by K R Leikvoll
After all had been searched and one devoured by Morgan, we followed the wolf’s quiet footsteps into the gorge. Though it was a decently long walk, we kept absolutely silent the entire way to the finish. We were all listening for signs of their allies, no matter how small.
It was another long trek to the Stardusk Brook that ran to the ocean. When we saw a hint of a ship on the shoreline, Varnoc and I exchanged looks. There were far more of them than we had thought originally, but many were asleep. It would not be possible for us to kill all of the men leading to the deck of the ship without alerting the leader that likely slept inside. Thus, our only option was to kill as many as we could before we inevitably tripped their alarm.
Morgan and Varnoc were attentive during my planning of the attack, something that was unexpected. Their encampment was small; only four tents, a large fire and a dozen outside on the ground. The ship had another grouping of six men drinking ale, while others lurked below deck.
The Luxians had made a fatal error when they made a bonfire and torches. The abundant glass of Azmordian trees would never burn like normal wood. Instead, the fools were using wetwood drawn from the brook, lathered in a stinky oil to help it ignite. The containers were left in a few open vases by the edge of the tents.
Those that were awake wandering the coast to guard their ship were lax and clearly unbothered by the territory they were trespassing in. They had likely been at sea for ages if they crossed from Naadea; they were unseasoned after so much time of inactivity. With an agreement to meet at the dock of the ship, Varnoc, Morgan and I separated.
I made my way through the trees toward the encampment. A guard near the tents nearly caught me, but a loud sound to our right caused him to look away. Varnoc was attempting to draw a few into the forest one by one to take them out. That one was none the wiser and drifted toward the crystal tree lining.
The vases were heavier than they appeared. The oil flowed onto the tents like thick, keeba bee honey. It was thick and disgusting smelling, instantly staining the fabric and leaving it drenched. I crawled around the tents to spread it on the ground as well when Varnoc lured a second guard in. It saturated the earth, giving them no place to leave if they woke. With a steady hand, I used their tools to ignite sparks. The spray of light was small, but the oil was incredibly flammable and it caught aflame immediately. It traveled down the tents in a fast line before engulfing them entirely. I took a yell of confusion after a few moments caused by the smog as a confirmation that my plan was working.
That alerted all on the deck of the ship and the men standing on the grounds. I rolled away from the flames and ran toward the trees, though the glass forest would not cover me if they came looking. Regardless of their unintelligent appearance, they knew quickly the fire had been set. Some left to search for me while others attempted to free their comrades from their tents before they burned or suffocated.
My years in the Everglade training with a bow served me well. I climbed to the tallest crystal branch I could, out of their direct view. For some reason, they did not bother to look up. Perhaps it was because the trees of their homeland were far different than mine, but it did not matter.
I shot down each one as they came, as well as taking out a few that were trying to flee. Varnoc left his covering and moved in with his blade, cutting down all that crossed his path. A few put up a good fight with him, but Zaarians were far taller and broader than any Naadean.
Morgan followed close behind him from near the ship. He tore at the guards and was prepared to jump onto the deck. I was worried about the wolf entering the fray alone, but instead he ripped them to shreds. The men were overwhelmed by his presence, as they had not expected a creature like a Dryad. Nothing as large as the wolf existed in Naadea.
I rushed to the ship, dodging blades and shooting arrows as I passed. By the time I made it to the deck myself, nearly all the men on the grounds were dead. The ones that weren’t were severely maimed. Between the fire and my new partners, they had all perished with ease in the chaos. It was gradually growing quieter beyond the sound of crackling fire. Varnoc and I descended into the ship; it was peculiar to us as to why more had not emerged with the ruckus.
Below deck, it was roaring from the sound of the crashing brook. It was as though the river was trying to pull the ship into the ocean, though on the surface, the water traveled relatively calm. After killing a stray man near the stairs, we left in different directions. I moved toward the lone captain’s quarters while he went further into the depths of the ship.
There was no apprehension in my movements as I opened the door; if I would have known who waited beyond the threshold, I may have hesitated or even departed as if the room were empty. Alas, I could not see the future.
I pointed the sword I had retrieved from a fallen soldier at the back of a sleeping figure. It was a man buried underneath blankets, lightly snoring as if he had not heard anything at all. The room was rather plain, but more luxurious than anything I had owned before my Master’s gifts, even if it was all in muddy colors.
I paced across the room until I was on the side he was facing.
Something happened I am not sure of, even now.
I froze. I could not comprehend the person I was seeing.
The man had tanned skin and long brown hair laden with braids near his ears. They were not Naadean ears. They were Evyan. It was not because he was Evyan that I was unable to move. It was the hard line of his jaw – the familiar chestnut colored beard that was groomed around his frowning lips. He was so recognizable, yet I could not say why.
That was until his eyes opened curiously, as he had probably heard the sound of my distressed heart beating in my chest. They were a soft lilac color that was natural unlike Raven’s or Sendrys’. He did not stare at me as if I were an enemy pointing a sword near his face – it was far more intrigued than frightened. The man slowly sat upright near his headboard never leaving my gaze.
