The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  When they are somewhat warm again, their skin no longer a victim to the cold, they ride off. Awyn shares a horse with Kepp, sitting behind him, her arms hugging him. She looks across at Saine and Adriel. Saine looks like he’s about to fall off, but Adriel has her arms around him in such a grip, he probably couldn’t fall if he needed to.

  Haydrid watches the blizzard outside from his window. The snow blows powerfully, whipping doors and hay around. His people almost never leave their homes anymore. It blizzards nearly every day, and the cold is enough to make one’s skin turn blue.

  Ever since Revera cursed Rohidia ten—no, eleven—years ago, they’ve been trapped in a never-ending winter. It’s always cold. They can’t send miners up to the mountains, so their economy is suffering, and the northern villages are abandoned, just like the mining city of Nemma.

  Rohidians have taken shelter in Rohea. But many have left the country, searching for lives elsewhere, where they can run in the grass and watch streams trickle under bridges.

  There was a time when Rohidia was like that, it was once beautiful, with winter only being a little more than half the year, and everyone loved winter. The holidays would bring so much joy and light to the villages and cities.

  But now everyone wants to leave, even Haydrid. But he can’t leave his father or sister, especially when he will be king in another year, after his father steps down. Atta has grown tired of ruling as he enters old age, even more so with the war going on.

  And when Brega is still sick.

  Turning back into his room, he lets the drape fall over the window, blocking out the silver light. He wraps the soft polar bear fur blanket around him and sits on his bed. Polar bears once wandered everywhere, and they would even ride them. But they have left too, not able to find any food.

  Revera has destroyed his home.

  He swore long ago he would get his revenge.

  Unless Awyn gets to her first.

  The slam of the cell door awakens Aradon, Eldowyn, and Hagard. Light shines in, bright and warm. They have to squint to see. In the doorway three silhouettes emerge, their skin dark and bodies decorated in patterns and colors, a loin cloth wrapped around their waist.

  “Has it been a day already?” Eldowyn whispers to Aradon as the men haul paint and cloth into the room.

  “It’s been longer. The sacrifice must be on the last day of—what—a three-day festival?”

  All at once, the three men grab them and shove them against the wall. Standing, they strip off their clothes, throwing them in a pile.

  “Hey! Dat’s custom,” Hagard yells as they throw his black tunic aside without care.

  “Shut up and put this on,” a shorter, stocky man says, stumbling over the unfamiliar language with his thick accent. He holds out a colorful leopard skin wrap to Hagard who hesitantly takes it.

  Eldowyn and Aradon are handed other wraps.

  They quickly dress themselves. Aradon ties the zebra striped wrap around his waist tightly, but only regains his composure to be smothered in the face by a hand covered in black and white paint. He grunts in displeasure as the palm smacks the front of his face, leaving a hand print behind. The man does this twice on his chest, turning him around. He goes to smack him again and pulls back. Aradon can only assume he’s seen the Red Warrior insignia on his left shoulder.

  The man says something in an incomprehensible language—Aradon knows a little of the Trads’ language, but not what they’re saying at a whisper. A taller, fitter man, who was painting up Eldowyn, walks over to look at it. He mutters something and the stocky man nods and slaps Aradon’s shoulder, covering the dragon brand with a black and white hand.

  They look like idiots. Aradon, in his zebra attire, has paint all over himself, his hair pulled up into a tight updo. Hagard’s leopard skin hangs to his ankles, and a necklace of teeth adorn his throat. Yellow and brown dots cover him everywhere, his nose painted like a cat’s. His thick, curly black hair is braided, and his beard has been shaved clean off.

  By his grim expression, Aradon can tell he isn’t too pleased.

  Eldowyn looks equally ridiculous. His white chiton, with its sash sits tightly around his waist. Red paint slashes under his eyes and a line on his chin. They’ve even dipped his hair into the red paint, changing his traditional elf-look into something he clearly loathes.

  At least they have shoes.

  The three men have left, probably to go to the festival.

