by N. M. Howell
“These actions are not in keeping with the young maiden you knew at Moerdra Castle?” asks Fourth Judge.
“No, sir, nor even with the girl who fought beside me not so long ago. The years and battles have turned her angry and scared. She is bitter and powerful, and that is a terrible combination.”
“And do you trust her still?”
“Sir, I tell you truthfully I would not trust her enough to stand even here without those chains.”
“Thank you, General. You may step down. This court has heard testimony. Do you find it sound?”
The judges all nod again, giving a unanimous “Aye” for confirmation.
“And has the accused anything to say for her life?”
I am very weak. It is too much energy even to stand up, let alone speak. I merely try to keep my head up.
“Very well,” Fourth Judge continues. “The court calls Dameron of the Aiglon. Let it be known that this witness travelled with the accused from the city of Golrend and with his own eyes saw the horrors she wrought. Dameron, Chrysanthemum’s Break calls upon your true and heartfelt testimony, unadulterated and given in the sight of the Almighty. Will you give it?”
“I will,” Dameron says, having flown to the witness stand with a single push of his wings. “Nevena was a great and beautiful warrior. She was brave and fearless. I myself had more than once called her invincible. She was unfailingly kind and warm, and even when the dark days began to take her, she was still a beacon for me and my people. She was more than her magic and her blade. She was a promise the Aiglon had waited for since the world’s last age. Even now I want to see a Queen in her. Which is why her horrendous actions have broken my heart.
“We followed her into Night’s Deep because we had faith in her. The Battle of the White Forest was a fray we should never have met. It was the perfect trap and any commander with her army’s best interest at heart would have seen it. I cannot begin to describe the destruction that arose from her hands. I do not know if you can even imagine it: a forest one hundred miles wide, all aflame in white, searing light. Screams of the enemy as they fell burning from the trees. Our own soldiers running for their lives, scratched and charred by the flaming trees falling around them. Both my wings were badly damaged in the chaos. All of us ran and flew and rushed for our lives, our trust in this woman breaking as the world burned and crashed around us.
“The traitor Erglon was a coward and a corrupter, but he should have faced justice in an Aiglon court. Instead he was butchered in the dust by an angry, petulant woman. Much pain he caused our people by his unspeakable betrayals, but even the dishonorable cannot be murdered while defenseless. And Commander Floron. I will not speak of him; I will only say that I have never heard such cries of pain and never knew a commander so reckless that she would send one of her most trusted to his grave.”
“Please accept this court’s sincerest sympathy, friend,” says Third Judge.
“Truly kind. I did not now the patient servant girl, only the awesome warrior. The so-called Queen. However, there is no doubt in my mind that this woman is capable of wreaking havoc on this kingdom. I understand the ancient edict against the Braelynn people, but I can assure the court of one thing: that is a people who must be deeply ashamed of her, for she is not of their character.”
Dameron steps down. Again the thousands of voices around me mumble in response to his testimony. By now I have even ceased to keep my head up. I am so weak and hungry and dazed and tired of living. I am ready beyond belief to leave it all behind. I only wish they would stop this chatter and hang me. I’ve been so busy pitying myself that I hadn’t noticed that Ciraa has taken the stand. Her hair is black and her skin darker. One of the sorcerers of Golrend must have spelled her. The judge has already sworn her in, but she is silent. She won’t look at me. It is only now, when my life is forfeit, that I want to embrace her as my cousin. I want to hear her say my name, my true name. Finally, she meets my eyes. For the briefest of moments, it is just us and we’re not in the room, but safe in the walls of Moerdra Castle. We’re just two servant girls laughing as we lay down to sleep, forever bonded in that unshakeable faith of youth, love, and sisterhood. There are tears in both our eyes.