“Nyzara, by the Divines, you are alive,” he breathed, unable to contain his words.
Still, I was unable to register his confrontation or my surroundings. My breath was taken from my lungs at the sound of his voice. The grip around my sword tightened and I put the tip to his exposed chest.
“I thought you were dead all these years,” he continued, not even blinking at the blade hovering over his heart.
A few tears escaped my eyes, though I do not remember a single thought drifting across my mind as I stared into his soul. My hand began to shake until I tightened my grasp once more. I pushed the steel lightly into his flesh.
“I am Lazarus; none other,” I said through grit teeth.
The man’s hand knocked away my sword. The force was light, but enough to cause me to drop it completely. I did not move to pick it up, nor draw an arrow.
“One other,” he responded, standing up.
I could not do anything other than walk backward into the wall as he approached me. I was fearful of his strong grasp that gripped my shoulder. His other hand held my chin and his face grew close. My trembling and tears could not be contained at such a close proximity.
“You are Nyzara, my love. Don’t you remember?” he asked searching my eyes for some semblance of the person he once knew. Unfortunately for him, he did not know she died with A’roha.
His lips neared mine as his arms wrapped around my shaking form. Images of fire and blood from my homeland burst in my mind causing my head to throb. His touch, the river, small pieces of our life that had been spent together graced me before the threshold was filled with a large form. Varnoc.
He did not hesitate knocking the man in the back of the skull with the handle of his axe, causing him to crumble to the floor unconscious. My partner said something to me, but I could not understand his words. He had to not only carry our new prisoner and his axe, but he had to drag me behind him to get me to move.
The man was Illyswen. He was alive.
My departure from Morgan, Varnoc and our new prisoner was not one I wanted. I
was not going to betray my beloved Vince for my past, but I could barely fight the desire to accompany them all the way back to the castle. Varnoc and I did not spare words between each other beforehand about our plans. He simply bound Illyswen as tightly as he could and mounted Morgan. Varnoc sat behind Illyswen’s limp form and merely glanced back for an order. At risk of appearing weak with my pathetic emotions, I waved my hand lightly in the direction of the palace. All I could do was watch with a sickened heart as my wolf led them away from me.
I recall sitting beneath a crystal tree, watching the fire in the gorge burn itself out into the night sky. Everything felt utterly senseless at that moment; I did not know whether I belonged to Vince or Illyswen. I did not know whether I belonged to Duskwraith or Evya. In truth, I did not belong anywhere. I was entirely alone, no matter what presences occupied my life. It was slavery in both forms, for I would be a slave to the darkness or to the light. There was no instance I could create where I was free from all the chains constricting my will and destiny. No matter what, I would always be a prisoner. A prisoner in expensive clothing.
The stars seemed to weep for me as I drifted near the edge of the gorge. If I were to die, there would be none that could hold me. Could it be a respite from the feeling of torment and dread building deep inside my core? I handed over my former lover to a man I knew to be merciless. His blood was on my hands regardless of the method he perished. Every agonized nightmare I had suffered through, night after night, wishing for Illyswen to find me in the Everglade was in vain.
“What would you have me do?” I whispered to the nebula Azra and the planet Asinea in the sky. They were watching my inner quarrel on the mountainside in silence. I could feel the presence of greater beings observing me deliberate in agony. I opened my palms to the heavens and took a deep breath. The cosmos was merely waiting for me to join it in oblivion.
But, as I stepped over the edge of the cliff to end my torment, the final face that graced my mind was not Illyswen at all.
It was Vince.
The orange dawn startled me awake. The first thing I did was run my hands along my body to verify that I was indeed alive. I was still beneath the crystal tree from before, as if I had never leapt from the cliff at all. The residual smell of smoke was still in the air with a touch of burning corpse. It was unbearably foul and hard to breathe.
Coaxed by the desire for clean air, I wandered westward, following the brook. I did not know where Spinewood, the city I was supposed to meet James at, lay based on the terrain. I had only seen its location on maps; never had I trekked from the coastline to the central most city of Duskwraith.
The terrain outside of the crystal forest was somewhat like that of my old homeland in Evya. It is expected that even after three thousand years of my Master’s rule that it would still somewhat resemble what it was before. Duskwraith’s plains and foliage was largely in shades of grays and dark purples from the time of the Dryads. It was rather rocky despite still being dense with trees. They were unlike the trees of Azmordia; instead, they were siblings to the fruit-bearing trees of Evya known as ba’ya. Unfortunately, throughout the war that dominated Duskwraith, they had been corrupted to infertility. The forest I was forced to tread through was filled with trees as old as the war and no new seeds would ever replenish their population. Perhaps it seems silly to speak of something as mundane as trees, but once they perished, I would forever miss their presence.
As I continued toward my destination on foot, my mind was nearly blank. All I was capable of thinking of was my task. Anything else was beyond comprehension. Whenever my guard was lowered, a flash of images surrounding my past would barrage me. It was nonsensical. I could not translate the memories clear enough to understand. They only brought me frustration and confusion, not clarity.
