by K T Munson
The guard opened a door and threw her into it. It was a large room, and she gathered her feet under her as the door closed behind her. She stood and looked around the strange red room. It was bathed in red, from ceiling to floor, every decoration was red. She put her hands around herself although she wasn’t cold, it was fear she felt. It wormed its way right into her marrow.
“Help,” a hoarse voice whispered, and she turned around to peer into the darkness.
Taking a step forward Celia tried to let her eyes adjust to the all-encompassing black at the edges of the room. Until that moment she thought she was alone. A girl was chained to the wall, her arms raised above her head by manacles that were bolted to the wall. She wore clothes similar to Celia’s, but hers were bright blue.
“What happened to you?” Celia asked, glancing around but found that they were still alone.
“I was bad,” she whispered, and Celia drew closer. “They took another toe for my disobedience.”
Celia recoiled at her words in revulsion, as she looked down at the girl’s feet. There were three toes on one foot and two more on the other. One was still bloodied and there was a spattering of blood on the rug. It appeared black in the light of the room. The shadows played across her face as her jewelry chimed in the darkness.
“You can’t run,” her voice broke the darkness as Celia returned to the door and tried to force it.
Instead she stumbled back, her hand bled from where something had pricked her. The room spun as she fell to her knees still trying to see her hand. It fell to her side limply as she collapsed back on the rugs, threadbare and red as blood. That was when she saw the old woman, her hair ragged and dressed all in black. She wore a shawl over her head, and it masked her in the darkness.
“Welcome child,” she said, and her voice was a sweet as honey, but her words filled Celia with terror. “I believe you have misbehaved.”
She produced a small knife from the folds of her dress and held it up for Celia to see. She tried to object but found, that although she could feel everything, her body would not respond, not even her tongue. The woman turned her head so that she could see her own feet. Carefully, as though handling a child, the woman removed her shoe.
“Child,” she whispered as she put the serrated knife next to her toe, “You must feel everything so that you will not repeat this behavior.”
The first cut sawed into her like she was a tall standing oak and it mentally brought her to her knees. Her eyes bulged, and a terrible sound broke through her throat, but she screamed more in her head than anywhere else. When she reached the bone, Celia’s eyes widened before they fluttered closed. A fiery underworld was where she had been sold to.
Chapter 8
Ashira Rohan
Children played in the garden. Ashira watched them as she tended the roses. The Star Rose was a symbol for her family. It was a sign that they could endure, that they were as old as the stars and they would not waver. Her mother’s greatest joy, until she had become unwell, was to tend to them. She could remember spending hours with her mother, playing in these same gardens or wandering down through the palace to run through the labyrinth. At the center, was the sign of their faith, an eye held above an angel’s head.
That is where Cain found her, observing the children as they danced around the base of the fountain. They kicked water into the bright sunny air. They held their skirts up and kicked water at one another. Ashira was laughing when her brother came to cast a shadow, blotting out the sun. She raised a hand and smiled, expecting Mohit to be right behind him.
“I am happy to see that you have returned,” she said, setting down the sheers and drawing the thick leather gloves from her hands. “Where is Mohit?”
She put a hand up to shield her eyes as she studied her brother’s face. His hesitation said it all and the world turned suddenly cold. She swallowed attempting to moisten her suddenly parched throat as the gloves slipped from her fingers. Her smile vanished in an instant as Cain struggled to find the words.
“Where is he?!” Ashira demanded, as he tried to pull her into his embrace.
She pushed at his chest and demanded to know where he was, tears choking her words. The children had ceased to play as they turned to watch Ashira began to sob. He gathered her in his arms and set his head on top of hers, shielding her face from the children.
“He died in battle,” Cain whispered. “He died quickly and without much pain.”
“You are a fool if you think I am some mindless woman who doesn’t know when you are lying!” Ashira all but yelled. “I shall have the truth of it.”
Ashira looked at the agony on her brother’s face, before he finally relented. “He died scared and alone. He bled out slowly, while safety was just a few feet away. By the time anyone figured out he what had happened, it was too late.”
A sob broke through the hand she had brought to her face. She shook her head, wishing to wake herself from such a nightmare. Yet nothing could wake her from reality and she knew that her brother was dead. The shining star of her family, the constant embodiment of innocence, and her dearest companion had left them all.
“What happened?” She managed, trying to steady herself and wipe the tears from her eyes.
“He wanted to make father proud and end this war. He thought he could do it himself. He took his horse, donned on my practice armor and rode out into battle, with the guards of Maiden’s Gate on his back.” Cain explained his eyes full of guilt and remorse.
“Why did you not stop him? He would have listened to you,” Ashira insisted, not knowing why her brother had allowed another to die.
“I was checking patrols to the north, there had been word that the Vargosians had tried to climb the wall. I wasn’t even there, I left him to care for the Maiden’s Gate,” Cain admitted. “I wasn’t even there.”
