No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  “Thinking?”

  He doesn’t even need to turn to know who’s walked up next to him. “Sure.”

  Nakelle’s gray eyes pierce his. “About?”

  Nosy vixen. “What would you like me to be thinking about?” He doesn’t care that his tone is snippy, but Nakelle clearly does.

  “Don’t snap at me.”

  “Sorry.” He isn’t. Looking at her, he sighs. “What would you like?”

  She leans in closer to him, whispering, “Are you as wary of Crozacar as I am?”

  “Probably more so.” He looks over his shoulder. “I agree with nearly everything Revera does, but this isn’t one of them.”

  “And what about Karak? Do you think he accepted him willingly?”

  Kepp shrugs. “I don’t care about him. I’m just worried Revera won’t be able to control the Dark Lord.”

  “You saw her in there. She bent him to her will. She can handle him.”

  “Are you so sure? What if he’s waiting for the time to strike?”

  Her brows crease. “When did you become so paranoid?”

  Kepp straightens. “Since I needed to.” He won’t tell her this, but he’s seen Revera when no one else has. Her magic is crippling her. He doesn’t know who’s in control, Revera or her power. Maybe Karak knows—he likely knows more than Kepp—but he doesn’t do anything about it, probably just makes it worse. Kepp, though. He knows about it, but he still can’t do anything about it.

  He’s a human with pointy ears.

  “I guess that’s an answer.” Nakelle exhales, not impressed.

  She must feel it too, the distance between them. Kepp just doesn’t know what’s true and what’s a lie anymore. His name is a lie. Kelberan. Doomed.

  Well, the Spirits got something right. I’m definitely doomed. He pushes away from the balcony, feeling angry.

  “Kepp—”

  “Just leave it, Kell. I need some time by myself.”

  “You always need to be by yourself,” she snaps. “What about me? Maybe I need you?”

  “I don’t want you to need me, Kell! Need someone who can actually fulfill you. I will let you down, and you know it.”

  “I don’t care, I love you.”

  “But I don’t know if I love you! I feel in my chest that I do, but I’ve made myself feel and think so many things over the past eighteen years that I don’t know what about me is real and what isn’t. My name isn’t even Kepp. I’ve learned that my parents distanced themselves from me because they knew I was doomed from the beginning, so it would be easier to let me go. It could be true, it may not be. But I don’t know anymore. I built my identity around my parents not loving me, and now…” He shakes his head. “I don’t trust myself. Or you. I don’t even think I trust Revera anymore.”

  “Kepp, you can’t let her hear that.”

  “She already knows that, Nakelle. She knows everything. Even how this war is going to end. But we don’t know half of what she does, we don’t even know how this war began. Not fully. And we never will. I will remain in her service…but I’m not going to drag you into it with me.”

  She grasps his arm. “And isn’t that proof you care about me?”

  He doesn’t look at her. “There is no proof that will convince me of anything. There is only one thing I’m sure of and that you will never understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Kepp lowers his gaze to hers. Her eyes are pale flames, stars that fell from the sky and brought the night’s darkness and the moon’s light with them, dulled only by Ardon’s air. If she were in the space beyond Ardon, her eyes would shine silver and illuminate the sky. Down here, they are clouds.

  He won’t darken them more.

  “No.”

  She doesn’t stop him this time as he leaves.

  Walking through the valley, the smell is worse down here, the stench of the Tarken and Sanarx. Hands in his pockets, he kicks a stone, needing to think but it’s nearly impossible, breathing in the disgusting air of Kahzacore. Thinking bears too much for him, knowing if he opens the gate, the flood will pour out. He has control of his anger, he can handle it. But he’s afraid if he thinks too much about it, then he’ll find no reason to hold back. Maybe attacking his brother was a show of it, but he could have done a lot worse. One can go far on hate alone. Very far.

  Revera’s proof of that. And he doesn’t want to join her there. He’s in this war for himself, Revera promised him something and he’s going to get it. But what it takes to get that something may take too long, and he may snap for good before the end arrives.

