by Jeff Gunzel
Ilirra’s expression never changed. Her cool, calm mask meant to fool the world never even twitched, but her green eyes betrayed the calm, like small windows that did little to hide a shattered soul. “You were supposed to be the one keeping an eye on them,” she growled. Her eyes narrowed angrily, though her placid mask remained unchanged. “I knew sending them on this fool’s quest was going to be dangerous, yet still I trusted your judgment. I blindly followed your feeble plan, thinking there was no other way.” The Queen seemed to loom over each of them as her powerful presence filled the room. “You gave my dau— You gave Jade a special ring that was supposed to ensure the two of you stayed in constant communication, yet you have no idea where she is? No idea what has become of the Gate Keeper? Fool!” She whirled about and headed for the door.
“Your Majesty, please. It’s not his fau—”
A raised hand from Berkeni cut off Addel in mid-sentence.
The Queen halted just short of the door but never turned around. “My patience wears thin, old man.” The frost in her voice sent a chill through Addel. “Find them,” she hissed before gliding from the room, slamming the door behind her.
The two of them stared at the door for some time, half expecting her to burst back through it with a blade in hand. “I’ve never seen her like this,” said Addel, finally breaking the long silence. “But can’t she see we are doing the best we can? Her authority does not give her the right to—”
“It gives her every right,” interrupted Berkeni as he turned to face her. However, there was no anger in his eyes, just lingering frustration and sadness due to numerous failed attempts to locate the group that had set out to Shangti. “She speaks the truth and nothing more.” He let out a long sigh before dropping his forehead down into his open palms. “This failure is mine and mine alone. I was charged with their safekeeping, yet somehow they continue to elude my sight.” Addel watched as his shoulders quivered, his face buried in his small palms. Berkeni’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “My hands are stained with their blood.”
She watched him a moment longer, then crossed her arms over her chest, impatiently tapping her foot. “So that’s it then? The mighty Berkeni Ajal, legendary wielder of ancient magics and personal advisor to the Queen of Taron, has given up his duty because he is frustrated like a child? Are you seeking my pity, old man? Shall I feel sorry for you now simply because the mighty Berkeni faces a challenge? Well, if it is pity you seek, I cannot help you. I have a job to do, just as you.” The harsh edge left her voice as she turned away from him. “I will not take you by the hand and force you to do what you must. I’m not sure what happened to the strong, confident man who saved me from a life of misery, but he better return soon. We need him now more than ever.” With that, she marched from the room.
The little man remained slouched in his chair long after Addel was gone. His bones felt weary, and his spirit all but broken. Addel’s words had not fallen on deaf ears, but he just couldn’t tell them yet... How could anyone accept such harrowing news? Sure, he tried to deny it himself. He worked tirelessly day and night, hoping that through sheer effort and determination, somehow he could deny this dark reality. He kept trying to deny the facts that were becoming impossible to ignore, no matter how hard he tried.
With a sigh, he reached down into his shirt pocket and returned with the silver ring, sister to the one he had given Jade. He gripped it hard, trembling with anger. It was cold as ice to the touch, giving no clue that the poor soul wearing the other ring was alive, yet alone their location. He loosened his grip as icy salt water dripped from his hand, forming a small puddle on the floor. Bekeni dared not tell anyone. Hope was all they had, even if they clung to it by a thread. The ring fell from his trembling fist, bouncing off the floor with a light clang. He wanted to scream, but only dropped his head back down to the table. He wept softly as he sat alone. Sent to a watery grave by my own hands. By the gods, I’ve failed them.
Chapter 2
“Yes, Captain, as you command,” barked the young soldier, crouching low while gripping a wooden short sword in each hand. His long, brown hair, matted with sweat, wrapped around his neck and clung to his face, helping to hide his dark brown eyes. A cool breeze chilled the beads of sweat on his face, while blowing a few stray strands of hair in smooth, gentle waves. Lean and solid, he held his pose steady without so much as blinking. The bright yellow star embroidered on his leather tunic rose and fell with each deep, steady breath. With a slight shake of his head, damp hair flung from his face, revealing the numerous bruises and scrapes accumulated throughout the morning. The young man grimaced, showing off his bloodstained teeth. With a final breath that sent a few stray strands of hair away from his bloodstained lips, he roared and charged his massive target for what seemed like the hundredth time today.