How have I fallen so far, that I stand here chained, on trial for crimes that would have given me nightmares three years ago? I have lost every friend: Yunger, who asked only a kiss for payment; Sister, who would be ashamed to see me now; Floron and Rhon, who worshipped me and believed in me; Dameron, who followed me into battle unflinchingly; Ciraa, my own kin, whose heart I shattered; Delara, whose love I selfishly neglected; Eduard, whom I loved more than anything and whom I could not save. I have shamed my people and failed my army. I have lost my magic. This is not the adventure I sought as I walked those halls years ago. I dreamt of love and family, of a place to belong. I dreamt of life.
“The accused is also charged with several criminal enterprises culminating in complete havoc and terror here in Gardenwall. She was so bold as to make an attempt on the life of High King Michael. The only other crime listed here that even comes close to attempted assassination of the king is being of the Braelynn, a people marked for utter annihilation.”
The High King sits on a raised throne at the side of the court, halfway between the Grand Petal and the High Stem. I can see him smirking at me, arrogant and delighted at my suffering. He has sent me several gifts during my imprisonment, including poisonous serpents and food covered in mold. I glimpse him now and I do not believe I have ever seen a man so pleased at the suffering of others. He points at me and gestures decapitation.
“Ciraa, the court will now have your testimony.”
Ciraa is still and silent. She is this way so long that the judge prompts her once more. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to begin.
Suddenly there is a commotion behind me. Because of my chains I cannot turn to see, but soon a group of men is pooling beneath me. There must be at least one hundred and I hear more in the hall behind me. They are heavily armed with swords and bows, shields hanging at their back. They are dressed in amber leather and that is enough to know who they are. They form rows and halt.
“Apologies for our tardiness,” says one of the men. “I am Legion, leader of this battalion. I believe you called for our services.”
“Tardiness is hardly the word. You will take your men and exit these chambers, sir,” says Seventh Judge. “You were commissioned to escort the accused from her quarters to the High Stem and then stand guard. This trial has already begun. You are rendered both superfluous and disruptive. Away at once.”
Of course they were to be my escort and guard. Amber leather is the garb of the Famished, legendary fighters and defenders of the uncharted lands north of the Hundred Kingdoms and all the other realms of Glassenross yet to be annexed. Legend tells of a sorcerer who married a sorceress and gave birth to a child who could not have magic. When the child grew and found another like it, they married and begot a race of men incapable of wielding magic, but they were also impervious to it in all its forms: mor’lumière, soufflumière, vierg’lumière, and borglumière. There is no spell or magical attack on earth that can harm these men.
“But, kind man, you’ve not even heard my excuse,” says Legion. “You see, defending the realms of Glassenross is tiring work. Until this Empress became a threat, life in the Hundred Kingdoms was all peace and luxury. But life in the outer realms has always been a bloodbath. For centuries my race has kept the dark and grisly terrors of the world at bay, and you people have not even thanked us. You lay down to sleep in your warm beds, safe and happy, while we fight and die all through the night. And then the Empress came and the joyous bubble around your world was destroyed. And we rejoiced. Finally, a change was upon us, an opportunity for the Famished to rise.”
“Enough of this,” says High King Michael, standing on his podium. “Summon my personal guard.”
“You mean your mercenaries? I fear I cannot. The last of them are having their throat
s slit as we speak.”
A gasp goes up around the room and now I see it: the blood staining their weapons, the bruises on their shields, the way they breathe hard and quick.
“The golden age of the Hundred Kingdoms is over,” Legion says. “Your mercenaries are dead. Your Guard is dead. Kneel, king, before your new ruler.”
The king does not move, but the royal sorcerer flies down from his seat. He casts a flurry of spells at the men, but they do not even move. The magic passes right through them. A phalanx moves in on the sorcerer and attacks; his wall of stone is no defense against them, for they walk right through it and cut him down with hard, quick strokes.
“Kneel, king!” Legion booms.
