Page 65 of The Laws of Nature (Heirs of the Empire #3)

HAROK

H arok screams into the forest until his throat is raw. He screams his rage after Lymok as he leaves the clearing. He screams for Suskara.

The abieum has already blurred his vision and he cannot see him.

The clearing a mess of shapes and colours.

He cannot fight the chains that hold him.

He knows this. He has been here before. He could not fight this as a young man of sixteen summers.

Now he has seen thirty six turns. His shoulder aches.

And the fresh wounds on his arm from his kushir’s beast burn where those claws tore his flesh.

You should have killed that beast as soon as you saw it out of its cage.

The voice inside him is a cruel whisper. A constant demand that he should give in to his darkest desires. He pushes it away.

He peers into the dimming forest. The trees form strange shapes, moving like living things.

The air is scented with decay, like meat gone bad.

And there is a figure walking through the trees at the far edge of the clearing.

A strange shape, the edges of it seem to be moving, changing from one thing to another. But there is someone there.

He knows he has the abieum in his blood. He knows he cannot trust what he is seeing. Nevertheless, he feels sure what he is seeing is real.

The figure emerges from the trees into the clearing and starts to walk towards Harok. They seem to be moving unbearably slowly. Not really walking, drifting.

Harok realises who it is with a jolt of horror and a deep thrill. He wasn’t sure if he would see the same person he saw last time. When he realises he does it is a soft deep feeling of relief. “Father?”

Irgo Lal smiles at Harok. His face seems to glow.

The world falls away. Harok is ten turns.

His father is king and he is named as heir.

He is already a strong warrior and all believe he will be a great Irgo when his time comes.

Irgo Lal has travelled to Azuria many times, even as far as Attar.

There are talks of a great future. An alliance between the Amber Forest and Azuria.

His father has even brought an Azurian maiden, sweet Alyse, to Urynwud to teach the Solwen Artemian.

Harok’s mother, Yaelin, is Kushel and the leader of the Green Women.

Harok is a golden child who joins both aspects of the great Amber Forest. The exalted royal line of Irgos and the forest’s deep connection with the triple God through the Verilissia. His father’s great plan.

Lal the Peacemaker. The great negotiator. The appeaser.

In Harok’s mind, it is the beginning of the Long Night.

At the feast the blood priests appear. They begin their long and familiar ritual to name the sacrifice.

It is one of the most sacred and important parts of the proceedings.

Over the past moon’s turn, Harok has heard much speculation about who will be chosen.

Every year there are many who hope for the honour of becoming part of the great God of the forest, by joining with Diazuul.

The moment before the Blood Priests announce the name is a long dark silence.

And Harok the man, the man who is watching this from the sacrifice stone in the zhilvar, knows what is coming. He cannot stop it. And he cannot protect the boy of ten turns who does not know what his life is about to become.

The Blood Priests name Irgo Lal.

The Sacred Hall seems to hold its breath. The Blood Priests have never named an Irgo as the sacrifice before. But there is no rule that says they may not.

And Harok knows, knew then and knows now, that his father will not fight. His father is an honourable man. He will abide by the rules of the Solwen. It will be his downfall.

Lal stands from his throne and says, “A great honour. I will accept the blessing and join myself to Diazuul.” He leans down to his son.

Harok looks up at his father. “My son is my named heir and will be a great Irgo in his turn. I charge my brother Vahul to serve as his regent until Harok reaches sixteen turns.”

The Solwen in the hall cheer. The drums begin. And Harok can only watch.

“Why?” the grown man Harok says to the figure before him in the clearing. “You were Irgo. Why didn’t you tell the priests that their declaration would not stand?”

Lal says, “Any of the Solwen can be named. I am not exempt. No man is. How could I defy them?”

And that was his father. Had always been his father.

Harok had seen a vision of his father the last time he stood in the grove suffering the Trial of the Trees.

He had asked the same question and received the same answer.

Then it had only fuelled his anger at his father’s weakness and his lust for vengeance.

Now, twenty years later a demon thrashes inside him and his father’s nobility only brings him sadness.

The Great Lal, the peacemaker Irgo. A man of honour.

A devout man. Misguided like every other Solwen who believed in the deity of Diazuul.

