No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  “I may be a liar, but I didn’t try to kill my friends.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Which part?” Saine asks as he closes the door.

  Aradon huffs. Stupid move, Plainsman. “All of it.”

  “Well, it all started when I was twelve. A man murdered my father.” His eyes dart to Aradon’s, darker than black. “I cared for my mother as long as I could. Then his old pals came around. Took her. I don’t know exactly what they did with her—you can use your imagination—but the Master gave me a choice. Join and become a cadet or they’d kill me and mother.

  “So, I chose to become a murderer. I advanced quickly, was one of the best cadets they’d ever seen since your time. I trained in the Dark Woods—things have changed a bit, Aradon. Including graduation.” He walks away from the door.

  “See, before I got to be branded and become a fully-fledged Red Warrior, I had to prove myself.” He stops, as if in pain.

  “They drove the Creed into my brain. I drank up every word they said to me. I believed them. I still do. Maybe not in everything, but enough. Just enough. That, and the hatred and revenge I need to quench…” He looks at Aradon. “It hardened me. And that’s why, when they brought my mother in, told me to kill her…I did. I graduated early because of my progress—sixteen—my father would have been proud. My mother too.” He licks his lips, obviously thinking, remembering.

  “You know, all these years, I’ve wanted to get my revenge on you. I met Kepp, actually made a friend. But it didn’t change anything. Even when I met Aiocille, I saw a chance to remove my brand, so when I crossed paths with you—with anyone—no one would know. I came to him, a young man ashamed of his past, wanting to change. So he obliged. Then I met Adriel. And that was when I nearly changed. But yet again, revenge is stronger than love. And while I kissed her, I wanted to kill you.” He smiles. “I always want to kill you.”

  “I’m flattered,” Aradon says flatly.

  “Glad to stroke your ego.” Saine gives a little bow. “Anyway. I saw you a few times over the years, spoke to you, even, you remember.”

  “Good times.”

  “Oh, I loved them too. Because every time I saw you, I studied you. Watched everything. The way you moved, the way you spoke. Every chance I got.”

  “That’s not disturbing.”

  “No, it was a necessity. I needed to be ready. And then, I was.” He laughs. “I mean, did you seriously think I’d let the Tanea capture me?”

  “Yes, you’re a greenhorn.” Aradon winces. “At least, you were until three minutes ago.”

  “Funny how things change.”

  “Hilarious.” Aradon grinds his teeth.

  “Two months before the Tanea, I had returned to the Village and received information that you were in the land of the living gold. So, well, I put myself into harm’s way. I sort of let them catch me. No, sorry. I did let them catch me.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel stupid or is there a point to hearing your life story?”

  “Can’t make you feel anything, Aradon. You’re your own person.” Saine gives him a tight smile. “And there is a point.” He steps in front of Aradon, not even a foot away. “I want you to know how long I’ve hunted you. How much I hate you. You took my father from me. I had to sacrifice my mother to get my revenge, and I’m mature enough not to blame that on you. But I blame my need for revenge on you—for obvious reasons.”

  Aradon’s eyes narrow. “You can’t kill me, Saine. You know who I am, you know what I’m capable of. You should leave before you get hurt.”

  Saine scowls. “You think yourself high and mighty, Aradon. The great Nomarian heir, descendant of Idies. But guess what, Aradon? You aren’t him. You will never be him. You’ve already brought shame on your father.”

  Aradon burns in anger. “Don’t speak about him.”

  “Why? Can’t handle it? You killed my father!” Saine spits. He shakes his head, putting his hands up in surrender. “But I won’t speak about yours. Sorry. It was low.”

  “I’m sorry about your father. I never forgot anyone I killed.”

  “Sorry? Do you think sorry can bring him back? Sorry means nothing, it’s no better than a copper coin painted gold. You can’t expect me to forgive you. I’m not Lilyara. I’m not as stupid or weak as her.”

  “She isn’t stupid. Forgiveness isn’t weakness. It’s a strength.”

  Saine moves in, an inch from his face. “Then how come you can’t forgive yourself?”

