Medalon by Jennifer Fallon Page A

Lorandranek heading for ahuman settlement. He sought out humans to reassure himself that they still flourished.
    When he finally found Lorandranek one chilly, starlit night, almost a month after he had set out from Sanctuary, the scene that confronted him was too unreal to comprehend. He knew what he had seen, but even now, found it hard to accept. The king was living in a cave littered with the chattels of long habitation, perched high on the side of a mountain above a small human village. Brak had entered the cave cautiously, softly calling Lorandranek’s name.
    The cavern was dark, lit only by the glowing coals of a dying fire. Brak saw a shadowed figure with a knife, poised over another prone body. The figure was trembling so hard the assailant could barely grip the blade. Brak reacted without thinking. He had drawn his own blade and hurled it with deadly accuracy at the assailant’s chest before he knew who it was.
    The assassin cried out as he clutched at the knife. The enormity of his crime hit Brak like an anvil dropped on him by the gods. He vaguely remembered yelling something, barely remembered the screams of the sleeping girl as she awoke to discover Lorandranek dripping blood on her face. He recalled catching the dying king and holding him as the lifeblood pumped from his chest. The Harshini were long-lived, but not immortal. Brak didn’t need to look to know the wound was fatal. He knew his own ability too well.
    “The gods…they ask too much of me, Brakandaran,” Lorandranek had breathed softly as he lay dying in Brak’s arms. Brak’s eyes were blurry. It had taken him a moment to realise he was crying.
    “Why?” he had asked desperately. What had the gods asked him to do? “Who were you trying to kill? How could you even think of it? The Harshini cannot kill.”
    But Lorandranek had never answered the question. Brak had held him until he grew cold in his arms and harsh daylight flooded the cave. When he could finally bring himself to move, the girl, whoever she was, had fled—presumably back to her village—and Brak never spared her another thought. Brak laid out the king and kept vigil over him for two days and nights, neither eating, drinking nor sleeping. The following day he reached out through his bond to Lady Elarnymire.
    The demon had appeared soon after in the shape of a swallow, landing with incredible grace on the narrow ledge in front of the cave. To assume a larger shape meant melding with other demons and Brak had specifically asked her to come alone.
    The shock of seeing Lorandranek’s cold body startled the demon back into her true form. Elarnymire had stood on the ledge, her black eyes wide, her wrinkled skin a motley shade of grey, as Brak told her what he had done. He asked the demon to tell Korandellen. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Elarnymire had placed her tiny, cold hand in his and promised him faithfully that she would deliver the message.
    Brak had buried his king in a grove of tall pines near the cave and never gone back to Sanctuary; never given in to the pull towards home; ignored the demons’ attempts to coax him back. He could never face the Harshini again in that palace of peaceand harmony. They had always known his capability for violence, and with typical Harshini tolerance, had accepted it as a part of him. But he could not—would not—ask them to accept this. He had turned his back on his people, denying the nagging need to see Sanctuary again, rejecting the magic that only those who cannot kill should be allowed to possess.
    “I need you to finish what was started by Lorandranek,” Korandellen told him gently as he relived the memory through the mental link he shared with Brak.
    “You do not need me at all,” Brak replied, shaking his head.
    “There is a child. Lorandranek’s child.”
    Brak looked up sharply; the painful memories pushed aside by Korandellen’s startling news.
    “A child?”
    “Lord Dranymire says the demons can feel the bond.