No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  “Then tell me,” Brega gasps. “Why are you—” She tries to draw a large breath, the hand around her throat unsettling to say the least. “Doing this?”

  “Because I can!” Revera’s shout disintegrates the boulder she’s pushing Brega against, the rock now ash, Brega coated in it. She lets Brega’s neck go, her hand vibrates—clutching it and closing her eyes, her entire body shakes.

  Brega’s head tilts as she realizes something. “You aren’t controlling it.”

  Revera looks at her.

  “It’s controlling you.”

  The sorceress’s eyes portray anger, frustration. But what shocks Brega is the fear she sees. “So. The almighty sorceress Revera isn’t invulnerable. She’s being slowly destroyed by herself.”

  Revera lifts her chin. “You have no idea.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Revera takes a step toward her, but not so close, to Brega’s relief. She still clutches her hand, which is shaking more violently than the rest of her. “Power always comes at a cost. Karak should be lesson enough. But freedom? Revenge? Justice? Those come at a higher one.”

  “And is that what you’re fighting for? Freedom, revenge, justice?”

  The sorceress lets her hand drop, no longer shaking. Her eyes are clean of her fear, and she’s withdrawn once more. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

  “Depends what your eyes say when your mouth speaks.”

  Revera smirks, still not quite the devil. “You surprise me, Brega.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  She turns away and starts walking deeper into the woods.

  “What’s interesting?” Brega calls out to her.

  Revera turns. “You wish more than anything to be your mother, even when you promised your people you wouldn’t try to be. It seems you’ve transcended your mother in ways you never thought possible.”

  She turns again, but Brega can see her smirk grow. “Too bad it’s going to make you a liar.”

  Brega doesn’t see her disappear. Nor fade. She just isn’t there anymore, vanished with the spring she’s hidden from the world. Brega knows she’s right, though. This magic within her. It is going to make her a liar.

  I didn’t promise that either.

  “Maybe the dose was too strong?”

  Aradon slowly comes to consciousness, the voice like he’s underwater, his head buzzing. A metallic smell in his nose.

  “He’s been out for two days.” The same voice.

  “He’s a Besged. We needed to give him the stronger dose.” Different one.

  Aradon’s eyes fight to open his lids, but they won’t budge. His limbs are limp, but his chest is tight. There was a prick…

  “I can’t believe he’s a Besged,” the first voice huffs. “The King of Nomarah under our noses all these years.”

  “What does that matter? He’s Idies’ heir, but he’s no king. A country boy.”

  “We’re Red Warriors. We serve the Nomarian throne.”

  “The throne was destroyed, the one in the temple literally blackened.” There’s another huff. “No. There’s no throne to serve.”

  The jolt of his own movement sends Aradon’s head lazily falling back. Details come into focus now. He’s sitting, in a chair. Ropes are tying him. There are at least two in the room, possibly more. He flexes his fingers, his toes—he’s still fully clothed, worn boots and all. He swallows, an unusually thick action. He opens his mouth, his jaw aching. What did they give me?

  “I think he’s waking up.” Voice number two.

  “Good. We’ve been watching him sleep for days. He drools a little.”

  Drools?

  “That was blood.”

  “Blood’s red.”

  There’s a soft thud and a groan.

  “I know blood’s red, you idiot!”

  A stiff sigh.

  Aradon’s eyes peek open, light hitting them. It takes him a moment to realize there isn’t actually much light in the room, but it’s blinding nonetheless. When the blind dies, his vision is foggy, but he can see where he is well enough. A square room. Stone floor. Stone walls. Wooden ceiling. A table with silver things on it. When he realizes where he is, though, he concludes they’re knives. The basement.

  He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut to clear them. When he opens them again, he finally sees, and it doesn’t take longer than a moment before he realizes who he’s looking at.

  The red hair. Freckles. Freakishly tall. Taller than him. Changed by age, light wrinkles by his mouth and eyes. The other is shorter, from the faraway Mortal nation of Jhez Ohr. He has long black hair that frames his face, blunt bangs, flecks of gray. His brown skin is a burnt bronze, the brown eyes darker. Short for a man, a long face—not just figurative. Old friends, some might call them.