  “Same reason you can’t forgive me.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  Aradon backs away, creating space between them. “Because I’m a monster that doesn’t deserve forgiveness. And even if I did…monsters can’t forgive.”

  Saine slams him into the wall. “Are you calling me a monster?”

  “We write ourselves into history. Who we will be, what we will become. I’m a monster because I’ve written it that way. It’s taken me this long to figure it out. But it’s freeing once you do.”

  “You think I’ve made myself a monster?” Saine spits the question, anger shading his face murderously.

  “I think my mistakes have made your pen write off the page.”

  “Then it won’t record what I do next.”

  Aradon doesn’t even get a chance to react when Saine socks him in the face. He punches him again, but Aradon shoves him off. Saine stumbles but comes back at full force. He kicks Aradon in the side, snapping his hand against his neck. Aradon groans, not realizing the strength of this man. He can’t fight him. He just needs to scare him.

  Straightening, Aradon goes into the Besged state, eyes shining, blood rushing. But Saine does not falter. Okay, scaring’s over. Time to terrify. He throws a punch, but to his absolute shock, Saine catches his fist, eyes shining the Besged illuminated white. Aradon falls out of the Besged state and backs away, Saine doing the same. But he remains firm in his place, unmoved.

  “This can’t be.”

  “It can. It is.”

  Aradon shakes his head. “I’m the last one. My father and I…we’re the last ones.” He wants to ignore what Ethiah told him. Deny the reality.

  “Your father doesn’t count, he’s older than my great-grandfather would be if he was still alive. Practically useless. It’s just you and me.”

  “It was only Idies’ line that carries this.”

  “Since when does history get everything right? Idies wasn’t one of the first Besgeds, and there wasn’t only one Besged. There was an army of them. Aguinar wasn’t the only one who had children, Aradon. He may have survived the longest, but another’s line carried on this far. Some carried for a long time, but they died out. But mine. Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Aradon shakes his head. “No. This is an illusion.”

  “You aren’t the most powerful man from this age anymore, Aradon! You never were. There’s a new game in town, and I plan on obliterating the competition.”

  It makes sense now. How Saine was able to keep up with me and yet stay behind just enough so I wouldn’t suspect anything. And how Ethiah was able to sense me—she must have trained from him in secret. He didn’t even know.

  I’m not the last one. Aradon feels the relief. I’m not the last one. But while he wants to restart the brotherhood of old, Saine wants no part in it, clearly. He wants to kill him. He hurt one of his kin, in ways that can never be repaired. When Saine forgave him in the Tanea, he was still affected by Lily’s proclamation that he didn’t see through the thin words. “I forgive you.”

  Anyone can say them. Lily could have been lying, though, he knows she wasn’t because nothing would have been more satisfying for her than calling the guards to have him executed as soon as he entered the palace. But Saine. There are definitely more satisfying ways to get revenge than killing him in a forest.

  He falls to his knees, hanging his head. “I’m sorry.” Tears fill his eyes, and because he has no pride left to protect, he looks up at Saine. “I’m so sorr
y.”

  Saine looks down at him, disgust clear on his face. “Save your sorries for someone who wants them. I want your body burned. And when I hear your screams from the pyre, lit by the torch I hold, the wounds every Red Warrior has cut into you…you will know my forgiveness.”

  He slams the door shut, locking it.

  Aradon sits there, knees bruised from falling on the wood. He wishes they had broken. Shattered. It’s the least he deserves.

  Red Warrior executions are worse than what he faced in Terandore. They don’t cut out your heart. No. They tie you to a pyre. And then one by one, all the Red Warriors you’ve ever betrayed—all of them, if they think you’re a traitor—cut you. They fillet you. And when it’s finally over, as you’re bleeding all over the wood and straw below, when you can taste your own heart and soul…they light the flame.

  Burning to death. That’s worse than being sacrificed to a goddess.

