The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

Awyn looks at the foot of her bed, silent horror filling her body at the sitting woman.

  “Personally, I wouldn’t have, but Neodyn is just so darn pretty.” Her crimson lips curl into a wicked smile.

  “What are you doing here, Revera?” Awyn asks, jaw clenched. She can hardly be scared, she should be used to this by now. The sorceress stands, walking over to the side of the bed, and sits next to her.

  “This brings back memories.” She looks around the room.

  Awyn glares. “Oh, yes, I could cry from the sentiment.”

  “Now now, there’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m just here to talk.” Revera clasps her hands in her lap.

  “I’m going to ignore the fact that you were listening to my dream just so I can get you out of here faster,” Awyn huffs. “So talk.”

  Revera smiles. “So eager. Well, I might as well get it over with, I have an appointment with the Last Lieutenant that I can hardly miss.”

  “Oh yes, your little servant. I had a lovely chat with him.” Awyn pierces Revera with her stare. “His eyes aren’t as ‘enchanting’ as one might think.”

  The sorceress is anything but scared.

  “Yes, he doesn't have that effect on me either. I believe his whole soul-stealing-stare might just be meant for mortals,” Revera says casually.

  Awyn rolls her eyes, a huff leaving her lips.

  “As much as I love our banter, I really want to sleep. Knowing those I love are fighting a war is very taxing.” Awyn’s stare is thin, as she’s now more annoyed with these little nocturnal visits than scared.

  Revera can certainly see that fact and stands.

  “Well, I just came to tell you that Karak will be drawing back tomorrow night. My troops need some rest. But most importantly, yours do. I want this battle to last until some old friends arrive.”

  Awyn’s brow furrows. “Wait, what old friends?”

  But Revera is already vanishing.

  “What friends?” Awyn yells, but the sorceress is gone.

  Taking advantage of his Plainsman title, Saine cuts through, slashing everything in his path. Pure energy pumps through him. The Sanarx nor Tarken even get a chance to turn around before he cuts them down where they stand. He jumps onto a rock, seeing the battle before him.

  The continuous rain blurs the battlefield, but through the screams, the blood, and the downpour, Saine sees the Rohidian army start to thin. There are still thousands of Kahzacorians, but only a few hundred men.

  How are we going to last? Men are dying and crying out. Determination once more taking hold, he takes out his bow, and continuously launches arrows at the Tarken and Sanarx. They drop like monstrous flies.

  Reaching back for another arrow, his fingers don’t graze any. He takes off his empty sheath, fear gripping him slightly at the sight and drops it, taking out his sword. But before he can jump back to the ground, he falls, hitting the ground hard.

  He struggles to stand, and staggers, his head dizzy. He hasn’t eaten, nor drunk. It was different in the desert, he wasn’t fighting a battle. He stumbles through the snow, falling on his knees. His elbows lean on a rock, or it could be a piece of the stone wall—the city has taken a beating just as intense as any of the soldiers fighting to protect it. With his vision blurring and head pounding, he tries to stand, but collapses onto the rock, wincing in pain.

  The wound on his back. He’d forgotten about it. All the fighting…he just forgot the pain. But now he certainly remembers it. He’s been losing blood this whole time, no wonder he’s dizzy and lightheaded. He groans at the throbbing pain and stumbles off the rock, falling to his knees.

  His sword lies only feet away. He crawls over to it, breathing hard, coughing, and spitting up blood, which drips down his chin.

  “Saine!”

  The voice is shallow, but he vaguely recognizes it. He turns, his eyes like slits, but through the blur he sees Kepp, perhaps ten yards away, fending off an attacking Sanarx.

  “Saine! Get up!” the elf yells.

  Saine grabs his sword and struggles to stand. He stumbles over to Kepp like a drunkard. The elf is against the slushy ground, grappling with a Sanarx.

  A thump and Saine trips, landing on something. It isn’t the ground, it’s too hard. He backs off it and looks down, seeing a face. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shake off the blur in his vision and the dizziness. His own blood drips onto the man’s face.