  His brow furrows. How the heck do they know I’m a Besged?

  “It’s been a while, Bowman,” Tahn the Jhezi states with no hint in his voice of what used to be even an acquaintanceship.

  “Well, at least you haven’t forgotten my name.”

  “It was hard considering you changed it.”

  “Slayer seemed…outdated. A tad dramatic, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Aradon takes a deep breath. “I suppose you didn’t.” His eyes shift over to the redhead. “Orion.”

  “Aradon.” He allows himself a slight nod, but Aradon can see it’s strained. Orion has never been one for fighting. At least, not verbally. He’s a lighthearted soldier—Aradon had forgotten there was such a thing until he met Saine.

  The curiosity is too much. “How did you find out?”

  “We have our sources,” Orion says with his arms crossed. “Sidah’s bringing the asset in soon.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe he removed his brand, said an elf did it.”

  “Elf? Must have been a while ago.” Tahn leans against the door frame.

  Aradon wishes they’d forget about him, but they don’t.

  Tahn looks at him again. “He’s a familiar face, this guy.”

  “Me or the asset?”

  “Don’t be dim, Aradon.”

  “I thought you were the dull knife?”

  Tahn steps toward him, fist in the air but Orion holds him back. “Not yet, Tahn. We’ll get our chance soon enough.”

  “He’s a deserter.”

  “I know.”

  “And a traitor. He dishonors the dragon, the Creed, the Master.”

  Orion pushes him back. “I know. And he will pay for his crimes. But he’ll face trial. He was a Red Warrior, after all.”

  The sting of “after all” hits Aradon with surprise and shock. This was his life, for too long. He never thought he’d miss it. Never thought being called a traitor would hurt. But this was his family, in a terrible way, for years. Dishonoring the regiment is disgracing the royal family of Nomarah. He’s bringing condemnation unto himself. His father…he can’t bring shame to his father. He doesn’t deserve that.

  “Orion, Tahn. I didn’t betray you. I left.”

  “That’s against the Creed! Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no way out but blood. If you wanted to be free so badly, you could have dueled your way out.”

  “It was a spur of the moment decision.”

  Tahn’s face becomes angry. “No, it wasn’t. You had been feeling lost for months before General Mekah hired you to kill his bastard daughter. And I’m not even going to mention those years you disappeared before you came back.”

  Aradon’s sudden urge to kill isn’t surprising. “She’s not a bastard. She had a mother, a father. I took them from her in front of her eyes.” He breathes a shaky breath. “The forgiveness for that night only came when I met the Queen of Hadore.”

  “Lilyara. It surprised us,” says Orion.

  “No more than me.” Aradon narrows his eyes, realizing this may be his chance. Chance for what? To make them see how he sees? Or think how he thinks? Give them the want to redeem themselves like he so desperately needs?
r />   “She forgave me. She could have killed me, but she didn’t. She made a good life for herself despite what I did to her. You have no idea how that forgiveness changed my life. I didn’t live differently, but a burden was lifted off my chest. Maybe I will have thousands of sorrows for the rest of my life—no amount of forgiveness can erase what I’ve done…but it felt so good to hear someone say it.” He shakes his head slightly. Why is he doing this? He knows they won’t listen. He hangs his head, ready for the blow.

  And it comes.

  Orion bursts out laughing, and he hears Tahn’s knuckles crack as he clenches his fists.

  “We don’t need forgiveness, Aradon. The Creed forgives us our sins. But you—you go ahead, have fun with your relief. We’re soldiers. We can live with our burdens.” Aradon looks up as the Jhezi shakes his head.

  “Slayer,” he scoffs. “You’re pathetic.”

  Aradon nods, looking up at the men he once called his friends. “I may be pathetic. But I swear to you, when I’m king, I will never stop hunting Red Warriors. I will capture each and every one of you. And burn your bodies with the Creed as kindling. The Master will be impaled on a pole and erected in the courtyard of my grandfather’s city. And when I’m finished. When every last one of you is ash, and the world knows what you’ve done, it will bring the justice that never came for your crimes… I will wipe the memory of this pathetic regiment from the face of Ardon.”