But the king is frightened stiff, so scared that he actually looks at me in his fear and confusion. I can say and do nothing, for in the blink of an eye three dozen arrows find rest in his body. Like a broken toy he topples forward and falls the fifty feet to the floor. And like that the room is in pandemonium. Dameron and Yunger have leapt down to fight, but Ciraa is frozen to her place. A horrible chaos ensues as one hundred and fifty thousand people make to flee Chrysanthemum’s Break at once. One of the Famished sees me and begins hacking at the High Stem with his blade. In no time he has the whole stand toppling over, but the chains hold me suspended in the air. The Famished are slaughtering anyone careless enough to get in their way, and the chamber is filled with terrible screams, horrific bloodshed.
Then something hits the chain holding my right arm; it breaks and the chain on my left arm swings me down. I cannot stop it or catch myself and so I collide with the base of the king’s stand.
Delara has been carried to camp. She is in a state of confusion, wondering if perhaps she has only imagined the terrible deed. She has never thought of herself in this way: truly evil. Beyond all hope for pity or salvation. Yet surely there lies ahead only hell for someone who could do this thing. This dark and brutal thing that she cannot name even in her own mind.
Laoren stands outside, a gleeful grin pulling at her lips. This is what she always wanted. Delara’s unassailable loyalty to the dark and hateful magic within her. She had hoped it would come through murdering Eduard or perhaps even the child, but this will do. It brings her no end of pleasure to know that not even the bones of Jacob and Katrina are left. She is already plotting of ways to contrive to have Delara kill her own sister.
They have been at High Bay for some hours and Laoren can already sense the impending fight. With her spelled eyes she sees her enemy approaching some miles ahead. She does not speak aloud, but speaks directly into the minds of her millions of warriors. “Prepare.” Instantly the shore is alive with the preparations of the soldiers. There is not a foot of sand as far as the eyes can see where this dark army is not getting itself ready for war. They are an unimaginable host. She had already sent messengers ahead when they were first able to spot land. All her forces in Glassenross will soon be on the offensive.
After this she walks to Delara and stands before her, her irrevocable evil as dark and dense as hell itself. Her fingers find Delara’s trembling face.
“Look up, girl,” she says. “War is upon us. I would have you by my side. You have killed those who gave birth to you and I have never been more proud. Come out with me now, into a world of steel and gore. An age of black stars and corpses. Let us make such a war upon the earth that the very sun will not rise for fear. Bring with you anger and malice and hate and fury and madness. Know what it is to be invincible, inevitable. Drive that awesome black blade of destruction through a thousand hearts and before the blood has dried, drive it through a thousand more. Become death. Become the black and bitter end of all things. Rise, my brutal girl, and let us end the folly of hope.”
Delara is still dazed in the wake of her own evil. She does not speak, but steels her heart and mind. She has decided now. She has known from a young age than one can either be of the light or the dark. It is too late for her to turn back and fate has decided for her. And so she forms a plan in her spirit.
“There is but one thing left,” Laoren says. “We made our trip faster than expected and the enemy was already marching for the shore when we made land. I will need you in this fight. The child must come. Right now. I will reach inside of you and begin your labor. It is but a month ahead of time. I expect the child shall be fine.”
“Very well,” says Delara.
Without hesitation she begins to disrobe and then she lays down, looking at the ceiling in a sort of craze of finality and dread. Laoren speaks the order to her army to advance and attack, then she sits on the bed beside Delara. She removes her gloves and with a beautiful, pale hand, trembling with magic, she reaches through Delara’s stomach to do her dark work.
The army moves out, shaking the earth from its sheer numbers. Row after row of evil, foul-hearted soldier makes way for the approaching enemy. The Helkar. Norrolai. Men. Women. Giants. Meethrul. Vampires. So many beasts and horrendous creatures that none but the bravest would dare to stand against them. None but the bravest would stand a chance. It takes only an hour for the armies to meet on the Orange Plain.
