by D L Sims
“Run!” Kelmen screamed.
The people scurried down the tracks as the Mezerans broke through the trees, giving chase, picking people off one by one.
Arrows and axes flew, few missing their marks, but many finding homes in heads and backs. Kelmen grabbed the hand of the person nearest him, dragging her along.
“Keep up.”
She kept pace as Kelmen veered from the rails into the woods, hoping to lose the Mezerans in the trees.
“Where do we go?” the woman asked. It was not the same woman he had saved earlier, but a Kereshi woman with leaves stuck in her wild, windblown hair. “Where is safe?”
Kelmen stopped, hiding both he and the woman behind a large tree root. “We’re not going to make it to Rivland in time,” he told the woman. “There’s a witch that lives not far from here. She can get a message to the right people in Rivland with magic.”
The woman nodded, cursed in Kerish, and the pair ventured out into the open again, weaving and ducking through branches until a cottage came into view with smoke curling up from the chimney.
“That’s the house.” Kel felt a smile form on his face.
“Thank--”
The woman’s words were cut short, and her body jerked next to Kelmen’s. Her eyes flew wide. Over her shoulder, two Mezerans were approaching, one with an axe. The other’s axe was sticking out from the Kereshi woman’s back.
Kelmen ran towards the cottage, his body tingling slightly when he breached the magical wards the witch had surrounding the small structure. He swung the door open and slammed it shut, leaning against it to catch his breath.
The witch, who had been sitting on her rocky floor communing with the spirit world, opened her eyes and greeted Kel with a familiar smile.
“My dear son, what trouble have you gotten into now?”
The sound of screaming came from outside as the Mezerans tried and failed to step through his mother’s wards.
Chapter
Twenty
The iron bars of the small stone room were still down with sunlight and wind coming in through the slats. Grant held two padarés, a traditional Eltharian weapon that looked like a small bow made from wood with a leather handle, but the curved end was bladed with a short, thin Opal Stone dagger sticking from the middle of it.
Holding the padarés brought back memories: practicing them with Lonis' father when he was a boy and still learning how to hold a sword. He had adored the weapons since he had seen them hanging from Mister Hesito’s belt, the razor ends glittering in the sun when he walked.
For his sixteenth birthday Lonis had bought him this pair with coin he had saved up over the years. The wood was nicked, and the leather worn with years of use.
Grant was shirtless, and silver paint decorated his tanned skin. Strapped to his belt was his grandfather’s dagger. He wasn’t armed with any blades from the Arena’s armory. He wanted to be holding the weapons that meant the most to him during his battle against Ikar.
“You will do well--”
His father’s words were cut off by the door Grant had just come through opening again. A different servant entered. His eyes were drawn, and his mouth pinched. “Lord Sinero, Lord Grantham, follow me.”
“What about my battle?”
“I’m sorry, sir. The Trials have been postponed until further notice.”
“Why?”
“Please,” the servant wrung his hands in his faded white tunic, “Master Roxell will explain everything.”
“Attention!” he heard Master Roxell’s voice beyond the bars. “I regret to inform you that The King Trials have been postponed due to a rising issue.” Outrage followed his words, but he projected his voice over the noise. “Please remain calm and seated until a servant can escort you.”
Curious and alarmed, Grant followed the servant and his father out of the tiny cell and down the round hall of the Coliseum.
In nearly five hundred years, a Trial has never been postponed.
Something was very wrong. Dread filled Grant’s stomach like lead.
The servant was quiet as he led Grant and Lord Sinero deeper into the Coliseum. There was a chill this far down, and the walls were darker, stained with soot from the fire fifteen years before.
The servant opened a door and ushered them into a semi-round room where Ikar, Andalen, Arlen and Khett had gathered. Their parents were hovering around them, the buzz of conversation dying when the door closed behind Grant.
Grant went to stand with the others. Ikar was dressed for battle in the same leathers and metals that adorned his body.
“What happened?” he asked.