  He’s Rohidian. Long, flaxen hair. Young. Blood has streamed from his nose, mouth, and ears, dried in red rivers. His face and neck are bloody, and wounds scatter his body. He lifts the man’s head gently, trying to get a closer look, but is horrified by who he sees.

  “Haydrid.”

  One night in the Kawa, and Aradon, Eldowyn, and Hagard are already packing their saddlebags. Kera had told them of the destruction of Nethess, so the chances of Awyn being alive are pretty slim. Instead, they are going to ride up to Rohea and join the fight against the army from Kahzacore.

  Aradon buckles up his bag, tightening it to his horse’s saddle. The Everbreeds will get them to Rohidia faster, so they should be there within a few days. Across the courtyard Kera and her brother watch, anxious for them to leave. They must think the visitors a danger, or they wouldn’t have had a guard posted outside their rooms last night.

  “Kera’s sure an icy one,” Hagard whispers to Aradon as he hands him a bed roll.

  “Last time we were here trouble followed,” Aradon says, glancing at the two intense leaders.

  “Best we leave. Dere is no way Awyn is alive.” Hagard returns to his horse.

  Aradon sighs before mounting the Everbreed. He clicks his tongue and the horses are off. He stops, though, and looks back at Kera.

  I’m sorry. We completely ruined you. He urges his horse on, leaving Kera and her brother to glare at them as they leave.

  The path they will take should be easy enough. If the whole Kahzacorian army is in Rohea, then they will be able to cut through Cannan Forest and attack from behind. The Everbreeds thunder through the mountain path, along the river. This time going north instead of east.

  They had gone east last time they were in these mountains. Going north would have meant going near the Black Mountains, but there really is no point in avoiding them now.

  The end is already here.

  They slow their horses to a walk as they near the end of the mountain path. If they plan to ride without much sleep, they will have to pace themselves.

  “So ye really lived wit de Kawa, elf?” Hagard asks, his smaller red horse shaking its head like a wet dog.

  “Yes. Kera was much kinder before Kepp’s betrayal,” Eldowyn says flatly, no emotion in his voice.

  “Aye, I see. How many elves live dere?”

  “Only a few. Eldowyn and Kepp were among the last to arrive,” Aradon explains. He had been to the Kawa before, though, in secret. He was tasked to spy on a certain elven lord, but he has long passed. “Lord Eldorian and Lady Onora came with their children, and a few others, some families, some not. I know Lord Rowan’s nephew Cassiel arrived, but I think he left a while ago for one of the nations in the north.”

  “Out of Mortal?” Hagard asks, surprised.

  “Yes. Many elves have left. Our world is coming to an end, there is no point of staying, at least not for some,” Aradon says. If he didn’t have a duty to his kingdom, he would have left Mortal with his father long ago. He would never have become wrapped up with Awyn and this war with Revera.

  But he can hardly blame the princess.

  “Aye, I’d rat’er die bein’ strangled by Revera before I go to de icy lands up nort.”

  “According to legend, the Northern Lands are gorgeous,” Eldowyn says, a dreamy note to his voice.

  A gorgeous land? Perhaps I can make Nomarah into a kingdom worthy of such a title? Aradon sighs. Lands of such are merely legends in these days. But for now, another battle is to be fought.

  The evening has crept up, and a brilliant sunset splashes across the sky. Colors
of blue, purple, and pink blend across the heavens like paint, gold and orange ricocheting through the symphony of colors as the night above peeks through the shadowed clouds. Stars sprinkle, shining like fireflies in an endless abyss. And the moon sparkles, peeking out behind the clouds.

  Kepp’s sword finally spears the Sanarx through the neck, and he turns abruptly as words reach his ears.

  Talking softly, Saine whispers to a fallen soldier lying on the ground as if he’s trying to console him. “The sunset is beautiful this evening. The colors.”

  Seeing Saine kneeling and unguarded, he rushes over to him.

  “Saine, what are you—?” Kepp gasps as he looks down at the dead prince. He stares at the body, the prince’s hair and blood sprawled across the snow. “Haydrid.” The name seems barely able to make it to his lips and he looks away, knowing what they have to do. “Saine, we—”

  “Yes, I know.” The Plainsman stands, carefully lifting up the prince, and staggers into a hut. He carries the fallen royal and lays him on the bed. He’s quiet, brooding. “I just…I need to make up for what I did to this family.”