  The end that is death.

  What he doesn’t want but needs. It’s the only thing he’s sure will happen to him. It’s what must happen—to end the curse the Spirits named him.

  He stops, looking up at the dark, sickly gray sky. I miss my brother. He sighs, looking at the ground. But I also hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone before.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Voices. So many voices. Incomprehensible speech that Awyn wasn’t meant to comprehend. She’s supposed to be kept in the dark. How she knows this—it’s just a feeling. And that, apparently, is one of her elven abilities.

  She’s asleep. At least she thinks she is. She isn’t moving or speaking. All she can do is listen to the voices. She sees flashes of the purple eye, paralyzing her with fear.

  Fear. She’s the eye? That would mean that she tortured Awyn in her slumber and in her wake. She broke her down. And for what? What reason is there to hurt your own Being?

  Whatever her reason is, she lied.

  “I can make you strong.”

  “I’m not a bad thing.”

  Lies.

  And yet with the lies, everything starts to make sense, in a way.

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  The voice is new, but different.

  “You try to understand what simply cannot be understood. Why would you try to destroy yourself? Make sense of lies? Make darkness light again? But what if you don’t like what happens when shadows come to light? Will you still ask? And wish for clarity? Hoping there’s a different answer? There won’t be. There’s but one answer.”

  If she was broken, was Brave, then she wouldn’t speak. But Fear is inside her. A calm, precise emotion. Some think fear makes you go insane. Weakens you. But what is life without fear? Love is clarified when one fears to lose the person they love. Courage comes from the fear of never being anything more than who one is now. That if they don’t act, bad things may happen. Fear drives. So yes. It’s different than being afraid.

  What is that answer?

  A figure appears before her. Once again with the familiar midnight black hair, ghost-like skin, and pale eyes. She’s sheathed in red, and with her crimson lips, she looks too much like Revera.

  Only then does Awyn realize she’s standing.

  “She tortured you in your dreams. Fed you fire, skinned you, snapped your bones, and froze your blood. Fear broke you down before you knew she existed. All so you would willingly give her control when the time came.”

  She tilts her head, eyes narrowed, and brow creased in study and frustration. “You don’t see it, do you Awyn? You’re fighting a war. Not the one against Revera. But the one against yourself. Fear wants control. Hate wants control. Every part of you wants to claim victory, and you’ve let Fear take it.”

  “You talk like you aren’t Fear. But why do I see the eye?”

  “Because she’s still with you. But she’s biding her time until she erases who you are, and a monster is what you’ll become. But she can’t erase herself. She can run, she can hide, but she’s in you, and she can’t control what parts of her you see. And you see her. The eye. Her trickery that hurried your descent into madness.”

  She starts circling Awyn, eerily, watching her every move. “I pity you, Awyn. So young to experience war such as this. Innocent.” She stops, glancing down at her red clothing, and a smirk curls her lips. “But then again, not all of you is so inculpa
ble.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Who do I look like to you, Awyn? When you saw my form, who did you think of?”

  “You’re me. You already know.”

  She nods. “This is true. I do look like our aunt, don’t I? Disgustingly similar. And I am, in more ways than my pretty face and red dress.” She’s behind Awyn now, lips close to her ear, voice like a whisper. “We share a bond.”

  “What bond could I have with that villain?”

  She brings her mouth even closer to Awyn’s ear. “Hate.”

  Stepping back, and facing her, she looks at Awyn, a sly and giddy grin on her face. “Burning, fiery. Dark. Poisonous and pure. You think Fear is precise, well, you’ve never seen me when I take control.” She raises her chin, proud of her ire. “I am what drives humanity. Revenge. Jealousy. Anger. I am massacre. War. When you hate, it consumes you, and you can’t think of anything else. Hate is guileless. It cannot lie, only those who wield it are dishonest. I am strong, the only thing stronger is Fear. But the biggest difference? She serves herself. I serve you.” She lifts an accomplished brow. “I am pure. I am Hate.”