Andalen and Arlen’s faces were grave; Arlen looked as if he had been crying.
“Odenmal,” Ikar answered. “It’s been attacked. Only a handful made it out alive and sought refuge in Alithane.”
“What?” Grant blinked slowly, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “By who?”
“Lords, Ladies,” Master Roxell entered the room. His face was drawn and slightly gray. “Please, have a seat.”
There was a great amount of shuffling before everyone was either sitting in a chair around the large wooden table or--in Ikar’s case--leaning against a wall. Master Roxell remained standing, running a hand over his beard as he paced the small area between the door and the table.
“I had just received word from Elbatha, the Wood Witch, that Odenmal has fallen into the hands of the Mezerans.”
“The Mezerans?” Lady Dominikov questioned. “The small kingdom in East?”
“Not so small anymore,” Lord Sinero said. “They have taken over Oïosa and Rahji.”
“Yes, but those are tiny islands,” Lady Amadon chimed in, laying a hand on her husband’s arm. “We are a kingdom.”
“That doesn’t matter.” Ikar pushed off from the wall and tucked a strand of his hair back into place. “It seems the Mezerans will keep moving west until they control every piece of land in Wehlmir.”
“And we will make sure Elthare does not become a part of Mezerah.” Master Roxell finally stopped pacing and stood at the head of the table. “The Wood Witch believes they will split and move up to Alithane and down to Oszerack. We’ll send troops out to stop the Mezerans from advancing deeper into our kingdom.”
“We need help,” Andalen said. “The Mezeran army is bigger since they acquired Rahji and Oïosa. They outnumber us.” She stood, and Grant could see her calculating something in her mind. “Even if every man of age fought alongside the Royal Guard, we would still be outnumbered.”
“How do you know that?” Grant questioned.
Andalen cut him a look. “I do my studying, Grantham. Military strategy interests me.”
Grant was impressed, though he would not admit it to Andalen. “Touché, Andi.” He turned from her to address the room. “What do we do? How do we stop the Mezerans from taking our kingdom?”
“We’ll ask King Pytir and Queen Selia. The Dragon Queen has helped us before, and Soldare owes us for bartering peace with Lysic,” Lord Amadon interjected.
For the next hour, the families strategized. They planned to send out a draft to every able-bodied man over the age of sixteen and would send a large group of soldiers to Alithane and Oszerack to defend the cities. Arlen and Andalen volunteered to go to Soldare while Grant and his father went to Lysic.
Once the meeting was over, Grant hurried through the Coliseum to find Lonis. All the Noble children and the others had been taken to a room further down the hall. He pushed the door open to find Lonis sitting in a chair, puffing on a pipe full of sweet-smelling tobacco. Ralsair was in the corner playing dolls with Phinn’s younger sister, while Marklin and Mikhial played cards. Nixema was alone, knitting a string of patterns into what looked like a giant purple snake.
“I thought you stopped smoking,” Grant commented, crossing the room to Lonis.
“Only because you don’t like the smell,” Lonis gave him a small smile, “but days like this call for a vice of some sort.”
>
Grant sat opposite of Lonis, their knees brushing as he got into position. “You could always find other ways to relieve stress. I keep offering to call one of the Night Houses.”
Lonis made a face. “No.”
Grant chuckled, but sobered quickly. “You heard about Odenmal?”
Lonis nodded. “The servants are talking about it.” He paused and sucked on his pipe. “I’m guessing there is going to be a draft?”
“There is. Promise me you won’t die.”
“Can’t promise that, Sin. It is war after all.”
“At least promise to think of me as you die.”
Lonis' eyes flicked to his, raking over his face as if taking in his features and committing them to memory. “You will be the only thing I think of.”
“Lonnie…” the words he longed to say to his oldest friend were on the tip of his tongue, but instead he said, “I’m leaving for Lysic.”
“When?”
The door opened, and his father beckoned him over. Grant sighed, standing. “Now.”
