Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

“Is that all you idiots do? Talk?” Kayden snapped. “

  Malakai was born to lie.

  This—this was a lie. “His brother talks,” Jirah said quietly. “He is far more vile.”

  With a chuckle, Malakai said, “So perceptive. Mirado, this is a reminder. I heard you enjoy a bluff here and there. Worry not, I’m only here for one of you.”

  Asheron wasn’t bluffing.

  The evidence stood before them in the form of a monster.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Whisper of Blood

  Kayden Ralta

  The crimson-armored horror just looked at the rest in the camp, and pointed to one member at a time. “One—two—three, four, five. I see a-man who wants to die.” He pointed a finger to each of those in the camp.

  Kayden looked over toward Jirah with a look of is this a joke?

  Jirah only said aloud, “No.”

  “Six—seven—eight, nine, ten, don’t worry, it’ll only be—” His finger ended on Kayden. “Them.” He gave a light shrug. “Not a man, but close enough.”

  Jirah drew his great blade, and it lit aflame. “Step away.”

  Malakai removed a serrated silver dagger from a sheath at his hip. “Oh Jirah, I do miss you at our little gatherings. You always made things more interesting.” He took the dagger and dug it under his gauntlet. As he let out an exhale and a grunt, blood seeped out from it as he walked around the camp edge. He muttered a few things under his breath.

  “Girl,” the drake said, looking to Kayden. “Have you ever looked death in the eyes?” He waved his hand, and five individuals in emerged from the earth, skin pale as the moon, eyes and veins engorged with blood.

  She did. A thousand times. More. “Wrong one to ask, drake.” Kayden said, as she rushed toward him with swords ready.

  “Entertain them!” Malakai called. He drew his blade encrusted with blood diamonds and came in with an overhead slash.

  She rolled behind him and around the strike, but as she turned, he didn’t strike. He stood with a hand out-stretched toward her.

  And her breath left in an instant. She coughed and hacked as a crimson mist flowed from her skin into his hands, and a cackle filled the air.

  She saw multiple pale-skinned bloody monsters fighting the others, who were overwhelmed by the raw number emerging from the pool of blood the knight spilled.

  Her ears rang, and it became more and more difficult to breathe. To think. To move. As Malakai got to her, he snatched her up by the throat with his open hand and picked her up. “Be happy; you’re the only one I chose to take today.”

  A vision of Jirah swinging left and right furiously caught her eye. It was all a blur, but the swirl of flame came behind him. Her vision turned grey…

  A roar of agony. Kayden felt herself slam upon the ground, and she barely saw crimson armor stagger backward. “Have it your way! You all die, Mirado!”

  He spoke guttural commands, and held his hand to the air where a violet orb appeared above him.

  And then screaming. Felkar. Alexandra. Jirah. Ves. Mags. Lira.

  But he ignored Kayden a moment as he thought she was dead.

  They always did. Idiots.

  Kayden struggled to her feet behind him, watching white mist travel from them into his hand as he whispered guttural words.

  She took a shaky hand to draw a dagger from her side. “Have I looked death in the eyes?” she whispered. She jumped on his back and dug the blade deep into his neck. “I am death.”

  The Blood Knight let out a guttural croak and crumpled to one knee. He reached behind and shook her off with a powerful throw.

  As the life of the camp began to return, Malakai’s bloody, liquid-laced breaths echoed from his visage. He removed the dagger from his neck and staggered toward the path before any could get to their feet.

  He wouldn’t get far.

  She staggered toward him but collapsed from weakness. It was like her blood was drained form her. Vile magic.

  But with a clench of his fist, the blood he shed and stole traveled up his arm and into his neck—mending the visceral wound that should have spelled death.

  “Let this be a warning.” Malakai shook his head and turned—only to have a mended wound upon his back where a slash should have been. He took a red crystal stowed under his cloak and whispered a command. “I’ll be sure to drain everyone next time.” He crushed the crystal and vanished into the night. With their master gone, the minions dissolved into ash that blew with the wind.

