The Wandering Isles

by C. L. Schneider

  I pushed Lirih back and gave her a thorough once-over. Her body was free from injury, but there was a noticeable maturity about her eldring features. She was older, by a good five years, maybe more. “What’s happened?” I said. “Why are you in Kael?”

  “They hunt us everywhere. The swamp is our last hope. If it fails to mask our scent, and they track us there…we have nowhere else to run.”

  “Run? I don’t understand. When I left, the eldring were free.”

  “And it was a beautiful time. But all things end. Father, please—you will be shown no mercy if they find you with us. Their arrows will pierce flesh swifter than hide.”

  “Slow down. Who’s after you, Lirih? Who’s hunting you?”

  A wave of guttural sounds and clicks moved through the pack.

  Lirih’s ears pricked up. She sniffed the air. “They are coming.”

  I stripped the sword from its sheath. “Let them. This is a good defensible position, with plenty of tree-cover. Your pack is far from weak. And I’m not the only one with magic. Whatever this is, we can handle it. Together.”

  “I do have magic still, yes. As did my young. But they are among the dead now,” she added, glancing away, “and I have not cast in many years. I would be no help in that regard.”

  I put a gentle hand on her arm. There was much I wanted to say, but the look in her eyes made it plain: now wasn’t the time. “Go, Lirih. Get them out of here. I’ll take care of this.”

  “No, you must come with us.”

  “I can hold them off. Let me help you.”

  “I have faith in you, Father, but I will not let you face this alone. And if I stay, they stay.” Lirih gestured at the pack. “We die together, or we run together. It is the oath we have taken.”

  I smiled. Her endless well of courage always amazed me. “Then we run.”

  She fell to all fours and took off, ignoring the trail and barreling through the trees back the way I just came. Her pack followed suit, their bodies swiftly disappearing into the murk. I hesitated a moment longer, debating the wisdom of staying and fighting on my own. But once Lirih realized I wasn’t behind her, she’d come back for me. I couldn’t put her at risk like that.

  I shoved my sword away and went after them.

  Jumping over fallen limbs and rocks, forcing my way through the wet thicket, I did my best to keep up. But obstacles were a suggestion to the eldring. Their muscular bodies tore through the tight weave of brush like it was cobweb, while I was forced to skirt around or leap over what they trampled.

  The tree-cover thinned, and I caught sight of Lirih up ahead. She was doubling back for me. I waved her on. “Keep going. It’s not me they’re after.”

  Shaking her head, she loped up. “It will be when they see your face. And if he travels with them…” Lirih’s claws brushed my arm as she grabbed hold. “I will not have you come back only to die.” Latching on tight, she pulled me down the bank at a fast clip.

  Fighting against whipping branches, and the treacherous slant of the muddy slope, I hollered at her, “If who’s with them? Who are you afraid of?” Teetering, I grabbed onto a flying limb. Its wet leaves slid through my grip, as I wrestled for the balance to stay on my feet. “Lirih, goddammit, slow down! I can’t help if you ignore me—” I stumbled, struggling not to plummet off the side as we careened down the slope, “or break my neck!”

  “It is good to see you, Father,” she glanced back, her clawed feet digging nimbly into the slant for balance, “I have missed the sound of your voice. But I wish you had not come. You deserved to remain ignorant.”

  “Of what?”

  “How it all fell apart. The alliances. The peace. Our freedom. Eldring lost the rights you won for us. We were hunted, nearly to extinction. I gathered what remained to me, and we’ve been running ever since.”

  “Wait, that’s…not possible.” Nearing the bottom, I slowed, forcing her to do the same. “Malaq would never allow that to happen.”

  “There is no longer anything Malaq can do for us.”

  “Bullshit. If you ask, he’ll help. You know him. You loved him, once. He loved you. Malaq would never let you be persecuted. He—”

  “Malaq is dead. Three winters now,” she said, sadness softening her tone. Finally on level ground, Lirih stopped at the water’s edge and faced me. “You were the only one who could have stopped him, and you left. You left, and we all died.”

  I flinched. “Why would you say that? I would never…” Pushing the sting of her accusation aside, I focused on the immediate problem. “Stop who, Lirih? You need to tell me who you’re running from.”