  “Saine, no one knows it was you.”

  The Plainsman whips around. “What does that matter? I’m masking it well, but the guilt is killing me. I can barely look Brega in the eye. I can’t…this isn’t who my father wanted me to be.”

  Kepp looks away, not wanting to look at Saine while he dismisses him. “Come. We need to go.”

  Saine gives him a dark look, his blood covered hands gripping his sword. “Fine.” He shoves past Kepp, and they leave the prince to his silence.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The night is eerie for Kepp, especially with the knowledge of the army barely a mile away. The soldiers sleep in the houses, with at least two guards on watch per house. The stars above are big and bright, the moon casting a silver ghost on the bloodstained winter ground.

  Windows are lit with fires, some burned out, but most still blazing due to the cold of the northern night. Nearer to the palace, soldiers repair weapons, and others barricade the broken gate at the front of the city.

  The longer they can keep the fight outside the city, the easier mobility will be. Having houses and walls in the way of a fight can be dangerous. And the farther from the people and princesses, the better.

  Kepp and Saine sit around one of the fires outside the houses. The flames flicker and lap furiously, the orange blaze illuminating their faces, casting shadows over their eyes. Neither of them has told Atta about his son. Not many others know, but it will be better he isn’t aware until the end.

  If they even get the chance to tell him.

  “This isn’t right. We should tell him,” Saine says, throwing a stray stone into the fire.

  Across the flames, Kepp looks up from the blaze at his friend.

  “Saine. Stop.”

  Saine just stares at him.

  “We can’t waste time on feelings, you know this. We need you to be the Plainsman. We need you to be the unfeeling killer.”

  Saine scoffs at Kepp’s words. “You’re confusing me with Aradon.”

  Kepp frowns, not understanding Saine’s attitude.

  Saine tilts his head. “Oh, come on. You know this is more his territory. If he were here, the battle would have ended days ago.” He exhales sharply. “I’m not a war man. I’m an exile, a criminal.” He looks into Kepp’s eyes, and says earnestly, “But I am not some heartless killer. Every life I’ve taken, I remember.” He sits back, throwing another stone into the fire. “You have the wrong man.”

  Kepp just stares at him. His friend is clearly upset by Haydrid’s demise. They weren’t friends, hardly acquaintances, but Saine is…well, he’s racked with the guilt of kidnapping Brega.

  It’s Kepp’s turn to sleep, and he heads into his assigned house. The plain interior is comprised of a bed, a table, and a wooden chair. A wool blanket and pillow rests on the bed, wrinkled from the previous soldier.

  This house must have been abandoned. Layers of dust cover—well, everything. The door creaks shut, and he sits down. He takes off his breastplate. Then he remembers Haydrid wasn’t wearing one. He sighs, placing it on the chair, along with the other pieces of armor. He yanks off his boots and sits back down. Just as he pulls the blanket over him, the door opens.

  He stands up, grabbing his sword—until he sees who it is. His eyes widen in horror. He drops his sword and ushers the visitor in, closing the door behind them.

  “What are you doing here?” he whispers harshly. “How the heck did you make it past the guards?”

  Her lips curl into a dark crimson smile. “Do you really want to know?”

  For a moment, he thinks, but then he winces and straightens up. He huffs, hands on his hips, trying to work out what to do with her.

  “Oh, please. They’re half-asleep. It was easy getting by.” She clearly sees his unwavering discomfort. “Kepp, I’m not staying for the fight obviously. Even if I dressed in full armor and men’s clothes, I would be seen.”

  He turns to her, worry no doubt making his face red, his tired eyes probably showing bruised purple, not counting the actual bruises on various parts of his body, along with the crusted, dried blood.

  “Awyn, why are you here?” he asks tiredly.

  “To fight,” she says, a wry smile on her face.

