by C D Tavenor
So, after ten years, their troops remain, ever vigilant. The fortress itself wasn’t very large; two towers buttressed the rock faces, and an immense wall spread between the two vantage points. Beneath the wall, various buildings built of the same stone spread out haphazardly in no order. Then, an empty plain and rocky bluff . . . and the actual town of Vicor, abandoned and ruined and burnt to a crisp. Flags fly from the parapets of the fortress beyond, however, signaling its occupancy.
“All right River, what’s next?”
He sniffs the air, whimpers, and lies on his belly. “I agree. We wait until nightfall.”
I step away from the ridge and out of sight of the towers. There’s no telling whether they can see me against the trees from this distance, but there’s no reason to risk detection. Once I’m a few meters into the trees, I lean against a trunk, considering my options. River follows and flops at my feet like a loose rag. He’s tired.
Sighing, I lift Flame of Maripes into a battle stance. While I’ve not been training for the Legion like others my age, I’ve learned enough about how to use the weapon from practicing with my classmates. The reach of a spear cannot be matched, especially a spear like Flame. However, I’m not interested in practicing my attacks, guards, and counters. I need to see what I can do with my newfound power.
“All right, River, if I’m correct, then the energy is somehow inside me . . . but when I’m holding the spear, it like . . . channels it more powerfully? Or allows me to direct it in specific ways?”
No response from the wolf. He continues to pant, drool dripping onto the dirt next to his front paws.
“All right, well, here goes nothing.”
Sparks flash between fingers. I choose a bush at random, envisioning it igniting in flame. I want the bush to burn; I need it to burn. My arm numbs, daggers stab my veins, but a beam of light leaves my hand, descending upon the poor plant. It burns. Way too quickly.
“Oh, shoot!”
I panic, not sure how to avoid a forest fire. Without thinking, I wish for the flames to die. In a similarly bright flash of light, it listens, energy sucking right back into my hand.
“Well . . . that could be useful.”
I prance around the clearing, considering my options. What else could my power possibly allow me to do? I approach a sapling—it’s not much taller than I am. I grasp Flame of Maripes in both hands, swing it back, and slice in an arc straight in front of the baby tree, envisioning a slice straight through the bark.
The spear doesn’t touch, but a noticeable slice drives almost entirely through. So . . . not only can I blast fire from my fingers, I can enhance my weapon. Perfect.
XIII
The next few hours pass by as I practice my abilities. Day turns toward twilight, and I halt for rest and for food. As the sun sets beyond the Emerald Falls and across the valleys, I stop my practice, worried the flashes of light will alert the troops within the Gates of Vicor. Sitting on my ridge, observing the fortress, I’m unsure of my next steps. While practicing, I hadn’t considered what to do once darkness arrived.
River shuffles to my side. Nibbling at my tunic, he pulls me away from the cliff’s edge. I follow. We head into the trees, down a trail I’d not previously noticed. It winds down a slope, and before long, I can see my vantage point to the right and above the tree line. Minutes later, we’ve cleared the trees, and as the sun hides behind the mountains, we near the edge of the abandoned town of Vicor.
The Holy Empire doesn’t have troops patrolling the town—surprising. I’m sneaking close to their fort at night, and given the lack of torches or light around the decaying structures, I can easily dart from shadow to shadow, remaining invisible to the towers buttressing the Gates of Vicor.
Beneath ruined windows and crumbled walls, I chart a path through former homes and shops. I imagine legionnaires probably lived in many of these buildings, prior to the city’s demise. Strips of cloth indicative of Legion colors tatter about in the wind like mice. Supposedly, I lived here a lifetime ago, when Ero stayed closer to the frontlines with Mono. I can’t remember that far back, though.
When we near the center of town, a scraping noise scratches stone. It’s like chalk on a classroom wall back in Lethotar. I stop, River at my feet. He’s growling. Like when we found the fiend. Great.
I turn around—right into a trio of fiends, creeping down from the roof of a burned-out house. I’m starting to understand why the Holy Empire has no presence here. We’ve walked into a nest of demons.