  “There is no time to explain.”

  “We make time,” I said, but she didn’t reply. I posed another question, hoping the answer was easier. “How long have I been gone?”

  Hesitating, her brows pinched. “Nearly six years.”

  “Six? No, it…” I frowned. “I couldn’t have been gone that long. I don’t remember… Anything,” I said, trying to piece together where I was and how I got here. The ship. “Where is it? Where’s my ship? Where’s Jarryd?” Pain sped through my skull. Wincing, rubbing at the twinge, my spinning thoughts broke a part. They shifted, reformed and refocused. “I can’t protect you if you don’t talk to me, Lirih. Who is after you?”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, Father, but I dare not speak his name. He will know.”

  I’d never seen Lirih cowed like this, not even by my father. “This person you’re afraid of, did he kill Malaq?”

  Her head dropped in defeat. “He killed everyone.”

  With a whistle of wind, steel pierced the side of Lirih’s neck. The bolt protruded out the other side, and I stared at it in shock. Unable to move, to stop the flow of red gushing out to wet her fur, I listened to the sputtering sounds of my daughter choking on her own blood.

  Light left her eyes. Lirih’s legs folded.

  Breaking from the trance, I gathered her to me. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. I couldn’t explain how, but I knew it. I felt it. Arrows weren’t screaming through the air, felling the eldering, one by one. Lirih wasn’t dead in my arms.

  Yet, I couldn’t quell the tears or the agonizing well of grief smoldering inside me. I failed her. Her whole life, I failed her. I wasn’t there when she was young and blind. I was too late to save her from Jem’s experiments. Even standing right in front of her, I couldn’t stop her from being struck down.

  A volley of arrows stabbed the bank on either side of us. More speared the bodies of the last remaining eldring, as they rushed back across the stream to Lirih’s side. She was their leader. Their inspiration. They’d die for her. And they were. All of them.

  Watching the bodies fall with a splash, the sense of wrongness returned—and I remembered. The islanders. They did this. They put me here.

  It didn’t help.

  Facing my father again, killing Jarryd, gutted me. But the discrepancies and contradictions made it easier to convert the pain into anger. I had nothing to contradict this, no proof to attest it might not come to pass. Events could already be set in motion to bring me to this place and time. To watch my daughter die.

  I collapsed with Lirih to the muddy ground. Rage pushed from my throat as I clung to her, crushing Lirih’s limp form to my chest. I buried my head in her bloodied fur; welcoming the barbs as they pierced my back. Shouts and footsteps burst through the brush. I didn’t bother looking up. I’d broken through whatever spell was cast to keep me ignorant. I understood there were no arrows stabbing into me. The pain was a figment. The swell of fog drifting in to swirl over the water, obscuring the cloudy blotches of blood and floating bodies—wasn’t fog.

  Yet, instinct had me keenly aware of the sword at my hip. In my head, I imagined using it. I wanted to. I wanted to kill, to maim, to rip the islanders apart with my bare hands.

  My heart didn’t have the strength.

  I closed my eyes and tightened my grip until it hurt, struggling to hold onto the feel of my daug
hter, as the thickening mist swept in and carried the moment away.

  Chapter Seven

  I stepped out of hiding and released the string. The arrow sped away. I grabbed another, knocked, pivoted, drew back, and released. Barbed points stuck fast in the invaders. Bodies toppled and fell. There was little time to aim; even less to ensure a hit, despite their heavy armor. Exposed, fleshy targets were in short supply—the enemy wasn’t. Their sheer number made it impossible to miss. Their Langorian size often required multiple strikes, and my quiver was emptying fast.

  Even if I made it to the throne room, I’d have nothing left. Then what? King Raynan insisted all his messengers were able to defend themselves from bandits on the road. I was competent at close combat. But I carried no sword, my small hunting knife was of little comfort, and the castle wasn’t overrun with bandits. Kabri’s attackers were ruthless, brutal, well-armed soldiers, led by a man with so much Rellan blood on his hands.