  And then there was silence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Choice and Consequence

  Jirah Mirado

  Silence was the only thing in the camp for hours, it seemed, while they all regained their energy. Malakai’s lasting effect. It was a threat. A consequence of their involvement. All because he accused Asheron of bluffing.

  Kayden barely managed to stab the drake. She was probably the reason they lived. Jirah failed to protect them. Asheron worked with shadows, and he was at one of his word.

  Malakai was a creature barely held back by chains.

  Lira crept over to him. “Jirah—”

  “Go to Deurbin.” He cut in, with eyes locked on the path. “Discover what’s happening to the prisoners and arrests, but no more. Report to me immediately after you finish there. I will give you a location to meet. Understand?” He had to send word to the other camps. He had to send word to Richard. He could only hope things were ready in time. If he wasn’t, the Brothers would come.

  “I understand. You won’t regret this,” Lira said.

  Jirah nodded.

  I will.

  Chapter Sixteen

  New Home, New Hope

  Saul Bromaggus

  The cool, misty air was getting to him. Saul saw nothing but said mist for hours. He began to think he would never see land again. The wind howled through the rickety cart, and it creaked and groaned in response.

  “Ready your weapons!” a husky, hissing voice yelled.

  Saul thought it was a mirage. He saw a rough rock cliff with a battalion of multiple races on the other end: Humans, Naurali, and most prominently, Hydris. The enemy of my people. Bows and blades drawn, they waited for Saul to arrive. The cart slowed to a creeping halt at the edge of land.

  “Out. Now,” a Hydris at the back commanded. He was clearly the commander, a Hydris with hunter green skin and several blue fin-like outcroppings receding from mid-nose, over his head, and down his back. He wore pine green chain mail with grey studs attaching his obsidian cloak. The others were dressed in various forms of leather and copper scale mail, weapons at the ready. He sauntered forward and drew a sword to Saul’s neck.

  “What is your business here, Human?”

  “I am no Human.” I am a proud Broken, Saul thought. Humans looked similar to the Broken, but there were defined differences that set them apart—amongst other things. Humans are a traitorous race with no honor. Saul’s skin was paled and greyed, and Broken as a people were more broad-chested and stronger than Humans.

  He felt the need to strike them down if he could, but blades were at his neck and he had none in hand. “Exile.”

  “Some of your people would rather fall on their own swords than be exiled,” the slithering commander said.

  He was right, Saul didn’t deny that. He almost did it himself. Many Broken sentenced to exile died from their own blades before it could happen. “I am not them.” Saul spoke the words Highwind told him. “I could either die then, or live long enough to bring vengeance,” Saul said, stone-faced. There was a long pause as the Hydris just stared at him. Saul grew impatient. “Are you going to kill me? Or are you going to sit there with a blade to my neck until I die from hunger?” If he was going to die anyway, he would face it standing tall.

  The commander dropped his blade. “Vengeance upon your own people? You must be mad,” he laughed.

  “A Dragon is not my people,” Saul growled.

  The commander coughed up a laugh. “I suppose not, l
ittle man. You seek to kill a Dragon? I’m starting to like you.” His blade returned swiftly to Saul’s neck. “But I do hate spies—and Broken usually are.”

  Saul didn’t flinch, he had nothing to hide. He untied the leather straps on his left arm, revealing the mark of the Oracles. “This is why I’m here. You think the Dragon would make me a spy with this?”

  He examined Saul’s arm with an intrigued eye. “Hmm,” he mumbled. “That’s exactly what a spy would say, or have,” his gaze returned to Saul’s eyes. “Now what is this?” The soldier lifted the clothing on Saul’s right arm. “Now this, I haven’t seen.” He drew along Saul’s arm with the broad side of his sword. “Interesting.”

  The man was being vague. Just spit it out, Saul thought impatiently. “Just kill me if that’s what you’re going to do. Stop wasting my time.”

  “So bold,” the snake said. “I, Commander Silkhagi, will not kill you. I will release you. If I were you, I would go to Rhoba first. One of the seven cities of the neck. It’s south of here, but far. I’m not going to give you a horse, but I will give you your life. Rhoba lies between the Tarrant Mountains in the east, and the Loundas monuments on the west.”