Spear raised, I prepare for their attack. Two charge; one waits behind, pacing. Before they reach us, River leaps, tackling the left fiend. A scramble ensues, but I have no time to watch as the other one taunts me. It screams an inhuman cry—like a goat, but a higher pitch.
It strikes, its arm flinging forward and stretching like an elastic rope. With my father’s spear, I swipe, imagining the arm tearing in half. With a sickening crunch, bones break, the arm fractures, and blood splatters the dirt. It falls to the ground, writhing in pain.
No time to watch.
River grapples with his fiend, the third still pacing some ten meters away. Holding out my hand, I imagine River’s assailant bursting into flame. An energy lance leaves my palm, striking the dark creature, and it erupts, skin boiling and smoking. River rolls away, unscathed. The third fiend howls, backs away, and runs down an alley, out of sight.
“No way the towers missed that flash, better—”
Out of the alley, dozens of fiends crawl, charging River and me. They’re not too fast, but they’re fast enough.
I take off in a dead sprint away from them, deeper into town. Another dozen or so fly out of another alley, as if . . . herding us. Not good. “River, I’m about to do something insanely stupid, you better trust me, boy.”
The larger group of fiends is behind me and a bit to the right. A small pack forms on our left—toward the Gates of Vicor. I abruptly change course, charging the group head-on. Gathering my mental strength, I envision a blast of flame throwing the pack against a nearby wall. Light lances, flames erupt, screams resound, and we’re running through their smoldering remains.
I’m not unscathed. My skin feels like its boiling too, daggers continuing to stab my wrist. I look down, and it’s crackling—blistering. All right, so there’s limits to my power. Need to pay close attention. Spear probably helps limit damage to my body, if I channel through the weapon.
We’re not out of the fire yet. With a glance over the shoulder, I see a ravenous horde of fiends charging me. Only one direction to go—toward the Gates of Vicor. Though they’re aching from running, my legs carry me over crumbled walkways, dirty puddles, and patchy, overgrown grass. The closer we are to the fortress, the more I recognize its true immensity. The wall is huge, at least fifty meters tall, and it’s still a good half a kilometer from me. The cries and screams of the fiends sound like they’re right at my ankles, but—
The fortress screeches. No. The gate at the base of the wall—it’s rising. In the dim moonlight, a party of soldiers on horseback gallops into the ruins. At this point, I don’t care if they’re Holy Empire. They can save us from the demons at our heels.
I barely feel the minutes pass. Feet on stone. Cool breeze through the hair. Screaming. Constant, evil screaming. Then—shouts. Men, speaking in an incomprehensible language. Rounding a corner, the cavalry are charging down a main road toward my enemy. I duck to the side of the road, pointing and screaming at the creatures behind me. Lances and swords at their sides, the soldiers converge on the fiends, slashing and swiping and carving them to pieces.
After only a minute or two of fighting, the beasts disperse, whimpering. My heart’s beating like a drum in my chest, and River circles around me, wagging his tail. We’re safe.
Except we’re not.
The knights turn, face us, and slowly trot toward our position.
“River, you need to leave. Now. Wait for me here. I know you can survive.” I scratch the wolf’s head. “Do you understan
d? You need to go. Back to the forest.”
He tilts his head quizzically.
“No, I don’t know what they’ll do to you. Probably view you as vermin. Go!” I point toward the trees. He’s fast enough to outrun the fiends. I think.
He nuzzles my knee. It’s too late. The horsemen surround us, lances pointed at my chest. The men shout words and sounds back and forth between each other, speaking their strange language. One horse trots ahead of the others. River leans against my leg.
“Accursed one,” says the helmeted soldier in my language, “how did you escape the pens?”
Raising my hands above my head, the spear pointed to signal nonaggression, I say, “I did not escape. I . . .” I don’t know what to say next.
“Of course you escaped. Where else would you be from? Back to the mines with you.”
