by S L Matthews
“Run! Dari, you must run!”
“But Papa!” Dari clawed at his father’s outstretched arms. “I can’t…”
“RUN!”
His father pulled another arrow from his quiver.
Dari felt a shove, then stumbled a few steps back. His father gave him a final glance, then spun to draw his bow. With tears in his eyes, Dari turned and ran through the abandoned streets. He ignored everything he saw and everything he heard. He put one foot in front of the other—and ran.
Arrows continued to whistle through the street. Dari heard the piercing cry when they hit their mark, then he heard his father. The screams were brutal and shrill.
And then they were gone.
Silence fell over the Outer Quarter, apart from Dari’s relentless footsteps. He hurdled collapsed walls and sprinted through empty squares. His feet were bleeding and his heart cried out.
For as long as his feet could carry him, he ran.
Vine-covered buildings and mountainous highland grass gave way to bare, cobblestone streets. Dari passed under a rusted gate and into an old market, diving around a large, crimson wagon and several worn oxen. He darted past an enormous man, dressed in blinding white robes, then burst through the doors of an old inn.
Dari entered the grand hall to the sound of music and laughter, though he could feel none of it. Panic-stricken, he navigated the mass of legs before barreling into a wall of deep, emerald green and the smell of fresh cut flowers. He dove for the darkest corner of the inn and, with a heavy heart, collapsed against the wall.
While his hands and feet shook beyond control, chilling thoughts invaded his mind; the look on Elan’s face, the screams of his father, the terrible shrill of the—creatures . As the crowded inn drank their troubles away, Dari closed his eyes and fell into darkness.
T he rhythmic chorus of hooves shattered the early morning silence while long shadows crept through the empty streets. Half-starved rats scurried across broken cobblestone in terror, avoiding the wheels of an enormous, barrel-shaped wagon. Oiled oak and gilded iron lined the over-sized carriage as it crept into a large courtyard, ushered in by a complement of armed guards, its curtains drawn shut.
Axles groaned and oaken beams ached as the crimson behemoth ground to a halt. Its door flew open to reveal a man working his way to the edge of his seat. A wagon this size would not be made for just any man, however. He was as wide as an ox and half as tall. Hoisting himself up, at great cost, he turned sideways and angled his body into the light.
His robes were a brilliant white, a sharp contrast to the aged stonework of the city. They were long and silken, stretched to their limits as they folded in and out of his many rolls. Several hairs stretched from one side of his head to the other, with very little in between to hold them in place. Vivid purple flowers clung to his chest and jeweled rings adorned his hands. With a sudden lurch, he squeezed the oval door frame and pulled his way through.
He emerged into the morning light, his eyes slow to adjust after their time spent in darkness. His hands subconsciously fell to a leather strap across his chest while his eyes squinted into focus. Pudgy fingers clumsily massaged the strap. They came to rest on a tired, worn satchel, which he pulled into place, secured under his arm. Satisfied, the large man adjusted his robes, then stepped onto the cobblestone street…with a splash.
Profanity rang across the courtyard. Stagnant, muddy water forever stained the luster of his robes. “Gods be damned!” he screamed, tiptoeing through the rancid puddle. He mumbled under his breath, cursing the Gods, the puddles, and any rats that scrambled into view. He danced around cracks in the road and pools of water while he delicately raised his robes, much to the delight of those nearby.
“Payment,” came a gruff voice, interrupting the laughter. The white-robed man jumped at the words, emitting a childish squeal and squeezing the satchel to his chest. His eyes unfocused from the courtyard and set upon a tall, armed man, draped in boiled, black leather armor and a grim look of displeasure.
“Mr. Aerent,” the voice continued. “Our deal.”
“Oh, r-right, right,” Thibold Aerent stumbled, diving into his robes.
“A deal is a deal, Lord Rowan,” he continued, withdrawing a small coin purse. He pushed his hand through the idle strands of hair in reflection, then thumbed over several pieces, his eyes rolling skyward as he counted the total in his head.
Rowan snatched the purse and peered inside. He gave the coins a gentle shake, then allowed the contents to settle. He looked up with a devilish grin.
