulder, lifting her back to her feet. “Get your sword. We cannot hold this position.”

  “We have nowhere to flee,” Drada said, shakily ripping her sword free. She breathed deep to steady herself. The image of the shadowy room below touched her mind.

  “I do not,” Farthr said, nodding toward the stairs, “but you can save yourself.”

  Drada took the centaur’s meaning. “The Uvil do not retreat!”

  Farthr roared with fury, firing another bolt. “Go into the under-earth and find death’s name, Drada, daughter of Vrayda. Bring your people glory, and leave this filth for me. I will have my glory.”

  Wrylyc appeared between them, hastily handing Farthr Seigfeld’s sovnya, and then Drada a burning torch. She took the blazing stick in her shield hand reluctantly.

  “Come on,” Wrylyc said. “You must stay on the painted lines or your fate will be the same as Seigfeld.”

  Drada pressed down the steps, disregarding the din of snarls and howls rumbling above. Waving the torchlight near her feet, she found the lines marking the path within the square room. Wrylyc practically pushed her on the first line.

  “I will help Farthr distract the beasts,” Wrylyc said.

  Drada spun around to see the doors already closing. She grabbed at the frame while trying to balance on the safe marking on the floor. “Wrylyc, no.”

  Wrylyc vanished from sight. “My life has never been my own.”

  “You have to tell the story.”

  The doors creaked as the Kras continued to push. “You must tell the story now.”

  “You cannot die!” she screamed, her hand sliding off the grimy wood.

  His final words hung in the air. “I will try not to.”

  The doors latched shut. Frantically, she reached for the handle, only to find none was to be found on the interior side of the door.

  “Wrylyc,” she cried.

  Although she had expected silence, Drada was answered with a thunderous roar within the enclosed room. The ground shook. The walls tremored.

  The light of her torch flickered and faded as shadow darker than pitch, blacker than the grave, spread through the room. Screams of the dead echoed in her ears. Icy claws crept up her spine and neck and cheeks. Razor teeth etched along her legs, no matter her armor or clothing. Any scream Drada may have responded with was barred in her lungs; fear froze the heart in her chest. The darkness swarmed over her like insects on decaying flesh.

  She stumbled, her foot falling from the path.

  A poisoned bolt tore into her leg, and then another into her side. Drada wailed, gripping the base of the projectiles lodged into her skin.

  She could feel her warm blood rushing from the wounds.

  The room spun. She lifted her head up hearing battle, and death, and the clang of iron on stone. And amongst the clamor whispered a voice, more ancient than any she had ever heard, speaking in a language no longer known. She strained to hear a word amongst the undertones.

  She fell to her knees. Another bolt penetrated her back, tearing through her breast. The darkness was heavy as iron, weighing against her armor, her helm, even her bones. She crumbled to the floor. Physical strength left her body.

  The shade enveloped her. The voice clouded her mind with a single word.

  Likhyi.

  Death’s name had been spoken.

  “So be it!” she whispered, her voice failing. With her remaining strength, Drada tore the cord from her neck. She traced the cold, smooth token between her fingers, sliding it from its binding. She would complete her quest from the other side of the veil.

  Ripping off her helm, Drada shoved the quoin into her mouth an
d gulped.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joshua Robertson was born in Kingman, Kansas on May 23, 1984. A graduate of Norwich High School, Robertson attended Wichita State University where he received his Masters in Social Work with minors in Psychology and Sociology. His bestselling novel, Melkorka, the first in The Kaelandur Series, was released in 2015. Known most for his Thrice Nine Legends Saga, Robertson enjoys an ever-expanding and extremely loyal following of readers. He counts R.A. Salvatore and J.R.R. Tolkien among his literary influences.

  I hope you enjoyed the story! I look forward to reading your review. You can explore more of Aenar in the many other published works in the Thrice Nine Legends Saga.