The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  Adriel tilts her head slightly in doubtful understanding.

  “I know. I wish that too. But would we make a difference? Mera would lose their queen, and I would lose Saine.” She leans beside Awyn. “We have responsibilities that stop us from going. Yours to your kingdom, and mine to my heart.”

  Awyn looks at her. “Goodness, that was deep.”

  Adriel raises her eyebrows, and Awyn stifles a laugh, but neither of them can hold it in. They laugh, for what could be the first time in days. It’s a mixture of fatigue and desperation to feel something other than strife.

  “Yes, well, I was always told I had a knack for words,” Adriel boasts.

  Awyn rolls her eyes. “I bow to your superiority.”

  They sigh, leaning their heads against the wall, smiles fading, their eyes returning to their blankness. The glow of laughter drains from their faces, and they’re once again fair and cold.

  “Do you think Saine is still alive?” Adriel asks.

  They look at each other. Awyn doesn’t say anything.

  “Do you think Kepp is still alive?”

  Awyn turns her head forward, and Adriel follows, neither sure they want to get their hopes up.

  “They’ll be all right,” Awyn says.

  Silence follows.

  Hope is treacherous in war.

  “Revera, listen to me!” Karak demands of the sorceress.

  “I will not stand down. Rohidia will fall, even if all your troops have to die, I will see Atta fall to his knees!”

  “I am not willing to waste my army on one kingdom,” Karak argues.

  “You promised—”

  “And you promised me that you would bait Raea, so she could free me of Crozacar and the hold his curse has over me. But you’ve failed to present her to me!” Karak shouts.

  “And you’ve failed to destroy Rohidia,” she spits back.

  “There is nothing left to destroy!”

  Their tent on the edge of the forest is lit only by a few torches. Two Tarken guards stand outside, half-asleep, not aware of who lurks in the shadows.

  Aradon can hear their argument from the bushes outside the tent. He would never even think about attempting what he’s about to do if it weren’t for his already healing body. Thank the stars I’m a Besged, he thinks as he sneaks through the shadows. His Besged blood saved him from majorly damaging anything it would seem. He was in much pain crawling from the river, although it’s faded slightly during his ride through Cannan. But he’s stronger and anxious to spill blood. Taking out the two guards should be simple enough, taking out the two immortals inside will be a different matter.

  “Karak, please don’t withdraw,” Revera pleads. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry. I will be retreating with my army by dawn.” They are quiet, but Aradon soon puts paid to that.

  “What’s out there?” Revera calls out, staggering back as Aradon emerges from outside, covered in blood and cuts. He probably isn’t recognizable at all.

  But Revera certainly recognizes him.

  She smiles, walking over to him. “Aradon, my faithful Red Warrior.”

  Aradon looks from her to Karak, who looks confused.

  “Revera, I am not here to talk or to be seduced,” Aradon’s tone remains steady.

  “Oh, but I know how much you loved it last time,” Revera says coyly.

  Aradon doesn’t look at her, instead, he looks at Karak.

  “You are the Last Lieutenant?” he asks.

  “I am,” Karak answers. “And you might be?”

  “That is not important. But what is, is that you withdraw your army before I withdraw it for you,” Aradon threatens, in a mild, conversational tone.

  Karak lifts his brow. “Who are you to demand such a thing?”

  “Careful, Karak. He who stands before you now is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.” She looks right at Karak, the man who destroyed half the world along with a dark lord. She smiles. “Well, from this Age, at least.”

  “Who is he to deserve such a title?” Karak asks, seeming more curious than upset now.

  “As I said,” Aradon continues. “Who I am is not important. Now, withdraw your army, or I will not hesitate to wipe them out.”

  Karak’s doubtful smile twitches on his lips but hasn’t quite surfaced.

  Aradon stands in front of him, closing the space between them until it’s only a hostile barrier of air. “You should be wary not to doubt me, Lieutenant. I can implement what I threaten.”

  Karak chuckles. “Really? What can one man do against an army?”

  “He,” Revera answers for him, “is a Besged.”

  Aradon remains neutral, though, very annoyed that Revera of all people is boasting for him.

