Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun Read Free

stirring in parts about the Faceless One.
“Some believe he journeyed from the darkness between the stars,”
Adham would scoff. With hard eyes and a contemptuous tone, he would add,
“He came from darkness, yes, but it was the black from beyond the grave, the eternal night reserved for the damned. Unseen by all save the
Alon’mahk’lar
, he moves between the world of the living and
Geh’shinnom’atar
, the Thousand Hells, the realm of
Peropis
and of the Fallen.”
    Adham would then explain that the Faceless One held an enduring hatred for the rebellious King of the North and his followers—the ice-born people of a far-flung land called Izutar.
“We are of that land,”
Adham would say, as if it were the most important thing.
“We carry in our veins the blood of that great and mighty warrior king.”
This last he would mutter in a hush, as if fearing anyone other than Leitos might hear.
    Leitos had never believed there was anything of strength and nobility in his blood. What he knew for certain, as taught by the
Alon’mahk’lar
, was that he was born of a defiant people, whose opposition had earned chains and hardship. For the men of Izutar, there would be no quarter given, and everlasting enslavement was the only answer for their crimes.
    It was far easier to believe the slavemasters, than his grandfather’s hopeful fantasies. After all, if his people had done no wrong, then why would any god of goodness ever allow such sorrows to fall upon them? Adham’s explanation was that
Pa’amadin
had created the world and set it adrift in the eternal heavens, so what men made of their lives, good or ill, was their choice and their responsibility.
“As to suffering, it serves its own purpose, child, by building strength in the hearts of men.”
That had never made sense to Leitos. All he had ever known was suffering, yet he was not strong….
    As the day stretched long, the sun’s heat eventually shattered the defense of hiding within memory. Leitos’s head began to ache, and a ringing noise filled his ears. He ran on in a stupor, weaving erratically, lost in a strange dream where he could smell, taste, and feel water on his tongue….
    At some point, he found that he had come to a stop. He was not sure how long he had been standing in place, arms dangling, tongue like a tacky stick in his mouth. He had been thirsty often, but never like this. His throat, his very flesh, ached for moisture, but there was none to be had.
    Remembering a slave’s trick, Leitos picked a pebble from the ground and popped it into his mouth. It burned his tongue instead of bringing saliva. He spat it out and pushed on, the day becoming the longest of countless long days he had known.
    Overhead, the molten-bronze face of the sun scorched the heavens to a hazy white. Weaving now in broad sweeps, he tried to ignore his discomforts, telling himself they were nowhere near as bad as the bite of the lash, which often led to corrupted lesions and left crisscrossing scars. This he knew well, for his back and shoulders were marked so. Such was the branding of every slave.
    Sometime after midday, he slowed to a dragging walk. The hardened soles of his feet had begun to crack and bleed, leaving faint red stains on the ground behind him. He did not go much farther before stopping again. He stood with his head hanging, his dark hair smelling burnt as it waved before his nose. He rested that way for a long time, slitted eyes red and puffy, his heart laboring to push thick, sluggish blood through his veins.
    After he caught his breath, he straightened slowly, like an old man. He winced as rippling cramps wracked every inch of his body. He looked one direction, then the other, but found only blinding nothingness looking back at him. Despair fell over him. There was no escape, and the wasteland would surely serve as his open tomb. As if his soul had separated itself from his flesh, he saw his body fall and lay still. Caught in this terrible vision, he