The Lost Princess of Aevilen

by D. C. Payson

  Grimmel looked back at Redyar with a malevolent grin. He tucked the crystal into his pocket and withdrew a different, smaller crystal that emitted a deep, red-black glow.

  “The Master knows that you have been a good and faithful servant, Redyar,” he said. “You should live to see the hour of our triumph.”

  “Terrenon sim boddir nal Kron Diggur,” said Redyar as he received the crystal. “I will be ready.”

  Redyar turned away from Grimmel and popped the crystal into his mouth, swallowing it whole. He closed his eyes, groaning as he felt it work inside him. He reached down and pulled his golden shawl and tunic nearly up to his chin, looking for visual confirmation of what his body felt. A deep wound glowed a bright reddish-brown color at the center of his chest. A web of shallow fissures fanned out from the injury all the way to his sides. As he watched, some of the fissures began to close, and then others. Bit-by-bit, the stony-gray flesh of his body sealed his death glow away. Within a minute’s time, virtually his entire chest had healed; the only remnant of his former condition was a smaller version of the central wound.

  Satisfied, Redyar let his clothes back down. “I will take my leave and await your summon.”

  “It is time to begin your final preparations, Redyar. We will call for you shortly.”

  Redyar’s body burned with the essence of the corrupted lifestone. Combined with his strength—that of the most ancient of all living Rokkin—his new energy would ensure that none would be able to resist him in these final days. Such was the power of Kron Diggur.

  Thezdan walked over to the storeroom door and cracked it open, scanning the open lot outside. Only his cart remained; beyond, the street looked empty. A half hour had passed since Lothic and Domin had left. It was time to go.

  He slipped out into the lot and moved quickly across the open ground, unhooking the borum from its hitching post before climbing onto the driver’s bench. He reached behind into the grains and pulled out his sword just far enough to expose the top of the hilt, giving him easy access should he need it.

  “O-na,” he called, sending the borum ambling toward the street with a flick of the reins. He discreetly elbowed the storage bed behind him, producing a muted thud that ran through the old, wooden boards of the cart. “You back there, Scylld? We might have a busy evening.”

  Scylld let out a rumble from beneath the grain.

  “Alright,” said Thezdan. “Be ready.”

  Thezdan whipped the borum to a trot, guiding it around the bend leading to the town square. The sun was still a couple hours or so above the horizon, but the streets had already cleared. The residents knew all too well that the curfew was not to be taken lightly; it was better to be inside well before sundown than to be outside and under increased scrutiny from the guards. As he passed one of the houses, a pair of arms shot out of an upper window, grabbed hold of the open shutters, and quickly swung them closed. There was an almost palpable dread that hung in the air. Thezdan thought he could sense eyes watching him through cracks and slits as he moved up the road.

  Suddenly, he heard a shout. Up where the road intersected with the square, a wiry man wearing a tattered, Party tunic tumbled onto his side. The man scrambled to right himself. Though Thezdan was still some distance away, he could hear the man pleading with someone.

  “Please, please! I haven’t done anything!”

  A guard captain appeared, strutting over toward the man with his polearm held out menacingly in front of him.

  “I stole nothing!” whimpered the man as he cowered before the guard.

  The guard spun around and delivered a brutal blow to the man’s arm with the shaft of his weapon. The man fell over sideways again, writhing in pain.

  Thezdan continued on, doing his best to ignore the cruelty.

  The guard looked up at the cart for a moment, then he turned back toward the man. “You thought we wouldn’t see you scraping the bottom of the cauldron? Do you think you deserve to eat more than the other citizens?”

  “I didn’t! I-I’m sorry!” the man wailed. He closed his eyes and braced for another blow.

  “Make way, please, Revolutionary,” Thezdan called ahead. He was loath to bring attention to himself, but he needed to pass. He also hoped the distraction might spare the man further punishment.

  The guard captain looked up at the cart again. “Who are you, and why are you out so late?”