I knew Illyswen was important to me. I knew he had spent the better part of his life at my side. But if it were to be the case, why did I have difficulty summoning the love I once felt for him? It was displeasing to send him off to Vince, I was capable of feeling that much. Beyond that, there was nothing. Merely empty space.
It took me a few days to reach my destination with little rest. The inhospitable land was nearly barren of wildlife and I had only managed to hunt a single brevlet to eat. I thought I might have been lost and close to failing my Master when the tops of black towers caught my gaze on the horizon. They stood taller than the forest, poking out of the foliage with their pointed roofs.
Spinewood was one of the larger of the sparse cities erected in Duskwraith. As it was the port of trading from all other surrounding territories, it was populated with poor and rich alike. It was tourist heavy from distant traders, usually Zaarian, but not nearly as much so as the border city Eidune. Those that had wandered that far into my Master’s territory clutching their documentation were generally peddling wares illegal in their own homeland. Thus, they were entirely untrustworthy and shadowy characters to be avoided.
I presented all that Vince had given me to the guards at the gate. It was a thin piece of parchment with his draconic sigil etched in the center. Such a thing may have seemed easy to replicate, but in reality, the inks of the palace were created with ingredients nobody else possessed. Within a few moments of careful inspection, the guards deemed it worthy and allowed me to continue beyond the wrought iron gate.
Spinewood had plenty in common with the Everglade, unsurprisingly. Each building was a tall, stone square stacked far too high with worn wooden roofs that appeared flimsy and in constant need of maintenance. The dilapidated streets were filled with peasants and beggars forbidden from leaving the country. They brushed their hands on my boots as I walked through the narrow alleyways searching for some sort of notable structure.
The first building that seemed somewhat maintained was beyond the still-bustling marketplace. It was packed, even late in the evening. It was decorated with large metal stakes, each impaled through the skulls of enemies and traitors; the usual choice for adornments in Duskwraith. Vince’s sigil hung on magnificent black banners outside, making it the only noteworthy place in sight. His sigil was one of power: it was the fiery outline of a red dragon, likely Levia. With a heavy sigh, I made my way into the crowd.
I was instantaneously barraged by grungy street peasants peddling their wares. While legitimate businesses hid behind closed doors and barricaded stands, those that bothered me were selling nothing of value. Ornaments of false idols, such as the Zaarian god Ortos, or vials of Femoran ash were shoved in my face in hopes they might lure me into a transaction.
A small child with dusty hair approached my side as I neared the guarded building. She was the same as most of the street peasants: a refugee Zaarian trying to make enough to get back home. Her small curled horns had only started to sprout from the sides of her head which meant she had likely not lived long enough to ever see her homeland. In the palm of her tiny hand was yet another Ortos carving, but it was different from the others. The wood was clearly ba’ya, a rare Evyan material for as far north as we were. It was even odder for a child that appeared to be an orphan to have something of that value. Doubtful that she knew ba’ya sold for far higher if it was not tainted by carvings.
I crouched next to her small form and stared into her strange, yellow eyes. The pitiful thing did not look as if she were capable of speaking any languages; she simply waved the small statuette in my face. I removed the only coin I had, what I saved for a meal and shelter for the night, and tucked it in a small kerchief for her. We made the exchange; she was somewhat cautious that I was being serious with my charity. After the figurine was firmly in my hand, she fled down another alleyway.
“Let me see your documents,” an approaching guard said. At first, I was confused, and glanced over my shoulder to see if he was indeed speaking to me. “Documents, now!” he said sharply once more.
“I already presented it at the gate,” I replied nonchalantly. Perhaps it would have been easier to show my thin parchment, but I had spent far too many years b
eing treated like common rabble. I was the Warden of Duskwraith now, after all.
“You senseless cunt, did you not hear me the first two times?” the guard asked, unsheathing his blade. At that, I could not help but feel enraged. I had suffered in the Everglade. I had sent my past lover to the depths of Vince’s palace to likely be executed. Even the mere fact that I had barely eaten or slept since I departed floated through my mind as I stared at the guard in disbelief.
“You would dare raise your blade to me?” I asked, almost unable to get the words out through my rage. Recalling how hard he hit me across the face still causes remorse for my words. It was hard enough to knock me into a daze, almost unconscious. It was likely that with as many times as I had been hit in the face in a short period of time my skull was forever altered.
The guard dragged my limp, blubbering form through the threshold of the building I sought to enter in the first place. I would have undoubtedly attempted to kill every passerby if my senses had not been so dulled. The man was strong enough to get my fighting form down the hallway before he needed assistance from the other guards. I kicked, clawed and screamed insults, demanding they release me or I would have their heads on spikes.
With much heaving, they threw me into a grungy cell in the building’s dank basement. I would have immediately rushed to the gates, but the force was enough to send me sailing into the stone wall. I fell to my knees and held my face. When my sweet Master discovered their treatment of the Warden, there would be no place they could hide. I would see them skinned alive.
An old, dusty Dryad-Zaarian prison guard shuffled over to my cage and looked at me with tired, bloodshot eyes. The other cells were filled with smelly peasants that had likely been there for extended stays. He cleared his throat and held out a wrinkled hand for my sword and bow, though beyond cutting distance.
