Chapter 18 Faron
FARON
F aron waited until he was beyond sight of the entrance to snuff out his torch.
He had no need of its light. Once surrounded by darkness, he let radiance swell within his eyes so that his surroundings appeared to glow as if bathed in soft starlight.
A glance to his right, and he saw another set of triangles cut into the gray stone, these even larger than those at the entrance.
“What were you thinking?” he wondered aloud.
Stealth would be impossible here if the qiyan were alert for potential trespassers. They were master shapers of the stone, more at home within dark tunnels than any human was in wide grasslands. Faron ran as fast as he dared, for the ground was slick and his boots still caked with mud.
The tunnel never shifted or split. It was like a singular vein opened within the earth, slanted forever downward.
As Faron moved, the cave walls shifted. What was once uneven smoothed out, worked to be an almost perfect semicircle.
What had been gray stone shifted in color, darkening into a deep red.
It sparkled in Faron’s eyes somewhat akin to a gemstone. Rubystone, the qiyan called it.
The humans were madmen to have continued this far.
Another hundred feet past the transition, Faron found the bodies.
The cave opened up slightly, the sides widening into an opening.
Crumpled rubystone was scattered over the area.
Soldiers lay in pools of blood, left wherever they died.
Faron knelt beside one, inspecting his wounds.
Clean cuts, razor-sharp. Faron suspected the qiyan had hidden within the walls and ambushed the soldiers from all sides as they passed.
Faron put his fingers to the cave floor, closed his eyes, and breathed steadily.
He had to confirm before going farther, for his own life would now be in danger.
His presence spread throughout the stone; it was like when he scattered his mind in search of food for Iris to hunt, only much slower and less efficient.
Already he felt weaker, so deeply hidden from the stars.
Sure enough, he sensed a lone human presence farther down. Marshal Oscar, somehow still alive.
“Deeper in we go,” Faron said, rising to his feet. “I did make a promise.”
The tunnel widened, the rubystone taking on an even deeper shade of red and its carving all the more intricate.
The qiyan had molded it so that it seemed to spiral and dance as he descended the depths.
Should he have carried a torch, it no doubt would have looked even more wondrous with the flickering flame to dance throughout the swirls.
The downward slant of the cave floor evened out, and then the tunnel cut hard to the right.
Around that turn was an enormous square room, its entrance marked with pillars cut from the rubystone itself.
An obsidian table was set in the center of the room, its surface immaculately smooth.
Marshal Oscar lay atop the table, his hands at his sides and his expression weirdly catatonic.
His hair had been crudely cut, what was once neck length now closely hacked to the scalp.
He was stripped from the waist up, and across his body glowed a dozen crimson runes.
Around him stood four qiyan.
Their skin was the dark gray color of the stone at the cavern entrance—at least, what portions that were skin.
Across their chests, arms, and faces were patches of what appeared to be small interlocked gold scales.
Their hair was long and matted to their bodies, crystalline and faintly translucent.
It, too, shimmered a golden color. Their backs were hunched, and piercing through their leather robes were jagged growths of raw gold growing from their shoulders and spines.
They were prepared for Faron’s entrance, their red eyes shimmering in the darkness as they lifted weapons carved from rubystone.
“Another fool comes running to us,” the eldest of the four said, for the growth upon his back was the largest. Unlike the others, he held only a knife, and kept it hovering above Oscar’s breast. Runes matching those carved upon Oscar’s body flared with light along the blade.
“A fool, perhaps, but one with good intentions,” Faron said. He had never learned the qiyan language, nor did he need to. Radiance flowed across his tongue, molding his words so they would be understood, just as it ensured his ears could understand their slow, flowing speech.
The four startled, and they quickly exchanged glances.
“How?” one asked.
“I know you,” the eldest said, and he turned and spat. The liquid came out red like blood. “You are not welcome here, immortal. Leave us.”
“Gladly,” Faron said, and then pointed. “But I am bringing him with me.”
The eldest lowered the knife so its tip touched one of the runes. It flared brightly.
“Trespassers,” he said. “We are right to take our payment.”
“You have already claimed five lives.”
“We want not their lives.” The knife cut along the flesh, the tiniest groove to draw thin welts of blood to form a connecting line to the next rune. “We want the unworthy gift.”
Faron stepped closer. The other three lifted their weapons, two swords and a spear.
“I wish for no more bloodshed,” he said. “But I will not watch you commit murder. Retreat, qiyan. Spare him, and leave us in peace.”
The knife lifted. Faron tensed.
“Warning was given,” the elder said, and plunged the knife.
Faron crossed the space with his sword swinging, his large body turning to slide between the two nearest qiyan.
The tip of his sword barely caught the knife on the downward trajectory, batting it aside so it slashed the obsidian table instead.
He continued the weapon’s momentum, but it struck the gold spires growing from the nearest qiyan’s back and clanged off, knocking a dent into the gold and little else.
Faron pushed off the table with his knee, falling backward to avoid being gutted by the spear-wielder to his left.
The other chased, rubystone sword slashing with the sharpened edge.
Faron caught his balance with his right foot, then parried the hit.
The qiyan was strong, but he did not fight like a warrior.
None of them did. They were likely protectors of the nearest qiyan village, no different from farmers taking up arms to defend their land against bandits.
Faron’s sword cut inward, expertly angled after the parry so his reaction would be far faster than the qiyan’s.
The tip pierced throat, then sank another few inches until striking the spine.
Dark black blood flowed across the steel.
Sorrow panged sharp in Faron’s chest. Damn Isabelle, damn the qiyan, damn everyone involved, he wanted none of this!
He ripped the sword out and then flung himself at the spear-wielder.
He dodged another thrust, then used his forearm to shove the spear away.
His sword cut twice. The first struck the golden scales across the biceps and deflected off.