  Sweat blurred my vision. Wiping it away, I pressed myself into the alcove, taking a moment to catch my breath and gather my courage. How can they be here? Why now? The war ended over ten years ago. Langor was beaten back behind their border. Ian destroyed them and their tyrant-king. He—

  Ian? I knew the name of the Shinree whose magic ended centuries of conflict. Everyone knew who Ian Troy was and what he did. But it was odd. I know him. Sentiments came with his name that I didn’t understand. Emotions were stirring that had no memories, no basis: friendship, familiarity, worry, anger, melancholy. What the hell is this?

  Why would I care anything about the man? We’d never met.

  Yet, I somehow feared for him. I hated him for abandoning me, for not being as strong as I thought—for not surviving. I waited, but he never came.

  How could he? He was dead.

  And I was left to rot.

  Pain struck my head, followed by odd, random images of the Langorian King. We’d never met, either, yet I saw him so clearly: staring down at me as I knelt in chains at the foot of his throne; laughing as his guards dragged me away into the mines beneath the keep; his body stretched out, weak and wounded, on a lavish bed; then torn and bloody. The instrument of King Draken’s death was in my grip. I stood beside the bed and felt not a drop of fear or guilt over my actions. In that single, short, perfect moment, before anyone else realized what I’d done, there was only a quiet, long overdue satisfaction.

  My fingers cramped. I couldn’t straighten them. Spasms shot like lightning up my arms. “Ah…” I clamped my jaw shut, struggling to keep the agony inside. I couldn’t hold the bow. It clattered to the stone floor with a noise the rational side of me said would draw too much attention. But that side wasn’t in control.

  Boots were drawing near. I fought with my lungs to breathe slower, quieter. The nook I was crammed in was far from an ideal hiding place. I wouldn’t do King Raynan any good if was caught. But I’ve already been caught. I’ve already been beaten.

  “No!” With a roar, I swallowed the pain, forced my hands to work, and retrieved the bow. I fled the corner, placing arrow to string, and fired at the bear of a man running toward me. The fine edge of the barb skimmed his throat, opening skin, finding a vein.

  I got lucky. If he hadn’t tripped over the servant’s body on the floor, twisting at just the right moment, just the right angle, I would have missed.

  I hadn’t missed since I was a boy.

  “I’m in shock,” I decided. That has to be it.

  The raid was sudden, brutal. The stress was too much.

  I closed my eyes, wishing it all away. I wanted the tremble to subside; the dark emotions to stop churning in my mind and stealing my breath. I opened them again—and my hands were slashed, my fingers contorted. “What is this?”

  The alarm sounded only a short time ago. I was in my room, getting dressed for the day. The only enemies I’d encountered so far were felled from a distance. How could I sustain injuries so severe and not remember? Am I dreaming?

  Gods, let it be a dream.

  Roused by the echoes of combat, instinct took charge, and I rushed toward the sounds. Splayed bodies littered the corridor, painting the stones in gore. I recognized far too many vacant faces: castle staff, guards, attendants. Turning away from the horror in their lifeless eyes, I pushed myself to keep going. Whatever breakdown I was on the verge of, I couldn’t give into it. I needed to reach the throne room. It was my duty to protect the royal family. King Raynan was far from a perfect man, but he was good to me. His daughter, Neela, was my oldest friend. No one was more important in my life.

  I would protect her with my dying breath.

  As if the gods heard my vow, a woman’s scream pierced the clamor. Shoving my confusion and discomforts aside, I ran faster. Smoke rolled in from an adjacent corridor, thickening the air. The Langorians had already been this way once, leaving senseless destruction in their wake. Tapestries torn from the wall, tables smashed, doors ripped from their hinges. Blood from the desecrated dead streaked the walls. Axes had been taken to the stones, scoring them for a violent show.

  I rounded the next corner and came to a stumbling halt. Neela was in the grip of a particularly rough-looking soldier. He clenched her by the waist, as if he were lugging around a sack of grain and not the heir to Kabri’s throne. She kicked and pulled at her captor’s arms but inflicted no more damage than a child would against the brawny man.

  Seeing me, Neela cried out. “Jarryd! Run!”