  It’s the fear in their eyes that brings him to realize he’s broken out of his ropes. He feels the light in his eyes, the Besged power pulse through his veins. His eyes will be shining white. He clenches his fists as footsteps echo down the stairs, and two familiar figures enter. Sidah the Eliminator, another cadet he trained with, and—

  He feels the light fade and the power subside. His fists don’t relax, however. He blinks, as if he’s seeing things. But when he opens his eyes, the blond remains, the light skin, the brown eyes. The brown eyes. They are diseased eyes, guilty.

  He feels his face slowly contorting into shock.

  The man wears a black cloak, the one Aradon wore for years until it was ripped off him in Terandore. The red dragon insignia over his heart.

  “Saine?”

  Chapter Ten

  Returning to Kevah is returning to a graveyard where the corpses are walking, roaming, trying to make sense of being alive again. Their eyes are scared, despondent. They are as gray as the sky above them, the white stone of the mountain city also a grayish hue. The clouds seem to not be going anywhere, the sun hidden. Riding through the second level, the businesses and shops are open, but no one has any money to pay for things. They’ve spent it, trying not to starve under Tamon’s reign. But now, they’re starving anyway.

  “Gard, how are we supposed to live like this?” Alfie mutters as he looks around at the many homeless citizens—Tamon had an impact on everything.

  “We don’t.” He gestures at the deer he’s dragging behind his horse. “Dis is gonna feed a few. We’re going to be ordered out again soon. We don’t live like dis, Alfie.” He looks forward, sighing. He mutters under his breath, “not for much longer, at least.”

  “We don’t live like dis”. He wishes it were true. They’re living like animals in the winter, searching for any morsel of food they can get their dirty hands on. Living on the filthy stone of the streets, trying to find warmth in the dirt, and meaning in the hunger. Or maybe comfort. So many have lost their loved ones, the hunger may be a pleasantry.

  Hagard can’t help wondering why Awyn hasn’t let the people live in the palace, where the food may be little, but at least there are warm beds and a roof to sleep under. His wonder turns to anger. If these were his people, he wouldn’t let them starve. He’d do anything for them not to go hungry or live in the dirt. But he must remember; Awyn is living worse than this. Much worse…

  He shakes his head, clucks his tongue, and his horse carries him at a faster pace. In the palace courtyard, he dismounts, letting a guard take the horse. Alfie and the other hunters do the same, heading to the meat shack where they will skin their killings and disperse them to the people later. Hagard takes his knife to the coat of the deer, cutting in. The skin may be used for a covering, it’d be warm enough.

  Beside him, Alfie works on a rabbit. “Do you think they’ll kill Revera?”

  Hagard looks at him. “Who?”

  “The Resistance.”

  Hagard’s brow rises. “Has Kepp been talkin’ ta all of Mera?”

  “Mister Kepp is at the pass. It’s just a good title, we worked it out for ourselves.”

  “He won’t like hearing he didn’t come up wit’ it after all.”

  “I’m sure he’ll live.” It’s a sour sentence. Who can be sure of anything these days, especially whether or not one is going to survive? “But are you?”

  “I’m certainly not going to. Maybe…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. We aren’t really fighting anymore. Or killin’.”

  “You are legends. Legends fight.”

  “Legends die. We don’t want ta die.” It’s a sorry excuse. They were ready to die six months ago. Now…well, now they just don’t want any part of it. Hagard’s brow crinkles. Maybe he did want to fight again? Perhaps the others do too? He shakes his head. No. Dey’re done. I’m done.

  The meat is pink under the skin. He shaves it off, cutting into it. Glancing at Alfie, he sees the unwillingness in his eyes, and yet he’s willing. “What’s wrong?”

  “I hate skinning animals. Killing them is one thing, but it just feels like I’m erasing them, now.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps carving.

  “Dey’re our food, Alfie.”

  “I know that,” he snaps, then sighs, “sorry. I just don’t understand. You were saving us. The Resistance was going to save us and stop Revera. Why can’t you finish what you started?”

  “Because we’re tired, Alfie. We’re broken, bruised. Ill of dis war. You have no idea how much fighting takes a toll on someone. You are survivin’. Everyone is survivin’. But fighting is harder.”