  Once again alone in the room, they stand there awkwardly. Aradon stifles a laugh as he looks at his companions. Hagard and Eldowyn glare at him.

  “You look no better than we do,” Eldowyn says, crossing his arms.

  “True,” Aradon says, fighting the urge to smile, contorting his lips into something thin and crooked.

  “Ugh, I feel naked,” Hagard says gloomily. His eyes cross as he tries to look at his chin.

  “At least you don’t have red hair,” Eldowyn huffs.

  “Oh, if only Kepp could see you now.” Aradon can no longer fight his smile muscles.

  “You know, for a man who’s about to be sacrificed to a goddess, you sure are happy.” Eldowyn’s red painted eyebrow raises.

  “I thought since we’re about to die, we shouldn’t waste our time being depressed.”

  The elf and dwarf look at him, concerned.

  “Since when are ya not depressed? Ya da most depressed man I’ve ever met!” Hagard spits, looking up at him.

  Aradon shrugs. “I suppose death does something strange to me.”

  Hagard scoffs. “Aye, it never has before,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his hairy chest. “You never used to give up. You’d stay strong ‘till yer dead!”

  “Well it’s different this time. I don't see how we’re going to get out of this one.”

  “It’s pretty simple, actually,” Eldowyn says.

  Aradon looks at him.

  “All you have to do is break down that door, kill a few Trads, and then we’re on our way to Nethess.”

  “You make it sound like it’s a routine for me. I don’t kill on a whim.” He scowls at them.

  “Is this a whim to you? We’re going to die soon, probably in less than a few hours, so shouldn’t we at least try to escape?”

  Aradon huffs, turning away from the elf and dwarf, facing the wall, his arms crossed.

  “What would Sefa say?”

  Aradon lifts his head when the elf says this, and his eyes turn to slits.

  “I thought I told you never to speak of her.”

  “Well, I am. What would she say, if she could see you now? She’d call you a coward.”

  In one stride, Aradon steps to the elf, grabs him by the shoulders, and shoves him hard against the wall.

  He tries to contain the rage he feels toward Eldowyn but barely succeeds. “Don’t ever call me a coward! Don’t ever say her name. Never let me hear you talk like this again. I will not go into the Besged state to get us out of this one. I can’t. You need to live with that,” he yells into Eldowyn’s face and lets go of the elf’s shoulders.

  The door swings open, and the livid Aradon swings around as five men walk in carrying ropes.

  Eldowyn glowers. “We won’t have to live with anything soon.”

  Aradon looks at him but his gaze is torn back to the door when the men throw a rope around him, yanking him back.

  “Hey!” He jerks the rope, pulling the man forward and making him stumble but two of the other men knock him to the ground, wrestling and tackling him. They eventually manage to bind him in the ropes—twice over—so he can’t move. They do the same with Eldowyn and Hagard, who don’t put up much of a fight.

  They must not see the need to, and that makes Aradon wonder why he’s even trying.

  “Where are you taking us?” Eldowyn asks as they lead them out of the cell.

  The tallest man turns, his face stony. “To the Blood Chamber. The High Priest is ready for the sacrifice.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Karak stir
s in his bed. He can feel the beads of sweat cling to his brow, and his hands grip the blankets over him, his knuckles taut. His eyelids flutter, and his eyebrows furrow as the nightmare he has every night plays in his unconsciousness.

  He said yes.

  Over and over again. Never once does he say no to the man in black. Nor fight him. Yes. He always says yes. The black night and thundering rain a sign of his weakness and what he would become. What he is now.

  He once tried to tell his master about them, but he just laughed and shoved a disgusting tonic down his throat. Whatever the concoction was, it didn’t work. So he doesn’t dare tell anyone about the nightmares anymore.

  If there is something he hates more than immortality, it’s being made a fool of.

  He sits erect in a second, breathing hard and fast. His eyes wrench open, and he can feel the spark of fear in his head. He swipes at his brow. Any normal person would drink right about now, but Crozacar hated alcohol and drunkenness, so he made sure Karak couldn’t drink it, or at least, get drunk from it.