The mines? Oh no. “Wait! I am from Lethotar! I’m . . . an envoy come to speak with your leader!”
“Lethotar was destroyed. You lie. Drop your weapon. It’s time to return you to the pens.”
“I’m telling the truth!”
The soldier kicks his horse forward and whips his lance around, knocking me to the ground. “Comply. Now.”
While I could fight, unleashing my power, I don’t think I can take them all. I nod, wincing at the pain in my chest. I drop Flame of Maripes to the dirt.
With a roar, my water-wolf lunges at the horsemen who assaulted me.
“River! No!”
With a casual stab of his lance, he skewers my friend in the shoulder. River drops to the dirt, blood dripping and staining dark, matted fur. I reach for Flame, but I’ve been caught unawares. Another soldier approached from the side, and his boot now rests squarely on the spear’s shaft.
“Why?” I scream. “Why kill him?” My lungs are dry and coarse with sorrow. I fall to my knees.
The soldiers give no response. They bind and gag me, push me toward the city, and leave River whimpering in the mud. I have no time to mourn the loss of my friend, my guide, my family. He’ll die out here, fighting the fiends—or from blood loss—because I thought it smart to explore a city beneath the watchful gaze of the Holy Empire.
So instead, the next step of my journey will take me to the pens. And, based on the soldier’s words, to the remnants of my people beyond Lethotar.
XIV
Darkness. Infinite darkness. It reminds me of the place between life and death, after I smashed into the Caris River. Except instead of water, dark walls in a space only a meter wide and two meters tall surround me. An underground coffin, with only a metal, windowless lid above my head.
I scream for hours with no response. Now, I cry.
“Father? Grandfather? Lord of Light? Where are you? Why have you forsaken me this entire time?”
Silence.
“Did you save me from the waters just to die in this hole?
Silence.
“And you let River die.”
Silence.
I fall to the ground, curling in a ball. There’s just enough room to lazily drift to sleep. This is the end, I know it.
◆ ◆ ◆
Hours. Days. Weeks. I don’t know. At least twenty times, they’ve opened the hatch above me, dropping a canteen of water, a bucket, and a wafer of bread.
Only one image repeats in my mind—the spear piercing River’s shoulder, the water wolf flailing into the dirt. Why hadn’t I fought? I know the answer, of course. I would have died immediately. Yet . . . there is honor in dying to save those you love. My father died for Lethotar. Though, his sacrifice at least had meaning. Fighting to save a water wolf and inevitably failing? Idiotic suicide. My life would result in waste for my people and the Lord of Light.
Do I care? I don’t know. I want the madness to end. The Lord of Light has failed me, why shouldn’t I fail him? My people wanted to use me . . . they already believe I’ve failed them, so why not make their belief reality?
A thought nags, gnawing at the recesses of my fluttering consciousness. I was captured. The soldiers didn’t want to kill me. They’d said . . . they’d said Lethotar was destroyed. Those two facts mean something, but I’m not sure what. I need to think. It’s impossible to think. How can I think in this soul-crushing darkness?
My hand sparks.
My fingers twitch.
I breathe.
My hand glows, bathing the tomb in faint, white light.
It’s not a lot, but it’s enough. My heart rate slows, though anger simmers. I should have created a glow days (weeks?) ago. All right. So . . . the soldiers had said “back to the mines with you.” Meaning . . . they’re using slaves to mine the mountains beneath the Gates of Vicor. And if they captured me, they have more of my people trapped nearby. I’m in a torture chamber of some sort, perhaps for punishment of disruptive slaves.
They’re treating me like a slave because . . . well, the obvious. They hate the People of Light and believe we’re accursed. Orcs. That’s easy. However . . . they believe Lethotar has been destroyed. Why? These soldiers stand guard at the Gates to protect against a future attack from my people. Right? That’s the strategic approach. Unless—
If the Holy Empire wants to subdue their captive population, they need to destroy all hope. By convincing even their own troops they won the war, there’s no chance hope returns to the slaves. No one is coming to save them.
