by N. M. Howell
In the Homeland Stags run for their lives, chased and devoured by their living nemesis. Meethrul. The strongest and bravest of the Stags remain behind to fight and defend as best they can. They toss their heads savagely, their razor sharp and many pronged antlers cutting the Meethrul to ribbons. Fierce battle has been waged between these two races for many years, but in this war it has been most cruel. The Stags have ever been a breed of great honor and majesty, but the grisly Meethrul know no bounds. Their depravity commands them to the most heinous crimes. Bamfal and his warriors begin to retreat, their home razed to the ground behind them. It is all they can do to run for their lives, for the Meethrul have overwhelmed them and are ripping the Stags in half even as they flee.
In Basland the giants fight each other: those in Yunger’s army against those in Laoren’s. Their weapons are boulders and axes with blades as wide as tables. They wrap their arms around the trunks of great trees and rip them from the ground with their bare hands. They batter each other with these logs and when they strike each other with tree or fist, the sound is like ten cannons fired. When a giant falls, the impact rocks the ground. When a giant bleeds, the running blood seems never-ending.
In Gloromere the Gloriana are extinct. The kind-hearted folk never stood a chance. They survived for a time under the protection of Yunger’s army, but when the army left to protect the city of Golrend the Famished killed everyone and unleashed the Amber across the kingdom. Only one of the Gloriana is left. He has passed forty winters, knowing only peace and love until this war. He has lost wife and children. Mother and father. Friend and neighbor. His home, his church, his shop. The Amber has left nothing. Devastated and left with nothing but the memories of the life he knew before, he walks through the charred and broken streets once more, strips himself, then walks into the flames.
In the Wheat Sea, the Fox Lords gather their families and flee with every ounce of speed they can muster. Faster and faster they run, on all fours, darting through the wheat as swift as ever such creature ran. In close pursuit are Laoren’s Helkar, shaped as giant scorpions, their stingers striking with such force that they drive the Fox Lords four feet into the ground. The scorpions hunt the Fox Lords with a terrible speed, their pincers cutting down the wheat as they go. Radluff is off fighting near the Winterlands. Whether the Fox Lords will escape or be caught is yet to be seen.
And the war rages on, terrible and vast, scarring the earth and the hearts of its people in ways that may never be healed.
Chapter 22
Legion is on the roof, hanging Yunger’s supporters off the side of the Citadel as a reminder. While he and his mad companions commit their horrors, Ciraa steals down the stairs and into the mess hall. The Famished at the doorway let her pass, though not without giving her lustful looks and touching her dishonorably, but she does not let this bother her. She moves through their ranks to the back corner. There she takes a seat on the floor beside Marciason. Baehren is asleep nearby.
“And how are you today, my lady,” she asks.
“I’m a little better every morning,” Thea says, managing to smile, though not convincingly. “It helps that I cannot see the things happening in the streets. Though I wish I could not hear.”
“These are dark times, my lady,” says Marciason. “I expect they will be darker still before this is over.”
“Over?” Thea asks.
“Yes. This will end. One way or another. I can only suggest we try our hardest to get you on your feet again and do as our captors command.”
“That is wisest,” Ciraa says. “And this will be over soon, my lady.”
“Yes,” Thea says, smiling genuinely this time. “Nevena will come and she will save us. I pity these men when she arrives, for there is no force in the cosmos that can stop her.”
“I want to believe that, my lady, truly I do. But the Nevena we knew is gone. Whether or not she can return is a matter I cannot guess at.”
“She made me a promise, Ciraa. And I do not for a moment believe she will dishonor me. I only wish there had been time to learn to use my magic. Perhaps I could have been of some help.”
“I’ve no doubt you would be a formidable sorceress, dear lady,” says Marciason. “But you would have been no match for the Famished. Your magic would have been the same to them as feeling the wind in their hair. Let me have a look at your back.”
Thea leans forward so that Marciason can check her. She has made remarkable progress and is now able to sit up and turn herself over. Marciason’s palm lights up against the small of Thea’s back. It takes Thea a moment to realize that she is moving her feet. She is beginning to regain some feeling as well. She thanks Marciason and hugs her. Ciraa is happy as well.
“It is so good to see that, my lady,” says Marciason. “And so good to have some source of delight in these dark days of our present.”
“I agree, but you do not need to continue to call my lady. My house is gone. When I see my parents again, we will be but commoners. We’ll have to seek some means by which to find our name and fortune.”
“You will always be a lady to me,” Ciraa says.
There is a moment when the horrors of the times fade ever so slightly. The two women and the girl have each other and, just briefly, it is a joy.
“We must decide though,” Ciraa says. “Laoren is one threat and the Famished are another, but they are nothing compared to him. The Almighty.”
“I still cannot believe that man and beast have been so deceives and for so long,” says Marciason. “But what can we do? Between Laoren and the Famished I doubt if there will be enough good hearted folk left to make a stand, if there is even a world left to stand for.”
“He is sure to be powerful. More powerful than anything the world has faced yet. But like all tyrants the way to his downfall will be his love of power. There must be a way. We will beat him. We must.”