  So, he’s stuck living through his sleep and waking sober to his pain.

  Of course there is always elf blood, but it does more harm than good. It may be his life source these days, but he also knows it’s only making him worse. There is a sort of buzz that comes from drinking it, but it doesn’t last long and makes him act like a drunken dwarf.

  Though, that’s sort of what he’s going for.

  Elf blood. I sound like one of those bloodsucking monsters from the old stories.

  Revera once promised him she would free him. Well, not her, but she knows how to draw out the one who can. So far, that hasn’t happened. His hopes aren’t any higher than when she first suggested it.

  He can only pray to the Spirits that they’ll have mercy on him. But what Spirit would? Certainly not the Light Spirit, whom by only her power can he be freed. And Zyadar seems to have forgotten about him.

  But that’s probably a good thing.

  With his breathing more even now, Karak lies back to stare at the black ceiling above him. His hand rests on his forehead, and his expression feels blank.

  He doesn’t move when he hears the familiar click-clack of Revera’s heels on the stairs to the main room. And he certainly doesn’t move when she starts calling him, her usual anger stitched into her raspy voice.

  “Karak!” she yells, and after a moment, storms through the door. “Karak, we have business to discuss.”

  “What business?” he says tiredly.

  “It’s time to free the Sanarx.”

  He cranes his neck to look at her.

  “We must lay waste to Rohidia.”

  Karak groans, rolling his eyes, relaxing his head back on the pillow. “Haven’t you done that already? You’ve cast an eternal winter on the land.”

  “But Awyn and that wretch Adriel are traveling there as we speak. We must attack it at once!”

  Karak’s brows furrow. “Why?”

  This seems to take Revera aback. “Why what?”

  “What is the reason for all this destruction and death? Why are you so cruel?”

  The sorceress scoffs. “Do I need a reason?”

  In a flash of speed, Karak transports from the bed to an inch away from Revera’s face.

  “That’s as bad as ‘I don’t know’.”

  Revera’s gaze meets his, and there’s a tiny bit of confusion in her blue eyes.

  “I want power. I destroyed Mera, and now it’s Rohidia’s turn.”

  Karak thinks about this for a moment. “Okay, good enough.” He shrugs. Not an inch of him believes that, but he knows she won’t tell him, at least not now. He may not know her plan, but it’s a lot bigger than greed for power. She’s gone too far for that to be a reason.

  “But after this, you have to fulfill your promise.” He grabs her dress collar. “I want her. You’d better deliver,” he says through clenched teeth.

  He swears he can almost feel the fear in her eyes. It makes him feel powerful. The sorceress Revera afraid. He’s one of the few who can make her feel fear. Him, her sister, and that warrior. He’s not great with names, the only thing he knows about the warrior is that he can bend a bronze bow. But nonetheless, he revels in the fear she exudes. Triumphant, he smiles, letting her go. “Now then.” He clasps his hands. “How does this work?”

  Regaining her composure, Revera walks over to the balcony. “Just watch.”

  She lifts her hands to the sky, muttering something under her breath. A thundering crash booms in the distance. He rushes to the balcony, looking across the valley, and watches the gates of Rezakai fall. The black metal twists and crumbles like rock, the avalanche not affecting the mountains beside it at all.

  “What…?” he mumbles under his breath, but then a powerful wind breaks his balance, and he nearly falls over.

  Revera looks up to the black sky, her eyes are ablaze with a fiery effect, and she opens her arms wide. A crack in the sky sends a strike of lightning down upon the ground, and all the mist disappears, along with the flash of light.

  Karak looks down in the valley as the Sanarx and Tarken shout and yell in confusion, the Tarken panicking, the Dalorin screaming.

  “You did it,” Karak says breathlessly. He looks at Revera. “You really did it.”

  “Now it’s time to fight,” Revera says, pinning him with a steely glint in her eyes. “It’s time for the Last Lieutenant to lead his troops into battle.”