The second went higher, along the collarbone and neck to open the qiyan’s windpipe.
He gargled blood, clutching at his throat as the light in his red eyes died.
Faron deflected another frantic strike, saw the elder readying his knife, and then vaulted over the table.
The elder panicked, and he scurried around, walking with his upper back hunched and one leg limping.
The other qiyan rushed to help him, slashing with wild strikes through the air.
Faron crossed blades with him twice, then kicked, pushing him away.
Undeterred, the qiyan lifted his sword overhead and charged, a guttural battle cry bellowing from his throat, one Faron’s radiance need not translate for his mind.
One quick step forward, and Faron’s sword was buried to the hilt in the qiyan’s stomach. Blood, warm and sticky, flowed across his hand and wrist. Faron saw the qiyan gape, saw his sword fall from limp hands. He ripped his weapon free and then plunged it deep once more, this time to the heart.
The last thing he wanted was for the qiyan to suffer.
When Faron freed his blade, he turned to the elder, who cowered at the tunnel path leading toward the surface.
“No reinforcements,” Faron said. “No sacrifices. If you wish to live, give me your promise. If so, I’ll return to the surface with Oscar here and order the soldiers to move camp.”
The elder’s knife shook in the air before him. He was frightened. Uncertain.
“We would be fools to trust the words of a human,” he said.
“And I am no human.”
“Your whole family claims such, but we know the truth of you, immortals. You are more human than you would ever admit.”
Faron lifted his sword. “Give me your answer, qiyan. My patience is ended.”
The elder hesitated a moment longer and then lowered the blade.
“I—”
The sound of cracking stone filled the cave, and then Redemption emerged from the elder’s chest, having broken through the golden growth on his back.
The elder gasped, struggling to speak but unable to fill his lungs.
Sariel ripped the blade free, and with it no longer supporting him, the elder collapsed on his stomach and then lay still.
A flick of his blade, and Sariel cast the black blood from the dragon bone.
“Must you always get involved?” he asked.
“They killed five men,” Faron said, trying, and failing, not to be angry.
“And now four qiyan are dead. Well done.” Sariel rested his sword across his shoulders and nodded at the obsidian table. “At least the marshal lives. Banish their magic so we can leave.”
Arguing was pointless. Faron turned his attention to the marshal. The man had not moved since Faron’s arrival, and unless one watched closely, it would seem like he did not even breathe. It was a potent paralysis and would last for days if it went unbroken.
Faron closed his eyes and hovered his hands over Oscar’s body.
He did not need his eyes open to see the runes glowing hot in his mind.
Blood magic. Unique to the qiyan, so far as Faron knew.
Another reason to avoid their caves. The days of qiyan raids upon the surface were long gone, but they still eagerly captured anyone foolish enough to trespass.
Silver threads flowed from his open palms, latching on to the symbols.
One by one, the red faded, becoming dried blood that flaked away on an unfelt wind.
When the last was gone, Oscar gasped in a deep breath and then lurched to a sit.
“Monsters!” he screamed.
“Easy there,” Faron said, grabbing him by the wrists. In the pitch black, with neither Faron nor Sariel carrying a torch, the man would be completely clueless as to his surroundings. “It’s me, Faron. My brother Sariel is with me. We’ve come to bring you back to the surface.”
“Faron…” The marshal relaxed and no longer fought against the arms holding him. “The one Isabelle blessed with sight?”
“That’s the one.” Faron tucked his arms underneath Oscar so the man could lean against him. “Just walk with me, all right? And trust me to get us there.”
“I’ll try,” Oscar said, unsteady on his feet. “But it feels like I am sick with the strongest ale imaginable.”
Sariel went on ahead, not bothering to wait.
Faron followed, the heavy thud of Oscar’s boots the only sound.
He kept a quick pace, muttering simple encouragements to the still-groggy Oscar.
That grogginess would hopefully keep the man from realizing that Faron and Sariel were easily navigating the pitch black without the aid of a torch or lantern.
At last, they reached the surface, a score of soldiers nervously waiting.
Upon seeing them, Isabelle pushed through the line and ran toward Oscar.
Faron separated from the marshal, thinking Isabelle was to embrace him, but instead she slowed and clasped Oscar’s hands in hers.
Her wide smile lost a bit of its luster.
“Your hair,” she said.
“Will grow back,” Oscar said, and grinned at her even as he slumped to his knees. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but standing is… difficult.”
Isabelle retreated, and immediately others were there to help Oscar up and bring him to Rowan for a look over. Faron suspected the fresh air would do him good, for it was anathema to the qiyan and their magic.
Sariel departed with nary a word. Isabelle glanced at him, then shook her head and turned her gaze to Faron. His insides warmed at the smile that stretched the gentle curve of her lips.
“Faron Godsight, you saved my dear friend, he who has watched over me since I was a child.” She offered her hand. “Name any request, any boon, and it is yours.”
Faron dropped to one knee, well aware that others were watching them, and took her hand in his.
“You have already graced me with prayers to return my sight,” he said. “What deeds of mine will ever repay you for that miracle, Your Highness?”
He met her eyes, saw the intrigue within them, and her fierce intelligence studying his words.
“But if my lady would insist,” he continued. “A kiss upon your fingers would be more than ample payment.”
The tiniest bit of color flushed her neck.
“A payment granted,” she said.
Faron bowed his head and pulled her hand closer, watching her all the while. Her very touch felt like lightning. The power in her voice, her ability to ignore his radiance-blessed orders… and her unmistakable beauty, they all left him wondering.
His mouth pressed against the curve of her fingers, slowly, softly, to ensure she felt the warmth of his lips upon her skin. Her eyes never left his, even when she called out the order to relocate camp.
Her hand, in his grasp, faintly trembled.