  Thezdan stopped the cart and waited for the guard to approach. “It is still more than two hours before curfew, Revolutionary, and I need to get this grain down south. I just finished a run to the People’s Rest, and a Rokkin distiller I found there told me that he was very low on grain stock. It is less than an hour from here, and he has offered me a roof for the night. I figured that if he’s supplying the People’s Rest, then his work is important to the Revolution.”

  “Are you aware that we don’t make exceptions for curfew?” the guard asked.

  “I am.”

  “It is your life to lose, then. Move on.”

  The guard stepped aside, and Thezdan whipped the borum back into motion. He was quietly pleased to discover that the battered man was gone, having scampered off to hide somewhere. He could only hope that the guard had lost interest in hunting the man down.

  As the cart passed through the square, Thezdan looked toward the spot where the townspeople had been eating earlier. He saw a small group of citizens wearing the tattered tunics of lowest-level peasants busily scrubbing the tables, cobblestones, and the large, black cauldron. Guards loomed over the peasants carrying heavy, leather flogs on their shoulders. As Thezdan watched, one of the guards swept an unlucky peasant from his feet. No sooner had the peasant fallen than the flog came down against his side with a loud “snap.” The man yelped, but none of the other citizens looked up from their work.

  Thezdan needed an outlet for the anger and malice he felt swelling within him. He bit his lip until it began to bleed. The pain and the taste of his own blood was clarifying: intervention would mean death, and survival was his only aim tonight.

  He heard another crack of leather hitting some other poor soul. This time, he didn’t turn to look.

  As Thezdan neared the guard tower at the edge of town, the door swung open and out stepped the guard with the sore on his temple that he and Lothic had dealt with earlier. The guard moved to the middle of the road and held up his hand, commanding Thezdan to stop.

  “Why are you here again?” he asked suspiciously. “Weren’t you going to go north after your stop in town? Where is your friend?”

  It dawned on Thezdan that Lothic had probably been smuggled through the checkpoint. “The plan changed,” he said, his voice quivering slightly. “Now I need to get this grain to the Rokkin distillery down south.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “He is staying at the People’s Rest for the night. I am going to come back tomorrow so that we can continue our deliveries up north.”

  “Really?” said the guard. “I don’t recall seeing a permit for either of you to stay here.” He grinned spitefully. He had trapped Thezdan in a lie. The guard knew that this interloper and his companion, who had so irritated him a few hours ago, would almost surely be condemned to the Pit; more importantly, he would be rewarded with extra rations for his diligence. “People smuggling is a very serious crime. You’re going to have to speak with the Captain.”

  The guard turned to shout for assistance, clearly unaware of the danger he faced. Thezdan’s blade struck just below the base of his helmet, deep enough to kill instantly but not so deep as to risk the mess of decapitation. The guard flopped to the ground, his polearm clanging loudly as it met the stone.

  Thezdan returned the sword to its spot hidden in the grain and hopped down to collect the guard’s body and weapon. Even wrapped in armor, the guard’s body was surprisingly light; Thezdan had little trouble hoisting it onto his shoulder and then up and onto the cart. He grabbed the polearm and tossed it in the
back, then he returned to his seat on the driver’s bench.

  The ground where the guard had fallen was stained red, but not obviously so; Thezdan’s careful strike had left little evidence of the guard’s violent end.

  “Sorry about the new passenger, Scylld,” Thezdan said into the cart bed. “He’ll be getting off soon.”

  Thezdan drove the cart out into the countryside. He waited anxiously to hear the alarm horn sound. Thankfully, it never came. He stopped the cart at the intersection with the road that would take him west toward the forest. He retrieved the guard’s body from the grain bed and dumped it among some bushes nearby. He thought about asking Scylld for help concealing it but decided it was unnecessary; it was more important to keep the Ogar hidden. He scavenged around for nearby rocks and twigs until he had covered the body. No one would find it for several days, until the smell became strong.