  He isn’t amused, and she drops her smile for an annoyed expression. “You soldiers are no fun.” She picks up his breast plate, looking it over, moving on to his sword. There is something different about the way she speaks, the way she moves. She’s too…lighthearted. A complete contrast to the Awyn he wandered in the desert with. That Awyn was much darker.

  His brows furrow. “What’s wrong? What happened to you?”

  Not looking at him, Awyn runs her finger along the blade of his sword.

  “Oh, you know, a disturbing dream and another lovely visit from Revera. The usual.” She looks at him, her eyes not quite right.

  His eyes widen. “Revera visited you?”

  “Yes, but it’s hardly something of concern. She does it quite often. Our talks are very interesting, but not quite as interesting as the one I had with Karak.”

  He can’t believe the casual tone she uses, but more than that, he can’t believe she spoke with the Last Lieutenant. He’s a complete monster. Kepp has met him. He knows how twisted Karak is.

  He grasps her shoulders, staring at her intently. “What did he say? Did he reveal anything? His plans for the battle?”

  “I can hardly tell you that. We spoke before the fighting began. And it was more of a…mind trick.”

  His eyebrows knit together, not understanding her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, brother. If I had any useful information, we both know I would share it.” Her words end stiffly but her blue eyes are so intense, he turns away, collapsing onto the bed.

  “Awyn, please, tell me why you’re here?”

  For a moment, she’s quiet, then a dull thud sounds, and Awyn is on the ground, lying limply with her eyes closed.

  Unmoving.

  “Awyn!” He drops to his knees, picking her up, and bursts through the door. He rushes to Saine, who instinctively grabs his sword when he hears Kepp’s shouts. His eyes widen when he sees Awyn in his arms.

  “What happened?” he asks, worry in his voice.

  “I don’t know, but we must get her to Adriel.”

  “Could this be another one of her dreams?”

  Saine and Kepp look into each other’s eyes, dreading that scenario. If this is another one of her “dreams,” then she could be in real trouble.

  It isn’t a dream. Awyn’s mind swirls and warps into incomprehensible scenes and pictures. Colors swarm and cloud, the shapes barely there. Her head pounds, thunders, and an icy cold chill runs through her body. She’s in her room in the Rohidian palace on her bed. But she can’t move.

  “What’s happening?”

  “A little game I like to call “Guess. That. Poison.” The voice’s mockery
angers her, but the voice itself is terrifying. She can’t see him, but she can feel his presence.

  “Karak.”

  “Half-true. Guess again.” His voice is so bubbly it hurts.

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “It’s not yourself you should be worried about. Rather, it’s that trio of friends you adore so much.”

  Awyn’s eyes widen. Aradon. Eldowyn. Hagard.

  “What are you going to do to them?”

  “That’s a dangerous question.”

  Awyn has resorted to one of the lowest things a human can do.

  Begging.

  “Please. I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt them.”

  “That’s a dangerous offer.” Suddenly she can see his face above her. She desperately tries to move but to no avail.

  “But don’t worry, little half-blood. I won’t hurt them.”

  She lets out a relieved sigh, but her eyes widen as he puts a cold dagger to the corner of her eye.

  “My monsters will.” He brings the knife down her cheek, not cutting into her, but the cold still stings.

  “They-they didn’t do anything to you.”

  “And how could you know this? I mean honestly, Awyn? How much do you even know about your so called ‘family’?”

  She realizes he’s right. She doesn’t really know anything about any of them, only that she shares a mother with three of them, one’s obsessed with liquor, the other with a bow, and one’s the heir to the Nomarian throne.

  It’s a lot to know about a person. And yet it’s nothing.

  Karak smirks. “You see, Awyn. This is your mind. While I am very real, nothing else is. I can steal all your memories and thoughts, and no one would ever know. I can destroy you, and no one could stop it.”

  Awyn swallows. “This is a dream?”

  Karak’s amusement is gone. “That’s what you get from my rhapsody?” He sits up and sighs. “I must be losing my touch.”

  At that word, Awyn feels her body detach from the bed and bolts to the window.

  “Don’t come near me,” Awyn says as he stands, facing her.

  “Now now, little half-blood. That’s no way to talk to the man who holds the life of your friends in his hands.”