Lonis stood too, and Grant reached out for him. The world narrowed, fading to black at the edges of his vision until all he saw was Lonis' face. He pulled Lonis to him. Their bodies molded together, hip to hip, chest to chest.
“May Nomir grant you fortune,” he whispered.
“And you, Sin. We will see each other soon.” Lonis pulled back, digging into the pocket of his tunic. “I bought this for you. I was gonna give it to you after your battle.”
Grant took the bar of his favorite chocolate; a note was attached to it. He began to open it, but Lonis stilled his fingers.
“Read it on your travels.”
“What does it say?”
Lonis' smile was crooked. “You’ll find out when you read it.”
Chapter
Twenty-One
The Round Tower was a hidden fortress deep in the woods between Alithane and Rivland. The progression of ten-thousand soldiers heading to Alithane trotted past it without so much as a glance, but Ikar pulled on his horse’s reins and looked up at the stark gray building with its razor wire wrapping the roof and the field of thorns below. He could feel the dull buzz of magic in the air; wards put in place by witches and warlocks to keep the prisoners from escaping. There was only one way in or out of The Round Tower, a small door at the base that was guarded by a brute of a warlock named Obe.
“We have to keep moving,” a man behind him hissed. “We have to make it to Alithane before the enemy.”
Ikar glanced at the man dressed in the white and gold of the Royal Guard. If there were a king, the man would be wearing a pin with the family animal and one of the five noble colors.
Ikar briefly wondered what it would be like to see a wolf head pinned to the man’s chest and a cape of silver and red on his back.
“If I am going to die defending my city, I would like to say good-bye to my brother first.”
The man’s lip curled. “Your brother is a murderer.”
“Nobody’s family is perfect.”
Ikar broke off from the progression, his horse huffing at the sudden change in direction.
“We won’t wait for you!” the Guard hollered.
“I didn’t ask you to!”
Ikar dismounted his horse and tied the reins to a tree. “You stay here,” he told the creature. “Neigh if anyone comes.”
He walked up the thin path to the door where Obe waited.
“What do you want, Dominikov?” Obe grunted, hand twitching above his sword. “No visitors.”
“Come on, Obe. I just want to see my brother.”
“Master Roxell said no visitors.”
Ikar smiled. “Remember when we were kids, and you fell into the river and nearly drowned because you didn’t know how to swim?”
Obe rolled his eyes. “Why are you bringing that shit up?”
Ikar pulled out his coin purse, tossing it in his palm. “I went in after you and saved you.” He opened it and began counting out gold pieces. Obe’s eyes watched him hungrily. Ikar was one of the few that knew the warlock loved nothing more than money. Obe had a gambling problem, and Ikar was not above exploiting that. “Then I spent a whole summer teaching you how to swim, and you said you owe me. You remember that, Obe?”
“Yes, yes, I remember.” Obe was practically drooling at the gold in Ikar’s hand.
“Well, I’m cashing in that favor.” He closed his palm over the coins and shoved his purse back into his pocket. “And I’ll throw in fifteen gold pieces if you let me in to see Yvney.”
Obe made a weird rumbling noise in his throat. “Fine.”
The warlock unlocked the Tower door and led Ikar through. The interior was dull, lit only by single candelabras every ten to twenty feet. And it smelled of blood, piss and body odor.
Yvney doesn’t belong here. Sure, his brother was the world’s biggest pain in the ass, but he didn’t belong in the same place they held Elthare’s worst criminals.
“How has he been doing?” Ikar asked Obe, sidestepping a man reaching through the cell bars for him, calling out to him, humping the bar door in Ikar’s direction. Ikar kept his face neutral; he wouldn’t show how much these people terrified him.
“You’ll see.”
The Tower had a staircase that spiraled through the center of it, leading off to hallways of cells. There were a dozen cells on each floor and a total of five floors. Each cell was filled with four or five men and women.
Guards ignored Ikar--at least he thought they were guards. They looked just as rough as the prisoners.
