The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  Maybe it’s just another stage in the Besged Dia. The Dia is a state of unknown, it’s uncontrollable, emotional, and extremely dangerous for anyone near him. A surge of pure power. It’s in his mind, body, and soul.

  But this…this is evil.

  Though, when he was fighting in the savanna, on the way to Poy, he was on the very edge and he was fine. He may have overdone it a little, been a little too violent to make sure dead bodies stayed dead.

  But he was on the edge, and he stayed on the edge…

  No, he can’t do that again. The edge could give way into full-blown Besged state, and if that happens, he feels like he truly won’t be able to come back.

  He sighs. “Can we rely on your friend?” Aradon asks.

  “I don’t even know how we can reach him.” Eldowyn looks down. “You shouldn’t expect me to know about this mystery acquaintance. He’s not even my friend. He’s Kepp’s. I have a vague description of him…but I don’t know him.”

  Aradon sighs and looks up at the wooden door. It would require the Besged state to knock it down.

  But once I’m fighting, I can barely control myself. He looks back to the elf and dwarf whose eyes are sad with defeat and the cruel death that lies ahead. Aradon sighs again.

  I can’t let them die because of me.

  The night brings a strong, cold breeze through the window of the princess’ room. The sheer green drapes hanging over the gold bed frame sway, and golden strands of Brega’s hair ruffle gently as the breeze washes in.

  Haydrid hasn’t left her side. Ever since the doctors left, and that awkward conversation with his father, he’s stayed in her room.

  Servants have begged him to eat and rest, but he won’t leave his sister until she wakes up and speaks. Her frail, tiny hand is still clasped in his, and he gently rubs it with his thumb. He starts to hum, a familiar melody to the royal family of Rohidia.

  “Under the maple tree we gather, to sing and prosper. The kings gather, brothers of five, to watch as the seasons change, the leaves different colors—”

  His voice chokes, and his head droops, his gaze falling to the floor.

  “Red, yellow, orange. Watch the snow fall.”

  Haydrid’s eyes widen in surprise at the small voice.

  Brega swallows with difficulty, breathing weakly. “You’re off tune, big brother.”

  Tears fall down Haydrid’s face, but he doesn’t care. He sighs in relief and brings Brega’s hand up to his lips to kiss. She softly smiles at the gesture, and looks so fragile, so vulnerable, as if a loving touch is something she hasn’t felt in many moons.

  “Brega, how are you feeling?” he asks, sniffing.

  “As well as I can be.” She’s smiling, but her eyes look dead. Ever since their mother died, her eyes haven’t been happy, but this is much worse. The once vibrant green looks drained, dull, and there’s no hint of a spark.

  Her eyebrows crinkle, and she groans. “Where is Father?” she asks, weakly.

  Haydrid huffs, not sure he should be exposing Brega to his father’s ill temper. But she deserves her father.

  “In the throne room, being drowned with matters of the court.”

  Brega softly nods. “He always buried his sadness in work.” She winces. For a moment, there’s no sound but her wheezy breathing. Another breeze rushes in, prickling at his neck and face, chilled from his tears and northern wind.

  Haydrid sees pain in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, leaning in closer to his sister.

  She takes a shaky breath and says, “I am home. After being starved, hit…it’s almost too comfortable.” She shifts her head to look at him. “Karak never hit me much. Only when I was too loud or...” She shakes her head.

  Haydrid’s jaw clenches. If he ever got hold of that demon, he would strangle him with his own two hands.

  “But after a while he just…gave up. It’s as if part of him didn’t want to do it.”

  Haydrid ignores that last comment, and instead wraps her in his arms. “You’re safe now.”

  But Brega doesn’t seem to hear this or take it in as she pulls back from him.

  “But then I was forced outside the tower. Cold and weak, I had to travel through Kahzacore alone. I was touched by those hideous beasts.” Tears start to prick her eyes. “I remember the smell of their breath. The roughness of their skin. The sharpness of their claws. And that sound up high.” She squeezes her eyes shut as if wanting to shake the memory from her head.