“This’ll do nicely, Thibold,” he said, with a nod to the mercenaries flanking the wagon.
“Men!”
Thibold’s eyes widened as the wagon guards fled his protection. He reached for them. His lips stammered to speak while his eyes darted back to the courtyard. Crumbled, moss-covered stone buildings lined the market. Wooden merchant stands leaned against their hollowed forms. Cracked and broken cobblestones reflected the morning sun and a subtle breeze delivered the putrid scent of dead fish and salt water.
“B−but wait,” he begged. “I said you’d get the other half once I arrived,” he continued, a distinct lift in his voice.
Disheveled families lined the crumbling walls, huddled together to shield against the cool morning breeze. Their ragged blankets offered little protection from the elements, and no protection from the sinister scent of feces and urine. Thibold crept toward the carriage, a hand straining to cover his face.
“By the Gods,” he gagged. “Wh—where have you taken me?”
Rowan spun while the rest of his men continued toward an old, stone inn. He raised his arms outstretched, as if pointing to the limits of the city.
“Congratulations, you dumb sod…you’ve arrived.”
A crooked smirk stretched across his face.
“Welcome to Wyvern’s Rest.”
He then turned back toward the inn and kicked open the worn, slanted doors, allowing a chorus of chatter to spill into the quiet market.
Thibold stood in the old market, his arms wrapped tightly around his leather satchel. The smell of stale beer and sweat poured from the inn for the slightest of moments, eliciting a gag reflex from the startled businessman.
His eyes wandered in disbelief. The raised highway had collapsed into the blackened sand, the brilliant mosaics of the inner city walls had faded entirely, and the busiest market in all of Cyrea had become nothing more than a rancid tent village.
“Wyvern’s Rest,” he mumbled. “It—what happened?”
Haggard merchants eyed the visitor as he tiptoed around the front of his carriage, careful to avoid the stagnant water and broken cobblestone. Thibold stepped into the shadow of the inn, ducking under the loose boards that marked its entrance. A large wooden sign hung from the second story eave, worn and cracked, wearing a mask of paint long forgotten. The sign swung gently as a breeze swept through the market, followed by a low, rhythmic creak.
But this can’t be.
Thibold’s shoulders slumped. He squinted to make out the faded letters of the sign as it ebbed in and out of the shadows.
“The Guilded Wyrmling,” he whispered.
His hand slipped into his robes and fumbled around before pulling forth a loose piece of parchment. He unrolled the letter and read while his lips mouthed along, slowing to a crawl as he reached the words Guilded Wyrmling Inn, Wyvern’s Rest.
Thibold stood on the boardwalk for several moments, his eyes dancing along with the swing of the wooden sign. From the darkened street darted a young boy, his hair soaked in sweat, his eyes soaked in fear. Thibold jumped as the child darted past, bursting through the doors amidst a torrent of tears. Terror gripped the boy’s expression. That same terror seeped into Thibold’s heart, a haunting sensation that remained well after the child disappeared.
Thibold stepped to the end of the boardwalk and peered along the dark walls of the inn, through the iron gates and abandoned streets of the Inner Quarter. Subtle shadows danced among t
he highland grasses that flanked the road, and a feeling of dread washed over him. He quickly stood, the stone of the old inn shielding his view of the empty street.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he looked around once more.
“It just has to—this has to be some sort of mistake,” he whispered, again, to no one in particular.
He pulled the satchel into his chest, tracing the buckle with his fingertip. Doubt surged through his thoughts. His bright robes contradicted the grey, worn inn and the shadow of the eave offered little to conceal his vivid attire. Thibold sensed the eyes of the market and the danger looming beyond the gate. His feet tapped excitedly on the boardwalk before finally launching toward the wooden doors, stumbling head first into the warmth of the inn.
| Chapter II
Three Important Things
T he belly of the Guilded Wyrmling Inn bounced with activity. Oil lanterns lined the walls and well-worn candles added artistry to the shadows dancing across the room. An L-shaped bar, polished to a pristine finish, angled into the grand room; and in the darkened, far corner of the tavern stood a stairwell, ascending to a balcony overlooking it all.
