Page 97

97

M IKAEN LET HIS wrath lead him through the great instrument of the Iflelen. He was trailed by Thoryn, who struggled with his mountainous size and heavy armor. Even as encumbered as the Silvergard was, he moved swiftly, keeping pace with Mikaen’s fury.

Around them, the restored instrument hummed and vibrated with dread energies. It had expanded in size and covered the full breadth of the order’s inner sanctum, climbing to its arched obsidian dome. No space had been left untouched. Crystal shone and steamed. Buried in the copper piping, vats boiled savagely, hissing a rage that matched his own.

Throughout the chamber, the number of bloodbaerne beds had grown fourfold, totalling over fifty now, but each one had been shrunk smaller in size to accommodate the limited space. The sound of the wheezing pumps echoed everywhere, moving lungs up and down, mocking what had been done to his beloved Myella.

And for what?

He finally reached the heart of the forest. Iflelen labored throughout the instrument, bent-backed gardeners of this foul glade. Ahead, candles burned and incense smoked. He spotted Bkarrin with his head bowed before a trio of his brethren.

The man broke away as Mikaen entered and waved off the others. Bkarrin’s attitude was typically obsequious, to the point of annoyance. But over the past month since the great quake, his bows had been less deep, his eyes cast less down.

And Mikaen suspected why.

It sat on an iron throne.

To the eyes of the Iflelen, Eligor had grown ascendant, outshining their realm’s king. It was this gestating bronze god who drew their reverence and allegiance.

Still, Mikaen had to bide his time. With the city struck hard, his attention remained focused on quelling unrest, repairing the city, and stamping out flames of insurrection. In the past week, he had hung twenty clerics with their bellies gutted for casting aspersions, for claiming the gods had forsaken the kingdom due to its ruler.

Then two days ago, he had heard Eligor had woken from his attack, revived by the new instrument. Proof that despite the hideous work going on here, it was productive. For the first time in a month, he had felt a resurgence of hope for a brighter future, to bring a New Dawn to the city.

Then this morning he had received an abrupt summons—not only was he called like a dog, but he had been ordered to obey.

Furious, he stalked into the candlelit space. As Bkarrin bowed—again not low enough—Mikaen knocked him aside and crossed to the only one who mattered.

Eligor sat on his black throne, imbedded deep into the block of iron. His bronze hands looked melted into the chair’s arms. Pipes and wires ran from his body up and around to the instrument. Energy cascaded and sparked across his skin in an infernal storm of alchymy and power. The curls of his beard and hair stirred with unseen winds. The rift in his chest remained wide, unhealed after the assault.

Still, rather than the damage appearing as a weakness, the peek into the burning star at Eligor’s heart dismayed any sense of frailty.

It was easy to forget the dark majesty of this figure. It was as if a mind could not grasp its enormity and shied from belief. More so when those eyes opened, revealing an azure firestorm blazing back at him.

Mikaen took a full step away.

Eligor heaved a breath with anger. “You failed me.”

Mikaen had no time to even stammer.

“You allowed interlopers to breach your walls, to strike when I was weak after sharing my glory to your people. If not for the preparations that I made in advance”—he waved to the renewed instrument—“I might not have survived.”

“The trespassers were captured.”

“And escaped.”

“By the hand of the one who served at your side,” Mikaen reminded him, refusing to take sole blame for this.

“Wryth.” The venom put into that name by Eligor matched Mikaen’s fury. “They came seeking the location of the treasure—the great weapon—that I hid long ago.”

“But they failed in this endeavor, did they not?”

Eligor’s eyes blazed brighter. “We can’t know since they escaped. But I fear they might have gained knowledge, some hint. But even that is too much. The only balm on this wound is that there is much they do not know, cannot expect. And it will prove their downfall.”

“Then what do we do now?”

“I will regain my strength, faster and more powerfully with what has been built here. If you wish to rise to your fullest glory, a future only I can grant you, then you will do your part to make that happen.”

“How?”

“To return the strength stolen from me, as penance, as atonement—at a cost of your own blood.”

Mikaen clenched a fist, having already suspected this would be asked of him, especially as he knew the foul machinations that fueled this new instrument—and what had been ordered of the king when he had been summoned.

Eligor gave the barest lift of a finger to Bkarrin. The Iflelen quickly stepped forward. Still, Eligor’s gaze never left Mikaen, waiting for a response.

Finally, Mikaen turned to Bkarrin, accepting what must be done.

The man bowed. “This way, Your Grace.”

Bkarrin led the way into the instrument, but only a handful of steps. It seemed Eligor wanted Mikaen’s penance kept close. The bloodbaerne bed—the fiftieth—lay empty. It was no larger than a cradle.

Mikaen cast a look into a neighboring bed. Inside it, a baby lay with its chest cleaved open into a window. Tubes violated it everywhere, leading to tanks burbling with stolen lifeforce.

All to fuel a god who held the key to unlocking a New Dawn.

But one would not see that day.

He turned to Thoryn, who was still encumbered with the burden given to him.

Mikaen held out his arms, and the Silvergard gently placed Myella’s stricken child— our child —into his hands. He grasped little Odyn, who wriggled lazily, still drowsy under the soporifics poured into his morning milk, and drew him to his chest.

Mikaen kissed his forehead, not shying from the disfigurements.

He then turned and handed the babe to Bkarrin. The Iflelen knew better than to say a word and simply stepped off.

Mikaen closed his eyes, turned his back, and headed away.

He heard a sharp cry rise behind him, calling to a father.

Mikaen kept moving.

Toward a New Dawn.