Of course, Vahul wanted rid of him and manipulated the Blood Priests.

But Vahul had simply been another tool of the demon.

Lal had been brought here that very night, crownless, blooded from his own Trial of the Beasts, no longer the Irgo, to face the Trial of the Trees.

He had been brought back to Urynwud at midnight, shaking, his throat had been slit and he had been thrown into the great pit beneath Susal-ur-Bellan.

Given to Diazuul. And Vahul had taken the throne.

Harok and his mother had spent six turns living in fear. The Blood Priests were bound not to name a child as sacrifice, but Harok was certain that Vahul would dispose of him the same way as he had done with his father.

Harok had spent much of Vahul’s reign in the chambers of the Verilissia.

Where Vahul had little influence. Harok had learned from them that they believed Diazuul was no God, but a demon.

A demon that would one day rise and free the Bellator, enslave all men and take over the world.

And Harok vowed, as a boy, that he would slay Diazuul.

He would not be a willing sacrifice like his cowardly father was. He would not kneel before the demon his people called a God. He would kill that beast.

And he knew how. One of the Verilissia, a sweet young woman named Arjuk, had told him a secret. The Verilissia had a weapon capable of killing Diazuul. A fabled sword named Demonica, said to be one of the five weapons the fae princes used to slay the Bellator a thousand, thousand years ago.

The night before the naming, Harok had stolen that sword from the chambers of the Verilissia, taken it to the Sacred Hall and thrust it down between the roots of Susal-ur-Bellan.

That sword could slay the demon. And he, Harok, would be the one to do it.

He faced two of the three trials with his chin lifted and then leapt into that pit before the priests could slit his throat.

He would face Diazuul alive. And slay him.

He would free the Solwen. He would kill Vahul and the Blood Priests.

He would avenge his father and all who had been given to that vile demon.

“You should never have taken that blade,” says Yaelin, stepping from the trees into the clearing to stand beside Harok’s father. “It doomed you. That demon lives inside you because of your foolish actions.”

“You know what Vahul planned for me. I had to do something. You think it would have been better to die for that demon?”

“I died for that demon,” says Lal. “If you had not fought him, he would still be in his prison beneath Susal-ur-Bellan where the Verilissia bound him.”

His mother and father seem to melt away.

Time bends. The world shifts. Harok is a young man.

He has seen sixteen turns. He is strong and full of the fizzing energy of vengeance.

He is in the cavern beneath Susal-ur-Bellan.

He is shaking and bloody from the trials, but he burns with what he plans to do.

Harok swallows bile. Even in this abieum fuelled hallucination, he can taste it.

Diazuul is before him. A great and fearsome demon, clearly. No God, as the Blood Priests claim. He is as tall as three men. As wide as two. His body is that of a man but his face is monstrous. A beast. A strange purple smoke surrounds him. The stench makes Harok’s eyes water.

Harok searches the pit. The blade must be here.

Diazuul looks down, “What are you doing, human?”

Harok doesn’t answer. It’s dark in the pit. He fumbles on his hands and knees, scraping at the loose packed dirt. Harok’s fingers close around something. A metal cylinder. A handle. The hilt of a sword. Demonica.

“I come to kill you, demon,” Harok says, not allowing his voice to shake.

Diazuul’s strange, monstrous face twists into something that could be amusement. “I am your God, you Solwen wretch. Are you playing heretic?”

Harok shakes his head. “You are no God. Our Gods are the spirits of this forest. The beasts, the trees, the earth. For two hundred years you have twisted our people into worshipping you instead, turning their backs on the old Gods and giving you our people to feed upon.” Harok grasps the jewelled hilt of the sword in both hands

Diazuul still looks amused, as if he is listening to the ravings of a confused child.

“Your people give me their lives willingly. It is a great honour for a Solwen to have his body joined to mine. Your own father welcomed being chosen as a sacrifice.” His voice sounds like hissing steam.

“Don’t you want to join him? You must miss him. He misses you.”

Harok swallows, standing up with the sword in his hand. “My father was a coward. I am not. I will destroy you and take my rightful place as the Solwen Irgo. I will never let the Solwen pay tribute to you again.”