Pulling up just short of the gigantic unarmed man, he slashed high, low, then high again, each miss catching nothing but air as the nimble giant ducked and weaved, making the skilled soldier appear clumsy and slow. The frustrated soldier dropped into a backward roll to evade any counterattack, then sprung back to his feet. He then dipped back down into his low stance, several feet away from the giant. It was only then he realized the big man hadn’t countered at all.
“Use your speed and quickness. Don’t try to overpower me,” roared Morcel as he held his ground, taunting the young man with goading hand gestures.
A bit apprehensive now, believing his best chance had come and gone, the brown-haired warrior swallowed hard and rushed back in. Wooden points thrust straight for Morcel’s chest, but again caught nothing but air as the big man easily sidestepped the foreseen attack. The skilled soldier spun back with fluid backhand strikes, each wooden blade slashing at a different level. Although lightning-fast, they appeared slow as the giant drove his fists into the young man’s elbows, easily blocking the hard blows.
“Is this really all you’ve got? A snail moves faster than you do,” growled Morcel as he sent one weapon flying through the air with a flick of his wrist, then pushed the other away as if it were no more dangerous than a spoon. The frustrated soldier leapt back, now gripping his lone weapon with both hands. He spit a gob of blood into the sand before charging back in with renewed determination. Even though this had been a routine sparring session, emotions still ran high. No one ever wanted to look like the weak link.
The younger soldier exploded into a series of perfectly placed strikes—head, neck, shoulder, chest—in an animalistic flurry that would have easily cut down all but the most skilled bladesmaster, but each masterful thrust again caught nothing but air as the big man dodged and ducked with dizzying speed. As the humiliation continued, Morcel began to openly strike the soldier’s head and face in between effortless dodges. The open-hand smacks meant to embarrass the soldier still carried shocking power, and made the soldier stumble with each blow. “Come on, boy. A fly poses more threat than you do. I’m starting to think you belong in the kitchen, wielding a spoon instead of a sword.”
As the frustrated soldier pressed through the embarrassing taunts, his techniques began to slow and grow sloppy. He was never a match for Morcel in the first place, but now his composure was falling to pieces. Holes in his quickly thinning defense were constantly exploited by the big man with increasing frequency. Backhands and open slaps peppered the younger man’s quickly swelling face as he began to swing wildly. Striking the man at will, Morcel’s growing disgust finally got the best of him. The young soldier flailed about, slashing high and low in predictable patterns before his sword arm halted suddenly, as if hitting a brick wall. Morcel held his wrist fast with an iron grip. “Feeble boy,” he mumbled.
Before he could blink, the young soldier’s feet launched out from under him, sending his body horizontally to the sand below. A massive fist crashed down on his chest, hastening his fall to the ground. With all the air driven from his already burning lungs, his breath came in dry wheezes. He rolled back and forth in the sand, desperately trying to get air.
“You call yourself a soldier?” Morcel growled while reaching down to hoist him back up. “On your feet, boy. Do it again. And this time, you better–”
“Fine job today, men,” came a sturdy voice from the back of the group. Azek lightly pushed his way through the watching circle of soldiers. Each man stepped aside when feeling his light touch on their shoulders, followed by individual salutes for their general. He made his way into the circle then reached down to the young man, hoisting him back to his feet. “A fine effort, lad,” he whispered to the boy. “An effort worthy of the golden star. You’ve made us proud this day.” With a severely bruised face and pride to match, the young soldier nodded without ever meeting Azek’s dark eyes. “Now go back and stand with the others.” He started to clap for the boy, prompting several of the other men to do the same.