Dominating the tavern, along the sea-side wall, arched an ancient, stone fireplace, carved from the onyx-stained rock of the Abyssal Sea. The blackened furnace bathed the walls in a soft glow while warming the hearts of those inside. Along the walls and tucked into corners, stacked in front of windows and doorways, were dusty bags, cases, and crates, overflowing with clothes, trinkets, and personal possessions. Round, wooden tables dotted the floor, filled with mugs, drowning the sorrows of a broken city.
A slender man with soft eyes and an eager smile glided through the tavern. He maneuvered through joyous families, each repressing their thoughts of anguish with equal parts laughter and spirits. Taryn took a moment to acknowledge each with a gracious nod and a quip of unimportant things, all while navigating toward his table.
The sea of tavern goers parted, revealing a half-empty table of Taryn’s friends, patiently awaiting his arrival. Jorel and Cooper were buried in conversation, no doubt another unbelievable tale upon the high seas that, of course, never actually took place. Alongside Cooper sat Ava, slumped in her chair as if tuning out the entire world. She diligently rubbed against her wrists, oblivious to the joy of the crowd around her.
“The dirtiest glasses of piss water Wyvern’s Rest has to offer,” Taryn said.
He slammed the steins on the table in front of Cooper and Jorel, the amber ale splashing onto their leather vests. Their laughter cut short and their gaze shot to Taryn, neither uttering a word.
“Well, don’t worry,” Taryn interjected, studying their menacing look. “It’s not my piss.”
Laughter once again echoed from the table as both men quietly resumed their tale. Taryn joined in their laughter before carefully setting his glass before him, cupping a final mug delicately in his hands. He leaned in, securing the ale, “and for you, my lady,” he continued, allowing the glass to come to a gentle rest before Ava.
“Oh boy,” Cooper chuckled. He pulled the long strands of hair from his eyes and tucked them neatly behind his ear, then batted his eyelashes at Taryn. “How can I ever repay you, my sweet prince?”
Ava gave a subtle smirk at Cooper’s mockery, then looked up to Taryn with a sincere nod.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her soft words were drowned out by the excitement of the tavern, but Taryn would not have heard them anyway. As it happened every time he was in Ava’s presence, he lost focus and the sounds of the room dissipated.
His eyes traced the ridge of her cheekbones, unerring across her porcelain face. The lines dove headfirst into the valley of her eyes, bathing in the most unique shade of blue the world had ever seen. Her long, shimmering waves of blonde hair caressed her back while her deep, emerald green dress cradled her figure. A single, thin strap clung to her shoulder—the other, hanging limply around her arm.
BANG!
Cooper gripped his mug as the empty vessel slammed into the wooden surface. The horrific noise shot Taryn out of his reverie long enough to hear the familiar laughter of his friends. His brother shot a sinister grin across the table, the same grin that always preceded an ill-willed bout of sarcasm. Taryn slowly turned his eyes away from Ava, cursing his juvenile moment. His face flushed while he wiped the sweat from his palms, then slid deep into his chair.
“Well,” Cooper began. “Good to have you back. Thought we’d lost ya there for a moment!” he continued, his wry grin growing ever wider.
An awkward smile etched its way onto Taryn’s lips as he stammered back, “No-I mean. I was just…”
Cooper’s face grew serious, quickly responding, “Oh…oh, I know what you were just.” He raised his empty glass in Taryn’s direction and swung it lightly toward Ava. “32, by the way,” he continued.
Taryn and Ava eyed Cooper as his lips fought the urge to curl upright. He looked at them with the sincerest expression he could muster, his eyes jumping between them in feigned surprise.
“Freckles…32 freckles,” he finally revealed. “I assume that’s what you were counting?”
Ava’s gaze fell to the table, drawing away the shame that crept into her face. Taryn, meanwhile, could only slide deeper into his chair. They both sat quietly while Cooper and Jorel continued their frivolity, reveling at the expense of their self-conscious friends.