Ashira wanted to scream, she wanted to hit him and yell at him, and throw things. She wanted to rip her mother’s beautiful flowers from the ground and burn them. She wanted something else to suffer as she was suffering, to feel the pain she felt. It roiled inside her like the blackest tar, threatening to consume all reason.
Then, a thought broke through them all and she looked to Cain and whispered. “Father.”
“I saw father first,” Cain informed her, “I did not know where you were.”
She wanted to collapse, bury herself in the ground, until the world made sense again but instead she pushed away her tears and strode towards her father. Her father had never recovered from their mother’s death and Mohit had been his only solace. With his death, her father would fall apart, and the command of Roanoak with it.
Cain followed her a short distance before she rotated and said, “Do not blame yourself, Mohit made a choice.”
“I should never have left him alone,” Cain said emphatically, as she put a hand on his arm.
“Mohit always did whatever he wanted,” Ashira told Cain and herself. “He would not want you to blame yourself. Please see to the children, I will attend to father.”
Cain pushed away a rebellious tear and turned back to the children. Ashira watched her grief-stricken brother stride towards the children. They were silent, they knew something was wrong, but not what. Cain would see to them she knew, but who would care for her? She would see to her brothers and her father but if she showed hesitation they would lose hope. Mohit had been their sun and she was their rock.
She wandered through the halls, she had known all her life, towards the private chapel. Cain would not have returned without her brother’s body and that is where she would find her father. It is where he had run when their mother died; he always let faith encompass him. He wanted to find reason in this world of chaos. Faith was the easy way out, instead of facing your grief.
Ashira found her father kneeling before the eye of Sadar with Mohit’s body, laid out, with a sheer white cloth covering him. Her father was lost in prayer and she could see the tears across his cheeks. She knelt silently beside him and let h
is grief pass over her in a great wave of sorrow. Ashira placed her hand over his and sat as a quiet comfort.
“He was so young,” her father finally sighed, staring at the boy dressed in white and gold that appeared to only be asleep.
It was difficult for Ashira to look at him knowing, that calling his name gently and kissing his brow would not wake him. Death, the eternal sleep, had taken her brother and he was beyond her now. So young, she knew he would be in Sadar’s embrace.
“He was a brave soul,” Ashira answered, and tried to keep her voice from shaking.
“I have lost one child,” he said putting his other hand over hers and turning to face her. “It will be hard to lose another, but I cannot abide by this war any longer.”
“Father I do not understand,” Ashira answered; her anger tightly reigned in but still in her tone. “They wish to continue discussing a marriage contract?”
“They have made an offer I cannot refuse,” she heard the tone in his voice; he was speaking to her as a king.
He handed her the parchment that bore the blue seal of Vargos. Her father would not look at her once she took it but waited. She unfurled the parchment and read. Her eyes grew wider the further she got, until she felt it twist to anger, in her belly.
“You cannot ask this of me,” Ashira said dropping the parchment and rising. “He could have killed my brother, your son!”
“He was not there, Cain can affirm that the King of Vargos arrived nearly half a day after he died,” he said, still refusing to meet her angry gaze.
“His name is Mohit,” she yelled and finally drew his attention. “That is the name of your son. You are a coward; your virtues are made of sand!”
She turned and fled. Her heart was broken that he would ask this of her. He wanted her to forsake her home and bind herself, forever, to her enemy.
Chapter 9
Hadrian
They saw the smoke before they knew anything was wrong. It was too much and even from far away Hadrian could smell the burning flesh. The horse shied away the closer they drew; the animal knew death, when it smelled it. Hadrian glanced towards the girl. She still refused to give him a name, so he had taken to calling her girl. He was not a creative person; he was a simple man with a complicated past.
A tense silence fell over them as they made their way towards the village. He expected her to stop and wish to go around. Trouble came from places that reeked of misery, yet his sword and soul had seen plenty of such places. He doubted he could protect the girl if there were an army in the village. Perhaps the horse had the right of it.
Yet he left the decision to her, to follow or to wait behind. She made no move to detour or avoid the mess that, likely, waited for them. She continued forward, undaunted by uncertainty. There was a bit of bravery in that, though much more foolishness. Hadrian knew from personal experience that the line between a fool and a brave man was blurred.
Perhaps more accurately, a fool is just a man who believes he is brave.
“You should wait here,” Hadrian said when he caught the smell of smoke mingled with the smell of burning flesh.
“Do you expect them to still be there?” She asked, her face set but she could not hide the worry underneath.
“No,” Hadrian responded, “Wait.”
She did not come down from astride her horse, but she halted just as he asked. Hadrian did not worry about the men who had caused the destruction as it was clear they were long gone. He was worried about those that came after, to pillage the bodies and the homes. ,
These people had been butchered; their men and women had tried to defend the town but had done so in vain. Choices and flesh. Children lay in the mud, their innocence taken without hesitation. Many of the women were half naked with throats slit. The smell of death and burned souls filled his nostrils, the further he ventured into the town. After a few minutes he turned back as he heard the soft footfalls of an unhappy horse. He didn’t say anything as she came alongside him.