“Wait,” Thea says. “I need only a moment to concentrate.”
“You shouldn’t use your magic just yet,” Marciason warns. “You are still fragile.”
“When the cause is this great, all must lend a hand, even the fragile.”
She closes her eyes and for many long moments is silent and still. Ciraa and Marciason wait anxiously. Thea reaches out toward Ciraa’s face. Ciraa is leaning forward to let Thea touch her when someone grabs her hair and pulls her back with such force that her head smashes against the stone floor. She is unconscious. Legion lifts her up and onto his shoulder. He turns to Thea and with his free hand draws his blade.
“No more tricks from you, witch,” he says. “No law and no order means you are under no obligation to my desires, but it also means I feel no guilt slitting your throat, not matter how young you are. You live now only because you are by far the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You are extraordinary and when you’ve grown into a woman I will have you in my bed. Until then, be good or I’ll have at you with this blade. And if death doesn’t scare you, there are many other things I can do.”
He turns and leaves, Ciraa’s head bleeding slowly down the back of his amber leather.
Kon stands as still as a statue and Eduard stand on his shoulders. Eduard conjures a golden bow and begins shooting at the enemy. He needs no quiver, for every time he draws the string an arrow appears between his fingers. He fires with tenacious speed and unfailing accuracy. The golden ethereal arrows sometimes go through four men before they stop. Eduard pierces hearts with stunning rapidity. Again and again and again they fall. He slides down from Kom’s shoulders and the bow turns to smoke and vanishes. He walks out into battle with bare hands, but he is a terror in his own right. His cast spells even faster that he shot arrows. He brings up a great wave of soil and catches a dozen Vampires in flight. As he brings the wave crashing down, her buries them underground. He holds his throat and breathes fire against evil giants. Then, as he conjures the golden sword, he dashes into the fray.
The Blackhearts may be old, but they are such great warriors that it is not hard to
see how they’ve survived. They are made completely of rock and of a kind that is harder than steel. The enemy’s swords stop against these people and do no damage. The Blackhearts show no mercy, no patience for evil. They swing their mighty arms and legs and nothing can withstand their attacks. They kill giants with a single blow and with one swift kick they send men flying. Norrolai cannot beat them, as wind, water, earth, or fire. The Blackhearts grab the Norrolai and grind them to nothing in their great palms.
Eduard and the Blackhearts fight now in Candor, one of the few remaining strongholds of the army of light, and the last one in this region of the Hundred Kingdoms. Its people, unnamed since they renounced their troubled ancestry, have long since gone into hiding. They left before the start of war, knowing they were carpenters and artisans with no skill or knowledge of war. Eduard and this new force fight valiantly, for Laoren has already come too far.
Delara is on her knees. She is so weak she can barely stand. She has not eaten, drank, or slept and the only though that has crossed her mind since she arrived at this heavily guarded place is that her daughter needs her. The poor child does not even have a name, but Delara wants to wait until she can see and hold her daughter again before giving her a name. She begins to rise, but falls back against the tree. She turns her head and loses her stomach in the bush. The day is getting later and evening is coming on. She has wasted so much time already.
Delara begins to cry. This is not what she wanted. She dreamt of love and peace, of marrying a good man and bringing honor to her family name. She wanted to watch her sister grow and to see just how beautiful she would become. She had imagined her parents dying old and happy in their bed, after long years of guiding her and loving her. She never wanted this life: mor’lumière, murder, war, and a mistress so evil it defied nature to describe her. This should not have been her future. How could she have fallen so low? How could she have killed Sister, and for sport? How could she have had a child with a twisted villain like Horace? How could she have given her whole life over to evil, destruction, and hate?
And Nevena. Her sweet Nevena. The best and truest friend she had ever had. So many times she laughed and sat with that girl, so many days they had spent young and happy and free. Moerdra Castle had been their home and life had been perfect. Just perfect. But that was before. It is only now—as she slumps in the dirt facing fifty-five hundred, alone, poisoned, dying—that she realizes how much of a fool she was to turn away the girl she loved so terribly. And she knows now that she can never take it back, can never get back these years of hate and battle, these weeks upon weeks of terror and demise in which she has performed unspeakable evils. She can never take it back.
But she can face these men. She can save her daughter. She pushes herself onto her knees.
“There is no one to pray to. No one to summon. I do not know who in the wide black cosmos I can trust or who could forgive me for the deeds I have done. But I am a mother. I am a mother and my unnamed child is beyond that cruel battalion. I do not know that I have the strength to conquer. I do not know if enough spirit remains in these bones to take on such terrible odds, but I stand now for good. I know it is not too late for that. I go to save my daughter and in doing so I hope I also stop Laoren’s evil, for one thing is certain: she will not have my sweet, beautiful girl. I beg now of someone, anyone, any man or creature with breath and life in their body, to forgive me for my sins and let me regain some honor is the great heart of my daughter.”
Delara rises.
