The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  Awyn hasn’t seen much of Brega, but she was feeling better last time she saw her. She doesn't even know if she wants to see her. Every time she does, she quickly hides or turns the corner. When they spoke for the first time, Awyn was spuriously happy. But she can’t fake that every time. She doesn’t want to.

  “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  Speak of the devil.

  She turns at the voice, and Brega stands in the doorway. Her golden hair is braided, resting on her shoulder.

  Awyn smiles. “It’s all right.”

  Brega smiles softly, walking over to the window. She looks down at the bloody battle. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

  “I wish I was down there with them.”

  Brega looks up at Awyn in shock. “What?”

  “I wish to fight with my brother. I wish to fight with Saine, who’s my friend. I want to watch this enemy fall and help in doing it,” she says, longing to fight. She knows Brega can’t understand. “But perhaps this isn’t my battle. I believe it’s still to come, for me at least. A battle far less bloody, but far more torturous.”

  “What would that be?” Brega asks.

  Awyn thinks for a moment, though, she doesn’t really have to.

  “The battle within my own soul. This war with Revera…it’s the same.” She can see Brega doesn’t understand. “With Revera, we fight for control, we struggle, and sometimes we win. But she never leaves you alone. She’s smart and cruel and relentless.” Awyn takes a breath.

  “Every day I can feel the cruelty of this world break me. I lost my father, my mother. I lost my sanity many times and am struggling to regain it. I’ve lost my friends.” She takes another shaky breath.

  “I’ve lost myself.”

  She swallows, forcing the strangling lump that has formed in her throat down to whatever depths it came from.

  “So you see, Brega, this war is mine in a different way. It’s yours too. It’s everyone’s. Revera is my hatred. And I’m trying my hardest not to let her win.”

  Brega is quiet.

  Awyn can hear her doubtful, disbelieving thoughts swarming the Rohidian’s mind. Awyn is younger than her, and Brega can’t believe how wise she is.

  I’m not wise. I’m simply telling the truth.

  The blonde princess nods grimly and leaves the throne room, leaving her alone. She breathes a sigh of relief. Awyn had no idea what was going to come out of her mouth when Brega asked that. She barely had any idea what she was saying while she was saying it. It just tumbled out. But now, thinking back to it, it does make sense on some level.

  Revera tries to win at any cost.

  She tears people apart without remorse.

  Just like hate.

  Aradon looks up at the sky. The gray cast is exactly what Awyn likes. It’s surreal to him that he’s going to see her in a week, especially when he never thought he’d ever see her again. She was the friend he never had.

  He looks over at Eldowyn and Hagard, the dwarf veering into Eldowyn as his fatigue seems to catch up with him. Aradon smiles. I’ve made a few more. He can feel his mood darken. Then why…why do I want to hurt them?

  He’d never say it aloud, but he hopes the battle won’t be over when they arrive. He wants to be a part of it, but more than that, he just needs to kill, to get bloody. Inside he feels the lust grow and bubble, until it’s almost overwhelming. He clenches his fists hard, digging his nails into his palms. This has helped him before, to curb his appetite for the kill. He doesn’t know why it works, but it does. Perhaps it’s more superstitions of the Tanea.

  A superstition that works.

  But it’s not working at the moment.

  His fists start to shake again, and he releases them, watching as his hands tremor violently. He shakes them out, trying to get the trembling to stop. Whenever he thinks about carnage, it feels like his blood pumps faster, and the sensation of the Besged state overwhelms him. But there is also something different about the feeling, unlike anything he’s felt before when he’s gone into the powerful state.

  Almost like the Besged Dia, but he never remembers much about that experience. He does know, though, that what he feels now…it’s so much darker. Forced. Alluring.

  “Night came, and wit’ determination, strengt’, and bravery, we made it to Osore,” Hagard says triumphantly.

  Aradon realizes he missed half his friends’ conversation.

  “Or the fact that an army was chasing us,” Eldowyn says matter-of-factly.

  Hagard nods, patting the elf on the back.

  “Let’s stick wit’ my version when we tell it.”