Shuffling footsteps above signal the next food cycle. Extinguishing my hand, I prepare for what’s to come. I can survive the darkness. I can withstand anything. I know my purpose.
I’m going to save my people—the People of Light.
◆ ◆ ◆
I’m thrown in front of a broad-chested man, a dark beard drowning his face. His skin is a golden tan I’ve never seen before. It’s strange. Exotic. Terrifying.
He speaks words in his foreign tongue, and a man next to him translates, saying, “We don’t have a record of your existence. Who are you?”
I say nothing.
A firm hand strikes my cheek; I taste blood.
“You will answer,” says the translator. “You are speaking to High Guardian Ricarian, Liege of High Rock and Champion of Lethotar.”
My mind races at the words, considering all of the possibilities. There’s too many. I’ve never heard of High Rock—maybe a new name for the Gates? I decide to speak.
“My name is Ermo—daughter of Mono, Warrior of Light and Vanquisher of the Holy Empire—and he was son of Maripes, who your people murdered in cold blood.”
For only a moment, the eyes of the translator widen, and as he relays the words, Ricarian’s similarly flare. “You lie,” says Ricarian through his translator. “We defeated you, the accursed, over the Chasm, we cast down the city of Lethotar, and your people have scattered to the wind.”
“Do you really believe that? Or is it . . . is it a story you’ve told your people, a lie to convince them you won when you actually lost?” I don’t know where the words come from, but they sound . . . right.
Another smack. More blood. The translator didn’t even transmit my words. I can’t—
◆ ◆ ◆
My eyes flutter open. I expect to find the walls of my prison again; instead, water splashes my face.
“Wake up.”
Words. In my language.
“What? Who?”
“Get up, girl.”
I push upward from the ground, eyes adjusting to dim light. Around me stand a dozen or so men and women of all shades—my people. I’ve found them.
My thoughts spill all at once. “You’re alive! How are so many of you alive? We thought you all must be dead. It’s been so long—the fact you’re alive—this changes so many things. If we escape, if we return to Lethotar—”
“Lethotar was destroyed ten years ago.”
I look up at the man; he’s holding a pail of water. He confirms my suspicions, even through the hazy fog clouding my mind. “They’ve tricked you. I’m from Lethotar. My name is Ermo, daughter of Mono, the son of Maripes—”<
br />
Murmurs flurry throughout the crowd. One—or both names—are recognized. I smile.
“How?” someone says. “Why have we heard nothing from you?” He means from Lethotar.
“Uh . . .”
“So you all just abandoned us to die,” says the man with the water, “to slavery, to imprisonment at the hands of the Holy Empire?”
I’m at a loss for words. My head’s spinning, it’s throbbing, my knees buckle. “I’m sorry, I don’t know—”
“Oh Tathias, she’s just a girl, let off. Let her tell the story. If she’s part of Maripes’s family . . .”
“Maripes?” says the man with the pail, apparently named Tathias. “Maripes failed us. He’s the reason—”
“My grandfather was a great man,” I shout, “he tried to save us when no one else would!”
“Your grandfather wasted his life on a cause that would never succeed. Where is he now? He retreated from the Gates before the battle was over, leaving us to die.”
I fall to my knees, shaking. Tears stream down my cheeks. “But you don’t understand. We won.”
“No, even if Lethotar survived, we’ve not won,” says Tathias. He looks over his shoulder at the man who supported my story. “Erin, tell her. No. Show her.”
A woman approaches—Erin—grey hair stringing down past her shoulders. Her wrinkly skin reveals age, but she holds out her hand to help me stand. “Ermo, daughter of Mono and granddaughter of Maripes, we are honored by your presence. What little hope you bring, we do not deserve, for we have lost all faith in a better tomorrow.”
“Erin?” I say. “You are . . . Erin? High Priest of Clan Wi?”
“I am the same. You know your history.”
“I am daughter of Mono, but I am also daughter of Ero.”
Erin nods. “Ero was a good student. A great student. Then—he is still alive?”