  Karak watches as several Tarken work on putting Gotham’s armor on. He never makes the Sanarx do anything, they are his strongest warriors. But the Tarken are his slaves. They buckle large plates of metal together covering his underbelly and neck. A custom helmet is put on his head, covering his large forehead and snout. Artificial metal talons are added over his claws, and a spiked metal tube is slid onto his tail.

  Gotham is the ultimate war weapon. A monstrous beast with scales harder than volcanic rock, claws sharper than a sword, with the hottest fire known to man. His red color makes him even more terrifying, the black and yellow flecks in his eyes bestial and chaotic.

  But under all the armor, scales, and fire red, there is still a composure to this dragon that can only be Aiocille, the elf lord this creature used to be. Perhaps it’s because of this fact that Karak will only be using him if they really need his firepower.

  Karak walks up to the dragon after the Tarken leave. “I’m so sorry.” He sighs. “It seems both of us are under our master’s command. Only pawns in his game.”

  Climbing onto his massive back, Karak gently nudges him and they lift majestically into the air. The wind whips his black cloak as Gotham flies through the sky. The air smells sweeter and fresher, than it had earlier.

  “That spell must have really worked.” All around him the sky begins to clear up, not so much black anymore, but a dark charcoal gray. His nose stings less when he breathes now, and his lungs aren’t wheezing as much. The fact that the Sanarx and Tarken have extinguished all their fires probably helps a lot. It’s as if all the poison has been sucked out of the fangs, he thinks. Now the snake can only rely on its brute force.

  But in this case, that’s a good thing.

  Gotham lands on the black ground. Still holding the chains, Karak looks out at his army, who are busy mending armor and sharpening any weapons they can find. Some of the Tarken already have armor that can only be described as melted into their skin, so most of them just stand around, ready for their command.

  Karak kicks Gotham gently, signaling for a roar. And the dragon delivers. His screeching turns everyone’s heads, and Karak clears his throat.

  “Yesterday we were dying for war. Today we prepare for that war. Tomorrow we shall fight that war. We will die, not in vain, but in victory. We will serve the sorceress just as we have served Crozacar! And we will die for her just as we died for the Dark Lord!” Karak raises his sword to the sky. “With strength!”

  The army cheers, a loud roar that burns the ears.

  “With po
wer!”

  They stomp their booted feet.

  “With no fear of death!”

  They lift their weapons in the air. “We will fight for our fallen master, so that one day he may return, and lead us to a future when we rule everything!”

  The Kahzacorians bump into each other in violent celebration, yells and shouts rising from the gathered crowd. Karak may not believe a word that comes out of his mouth, but they surely do.

  “Now go and prepare yourselves. Tomorrow we fight!” Gotham takes flight into the air, flying Karak away from the noisy troops.

  He’s always hated speeches, the motivation is always fake, and when it’s real, it’s only to serve the purpose of the one talking. Ever since his master died, he has had to make these speeches himself. Karak doesn’t have the same…dramatic flair, that Crozacar had.

  In his room he sits on his bed, looking at the sword in his hands. His father gave him this, all those years ago, before the master ruined his life and killed his family. The golden handle glints in the firelight, the steel blade sharp and well crafted.

  His father was a skilled blacksmith, and this was a gift for his fifteenth birthday. He was so happy. A feeling he hasn’t felt since that day Crozacar came.

  His family lived on a hill a few miles away from their village. It was peaceful.

  Then, not only did their village burn, but so did their whole continent. Karak is the only one left from the lands in the east. Except for Crozacar’s soul.

  He ruined everything good in Karak’s life.

  And now he’s enslaved to do his bidding.

  The Rohidian plains are blinding in the sunlight, a breeze sweeping in and chilling her. The troupe rides, the atmosphere dismal and gray. The soldiers don’t talk, but the pale faced Saine has been cracking a few jokes to lighten the mood.

  “What does an angry horse say after a whipping?”

  “What?” Kepp’s voice isn’t amused and is groggy with fatigue.

  “Neigh you’ve done it.” Saine laughs. “Get it? Neigh. Now. Neigh you’ve done…oh, since when are you too tired for a joke?”