  Eldowyn smiles, shaking his head.

  It’s been a few days of walking. Aradon can see the valley of the Kawa in the distance. They should be there within another day. The late afternoon cools down, and a breeze lashes his bare chest. He misses the familiar whip of his cloak, but sadly their clothes were burned back in Cia Ro.

  They must look like idiots walking through the snow laden plains in wraps and a chiton. Surprisingly, the breeze isn’t freezing, at least not for winter. They’re able to withstand the cool. It’s refreshing, almost feeling warm and comforting. Perhaps Revera’s magic couldn’t drown out all the warmth the world has to offer.

  His zebra paint still hasn’t completely worn off yet, even in the river. Hagard’s beard has begun to grow back, though, it’s not even an inch off his chin.

  Aradon can’t wait to arrive at the Kawa, where he can change and rest.

  Then it’s time to fight.

  Kepp’s sword clashes against the Tarken’s armor. He blocks the sword, hearing the metal on metal as he swings it down. The Tarken loses his grip on the handle and staggers. Kepp seizes the advantage and sticks it into him, and the Tarken slumps to the ground.

  Blood mats his hair and drips down his face. He could only imagine what he looks like right now; insane eyes, black blood caking his skin, his hair dressed with mud and blood.

  He turns, looking for Saine, seeing him among the fighting, shooting his arrows every which way. The enemy barely gets within range, attempting to spear him before dropping dead, and the ones that do are swiftly cut down by his sword and daggers.

  In battle, Kepp prefers a sword to a bow, though, he carries both. With a sword, he feels more in control, steadier. The sword can bend to his will—a bow eats away at time—a precious thing in battle. He can cut down two men by the time Saine gets an arrow out of the sheath and across the bowstring—but Sanarx aren’t men.

  Kepp hears a grunt behind him and whips around to see a monstrous Sanarx staring down at him. His foul stench doesn’t distract Kepp from the fact that the beast raises his hooked weapon over his head. He brings it down, Kepp narrowly dodging it.

  If there’s one good thing about fighting a Sanarx, chances are they’ll be much bigger, thus slow and lagged. Kepp slashes the Sanarx’s side, causing it to let out a ferocious growl. The beast turns around, baring its weapon, but Kepp moves backward as the Sanarx keeps swinging it.

  His foot hits an unexpected rock and Kepp stumbles back onto the ground. He hits the snow hard but doesn’t have time to groan as his sword flies through the air, dropping several feet away. He scrambles for it, but the Sanarx drops his weapon on him, Kepp rolling to miss it by mere inches. He grabs his sword and turns on his back—but his eyes widen in horror as the beast lifts his sword in the air, ready to kill him.

  Then the Sanarx chokes. He’s frozen it seems. Kepp scrambles as the bulk of the Sanarx is about to fall right on top of him. Rolling out of reach, Kepp sees an arrow in the Sanarx’s head. He looks at where it came from, and Saine stands with his bow erect.

  Huh, so it really is the head. He pries the arrow out of the nervous system and runs over to Saine.

  “Thanks!” he yells over the fighting.

  “You’re welcome, but now is probably not the time to talk,” Saine says back.

  Kepp nods. “Good call.”

  Behind Saine, Kepp sees a wounded
Tarken sneak up and lunges at him, knocking him to the ground, and plunging a dagger into his chest. The Tarken twitches for a moment, then stills.

  Saine nods grimly at Kepp as he stands, breathing heavily. “I guess it’s my turn to thank you.”

  Kepp grins. “Yeah, but now is probably not the best time to talk,” he mocks before running back into the gore.

  Adriel pokes at her food. Her appetite is lost, a constant jab in her stomach, knowing Saine is out there fighting, killing. It makes her sick with worry.

  Across the table sits Awyn, who hasn’t touched her food either. It’s as if there’s something physically stopping her, stopping them both. Awyn’s eyes earlier reveal her own solemnness, the blue pale and dead-looking.

  “Is something the matter?” Brega inquires.

  Even though Adriel keeps her head down, her gaze not breaking with the table, she can almost feel Awyn glaring, the icy energy emanating from her.