Obe stopped in front of a cell on the fourth floor. There were only three men in the cell: two skinny men who looked to be part Kereshi, and Yvney, huddled in the corner.
“Brother.”
Yvney looked up, and the look on his broad face would forever haunt Ikar’s dreams. He looked worn, his eyes faded and dull. His skin was yellowish-gray, and he was dressed in an oversized tunic and trousers with a number over the left side of his chest, 0493553556. His head was still shaved, but there was a large scab covering the left side of his skull, and blood that had trickled from the wound had dried down his face.
“Ikar,” he rasped. “Why are you here?”
“We’re at war, Yv. The Mezerans have invaded Odenmal. I wanted to see you.” He held his breath as Yvney moved, gingerly getting to his feet. He put all his weight on his left side, and his right ankle looked swollen. “You don’t belong here.”
“I do. I killed Phinn.” His lip trembled slightly at the mention of Phinn’s name. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I’ve never killed anyone before.” He opened his eyes again, training them on Ikar. “I deserve this punishment.”
Ikar ignored the audience they had and focused on Yvney. “Don’t say that. It was an accident.”
“There’s something wrong with my powers. They consumed me. I felt trapped inside a cage of anger and hate.” Yvney paused, his eyes tearing. “Leave, Ikar.”
Yvney turned his back to the cell bars and sank to his knees, facing the wall. With nothing left to say, Ikar turned to follow Obe back down to the entrance.
“Brother?” Yvney’s voice stopped him, but he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t look at Yvney and see the haunted expression, the guilt. “I never truly hated you.”
Ikar didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if Yvney was looking, but he nodded and followed Obe down the stairs.
This is my kingdom.
Khett looked around the countryside as he followed the progression to Oszerack. The sky was a beautiful powder blue, cloudless, and birds chirped up in the trees.
As the former Prince, Khett’s duty to protect Elthare was greater than those around him. This was the land his forefathers built. The Eltharians were his people.
He would fight to his very last breath to make sure Elthare didn’t fall into enemy hands.
“You’re quiet,” Lonis commented.
He put his hand over the necklace tied through a buttonhole on
his coat. Fresia had given it to him just before they departed and made him promise he would return. He had been courting her since he returned to his estate in Rivland and found that he was beginning to grow quite fond of her.
“Thinking.”
“Aren’t we all.”
They were silent for the rest of the ride; the only sound was the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. They made it to Ozerack just before the sun set, but the village was quiet. The gates were open when last Khett heard they had been closed.
“Draw your swords, men,” Lieutenant General Morin commanded. “Proceed with caution.”
Khett drew the sword his father had gifted him on his deathbed. Rubies encrusted the hilt, and the Opal Stone shimmered in the sun. Out of the corner of his eye, blue sapphires caught his gaze. He turned to see Lonis brandishing the sword he had at his hip, but Khett hadn’t noticed the blue jewels or the S engraved on the handle until that moment.
“Is that Grant’s?” Khett asked, recognizing the steel. “He showed it to me not too long ago.”
Lonis smiled at the blade tenderly. “Dumbass gave it to me before he left.”
Khett wanted to ask what weapons Grant had taken instead, but the soldiers were moving again.
As they entered the village gates, the smell of death hung heavy in the air. Bodies littered the roads, flies buzzed.
“We’re too late,” Lonis whispered. His face was pale with shock. “Mallery.” His gaze was held on the body of a plump woman, her red ringlets dyed with mud and blood. Her blue eyes stared open and unseeing. “She’s the baker’s wife.”
“Eyes peeled, lads,” one of the Royal soldiers warned them.
“Father?” Lonis called out to a Keynan man dressed in Sinero blue. “Where’s mother?”
Mr. Hesito’s skin paled, and he led his horse to Lt. General Morin.
“Sir? My wife.”
Lt. General Morin nodded gravely. “Where would she be?”
“At the Sinero Estate.”
“Take some men with you, Nei-yu.”