  Haydrid can feel his own tears falling.

  “The dragon screeched and roared. But there was this other presence. Pure evil. At the time I thought it was Karak staring into my soul as I left, he has that effect.”

  Haydrid swears she almost smiled.

  “But now, looking back, it was stronger than him. Something ancient, and yet so new.” She sighs. “I don’t know what it was. Perhaps Revera? But I’m sure I’ll remain curious until I find out.”

  “Speaking of finding out things...”

  Brega raises her eyebrow slightly as she always does when she’s curious. Haydrid isn’t sure how to say this, it’s been startling news. But Brega deserves some truth after what she’s been through. “Awyn escaped.”

  No sound. Not even breathing. Her eyes are wide with surprise.

  Haydrid taps his foot nervously. “I saw her at the slave markets when I was out searching for you. I don’t think she recognized me, but it only took me a moment to know it was her.”

  “Our cousin sticks out like a sore thumb with all that beauty.”

  Brega has always been a bit jealous of Awyn. She’s never met her, but the stories about the child’s beauty were enough to sway something in her. Of course, Haydrid and their father have kept her in the dark about her predicament. Brega thought she grew up in the palace under her uncle Tamon. She never knew the whole story, though, she did realize Awyn wasn’t there willingly. But both their father and him know she’ll find out everything sooner or later.

  “But not as beautiful as you.” He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  Brega smiles softly.

  Haydrid sees their mother in her every day, so she’s the most beautiful person in the world to him.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, big brother.”

  He smiles. “I’ll take my chances.” He sits on the bed, and she leans on his shoulder. They’ve always been close like this, teasing each other. He was frantic when he lost her.

  Some people would say it’s strange that they are as close as they are, especially at this age. Brega, at twenty-one, should have already found a husband. If Nomarah was still a country, she would probably be married to the king or prince, but that’s obviously not going to happen. And Haydrid, being much older than his sister would be married, most likely to a foreign princess, with children by now.

  But life has a way of changing things, twisting futures. It twisted theirs until war and cold were the only thing they knew…but there is some good in war—one must look for it after all hope is gone.

  What is the good?

  He holds Brega tighter.

  They sit there in silence for a while, until their father rushes in, hearing that his daughter woke. The throne room is on the other side of the castle, and Atta’s face is red from running, with beads of sweat clinging to his brow. He rushes over to Brega and grabs her hand.

  “Oh, darling, you’re awake.” He kisses her hand. “I was so worried. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled or fought with you. I will tell you about your cousin if you wish.”

  Haydrid looks in surprise at his sister, who notices.

  “I had heard rumors of Awyn escaping captivity. I wanted to know if it was true.” She turns to her father.

  So that’s what the fight was about. It’s just occurred to Haydrid he never actually asked why they had fought.

  Brega’s eyes are wide. “Is it true, then? Awyn was in captivity back in Mera?” Rumors were her only vat of information, they would never tell her a
nything. So she never knew for sure.

  Atta inhales slowly, his breath shuddery. “It was a long time ago. Nine years ago, her parents were killed, and her uncle took over as king...”

  The story makes Brega cry. Haydrid asks their father to stop, but Brega urges him on. The stories about the Meran beauty were always too much for her. Ever since their mother died, she’d wanted to live up to her beauty and kindness—the greatness of the late Rohidian queen.

  “Why didn’t you save her?” The words are blunt, and neither Haydrid nor his father were expecting her to ask that. But why wouldn’t they? Brega is the type to question everything and everyone. “Why did you let her suffer, when you had a whole army at your disposal?”

  “Brega, it wasn’t that simple,” Atta starts. “We would have been putting our whole kingdom in—”

  “Aunt Adara would have been disappointed in you, ashamed even, to know you turned your back on her daughter.”

  His father swallows, and Haydrid looks down.