  “Of course not. Our family and friends are fighting down there with an enemy intent on killing them,” Awyn huffs. “Of course we’re fine.”

  Adriel looks up and watches as Brega’s jaw visibly tightens. “I have family down there too. My father and brother are in the middle of that! If they die I assume the throne. And I am not ready for that responsibility.” Brega takes a breath.

  Awyn almost seems ashamed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume.”

  Brega picks her fork back up. “Never mind that. If you two don’t eat, you’ll wither away, and Kepp won’t have a sister to come back to.” She pauses for a moment. “I should know.” Brega said it louder than she probably wanted.

  Now, Adriel brings herself to speak to her. “We have that in common. We shouldn’t fight, we should stay together. Friendship is what guides people through times like these, when love is busy fighting.”

  Brega smiles and puts her hand over Adriel’s.

  And they continue their meal in agreement, if not peace.

  When they’re finished, and Adriel is in her room, she sits in the very spot on the bed where she said goodbye to Saine. It had been an emotional farewell. It nearly broke both their hearts.

  Lying on the bed, Adriel couldn’t think about anything else except Saine. Her mind had twisted with different ways this war could end. She was terrified of losing him. And still is. She’s terrified of being alone again.

  The door had opened and Saine had walked in, clad in armor, a slight limp from his ankle. She’d sat on her knees, watching as he pulled on a black glove, only glancing at her briefly. His eyes were dark, which she knew was his version of worried.

  They hadn’t said anything. They’d just looked at each other. Adriel felt the tears swell up, and a whimper escaped her throat. He’d walked over, steadying her. A sob found its way out of her, and then she couldn’t stop. Her tears streamed down her cheeks, urging Saine to envelop her in a trembling embrace.

  His hug was warm, but all Adriel felt was the sharp coolness of his armor. They’d separated, and he’d wiped her tears away with his gloved thumb.

  “I know it’s hard,” he’d said softly. “But you must be strong for me. If I am worried about you, I won’t come out of this alive.”

  Adriel had taken a shaky breath. “You had better come back. And you’d better stay alive.” She’d rested her forehead on his breastplate, her tears falling on the smooth metal. “Don’t leave me again.”

  Saine had grasped her hands, and she’d looked up at him.

  “I won’t. I will come back to you. This is a promise.”

  Adriel had shaken her head. “You know I never believe your promises.”

  Her faltering words had made Saine smile.

  “Believe this one. I will not die, I will come back, and when this war is over we can spend forever together.”

  Adriel had sighed, placing a cold hand on his stubbly cheek.

  “All right,” she’d said quietly. “I’m holding you to your promise.” She’d kissed him, their lips entangling in love that was about to leave. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist. When they’d pulled back, they’d looked deeply into each other’s eyes before he’d broken away.

  “I promise,” he’d said, and without looking back, he had left the room.

  Saine brings his sword down upon the Tarken, the creature’s blood spraying on his neck. It falls, cut in two like a tree. The beast had gotten a few punches in, but Saine had cut him down in time. He wipes the blood from his mouth.

  Exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. He hasn’t slept in what seems like forever. So far, he has counted the sun rising three times. It’s the third day of this battle, and it doesn’t seem to be relenting. Sometime, maybe in the second day, he lost sight of Kepp, so he isn’t sure if he’s still alive.

  A sharp sensation fills his back. He freezes, jaw slack, eyes wide. He can feel the blood drip down his back, soaking his clothes. From the corner of his eye he glimpses a Sanarx. With adrenaline filling him, he whirls around, slashing the Sanarx’s head clean off.

  “Demon.” He spits, blood landing on the severed head.

  He cut right through my armor. He slips his breastplate off, it is useless now. He charges, not feeling the wound on his back.

  Drawing an arrow across his bow, he jumps onto a rock and takes out a Tarken, the Rohidian soldier under him gratefully nodding and scrambling away, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

  Saine feels a sharp slice across his cheek and staggers, his feet slipping, and he lands on the ground with a hard thud. He brings his hands to his cheek, feeling where the arrow pierced his skin slightly, but enough to draw blood.