  “Surviving is fighting, Hagard.”

  “Maybe. But have ya ever killed a man, Alfie?”

  He shakes his head and remains silent.

  “Den you don’t know what it’s like to be numb to it. It’s terrifying, not caring when you stop a man’s heart, not caring when you take a son from a mama, a husband from a wife, a papa from his children. Fighting can numb you or break you. It’s numbed me. I’m still whole…but I’m not me anymore.”

  He remembers the golden wheat fields of Lauden, the taverns and the music that floated on the breeze. Great parties brought dwarves from all over the Eron territory together. The drinking, the laughter, the drunken singing, and even the sober warbling when the singer realized he wasn’t good at it. Everything sounds better sloshed. He yearns for such days.

  “I don’t know. But I do know what it’s like to be hungry. To be so starving and weak that you can’t even move or get out of bed. When you starve yourself, the cold becomes unbearable, no meat on your bones to warm you. But I’m still here. If that’s not fighting, then I need to go back to school and learn the definition.”

  “I apologize. I shouldn’t ‘ave said you haven’t fought. I simply mean it’s not da same kind of fighting dat…” Dat makes you wish you were starving. He can’t say that to this boy, not after he’s experienced it. He hasn’t. He knows what it’s like to be hungry, but he’s always kept moving. He had to, or he would have died. Eldowyn would have perished too. Aradon would have…

  Actually, that might have been a better way for him to go than withering away in a dungeon cell. Anything is better than that. He shudders, thinking back to the Blood Chamber in Terandore. No, dere are worse ways to die.

  “Maybe I haven’t killed anyone. I suppose I’m grateful for that…” Alfie sighs. “But that’s what war is. Killing. And when it’s done, then we can worry about being numb. Isn’t that also what war is? Delaying? Denying?”

  Hagard looks up from
the deer. “Yes. Yes, it is…” He grinds his teeth. “But even if I did want to fight again, dey don’t. And I have a new purpose.” He stands. “Hunting.”

  He flips the deer over, ready for the next side. “You shouldn’t be so eager for battle, Alfred.” He glances up at him as he bends over the deer. “You’re already living in a war.”

  The boy picks the skinned rabbit up, bringing it to the table of the meat shack. “I know that.” He points his knife at Hagard, rather unmenacingly. “And don’t call me Alfred.”

  “Don’t call me Gard.”

  “Ultimatums don’t suit you.”

  “Maybe not.” Hagard sighs. My suits have changed. Drastically. Even six months ago, he was the punch line in a joke. He laughed over dents in corpses’ heads and drank himself dry. But now he’s just…well, he doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. Maybe that’s what makes this war so chilling. He looks back down at the deer, as his knife once again carves the skin off.

  Night falls before the food is finished being handed out, Hagard fatigued and ready for the overly plush bed he’ll sleep in tonight. He prefers the ground, it reminds him of when his father would take him and his brothers camping. He grins stupidly as he thinks of the trouble he’d get his brothers into. He was the oldest, had three little brothers. Domeam, the second eldest. Lotmock “Lottie,” the third eldest. And then little Duril, who was sick as a boy. Hagard wonders now if he ever got better. Last he heard they were doing well in Ailand, supporting their mother. Hagard was seventeen when he left home, when everything went to ruin. His hand goes to the metal band around his brow. Closing his eyes, he tries to send the memory to the back of his mind, so he can focus on more important things.

  An empty stomach, Hagard’s first stop is the palace kitchen, seeing if there is anything to eat. He manages to find a loaf of bread and cuts himself a thick slice—thicker than any non-hungry person would ever eat. Finding some jam, he wolfs it down, cutting himself another piece. He stops at three, saving the last piece for the long walk to his room on the other side of the palace.

  The hallways are lengthy and illuminated only by the stars outside the open drapes, the windows giving way to the scene of the bright moon. There are no clouds tonight, no snow falling. Or any howl of wind. Hagard missed still nights as these, when the only sound was the gentle breathing of his mother. Of course, it was drowned out by the snoring of his brothers and father, but the point holds.