  Only moments later, the door opens again, and Aradon is faced with two of the warriors who came to get him in Kevah. They nod to each other, seeming chummy, and grab him. He won’t fight. He can’t. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He just needs to get through the insufferable speech of the Master, then an excruciating amount of pain—how long does it take to burn to death? Then he can be free. It nearly escapes his mind that he will be going to the Isle, but that’s better than the life he’s leading now.

  “Joshua, are we really doing this?” the blond asks the tall, freckled brunet as they drag the chained Aradon down the hallway.

  He’s not fighting—it’s not really dragging then, is it?

  “The Creed must be followed.”

  “He’s our king.”

  “He’s the heir, there’s a difference.”

  “It doesn’t seem that way to me.”

  “Then you better fix that, or we’ll be burning next.”

  “I wouldn’t burn. I’d duel. I’d rather get stabbed than charred.”

  “Have you ever seen someone burn to death?” Aradon questions.

  They stop, looking at him. “No. Why?”

  “Because they don’t char. They blister, their skin bubbles. They turn white first, then black. But by then, they’d have died of heat and pain to even notice when their bones turn black, their skin burned off. Zachary’s right. I’d rather be stabbed.”

  The boy looks at him, confused. “How do you know my name?”

  “Your superior said it in Kevah. I gathered this one is Joshua, so you must be Zachary. You clocked me.”

  “I was following orders.”

  “It hurt.”

  His face looks satisfied. “I hurt a Besged?” He looks at Joshua, grinning. “I hurt a Besged.”

  “If we don’t get a move on, this Besged is going to escape and we’ll die.” He puts his face close to the blond’s. “I got killed by a Besged,” he mocks, and when Zachary pulls the chain, Joshua smirks.

  They continue on, and when they leave the prison building, Aradon’s skin crawls with memories as they enter the light of day. The Red Warrior Village.

  Not on the map, not on any map.

  The reason for it is because they never let passersby live. No one can know the location of the Village. No one. There’s a mess hall, and a large wooden building with red tiled roofs. They all are. The bunks, where it’s two to a room and the beds are no better than the one in Kevah. The training grounds are all over, but the large dirt pit in the center of the inward facing buildings is where most of the fights and duels take place. The stables stand beside the mess hall, wide but not tall.

  And then the large Master’s Hall. Stairs lead up to the elevated structure, a huge black dragon painted on the space above the door, just under the pointed roof. As they make their way toward the Hall, Aradon can see a pyre being built near the dirt pit. That’s where he killed Harden. Where he’d fought other cadets—John, Sidah, Orion, Tahn. Others. But the pyre is where he’s going to die. That just doesn’t seem fair in a way.

  The doors of the Hall are opened from the inside by invisible hands until Aradon sees the familiar faces of Kyhle and Haston. They give him a small, inconspicuous nod. Some still have respect for him. Or maybe it’s fear. Row upon row of Red Warriors stand in the hall, black cloaks drawn, a sea of dark.

  He walks up the aisle, feet and hands shackled. The chains wouldn’t do much good if he chose to fight, but something tells him these men don’t think he will. I’m getting what I deserve, and they know I know it.

  Zachary and Joshua leave him at the stairs, and he ascends the few steps, kneeling exactly five feet from where the Master sits on his ill-deserved throne. It reminds him too much of his graduation. But instead of words of wisdom, a brand on his shoulder, the Master will be spitting execution and the fire will brand his entire body that he was a traitor—and Red Warriors don’t deal kindly with traitors.

  Silence fills the hall.

  Aradon keeps his head low, wondering whether he should beg for mercy, or perhaps pray. He doesn’t know who he would pray to, the Spirits have abandoned them, and gods aren’t worth praising. And then he realizes. This man isn’t worth begging to. Or sacrificing his beliefs to pray to some figure in the sky. This man is disgusting. How he runs this once noble regiment, it’s horrific.

  Aradon lifts his gaze directly into the eyes of Eomare, the Master of the Red Warriors. It is unprecedented for him to do such a thing, as a traitor. But he holds his head high, and he doesn’t break the monster’s gaze.