  Only when an arrow lands less than a foot away from his head does he see the archer Sanarx aiming for him once more, in a small clearing within the heaviest part of the battle. Saine scrambles to his feet, diving to the snow as another arrow flies and slides across the wet slush. In a smooth motion he’s on his knees and aims for the Sanarx’s neck, the arrow hitting its mark perfectly, the Sanarx falling.

  It takes a lot to bring down the beasts, unless you hit them in just the right spot. The neck happens to be one of them, but it’s a target that—at least from far away—only an arrow can do.

  And he’s running out of arrows.

  The night brings a new fear to the soldiers of Rohidia. New dangers, new torments, and new shadows to make them cower. Many of these men no longer have families or are too young to have one. Some are too old, seen too much death. They hold on until the end of their time, but that seems too far away in these times.

  Why linger when there’s nothing to linger for? Why fight when there’s no one to fight for? Why live when there’s nothing to live for?

  Haydrid asks himself these questions every time he sees one of his fellow men fall. Every time he draws his own sword across the leathery hide of the Tarken. Or cuts the head off a Sanarx. Why does he bother? Why does anyone bother anymore?

  And that question in itself is a cowardly one.

  But the men around him. They fall. They bleed. They die. And yet there is not one hint of doubt in the way they fight.

  Haydrid is a seasoned warrior. He can tell when someone is fearful. But fear is different than doubt. One can fight through their fear. But doubt is treacherous during war. It digs into one’s brain. They begin to wonder why they’re even fighting, and that’s when people start to give up.

  It’s not the fear. It’s the doubt.

  The men around him visibly shake in fear. But no one doubts.

  And that’s a debt he and his father will never be able to repay.

  “Get to the gates! Get to the gates now!”

  The voice comes from the west. Haydrid searches for it, having trouble seeing through the fighting. But through the fray he can see Captain Baran shouting to a group of soldiers at the gate of the city.

  The Kahzacorians must be trying to break through the city walls.

  Fighting through the plunder of Tarken, he tries his best to avoid the Sanarx and
just cut down every beast in his path. Getting to the gate as fast as he can is harder than he originally thought, as he dodges a Tarken’s hammer, meeting the creature’s back with his sword.

  He turns back to his path just in time for an arrow to cut through his forearm. Gasping, he groans as he yanks it out, not having time to yell at the pain as the Tarken archer eyes him, his bow drawn.

  Haydrid swallows, and when the arrow flies, everything seems to move slower. His feet are somehow stuck, and he can feel the fear inch its way up his legs, crawling along his torso, and into his head.

  It’s a split-second decision really. To die or to live. The decision is simple. Move or not move. Die or not die. Kill or be killed. And all the same, just one moment of bravery and hope can alter the course of one’s fate, and possibly the fate of a war. If he gives up now, what would he have given? His sword? That could never be enough. His life? That’s meaningless if he lets it go without a fight.

  Every moment of struggle and each bout…it would be worthless.

  Time resumes, and as a Tarken runs by, he grabs its armor and pulls the beast in front of him, the arrow not even touching his breastplate. Taking out one of his daggers, he throws it and narrowly misses the Tarken.

  But now the beast is angry.

  It charges for him, but he dodges its sword and cuts into the Tarken’s neck, bringing it down in a swift move.

  Catching his breath, he rushes to the gate where Baran and several others defend the city entrance from a widening group of Kahzacorians.

  “Baran!” Haydrid yells, trying to get through to the small group of soldiers. The gate has been almost completely obliterated, and the soldiers barricade it with anything they can find—wooden planks, bed frames, pieces of marble—anything.

  I won’t be able to get through the gate. He looks along the tall white wall of the city. If I can just climb up one of those walls. Turning, he spies a rock. He takes off his breastplate—he’ll need as little weight as possible if he’s to pull this off.

  When he was a child, he used to pretend he was an elven warrior, fighting a ferocious dragon that killed his whole family. Morbid, he knows, but he was trained to fight since he could stand, so it was hardly out of character.