  Atta takes a deep breath. “And I will never forgive myself for that.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gotham twists through the air. His sharp, giant wings cut the sky, his back arching as he faces below, and curves off into a horizontal line of speed. His huge red figure flies through the black clouds, monstrous wings flapping as he climbs higher.

  Karak sits on the back of this dragon, holding onto the chains attached to the metal collar of the beast. He loves riding dragons, it reminds him of his childhood, when times were better. When he was…happy.

  Dragons used to roam his lands. Not in Mortal, but across the ocean, where he came from. Well, in that day the land was still one continent, but ever since the war in the First Age, his home has been forgotten, only a ruined memory.

  His people would tame the dragons and ride them, using their advantage in the few times they went to war. The Dragon Lords. That’s what they were known as. A peaceful people with the most fearsome warriors the world had ever seen.

  But then Crozacar came and destroyed everything.

  That was one thing Karak never wanted—his master to destroy everything he touched. But it was too late by the time he’d changed his mind. Now there are no more dragons, except for Gotham. But he’s not even real. Made of magic.

  Gotham was a dragon in the First Age. Karak knows this because he was the one who tamed him. Crozacar gave him to Karak as a sort of penance for torturing him. What a fool Karak was to take the bribe. The poor dragon was killed time and time again, and Crozacar kept reincarnating him with the souls of mortals and elves and even Sanarx.

  Part of Karak feels guilty that Aiocille was turned into Gotham. But it’s a feeling he relishes, as he never thought he’d ever get feeling back. Slowly, over the course of time, he’d started to regain feelings. Perhaps it was the magic wearing off, or Crozacar’s spirit was getting weaker as the Isle of the Dead embodiment.

  Being Aiocille, Gotham has a certain poise and elven grace about him, even though he’s a monstrous beast who could run down a palace. He never gets sloppy in his flying, and his head is always higher. It’s as if Aiocille is still in control, not just fused with the dragon’s mind. He’s still there, and he’s still saying, “I will not be controlled by a mindless beast.”

  He said it to Revera, and now he’s saying it to the world.

  Gotham screeches, and Karak rubs his neck. He doesn’t say much to this dragon but tries to treat him well. Although sometimes he doesn’t have the strength to be good, to fight against the evil inside that Crozacar planted. It’s a constant struggle.

  To be good, he has to feel pain.

  To be bad, he has to cause others pain.

  Neither he wants.

  Both he gets.

  He has nightmares of that day. When the man of death walked up to him, giving him a choice. If only he hadn’t chosen the wrong one, he would be dead.

  But that’s a lot better than where he is now.

  He doesn’t feel sorry for himself, many would think that. He just wishes he could go back hundreds of years ago to the First Age and refuse his master’s offer. He wishes he could die and be free of the chains that bind him.

  Being immortal isn’t always like this. For elves, their immortality can be cut by a sword bathed in a Pool of Light. Then they die. But for people like him, their immortality doesn’t come from elven lineage, it comes from the Spirits themselves. Good or bad.

  When the Spirits gift a person with immortality or abilities, parts of the Spirit reside in the soul of the receiver. A person who receives power from a good Spirit has their heart filled with love and honor. But for a person who receives power from a bad Spirit, their soul is darkened.

  It isn’t as bad for Karak as it was for Crozacar. His master was directly connected with Zyadar, the Spirit of Darkness. But Crozacar passed down the energy to Karak, thus the darkness had not taken over his soul as much.

  It almost pains him to think of his master. His soul, so dark, so evil. Crozacar wasn’t always like that, he was once a man like any other. Like Karak, before he was turned dark. But his master never spoke much about his past.

  In fact, Karak used to wonder if he’d forgotten about it.

  The Last Lieutenant takes a deep breath. He breathes in the smoggy air of Kahzacore, sending him into a coughing fit. He squeezes his eyes shut as he’s about to fly into a puff of smoke coming from one of the large fires below.