The world is strangely mute as these men race toward each other: free men fighting for the liberty and light of the world, and cold-hearted fiends fighting for greed and tyranny. Two colossal armies rushing forward to waste, ruin, blood, and the final crushing sleep of death. Swords are raised. Bows drawn. Shields grasped tight. Legs and wings carry them over earth and through sky, fierce and unyielding. The Orange Plain itself has never been the scene of battle; it is a place that has only ever known peace and new life. Here the harvest is richer and more wholesome than anywhere else in Glassenross, yet here it will find itself the last resting place for untold lives. The Norrolai are fastest and they meet the opposing army first. There is terrible sound as the elemental bodies of these monsters meets the hard iron of men’s shields.
And so begins the War for the world’s soul.
Chapter 17
I open my eyes to see that I am no longer in Chrysanthemum’s Break. I am back in the dungeon. Back in my cage. I find that I am still too hollow to care. I am utterly spent.
I turn to find there are now others here with me. Yunger and Dameron are in the corner, bruised and badly beaten, but still looking courageous. There are also some who I do not know. I see two short, thin, black-haired figures, each clothed in long green and gray robes. Fingers of the Almighty. I cannot see their faces, for they are busy at work on some patient lying quite still before them. I look more and to my surprise I see two faces I’ve not seen since another life: Bronden and Chelle. They are huddled together against the wall, holding hands with their heads together. I sit up and when I move everyone else is suddenly alert. They move away from me to the side of the cage. They are afraid.
Bronden and Chelle at first seem afraid, too. But perhaps the past is strong with them, for they soon come over to me and Chelle encompasses me with her arms. It has been a long time since someone hugged me like this, like they were genuinely glad to find me alive and near. I am hesitant at first, but I return the pressure. Something inside me stirs.
“Nevena,” she says. “Almighty, I’m happy to see you. I can’t believe it. It’s truly you.”
“Chelle. How are you here?”
“We came for you,” she says, hugging me again.
“We had just arrived in Golrend when we heard news of the warrant for your arrest,” says Bronden. “General Yunger said there was sure to be a trial and so we came to speak on your behalf.”
“We grew up together,” Chelle says. “We know that one of two things is true: either you never performed these crimes or you did them because they were necessary. I only wish we had been able to speak for you before this.”
Suddenly I begin to remember. The trial. The Famished. Pandemonium.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Horror. The Famished murdered all the King’s Guard and then the nine judges. They claimed Orchid’s Eye and Gardenwall for
themselves. They say it is only the beginning. They say hundreds of thousands more are coming from the outer realms.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“Nine days. You hit your head fiercely. Luckily, the Fingers were here.”
“Nine days?” I ask stupefied. It seems impossible. “The Famished fight for Laoren?”
“No. They say they fight neither for light or dark, only themselves. It would appear there is a new side to the war. I know not what anyone can do, for these men cannot be hurt with magic. But I know you will find a way.”
“No, Chelle, I am a warrior no more. Were the castle not besieged I should have been hung by now. I am neither warrior nor Queen, a savior to no one. I should never have aspired at all.”
“You cannot feel this way, Nevena,” Bronden says. “We need you. The whole world needs you. I know you would not abandon so many in such great need.”
For a moment there is silence. I do not even have the heart to argue. How could I ever make them understand? I am so very tired of fighting.
“Perhaps you struck your head harder than I suspected.”
I turn to face the voice and it is Marciason. The man beside her is Baehren. They seem exactly the same as the last time I saw them, years ago. She hurries her diminutive self over to me and reaches to take my hand. She pats it and holds it.
“You look so much older, my Queen,” she says. “I feared for some time that you would not recover. They have made you so weak in this place and I understand your magic has gone from you, too. Even I could only find the remnant of its shadow in your veins. Still, it is so very good to see you.”
“Remnant? Do you mean to say my magic is gone?”
Marciason does not speak. She merely nods her head sadly. I almost want to weep, but my life has become so dismal in the last three months that it does not surprise me that something else has been taken from me. I do not even realize at first that I am laughing. A dry, mirthless, empty laugh. Everyone is staring at me. Marciason rubs me until I ease some.