Dejected and beaten, the boy dragged his feet through the loose sand as he moved through the circle of watching soldiers. He looked back to Morcel with a bloodied face, his right eye nearly closed, and his lower lip split and swelling quickly. “I thank you for today’s lesson, Captain,” he said in a garbled voice. “Each blow landed is a lesson learned. I am now a better man than the one who woke from his bed this morning.”
Morcel’s expression changed little as eerie green eyes that simply didn’t belong on a human’s face stared right through the boy. “I suppose time will tell, but as of today, I’ve seen nothing that backs your claim.” The young soldier held Morcel’s gaze for a moment longer before dropping his head and disappearing through the human wall. Men slapped his back and shoulders, reassuring him as he moved to the back.
“Everyone go back to the barracks now,” said Azek, smiling as he threw his hands up in the air. “Porridge and fresh fruit is being served. You men have all earned it.” Almost reluctantly, they began to move away in small groups, whispering amongst themselves. Many of them were bloodied and bruised, with egos that matched. As the crowd thinned, the young man came back into view. His long hair gently bounced up and down with the cool breeze as he stood with his arms crossed, his glare bouncing back and forth between Azek and Morcel. “You are dismissed, soldier. Go on and join the others. Warm yourself with some goat’s milk,” Azek said.
The young man spit in the sand, a bloody swirl of red and white. He began to speak, but quickly lost his voice as those dark hawk-like eyes met his. Azek’s rare smile was gone now, and he never did have a reputation for patience. The unspoken words died on the boy’s tongue as he closed his mouth, then turned to catch up with the others.
These harsh sparring sessions, usually led by Morcel, had been the staple of the men’s training these days. Each day they were pushed to their limits, more to decide which men could be trusted in the upcoming war than to develop any battle savvy. Deserters fleeing during the night were a regular occurrence, but they were never hunted down as traitors. It was best to find out which ones were carved from wood and how many were actually ready for this suicide mission.
Allowing them to leave with no retribution was widely accepted. After all, how could they insist that a soldier throw his life into the wind by taking on the supernatural? Let them go home to their families and leave this impossible task to only the bravest of warriors…or, more assuredly, the most insane. Either one would work in these dark times.
What was even more disturbing was the unusually large percentage of these men who were once considered savages, men who had finally been granted freedom for the first time in their lives. Dragot had perished at the hands of the Gate Keeper, and the rescued men were then free to do as they wished, but nearly all had decided to stay in Taron. Many had been put to work, with most excelling at the various trades given to them. Each of them displayed a work ethic unrivaled by modern man, one not spoiled with feelings of entitlement by being free from their first breath.
The young brown-haired soldier had been one of these unfortunate souls; with a burning desire to prove he belonged, he quickly climbed in rank. Morcel was more than a little suspicious of this lot, pushing them harder than the rest with the full intention of trying to break them…a feat that proved to be more difficult than he first thought. It seemed that group was taking this… war…rather personally.
Azel and Morcel watched as the young soldier disappeared from sight, then stood in the sanded training area for a time. The climbing sun shining down brightly helped to offset the cool breeze, which was a steady reminder that spring was still several weeks away. After a few minutes, Morcel finally broke the silence. “Are you going to just stand there all day, or will you loosen your tongue? If you have something to say, then say it.”
With two smooth steps, Azek rounded on the big man, now looking up into those green emeralds. Despite their clear difference in size, not even the boldest gambler would dare choose between the two killers. He held Morcel’s unblinking gaze, as if trying to size up the big man. “I disapprove of your tactics,” he said evenly, getting right to the point. “I’m not sure what you hope to accomplish by belittling the men each day. I push them as well, drive them to give me their best, but I never go out of my way to try and break them, to humiliate them. These men have forfeited their lives for a cause they don’t fully understand. They deserve—”
“They deserve my best,” grumbled Morcel. Azek’s dark hawk-like eyes flared for an instant. The general was not exactly used to being interrupted. Of course, a seasoned veteran like Morcel was a special case. He took a step back, intent on hearing the big man out. “If a man breaks under my tactics, I deem that to be a success. That only proves to me that he was too weak and it’s best he go home. I have no time to waste on soldiers who can’t fulfill their duty. It’s better to find out who they are now so we can move forward.”