  Loundas was a grand city of Draconia long past, swallowed by the azure lake in the torrent, a gargantuan storm which swallowed it whole. Rhoba was the central town of the Neck, in between the strongholds of Alin and Kaedor. Saul did not know what to expect there. “Why should I go to Rhoba?” Saul asked.

  “You’ll know when you get there. I’m not telling you anything else, Broken boy. I am letting you live. Be thankful.” As Saul passed him, he said one more thing. “Don’t die in the wastes.”

  I know how to survive. Saul left them behind, and they sat at the the fissure with their small barracks and homes surrounding the Tether.

  Beyond them, there was only barren wastes. The Grim Wastes went for more than a hundred miles, they told him. It was barren land filled with seas of gravel and rock, scaled earth drier than a desert, intermingled with the degraded bones of old beasts. He did not see trees, shrubs, or plants, only mountain, bone, and crystals of various tyrian and azure shades emerging from the land like daggers. The wastes smelled of sand with the slight stench of rotting flesh.

  Flocks of mysterious birds flew overhead: black with broad wings of violet and bright pink eyes. Herds of beasts ran across the wastes, peculiar ones he’d never seen. They were five feet tall with large horns with four long, spider-like legs and teeth that could tear through flesh like sharpened steel. One ran up to him quickly, and Saul drew his blade in response. He backed away, and the beast sniffed with its long, protruding snout and returned to its herd. He was curious of what kinds of beasts, peoples, and environments were found in this new land. It was so different from the Vale, even in his first day of travel.

  He had been met with contention, but was set free. Why did they let me go? I am a Broken—their enemy. After seeing the mark, do I now live because he believes I am a dragonslayer? Yet, it was only after Silkhagi saw the second marking that he cared at all.

  Not even Saul knew his fate now. He was banished across the Fissure, and would be killed if he returned. His clan, with many murdered and burned, was left alone under the reign of Obelreyon. Saul worried for his people, as they may be sent against Renalia once more in a foolish venture without proper preparation.

  Ten years prior, they had been sent to war by the Dragon on a suicide mission. While the Broken proudly fought to retake Renalia then, Saul suspected things went awry for nefarious reasons. A violet orb was said to appear above the final battlefield causing the dead to scream—according to the ones who retreated and lived.

  They’d lost more warriors than ever before—and forced to retreat after making enemies of the northern realms. Damned wretch. He betrays our ways—and yet they follow.

  Damn the ones who follow willingly.

  The other mark he received confused him even more than his future. He did not know the god of the six-pointed sun. Who would mark me when I don’t even know their name?

  Saul marched quickly, only stopping to eat his rations and sleep for a few hours at a time. He didn’t know the terrain, the ferocity of beasts, or the existence of possible brigands. A small pack of black-furred leopards attacked and gave him a few scratches, but nothing more as Saul’s blade was quick and ready. He had wood for a fire to cook, but saved it for when it was truly needed. Using resources at unnecessary times could kill a Broken in the wild.

  The sky was much clearer here than in the Vale. It would rain heavily at times there, but in the wastes, there were almost no clouds; the nights were cold, but nothing Saul couldn’t handle. He passed through various isolated villages on his travels, and witnessed the peering eyes of Hydris and Naurali who scowled in his direction. None spoke to him, but denied him entrance to their inns and shops with dismissive waves. Some villages held primitive traditions with tented homes, some wooden and dilapidated, and other cities crafted structures of stone. Saul often smelled freshly cooked meat, soups on the ledges of cookeries, and interesting, citric vegetables that he hadn’t seen before. He asked what they were, but once again, the villagers did not speak or acknowledge him. He pressed on alone.

  Days passed, and Saul finally came to a mountain range in the west just before dusk. The cracked wastes gave way to slight grasslands, decorated with seas of dried plants and shrubs. Further west, around an azure lake, lay many monuments of the Draconia.