  “I won’t leave you.” Wincing, compelling my damaged grip to work, I reached for an arrow; my last one. I raised the bow at the Langorian. Malice reflected in his dark eyes as they met mine. He laughed, throwing back his head—exposing his bearded throat.

  I smiled at the gift and released the arrow.

  Triumph turned to dread, as the barb sailed past, struck the wall behind him, and bounced off onto the floor. The soldier dropped Neela at his feet. I hollered in protest as, with a single, swift, downward punch, he knocked her unconscious.

  Sliding the club from the holster at his hip, his attention turned to me. “This isn’t playtime, boy. War is fought with real weapons, not little sticks.”

  Panicked, I discarded the bow and backed up. I went for the knife in my boot, but I couldn’t grab the handle. My fingers wouldn’t bend that far.

  With an amused swing of his club, the Langorian drew closer.

  “Goddammit!” I cried, still backing up, still struggling for the blade.

  “I don’t know how you got away,” watching me fumble, his stare dropped, “but you won’t manage it a second time.”

  I followed his gaze. My legs were awash in blood. Broken bones pushed up through torn leather and flesh. They wouldn’t hold me.

  Hitting the floor—it turned to dirt. The walls closed in, roughening to uncut stone. Light dimmed. The air grew oppressive, fetid.

  “What is this?” I shouted. “Where am I?”

  “Where you’ve always been.” His voice grew faint. “Where you’ll always be.”

  I looked up at him, trembling as I watched the walls stretch and lengthen. The space between us grew and grew, until I was far below, and the Langorian stood high above me.

  A woman was beside him. Shadow hid her face, but I knew it wasn’t Neela. She was taller. The silhouette of her body was swollen with child.

  A name surfaced in my mind. “Elayna. Wait…that’s my child.”

  “Not anymore.” The Langorian gripped her arm. They turned to leave.

  “Stop—where are you taking her?”

  “To Draken. Where else? Y’know, some men wouldn’t see the value of taking a Rellan whore for a wife. But the king’s a wise man. Joining the realms in marriage and ensuring he’ll have a loyal successor to mind Rella’s throne—on the same night, no less…?” The guard let out a low whistle of approval. “Guess there’s more than one way to tame a dog.”

  Chapter Eight

  I lowered my head from the glare. A glaze of gray stretched across the sky, all the way to the
tip of the Rellan mainland, veiling the early morning rays. Red tinged the clouds, promising rain. Still, the light was more than I could take. I suspected it always would be. Other than the fires of the forge, for the last twenty years, my view consisted of the murky corridors and caves of my underground prison. Even obscured, the sun still stung my eyes.

  Other things hurt, too. And always would. After spending days at a time in close confines, my back no longer straightened. A shattered knee left me with a permanent limp. Too many blows to the head resulted in muffled hearing in one ear. And my hands…

  They were a story all to themselves.

  Six months ago a pair of Langorian guards pulled me from my cell, took me out into the mountains, and set me free with no explanation. Six months, and I still felt the hunger pangs; the heaviness in my lungs. A familiar stench randomly flooded my nostrils. Sleep was impaired by the foreboding march of boots and the wails of fellow inmates. The paralyzing sensation of being cramped in tight quarters, and the repeated strike of an anvil reverberating in the forge below me, paid no attention to time. Both visited whenever they pleased.

  Last night was my first respite since returning to Kabri. I dreamt of sailing on a ship, away from Mirra’kelan. Standing on deck, a warm breeze in my hair, I stared unflinchingly into the sunny sky. My fingers were whole and deft, as I adjusted the sails. I had no worries. Ian was by my side.

  I thought I’d forgotten what he looked like.

  Gathering the heavy fishing net, I draped it over my arms and headed up the beach. It was eerie, being here alone. This time of morning, the strip of sand should have been crowded with fishermen. The water should have been dotted with the shadows of boats, bobbing dark against the dawn. I glanced around, missing the old days.

  Twenty years of Langorian occupation had changed Kabri forever.

  Tripping over a piece of driftwood stuck in the sand, I stumbled. The net slipped and fell. I tried to recover it and nearly fell, too. I had little in the way of balance anymore.