  “He was bred a king, born a Besged, and trained a Red Warrior.” Her eyebrow raises. “Don’t be hasty to judge a man of his…talents.” The last word is curled into a crimson smile.

  Aradon grows impatient. “Stop. I am not here to talk. I am deadly serious. Withdraw your army or I will!”

  He turns to Revera, who jumps at his sudden move. “And you, I will not be boasted about by you. I will kill you for what you did to Awyn and her family. For what you did to Sefa!”

  “Sefa? I thought you forgot about her the moment I killed her?”

  In a fury, Aradon slams her against the table. “Don’t speak of her again.”

  She cowers. “Karak, help me,” she cries.

  In the corner, Karak watches with amusement.

  “I would like to see how this plays out, if you don’t mind.”

  Revera’s gaze turns back to Aradon, eyes wide in fear. This seems to surprise Karak, but Aradon knows how much of a coward Revera can be.

  He takes out a knife.

  “This was bathed in a Pool of Light.” He puts it to her throat.

  “If you kill me now, I will find a way to let Awyn and all her friends know the depths of your betrayal.”

  Aradon relaxes his knife, knowing Revera is serious in her threat. He steps away from her, letting her straighten herself out.

  “Fine.” He sheaths the blade. He turns to the tent entrance but looks back at Karak. “Withdraw. This is your final warning.” Just as he’s about to leave, he tosses the knife onto the ground. “I lied, by the way.” He disappears into the shadows but stays close enough to hear what they say next.

  Revera’s voice sounds first. “Are you really going to retreat?”

  “At dawn.”

  Revera sighs. “Very well. Your loss.” She walks out of the tent, leaving Karak alone. The tent flap falls, encasing the torchlight inside.

  Aradon ducks deeper into the darkness as Revera walks past, a dark cloud seeming to follow her.

  The stable is quiet and dim, lit by a few torches. The stalls are empty, except for a few horses who are oddly calm, with the loud fighting outside. But war horses are probably used to that. The building rests on a low jut on the mountain, beside the palace. A path leads behind the emerald marble castle, connecting the stable to the fields of Rohidia.

  Awyn walks through the stables, taking in the quiet. With a handful of sugar cubes, she goes from horse to horse, petting and giving them a treat. In one stall a little gray foal sleeps, a small whinnying accompanying the colt’s breathing.

  She opens the stall door, closing it as she steps inside. Kneeling down beside the foal, she gently pets its neck, the soft, fine coat shadowed by the torches on the other side of the door.

  “You know nothing of war.” Awyn sighs. “And hopefully you never will.” The foal wakes up, and Awyn smiles as the big blue eyes open. She hands him a sugar cube, and he muzzles it into his mouth, tickling her hand with his tongue.

  Awyn smiles. “Good, boy.” She scratches him behind the ear, leaning her head onto his shoulder and closes her eyes, just needing a moment of peace.

  But she feels herself drifting into sleep.

  It’s a surprisingly peaceful sleep with a dream of perhaps what could have been. But maybe
it’s all right that it’s only a dream. All she can hope for is sleep and death.

  It’s a sad reality. But it’s hers.

  When Awyn opens her eyes, the stable is lighter. From the small stall window, dawn is approaching. Stretching, she stands, walking over to the rectangular slit in the wood. From here she can see the battlefield.

  There’s no more fighting, only roaming soldiers atop the bloodstained snow. Their swords and armor glint in the dazzling dawn. The Kahzacorians are nowhere to be seen, and a small smile spreads across her lips.

  In the distance, over the plains, the first streaks of sunlight paint across the sky, a brilliant orange, yellow, and red, with pink and purple nearest to the brightening sky. Awyn sighs, a slight smile curling her lips as she looks at the serene sunrise.

  “It’s a new dawn.” She looks at the foal. “For everyone. The battle for the north has been won…” She looks back out onto the beautiful snow laden plains. “The battle for Mortal…it’s only beginning.”

  And the battle inside my own soul…I fear that has also only begun.

  Atta opens the door to the house and closes it behind him, needing a minute to think. The Kahzacorian army has retreated...but there is nothing left of his own. They have survived this battle, but if attacked again…they would surely not survive.

