The Sons of Hull by Lindsey Scholl Read Free Book Online Page A

Corfe could not see the crashing waves at the bottom, but the sound of their attacks issued most ominously from the darkness. He swallowed and summoned his courage.
    “You asked why I expected death. Is there another way?”
    The man stopped, allowing the wind to stir his dark hair and add ice to his voice. “Do you know who I am?”
    “You are a servant of Zyreio.”
    The man’s eyes glinted in morbid pride. “ The servant of Zyreio. I am Amarian, Obsidian’s Advocate.”
    “ You are the Advocate?” Corfe repeated, clinging to conversation as his only hope.
    “You forget your lessons already.”
    “So the time of battle has truly come again.”
    “How quickly you remember. I underestimated Telenar, but I did not underestimate my student. Your performance was pitiful.”
    As terrified as Corfe was, the blow to his pride stung. “I had no chance to give a performance. He suspected me as soon as I entered. The greatest of actors would have failed.”
    “You failed because you were empty of any qualities similar to my brother. I was a fool to think Telenar would be so easily misled.”
    Corfe fell silent, amazed at the amount of information the man had offered. Brother—yes, the Advocates were brothers. He had read that in the Ages. So there must be another power equal to this man’s. He looked again into Amarian’s face and decided otherwise. No power could equal that of Zyreio’s.
    Amarian glared at the invisible sea. Perhaps he would spare this one’s life, since some assistance may be necessary for what he was planning. He looked again at the boy and read not only fear, but awe that could be transformed into devotion. Yes, he would do.
    “You ask if there is another way?”
    “I do.”
    “There is. But it requires silence.”
    Before Corfe could cry out, Amarian clasped his throat in an iron grasp. Whispering strange words that sounded like a prayer, he looked up into the night sky and Corfe had the unpleasant sensation of his voice departing from his body. When Amarian released him, he could no more utter words than the silent cliffs on which they stood.
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    The desert orbs were rising as Vancien stared dully at his handiwork: three fresh piles of sandy clay, under which lay his three companions. Various lizards and dust rats scurried around his feet, unconscious of his great pain. He sat for an eternity thus, until his half-blinded vision began blurring the graves into one large mass. The mound began to pulsate until out of the dirt shot three arms, each one belonging to one of his dead friends. Vancien was paralyzed by shock as he watched the three limbs grope the dust, trying to dig the rest of their bodies out. From somewhere inside the mound, he heard the united voices of his friends crying for release. He jumped to their aid, but the sand turned hard as rock as he, too, became trapped in sandy grave. Shaking furiously, he succeeded in only lodging himself further until even his mouth was sealed.
    “You’re in trouble, yes?”
    Vancien snapped out of his delirium. The desert orbs were indeed rising after a long, fitful night, but the graves were quiet. The dream had been powerful, but not powerful enough to force itself into reality. Nevertheless, sweat poured from his brow as he squinted to see his visitor. The creature was standing against the orbs’ light, so he could only make out a shadow at first.
    “Excuse me?” he whispered, his voice hoarse from lack of water.
    “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” his visitor insisted, stepping to the side and pointing a finger at the graves.
    Vancien could see more clearly now, and made out a small, fuzzy animal as high as his waist, were he standing. The creature was covered in short gray fur, except for its face, which held curious red eyes, a small nose, and a small mouth. It stood on two legs and its arms looked as if they could be used more for climbing than for pointing out gravesites. It was dressed in an elegant