“I told you to wait,” he commented without looking at her.
“You didn’t say how long,” she retorted but he could see the shake of her hands under her carefully concealed emotions. “We should bury them.”
Her voice hitched but he would not give in to emotion amongst such danger. “It would be best to leave them.”
“They died dishonorably they deserve at least to be buried properly,” she responded, and he could hear the anger in her voice.
Before he could respond there was a soft whisper of a voice that called, “Help.”
Surprised, Hadrian hurried towards the desperate cry. The girl dismounted as well before she rushed to help the woman trapped under a collapsed roof. They worked quickly to relieve the poor woman, of the weight. When they uncovered her, they found that she was an older woman, her face strained from the pain. Hadrian knelt beside her and felt around until she took a painful breath.
“What is it?” The girl asked him, she must have seen the expression on his face.
“A collapsed lung and broken ribs,” he answered and looked down at the old woman struggling to breathe.
The girl knelt beside the woman and clasped the woman’s hand in her own. “What happened here?”
“The Seventy-Seven,” she managed, her voice was wispy and fading. “They wanted more than our gold, they wanted our daughters. We refused, and they decided to take them by force. They have my daughter. Oh, my daughter. You must save her, save my Henrietta.”
“We will,” she said and then turned to Hadrian. “Won’t we?”
He frowned at the girl and then at the elder before putting a hand on her shoulder. “We shall try,” Hadrian said softly.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and she coughed before convulsing in pain.
“Girl, you need to go,” he said, giving her a pointed stare.
She instantly grasped his meaning and her face showed surprise before contorting in anger. “I will not allow you to do it.”
“She will die in pain and I can release her,” Hadrian insisted, his face a mask of duty.
“Go child,” the woman whispered when the girl tried to argue.
She glanced helplessly between Hadrian and the old woman. When she received no further instructions or response she stood up and all but fled the little house. Hadrian watched her go and tried to remember if he had ever been so innocent. He closed his eyes and remembered a green land much different than the one he traveled now. He had been arrogant and ignorant, but it would be hard for Hadrian to claim innocence.
“Take this to her,” The old woman said reaching up to touch the torque at her neck. “She shall know I sent you.”
Hadrian had already slid the dagger from one of his many hiding spots and slid it into her side to end her life. “My word is unbreakable; I will do what I can.”
She gasped a little before the life shuddered from her body. He took the dagger from her side and wiped it clean on a smoldering blanket. He closed her eyes and whispered the final rites of her people; they were from Qundor. He left her there, safely passed to the world of her people and free of flesh.
Just beyond the rubble of the home, he found the girl leaning against her horse. She was scowling and hardly glimpsed his way as he approached. The girl didn’t say anything when he walked by. Hadrian knew the silence would not last.
It did not take long for her to break. “I guess you aren’t a monk.”
“Never claimed to be, girl,” he answered, already a few strides ahead of her with no attempt at slowing his pace.
“That is true,” she said. “Stop calling me girl, we have travelled together, and I will allow you some small trust. My name is Vica.”
“You are foolish to trust anyone you meet on the road,” he retorted but his voice did not hold any heat.
“I would prefer to choose where I place my trust, not be told,” she countered. “I cannot call you Monk any longer, do you have a preference?”
He hesitated but stopped and observed at he
r. “I am Hadrian.”
“That is a very noble name.” Vica responded with a smile on her face as though she had won some victory.
“It was the name I chose,” he responded. “Who are these Seventy-Seven that the old woman spoke of?”
“It is strange to see them so far south, but they are the Seventy-Seven Blood Riders,” Vica responded as they continued forward.
“Where can I find them?” Hadrian asked.
“You are truly going after them?” She asked her face held only curiosity.
“I gave my word,” he responded. “I shall deliver you to the Checkered City and then I shall go for the girl.”
“Do not waste time,” Vica responded. “The longer we wait the longer Henrietta is in their clutches. We should ride for the border before they reach their camp. Once they are there it will be very hard to get her out.”
Hadrian looked up at her in disbelief; it was rare that he was surprised. “You intend to risk yourself for a person you do not know?”
“In my faith, we value every life and we honor those we take more reverently than those we don’t,” Vica answered. “More than anything, a deathbed promise must be kept. I shall join you.”
He regarded her for a moment before he responded, “I will not deter you, nor will I allow you to slow me down.”
“I am the one with the horse,” she said mockingly.
“I have the sword,” he reminded her and glanced at her. “Do not stray.”
Chapter 10
Otto Deckard
Deckard stared at the map of the entire world. His eyes trailed from the tip of the north, down through the green of its many countries until it reached the sand of The Dunes. His finger traced over Tiam along The Knife before it continued into the green of the south. His beloved world sat at nearly the center of the world and seemed to be dancing to him. The sands swirled in his mind’s eye and he admired the well-used map. As his eyes returned to Tiam, he realized the map was outdated. It did not show the true expanse of Tiam.