  He puts his hands on the cold walls, looking at the wooden floor. How can he protect his people without an army?

  He paces, the table in the one room house has been pushed to the side, and he can walk through in ease. As he paces, he turns to the bed, noticing something different about it.

  There’s an outline of a face, a body under the blanket. Someone had brought a fallen soldier in here, no doubt to keep him safe for burial. Even at the end of a battle, his soldiers aren’t any less honorable.

  “Poor boy. I wonder who—no.” He drops the blanket on the floor and stares in absolute horror at the man lying on the bed. “No.” He drops to his knees at the sight of his son, bloody holes in his clothes.

  Atta can feel hot tears stream down his face. He cries out, pressing his head to his son’s chest. “No.” His strained cry is a groan of pure, terrible agony. “No no no!” He sobs. “Haydrid!” He can hardly breathe. He yells again, the pain in his voice apparent and overwhelming.

  Behind him the door opens, and two Rohidian soldiers rush in, hearing their king’s cries.

  “My Lord, what—?” The soldiers stop in their tracks as they see him kneeling beside his dead son. They look down, but one of them steps forward.

  “My Lord, what shall we—?”

  “Kill me. I cannot live in a world where my son does not.”

  The soldiers seem stunned by the request.

  “My King, no.” The one who stepped forward refuses.

  Atta turns and stands.

  “I order you to kill me, Talacan. I am your king, and you will do as I say.” Atta grits his teeth, his tearstained face no doubt showing his anger. “I have nothing left to live for! My people are dead, my kingdom a cold wasteland. There is nothing left.”

  “My King, I will not harm you,” Talacan says, looking directly into his eyes. “You aren’t thinking straight. Sleep and eat something, and you’ll think better and know this isn’t a noble death, one a king deserves.”

  “Tala—”

  “You would leave Brega without a father?” Talacan’s blunt words enrage Atta.

  Atta races out of the house, tears in his eyes, knees weak, and body already half-dead. But when he sees the sight before him, he falls to the ground.

  Outside, there are no more Sanarx, no more Tarken. Soldiers cry out for their lost brethren, some lying wounded, others completely silent—it’s haunting. In the moment after the graying dawn, is the aftermath of this long, bloody battle that no one here will be able to forget.

  And Atta needs to forget.

  He takes his sword and plunges it into his stomach.

  “My King!” the two soldiers cry out in unison. They watch as he slumps over, blood pooling around his body.

  Atta lifts his face to the sky. “Forgive me, my children.”

  The battle is over, and by his own hand, they’ve not only lost their prince, but he has cost them their king.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The morning was bright, but now a thick fog casts an eerie look on the battlefield. Awyn can barely bring herself to look at it, but she does anyway, the wet snow soaking the bottom of her coat.

  Bodies lie in the snow, the ground muddy with blood and dirt. Weapons are scattered everywhere, and pieces of armor litter the ground. Blood smears the houses and white walls as fallen soldiers, and Kahzacorian troops alike lean dead against them.

  Rohidian soldiers roam the city and the outlying fields. They are all silent. Even the air itself is quiet, not a wisp of wind or crunch of snow underfoot. The blood cakes their skin and remaining armor and clothes. Their hair is wet with melted snow and skin no doubt drenched in sweat. Some stand in place, or sit on the ground, obviously in so much pain they can barely move or breathe. Others look through the dead, identifying those they can, and staring at the ones they can’t.

  And then there are the ones who roam mindlessly. Their expressions blank, their bodies tired, they just…walk. Their minds are probably free of all thoughts. Not recognizing anyone around them—all they see is death.

  If they can see at all.

  Awyn stops. Not because there’s a dagger in her back or someone called her name. She stops because of the loss of innocence. Because of the little blue eyes of that foal who held so much joy in life. And yet even now, as she looks at the corpses of soldiers and horses alike, she remembers that this war is affecting not just humans—but all of Mortal.

  The loss of innocence changes humanity.