  “Goddess, forgive this desperate fool,” he said as he looked at the partially obscured and lifeless body.

  Thezdan returned to the cart and grabbed the polearm. He thought about discarding it with the body but quickly changed his mind. He may have been clear of the town now, but he still had a long trip ahead of him. It was later than he had hoped it would be at this point in his journey, and there was a real chance that he might not make it to the far western plains by nightfall. He checked the blade of the polearm; while it was not to Guardian standards, it was sharp enough to kill. It might be useful.

  Thezdan put the polearm back atop the grain and returned to his seat. The sun hung ominously in the western sky, a great luminescent timer ticking down all too quickly. Thezdan tried to whip the borum up to a faster pace, but received only snorts in response. He was on a collision course with the night, and he could only hope that his Guardian instinct had not led him to make a fatal blunder.

  “Look guys, we made it!” said Julia as she caught sight of the path leading to the fort.

  It was getting late, the increasingly dim light making the trees on either side of the road start to blend together. Her legs were heavy from the day’s journey. Thankfully, Entaurion and Engar had been good company, and Engar’s irrepressible spirit had continued to shine despite his injury. Julia still worried about him, but she was growing ever more confident about his prognosis.

  As they turned up the path, Julia began to hear a few birdsong-like chirps overhead—brief, not even translatable, but unmistakably Sylvan.

  “Are they following us?” she asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Entaurion. “They watch over the whole forest, so it’s not that unusual to hear them around here.”

  Just then, Julia caught sight of a hooded figure up ahead.

  “It’s Sinox!” said Entaurion.

  “It is a good day when the Prime welcomes you home!” said Engar proudly.

  Sinox rushed toward them with long, silent strides. He had an almost feline grace that now, at dusk, made him seem like a moving shadow.

  “Engar!” he called. “Are you alright?”

  Engar held up his wounded arm. “I lost something. Don’t worry though, I’m sure Lothic can help replace it!”

  Sinox came up to him and held out his hand. “Let me see. The Sylvan sent word that you had been injured.”

  Engar gingerly placed his arm in Sinox’s hand.

  “By the Goddess, Engar, I am grateful you are alive,” said Sinox. “You will have to have Alana treat this immediately.”

  “I will, Sinox,” Engar replied.

  “Entaurion, escort him back and see that he’s treated right away,” Sinox commanded. “Leave me with the girl; I need to speak with her privately.”

  The two younger Guardians looked at each other, confused by his order. They were not quite prepared to leave Julia’s side, as they had not yet delivered her home.

  Sinox sensed their hesitation. “I will escort her back to the fort personally. But please, leave us now and seek treatment. Engar, that wound poses a danger to your life.”

  Julia’s necklace turned cold. She felt an impulse to say something but suppressed it, not wanting to put Engar and Entaurion in a difficult position. “Uh, Sinox, why don’t we speak back at the fort. It’s late. I’d be happy to meet with you in Alana’s quarters if you’d like, maybe after I’ve had a quick bite to eat!”

  “Alright, that should be fine,” Sinox said. “Why don’t we head back together?”

  Engar beamed. “See? The Prime is escorting us!”

  Sinox bowed his head at the two Guardian En. “You brought honor to our Clan today. Lead us home to the hero’s welcome that awaits you!”

  Engar and Entaurion looked at each other. Entaurion nodded, at which point Engar turned and began walking up tbe path to the fort, Entaurion beside him.

  “Do you still promise to say all those nice things about me, Entaurion?” Engar asked.

  “Of course,” Entaurion said, chuckling. “You earned it, my friend.”

  “You’re going to tell your sister first, though, right?”

  “You cheeky … !”

  Julia laughed. She and Sinox followed right behind. Her necklace was still a bit chilly, but she was excited to get back, have a proper meal, and catch up with Thezdan. It had been quite a day.

  “Julia?” Sinox whispered quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “ … I am sorry.”