  Kaniel taught him there is more than one kind of monster. Good ones, and fake ones... Some evil, some bad. And then there’s Aradon, who may be all of the above. But this man before him. He’s the real monster. He’s the evil one.

  And Aradon won’t let the monster speak for him. Anger filling him, he yells, “You are the one who has dishonored the Red Warriors, Eomare! You don’t deserve that brand, that cloak. You deserve to burn. And I swear, because of what you’ve let these men behind me do, I will make sure of it. You can kill me. Torture me. But I promise, I will see you burn!”

  The Master’s eyes flame as he stands. “You abominable thing! You aren’t fit to call yourself a man, not to mention a Red Warrior. Crawl with the dogs and scorpions that search for a meal, Aradon. Because you are nothing more than a rat.”

  “Your words have no hold over me, Eomare. I may be a dog, but I will bite. I may be a scorpion, but I will sting. And I’ll be the rat that infests your waking days. When I leave this world, I will make sure that all the forces of those noble enough to call themselves Red Warriors rain upon you and this cursed regiment. I may never be king, but I swear, I will not let you continue on this path of bloodshed and murder. The Red Warriors were designed to protect. Not to kill.

  “If you don’t know the difference, you should tear that cloak from your shoulders. You may not have created what the Red Warriors are now, but you’ve failed. There has never been a more blind Master in our history. You pervert the Creed, all that it stands for. It isn’t for blood, or murder. It’s for the defense of the brotherhood and the people of Nomarah. It’s so that Red Warriors can remember their purpose, without straying from the noble path Idies set them on. You may not have brought on the destruction of this confederacy, Eomare. But you made sure that it wouldn’t ever be fixed.”

  The Master sits again hesitantly, face contorted into something ugly and mean. “Aradon, son of Hared, I, Master Eomare, hereby abrogate your trial. You are to be executed at dawn.”

  Aradon closes his eyes, relief flooding through him. No more fighting. He has nothing left to fight for. No beliefs, no wishes. And soon, he will become nothing, only a memory, and the memory will soon disappear too.

  Night falls, and Aradon is already tossing and turning. Probably because of his impending death tomorrow. In his dream, he’s sitting against the wall in the darkened cell, with only distant torchlight to illuminate the night. His breath creates a cloud of ice, his skin is frozen, his eyes dry. His bones feel brittle, his joints slow as he tries to
move, every try is painful.

  “You gave up.”

  He shakes as a small glow appears and sees Ethiah leaning against the wall, her light brown hair tumbling in black waves in the dark. Silver eyes glow in the curious light, her head tilted slightly. She walks over to him, putting a fair hand on his cheek as he looks up at her. “You’re cold.”

  “I can’t move.” His jaw hurts.

  “No.” She puts her other hand on his cheek. “You’re cold, Aradon. Not because you’re facing death, but because you’ve given yourself up to it.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Fight?”

  “Simple, isn’t it? To fight. It’s in your blood, in your bones. Your natural language, Aradon. It’s your way. So why have you given up?”

  “Because…” It dawns on him he doesn’t really know. Because he doesn’t want to fight anymore? This is a lie. He loves fighting. He craves the battle. And yet he’s given it up so willingly. “Tell me why.”

  “You have nothing to believe in anymore, Aradon. You’re empty.”

  “Dead.”

  “Yes.”

  Aradon wavers. “Then isn’t it time my body catches up?”

  She shakes her head, falling to her knees. “No, Aradon. You speak the language you were taught. Fight. Please.”

  “I have nothing to fight for.”

  “And since when has that ever stopped you?”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Yes, you do. You always do.” She clutches his hand. “This may not be real, but your decision is. If you do not fight, no one will.”

  “And what if I do? Then I’ll become even worse.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  His brow furrows. “And how will you stop it?”

  In an action he wasn’t expecting, she kisses him. He’s shocked, at first. Unsure of what to do. Sefa… But his thoughts give way to the elf in front of him and he kisses her back. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, his lips on hers. It’s a mistake, surely. A stupid mistake. He sighs inside. But it’s a sweet mistake, and he doesn’t really care.