Night has come now and I bid the dragons to find a place for rest. After all, there will still be war tomorrow. We see a structure ahead; it seems new and ill-placed, as if some sorceress conjured it there of necessity. The closer we get the more we see how much the landscape has been altered to hide and protect this place. The trees surrounding it have been increased and thickened, and the nearby river has been redirected to make approach from the back impossible. Just by being near I can tell that it is the work of Laoren. The witch must have something of great importance here. I whisper to Roasha that this place is of interest from me, and with the trees and river it would make an ideal place to rest in peace until morning. The great herd of dragons descends, making for the fort. But as we near it we begin to see. Bodies. Bodies everywhere.
As we near the earth and land, Roasha and Kalsha cannot help but to step on the corpses strewn as far as the eye can see. There are bodies in the trees, on the river bank, blasted into the stone of the fort. They lie headless, gruesomely severed, burned beyond recognition, and broken like twigs. Roasha breathes her blue flame into the air and I catch it in a great ball in my palm. I use it to light my way. I feel the great bulks of Roasha and her husband following me. We travel some ways further, but still all we meet are corpses. There must be thousands here, dispatched in every way imaginable, as if some great and furious thing swept over them. A crashing hand of death and gore. One thing is certain. This was the work of extraordinary magic.
We make our way back to the fort and I stare up at it. I know I must go in. Not only did Laoren go to considerable pains to conceal this place, but someone else brought pure and utter destruction upon these men to get within the walls. I close my eyes and feel. I sense at least one heartbeat. I turn to Roasha.
“I shall go in now.”
“I know I cannot sway your will, princess,” says Roasha, “And so I will not try. However, I urge you to be careful. If whoever laid down this carnage is still here, you will have quite the contest on your hands.”
“Perhaps you would like to wait until morning?” asks Kalsha.
“Do not fear for me, for I do not fear for myself,” I respond. “And even if there is someone inside powerful enough to overcome me, they will die a sad death when they try to slay seven hundred dragons.”
“Indeed they will, princess.”
“I will listen to your footsteps,” Roasha says. “I will stand outside of whatever wall you stop by.”
I turn and walk up to the fort. The doors have been blasted away and so I enter and mount the stairs.
It is a quick and quiet walk upstairs. There are only two rooms. In the first I find three women hanging from the ceiling. I turn to the other. I push the door open.
Chapter 23
Edward and the Blackhearts have pushed north. For most of the night they have battled hard, either forcing the enemy to retreat or taking their breath. It has been a long and hard journey and now they search for a place to rest. They have entered a forest and plan to rest as soon as they reach a place that seems safe enough. Then there is a cracking in the night. One of the Blackhearts has stepped on something. Eduard casts a light into the air and they see that it is a body. And now they see there are bodies everywhere, even hanging from the trees.
“It seems we have come upon another battlefield,” says Mot. “So much death and ruin there is these days.”
“Indeed,” Eduards says. “But we cannot turn back tonight. Perhaps the way will clear ahead.”
They continue on, stepping over the dead as best they can. Eduard leads the way with his light and they come to a clearing. But they stop. In every direction there are great, colorful beasts, larger even than the Blackhearts.
“Impossible,” Eduard says. “Dragons.”
“I did not know these creatures still lived upon the earth, though I suspect this war has turned up many secrets,” Mot says. “I once knew the dragons. Perhaps I can speak with them.”
Mot begins to move forward and Eduard walks beside him, cautious yet exhilarated. They emerge from the forest and the dragons are already watching them, for their senses are sharp and they heard the pair even as they stood off talking in the woods.
“Greeting, rock master,” says Kalsha. “It is a great surprise to meet you on this side of the earth.”
“You, too, sky-eater,” Mot says. “I imagine you are too young to know me, but I am Mot, leader of the Blackhearts. This is Eduard. We fight for the side of good. Have we stumbled among friend or foe?�
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“You will meet only friends here, rock master. I am Kalsha, husband of Roasha. You might call us the head of our people, though dragons know no masters, not even each other.”
“Then I shall call for my people to join us. How did you come to this place?”
“We spotted it from the sky and came to take rest, though it is hard sleep among so many dead. We bear with us one of the Braelynn. Their princess.”
“What princess?” Eduard asks, leaping forward and dropping his flame. “What is her appearance? Her name?”
“She is white haired, fair skinned, and beautiful. She introduced herself as Maerolwyn, named for the last Queen of her people to rule above ground.”
“Oh,” he says, his heart dropping. “Well, then. Perhaps I’ll meet her when she comes out.”
“Do you know her, sir?”
“No. But perhaps she has word of the one I seek.”
This cannot be.
“Delara!” I scream, dropping beside her. “Delara!”
But she is still and curled into a ball as if she died in some terrible agony. I look around the room for clues, but there is nothing here. I place my hand on her back and utter every healing spell I know, but none have effect on her. She is not breathing. Her heart is quiet. I am crying and trembling, and the stones of the floor and the walls are beginning to crack as I lose control of my power. I realize how much I want my friend back, how much I dreaded meeting her for fear one of us would be forced to kill the other. If I could bring her back now, I know we could conquer the pain and rage and darkness. I would draw the black magic from her like poison from a bite, and so set her free. But there is no cure for death.