  This foul air is getting hard to handle. He coughs and covers his mouth as he flies through the smoke, exhaling on the other side. I swear I’m being poisoned. He looks down below, the Sanarx and Tarken sit around giant fires, the flames looking like circles from the height he’s at. Every few feet lay smaller circles. Torches. Makeshift homes, huts, and meat shacks are scattered messily around the valley, even on the North Side, where only a few Tarken live, and the snow is black from the soot and ash.

  In Kahzacore, even the snow burns.

  In the distance, though, he can see blue sky. The sapphire horizon is faded into just a patch of sky, compared to their infinite black one.

  Karak misses the sun. He misses the clouds, the fresh breeze of the prairies. He doesn’t remember them at all, but he knows he loved them as a child. The feel of grass, and laughter of his…he can feel tears prick his eyes at the thought of his little sister. Her blue eyes sparkled in the sun, her blonde hair flowing behind her as she ran to their equally beautiful mother, embracing in a hug. And his father—they would sit down on the dock and catch fish all day.

  He wipes his eyes. No. Crying is weakness, that’s what his master had taught him. And that’s one of the rarities of Crozacar’s beliefs that he actually agrees with.

  But it’s interesting about the tears. He hasn’t felt them in centuries. Even if he doesn’t remember them burning like acid, they are comforting.

  In an instant Karak can feel weakness overcome him. A burning thirst fills his throat. Oh no. He gasps for air. “Gotham! Back to Marduth,” he wheezes, and the dragon dips, vertically now, and swoops down onto his perch at the top of the tower. Karak stumbles off him and runs full speed into one of the four inwardly curved spires that edge around the cylindrical tower. He disappears into the invisible opening Revera placed, and staggers down a narrow staircase.

  The metal passage is damp and musty. A thick layer of dust covers the walls, turned into grime from the intense moisture. The stairs creak and pound as Karak makes his way down the curving steps, trying not to fall headfirst.

  He always knows when he needs it. His body becomes terribly weak, his throat aches in thirst. His breathing becomes rapid. He needs it every hour. That’s why he almost never leaves his tower, and when he does, he rides Gotham, so he can get back before he turns to shadow.

  It’s the only thing—the only thing—that can kill him. It’s not like being a Dalorin. If he doesn’t have it within a certain amount of time, he will be trapped with Crozacar on the Isle of the Dead for eternity.

  And he does n
ot want that.

  Karak tumbles through the door at the bottom and finds himself back in the tower’s main room. He hobbles over to the table and grabs the goblet. Bringing it to his mouth, he drinks the rich, red liquid and gasps for air, and it finally comes. Once he’s finished, he slams the goblet onto the table, and slumps to the ground, leaning against the table leg. Karak wipes his mouth with his black sleeve as the taste of the drink lingers in his mouth.

  Another thing he never wanted.

  To always have a need for elf blood.

  Kepp and Saine walk together behind the two girls, who are up ahead a bit. Kepp’s arm around Saine, the Plainsman hops along, keeping off his sprained ankle. Their backs are coated in sweat, their hair wet, and the windless desert does nothing to dry the slickness of their damp skin.

  Saine itches his growing facial hair that clings to his face, while Kepp slicks back his now chin length hair, desperate to take away the extra heat.

  The sun above is hot. There are clouds in the sky, but they haven’t been lucky enough for the sun to be covered today. The Desert of Asgoreth still presents no vegetation, the cracked ground going on forever.

  None of them know how long they’ve been walking in this cursed aridness. Adriel guessed a few days, while Kepp thinks it could be a few weeks. Awyn doesn’t even seem to notice the time, Kepp observes. She just treks on until she can’t go any farther, then they rest.

  Not one of them have asked her what happened in her vision. They haven’t found the courage, ever since she spilled out a fast burble of panic. Kepp finds it hard to believe that after all these centuries, Crozacar might return. What he’s really having trouble with is the fact Revera would even consider this. She isn’t one to give up power, even if it means strengthening her own self. If she did the whole merge-with-Crozacar, she would be giving up her control nearly completely—he assumes having two souls inside one body would be a bit hard to manage…

  Revera would never do it.