“So when exactly did you decide that decision was yours to make?” There was no anger in Azek’s voice, just blunt, honest curiosity.
“You asked for my help. You’re the one who laid this burden on my shoulders, even gave me a title I never asked for. A title that,” Morcel dropped his eyes down to the sand, “quite frankly, means nothing to me.” A long silence passed before he continued. “Neither metals, ribbons, or shiny armor make a warrior.” He raised his eyebrows. “A pretty corpse, perhaps.” Azek just shook his head as a hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I know you’ve seen your share of battle, my friend, that you have watched your allies fall at your feet while it’s all you can do to keep yourself alive.” That fragile smile on Azek’s face melted away like snow, replaced by a hard, stony expression.
Morcel continued, “You watched as men, who once thought themselves brave, fled like startled birds once the killing began, and to be honest with you...I feel no shame towards them. They are simply not warriors, and were placed in a position in which they couldn’t possibly succeed.” He paused again, staring out at nothing, silently reliving the many horrors that would haunt him the rest of his days. “When I stand shoulder to shoulder with my chosen brothers, I need to know they will stand firm even in the face of certain death. There can be no doubt. Uncertainty is just another distraction I can do without. I don’t need to tell you that a split second of hesitation can be the difference between living and dying. Anyone not capable of laughing at death is simply better off away from the battlefield, and more importantly...away from me.”
Azek rubbed the two-day stubble growing on his chin, calmly digesting every word as he considered the big man’s point of view. He clasped his hands behind him, then slowly turned away. He gazed up at the white, billowy clouds standing out boldly against the dark blue sky, a sky that seemed to promise more warmth than what was being provided. “I see,” Azek said at length. “I fear I might have misjudged you, my friend.”
“You still find my forward thinking to be cold? My tactics cruel?”
“No,” Azek said calmly, still facing away, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “I’ve seen my share of battle, seen human suffering no sane man was ever meant to lay eyes upon. I know full well what happens to a ma
n when his mind breaks from the horrors of war. When uncontrollable terror floods their bodies, to the point where they feel death itself would be far more merciful than the constant anticipation of it.” He spun on his heels in one clean motion. “And do you know what I think of these poor, unfortunate souls?” Morcel said nothing, just listened calmly while staring into the dark eyes of a hawk—a wise hawk who had paid his dues in blood and sweat throughout the years. “Their bodies can stop an arrow just as easily as mine.”
Morcel’s face betrayed his usual calm as his bright green eyes opened just a tad wider— a gesture that nearly represented a scream, by the usual standards of his always-hidden emotions. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“Tell me, friend, just how many heroes do you expect find on a battlefield?” Azek asked. “Do you really expect to weed out every single soldier that doesn’t meet your god-like standards? Men who have already presented themselves willingly and pledged their lives to our cause?” He gazed upward as a flock of blackbirds soared overhead. The grizzled veteran watched silently as the arrowhead formation moved across the sky, before disappearing from sight. “Men who have already chosen death,” he muttered absently.
“So you think my standards are too high and I should lend my precious time to just any man, woman, or child capable of holding a blade?”
Azek sighed, then clasped a hand over his friend’s shoulder. “I’m saying you can’t save everyone. When the dust settles and the screams have gone silent, most of these men will be dead. It is likely the two of us will have fallen as well, my friend; I don’t need to tell you that.” He inched his face up close to Morcel’s. “These men have already chosen their fates. Let them have their honor.” He pulled back, dark eyes hard as stone. “You asked me if I thought you were too cold. The truth is...you’re too soft. If you don’t have the stomach to send these boys to their deaths, I’ll find someone who will.”