  Saul stopped by the lake to view the statues. Each was as impressive as the next. He knew they were a dastardly race, sharing an ancestry with the Hydris. He hadn’t seen the monuments before, or a Draconia in general, as they were long extinct. Their rough, scaly bodies and long, powerful tails made them a formidable enemy. It was said that they acquired a special crystal to make the strongest of blades, which defeated the Dark Ones—but no one knew where to find it. If it weren’t for the Broken, the Hydris may have gone extinct themselves. Then they betrayed us, Saul thought bitterly.

  The Draconia were conquered by the Broken and the Glories two thousand years ago, with their forging abilities dying with them. They were utterly destroyed, as no magical steel could save them from the power of the Broken ways. Now, the Draconian city of Loundas was far beneath the surface of the mighty lake Saul looked upon now. None laid eyes on it since the torrent, a brutal storm which rained upon the land for a season, swallowing the mighty city whole.

  The lake could not be manipulated by magic, nor could one magically breathe within it. It was protected by the gods—Urikar’s might surely dwelled within it. Saul wished he had been alive in the time when great victories reigned. In his life he saw battle, but much failure. Saul wished to change the tide for his people. He wanted to bring glory to a race now brought down by the crushing rule of a Dragon and a futile war.

  To the south, Saul saw a thirty-foot high stone wall extending for miles surrounding what seemed to be buildings, which he saw poking up above it. According to what Silkhagi told him, this was it—the city of Rhoba. Saul did not know what awaited him. He wondered what culture and attitudes it held. He questioned if he was even welcome within it. If the other small villages were any indication, he wouldn’t be. He pressed on to the entrance, guarded by what seemed to be—Broken? Saul was stunned; he stopped in his tracks. Is it the hunger? The lack of sleep?

  He hadn’t heard of any Broken living south of the Fissure. No one spoke of it or even thought it was possible. There were two guards posted at the gate, each in silvery, thick scale mail. Saul walked up, having nowhere to hide among the now-desolate grassland.

  “Halt. Who are you?” one of the guards demanded.

  “I am Saul Bromaggus, exile of Obelreyon’s Vale. What is this place?”

  “This is Rhoba, the Broken sanctuary for those who have left the Vale, either by choice or exile. You are welcome to enter, friend, if you please. Simply abide by our laws. There is no violence here, verbal or physical.” The guards smiled sweetly and opened t
he gate.

  Saul did not thank them, from which they were unaffected. He entered the large city and saw Broken walk through the streets in nothing more than linens and silks, young ones running and playing with toy swords and chasing each other about. Many kinds of buildings filled the city, some made of dark stone slabs with white mortar and strongly built curved, sharp-edged roofs, and others with wooden siding and straw roofs. In the Vale, Broken homes were bound to their clans: uniform within but they varied greatly between the four clans. But here they intermingled like old friends.

  Saul slowly walked through the main square of the town, still in awe. He saw a large well in the center, with many residents waiting patiently for others to get water from the depths. A small stone structure sat beside it, with a small wooden door going in. It was strange, as it was only big enough for one Broken.

  Around the edges of the square sat various merchants in wooden booths, boards atop displaying their names, selling multicolored fruit and juices, meats of black, red, and russet brown, and various goods for homes. Most peculiarly, there were no banners or the markings of gods. Some of the Broken had the colored markings, but most had none at all. Curious. No one had a weapon or wore armor. Warriors of the Vale lived in a society where all were armed, and all wore armor outside of their homes.

  A peculiar-sounding whisper crept deep into his mind. It was unintelligible; but he looked around to find the source. None seemed to pay him much attention, but the sound continued. He felt he knew this town, and the whisper sounded so familiar that it drew him in—toward the small structure by the well. He moved without stepping, without thought, as if it caused him to float. He crept closer to the door, the sound around him drowning to a whisper, until he was within an inch of the door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a Broken said, snapping him out of it. He was a short individual, dark, smoky skin that was cracked and dry. Saul noticed that he had no markings on either arm. “Are you new to town?” he asked meekly.