“You know,” Ava whispered, breaking a long moment of silence. “I wasn’t particularly thirsty this morning.” Turning toward the chuckling men, she stood from the table, the full length of her emerald dress drifting to the floor. Her fingers slid around her glass with an elegance befitting a princess.
Ava slid closer to Cooper, who sent a smug wink in Taryn’s direction. “Now that I’ve seen how thirsty you are,” she said, positioning herself behind his flowing, dark hair. Her manicured hand glided down his shoulder and across his chest. She whispered into his ear, ensuring everyone at the table could hear.
“I would feel guilty not sharing mine.”
She raised her glass…and poured.
Cooper’s black hair tumbled in wet, matted clumps as the amber liquid spilled down his face, eliciting snorts of laughter from the table. Ava continued pouring, slow and deliberate, as Cooper sat in his chair, accepting the fate his sarcasm had earned.
Ava’s mischievous gaze fell to Taryn. She gave him a knowing nod and the faintest of smiles, relieving some of his prior embarrassment. She didn’t smile much—not any more. Until that moment, Taryn never realized how much he missed it.
A young, disheveled boy shot past Ava, bouncing off her hip. He wore a look of despair as tears lined his dirty, terror-stricken face. The stein slipped through Ava’s delicate grasp, crashing onto Cooper’s head.
As the small child fled into the darkened corner, Ava’s concern followed him. Her expression grew solemn. The joy of the morning filtered away and the somber realities of Wyvern’s Rest resurfaced.
“Ah!” Cooper gasped, rubbing the top of his head and wiping the matted hair from his eyes. “Damn kid!”
Ava extended a hand in Cooper’s direction, her gaze still set upon the young boy, cowering in a ball of tears.
“Something happened,” she whispered, her voice long, her words mourning.
She moved toward the child, leaving her friends to their table.
Cooper rolled his eyes and rubbed the knot on his head. “It’s fucking Wyvern’s Rest…something always happens,” he said, arrogance returning to his voice. His eyes darted toward Ava, then back across the table to his younger brother.
“Speaking of which,” he said, his expression lacking the usual, sarcastic grin. “What are you doing?”
Taryn’s gaze fell from Cooper, his fingers mindlessly tracing the handle of his mug. “What do you mean?”
“What do I−” Cooper’s hands slammed onto the table. He flung his arm toward Ava, yet his eyes refused to leave Taryn. “We’ve talked about this. We always ta
lk about this.” Cooper edged closer, leaning into the worn tavern table. “If I catch you counting freckles again…I’m kickin’ your ass.”
Taryn sighed and pushed his mug away. “Look. I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, flipping his hands in the air. “It’s not like I lo…”
“Don’t you say it!”
Both brothers stared at one another while Jorel savored his ale. Without a word, he leaned over and tugged on a small, silver locket tucked neatly under Taryn’s shirt. “You were saying?” Jorel said, allowing the locket to fall against Taryn’s chest.
Taryn snatched the silver charm and quickly tucked it inside his shirt, glancing over to Ava in nervous anticipation.
“You still have that?” Cooper asked, falling against the back of his chair. “She didn’t want it. She threw it back at−“
“She did not throw it,” Taryn interrupted, snapping his gaze back to the table. He sighed and shook his head. “Look…”
Cooper interjected, “No, Tar. You look!” An earnest tone filled his words, one Taryn had only heard a few times in his life. “I love that girl too, but she’s an anchor. Look around you. Everyone’s leaving. This shithole town has nothing left for you, yet here you are−anchored.” Cooper extended a finger to Ava.
“To her!”
Cooper’s tone grew even more serious. “Every day, you come to see her. Every day, we join you, and talk about her.” His eyes glistened, the faintest hint of red creeping into his face. “And every day, I’m left to pick up the pieces, wondering if this is the day you’ll die trying to protect her.”
“So what, I just ignore it?” Taryn said, falling against the back of his chair. “Will that make you happy?”
Cooper mirrored Taryn’s movements, sliding back in his own chair. “You really want to know what will make me happy?” He spun toward the tavern entrance, firing a finger toward the lopsided, squeaking doors.