  Soldiers turn their heads and gasps sound. Some start to form a small crowd as four soldiers carry a bed over their shoulders, with two bodies under a plain brown sheet. No one has to see the faces to know who lies on the bed.

  Their king and prince.

  There is only silence. There are no cries, no shouts, no voices, and soon even the gasps fade to silence. Saine and Kepp run up as they see the bed being carried.

  “Haydrid,” Saine mumbles under his breath.

  Kepp glances at him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

  Awyn watches as Brega and Adriel rush toward them in the war-torn city. The soldiers put down the bed, taking the sheet off. The Rohidian princess’ face goes white when she sees her brother and father lying colorless, bloody, and stiff. A loud cry leaves her throat, and she dashes to them. No soldier tries to stop her as she kneels on the cold, bloodstained snow.

  She wails loudly—it’s heart-wrenching. Tears stream down her face as she cries.

  “No!” she cries. “No.” Her scream is so loud it could startle a Sanarx. She puts her forehead to her father’s chest, but after a second, pummels their bodies repeatedly, crying and sobbing as she hits them. “No. No. No. No!” she repeats over and over again, pounding her fist on their chests until a soldier restrains her, letting her cry into his shoulder, and pound his chest instead.

  After a moment, her small fists stop, and her sobs turn to whimpers.

  Adriel walks up to Saine, looking into his eyes. They don’t say anything, instead they envelop each other in a hug. Adriel buries her face in his chest, and he pulls her in tighter, probably never wanting to let her go again.

  Awyn smiles at Kepp. “I’m glad you’re still alive.”

  “Me too.” He brings her in for a half-hug.

  “Am I the odd man out, now?” The voice comes from behind them.

  Awyn, Kepp, and Adriel turn at the voice.

  Eldowyn emerges from the mist, followed shortly by Hagard. Adriel gasps in relief, running to their brother. She hugs him, catching him off guard, nearly making him fall backward. But he can’t help laughing, hugging her back.

  Adriel stands beside him, and Awyn slowly walks up. Her smile feels awkward. Eldowy
n smiles, gesturing to her, and she returns the approach to hug him.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” She pulls away, wanting to ask him about Aradon, but stops herself. If he isn’t here with them, he isn’t alive.

  She bends down, hugging the dwarf as well. “Hello, Hagard.” She pulls away, brows furrowed. “Where’s you beard?” It’s barely half-there.

  The dwarf huffs. “Cannibals. Sacrifice. Long story.”

  Awyn goes to speak but holds her tongue. They’ll have plenty of time to discuss that later. She follows Eldowyn’s gaze, and steps aside.

  Eldowyn and Kepp stare at one another. Eldowyn’s expression is blank, while Kepp’s is guilty, sorry, and even the slightest bit angry. The older twin approaches first, standing a few feet away.

  But it’s Kepp who speaks first.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was so easy to go along with Revera, and then she cast a spell on me, and it wasn’t until mother—”

  He stops short as Eldowyn hugs him. Kepp’s eyes are wide, probably not expecting the gesture from his traditional, unfeeling, emotionally-stunted brother. He almost killed him, and yet here he is, hugging him like nothing happened. After a moment, Eldowyn pulls away.

  “Is there anything to forgive?” he says this as a question but Kepp would know it wasn’t one. Awyn knows Eldowyn forgave Kepp long ago—it’s what real family does. Kepp doesn’t seem to know how to answer this, so he just hugs his twin, a short sob escaping his throat. Eldowyn himself seems barely able to hold in his tears.

  Brega walks up beside Saine, looking at the reunion. “Who are they?” she whispers.

  Saine smiles, watching as the longtime estranged brothers forgive.

  “The elf is Kepp’s brother, and the dwarf is...” He stops. “I’m not actually entirely sure who the little man is. I think that’s Hagard.” They watch in silence as the siblings catch up.

  It’s a beautiful reunion.

  Awyn just wishes Aradon was here to see it.

  Aradon hobbles along the mountainside, his leg sore but he manages. He had to make a tourniquet out of his shirt, but the bleeding hasn’t completely stopped, and the pain is still bad. If he was anyone else, he’d be crippled. But luckily, his Besged side isn’t all bad.