  Before Julia could say anything, Sinox thrust out a hand and covered her mouth. He moved his body behind hers in a single deft motion. Julia felt a prick in her mid-back, followed by a powerful tingling sensation spreading through the region.

  “I had no choice. You would be the death of us all,” Sinox whispered in her ear.

  Julia tried to scream, but her energy had already drained out of her. She watched Engar and Entaurion walking farther up the path, still jostling and joking back and forth, oblivious. Sinox reached around and grabbed her necklace with his free hand. When it burst to life a moment later, only faint traces of its brilliant light escaped through his fingers. He pulled her into the forest.

  A few moments later, Julia heard Entaurion calling out to her and running footsteps nearby, but it was too late. Slowly, inexorably, she slipped into blackness.

  Thezdan heard the Whisper like a scream calling out inside him: Help me!

  His pulse accelerated. He closed his eyes and sensed that Julia lived, but he knew that something had happened to her. She was in danger again.

  He flailed at the borum, shouting at the highest volume he could without his voice carrying across the landscape. “GO!”

  It was for naught; the creature had no more to give. It would soon be better to proceed on foot. A few minutes later, the very last sliver of the sun slipped behind the horizon. Thezdan perked his ears and caught the faint wails of faraway horns calling to the towns and villages within range: curfew had begun, and with it, the Night Reaper patrols.

  Thezdan pulled the cart off onto an adjacent field and parked next to a thicket. This was the end of the line.

  He grabbed his sword and the polearm and hopped down.

  “Scylld, we have to go!”

  The grain in the cart began to shift, Scylld’s massive, gray figure rising from the middle. With one giant step, he dismounted, the cart creaking loudly as its undercarriage sprang back into place.

  Thezdan walked to the front and cut the borum free, patting it on its thick, sweat-soaked hide. “Thank you for your efforts,” he said, delivering a swift smack to its rear quarter that sent it walking off into the grass. He turned back toward the Ogar. “Scylld, can you hide our cart?”

  Scylld rumbled affirmatively. He reached out, grabbed the back of the cart, and pushed it part-way into the thicket. He then took a step back and dropped to his knees, placing his two giant, claw-like hands against the ground. As he began humming a prayerful song, the thicket began to change, new branches and leaves growing out and slowly enveloping the still-visible portion of the cart. Little by little, the
bush grew until the cart was completely concealed, devoured by a thick mass of branches and leaves.

  Scylld stopped his chant and stood up.

  “Surely the Goddess still favors you,” said Thezdan admiringly. He surveyed the landscape around them. “We need to hurry. Something has happened to Julia. It is only two or three rests to the river, and if we move quickly, we should be able to keep our lead on the patrols.”

  Scylld gestured with a single claw toward his own eye, then he took his other hand and pointed backward from the base of his neck. Thezdan watched and puzzled over the display for a moment, but soon realized what the Ogar was suggesting.

  “Eyes in both directions?” he asked.

  Scylld nodded. He turned to present his back to Thezdan, one of his mammoth hands turned upward behind him as a seat.

  Thezdan bristled at the sight of the Ogar offering him a ride. But he put his pride aside, recognizing that it was a good idea. They had no margin for error, and having eyes in both directions would make it easier for them to spot an approaching patrol. He pressed himself up into Scylld’s awaiting palm; so great was the Ogar’s strength that the hand did not budge as Thezdan added his weight to it.

  “Ready!” Thezdan said.

  Scylld rumbled and began walking westward, doing his best to stride evenly across the terrain as Thezdan kept a lookout behind them for Night Reaper patrols.

  They had barely covered half the distance to the river when Thezdan caught the dreaded sight he had been watching for: a white light, still a full rest behind them, that seemed to be shifting left and right and back again across the countryside. Even from this distance, he could tell that it was closing on them quickly.

  He rapped his knuckles against Scylld’s side.

  “Scylld!” he called in a pressing whisper. “Reapers! Behind!”

  Scylld stopped and turned around, bringing his hand out from behind his back so that both he and Thezdan were facing the light.