  Awyn backs away. “You expect me to let you inside, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m the only one who can give you what you want, Awyn. Revenge. Revera’s death. With me, she can die.”

  “I don’t want that!” Her outburst surprises even her. Revera is her enemy. She killed her mother, orchestrated so many other deaths. Ruined her life. But what is the point of revenge, when one’s dead? What is the point of revenge when one no longer cares?

  “You’re wrong, Hate. I don’t want to kill her, because I don’t hate her.” She lowers her voice, as if what she says next is treason. “I pity her, because I know she will never have peace. I pity her because I will never know peace. And that makes me understand her. I don’t know her reasons. If I never learn them, it would be a blessing. But I understand.”

  Hate’s eyes blaze. “You are weak.” Her voice is a monster. “You will be tormented for the rest of eternity until you give in to me. You think Fear was persistent? I will pursue you until the Spirits return. We’re never leaving this Isle, Awyn. The Other World is closed off unless the destined and doomed die. And that will never happen as long as I’m alive. I will chase you for eons, through the ash of the Isle, the black trees, and throw you to the beasts. I will never stop until you give in.” She straightens, gripping Awyn’s jaw. “And you will.”

  Hate sharply turns and disappears into the darkness.

  The fields in front of the ruins of Erendeth are crowded with tents and horses, flags of the Five Kingdoms, Eron, Terandore, and the Kawa flying. Hagard feels as if he’s drowning in soldiers, armor, horses, and the stench of thousands of men crowded together. The armies have separated themselves from each other, but still so closely together that he feels like he could be stepped on. It doesn’t help that the soldiers won’t talk to those of other armies, still some bad blood between the kingdoms.

  He needs a drink.

  The Kawa has tried and succeeded at sobering him for the battle. He plans on fighting with a clear head, but he’s going to spend his last nights as a living man drunker than his grandpapa Mund. He’ll dance with the soldiers, stuff himself silly, and sing like he’s back in the Lazy Bear trying to impress Ava.

  She never was. Likely because he’d fall on his face after butchering the high note.

  Arriving at the Kawa tents, he struggles to find where he left his pack. He isn’t high profile enough to sleep in a tent, so he gets to sleep under the stars in the snow and cold. He only finds his pack when he sees the bright purple cloth he tied to it, the sky light enough to illuminate it. It’s only the start of the evening, he has plenty of time to get drunk and sober up before he goes to sleep tonight, so he won’t have a headache in the morning. Who am I kidding? I won’t sober up.

  Fumbling through his pack, he grabs his flask and lies on the ground, drinking, face to the sky, the bag as his pillow. He can imagine no war, no battle, and he drifts off into a land where he’s sitting on a beach with a Thanks Day platter and an assortment of alcohol within his reach.

  Shoving his hand into his pack, searching for his heavier gloves, his fingers touch something metallic, cold. Grabbing it, he pulls it out, sitting up as he looks down at the band his father gave him all those years ago. His grandpapa made it for his father when he was young, and it was passed down to him. It’s not as shiny as other accessories. But it holds a special place in his family’s heart. Hagard hated receiving it, though. His father was on his death bed.

  Running through the town, people moved out of his way without a word, knowing what had happened. He’d stopped for no one, running as fast as he ever had since he’d received the news of his papa’s collapse. The night hadn’t yet lifted, it had been only an hour since he and Barnel had fought. Veering at a turn in the road, a dwarf and his daughter had jumped out of the way as he’d rushed past them. His heart had thudded hard in his chest, his breath in his ears. His head had ached—he’d drank too much and running made the alcohol drum in his temples.

  When he’d caught sight of his home, he hadn’t even stopped when Ava gripped his wrist at the threshold.

  “Hagard, you don’t—”

  He’d pushed past her, through the door, a group of family friends and finally his little brothers. His mama was holding Barnel’s hand, tears crawling down her cheeks. The doctor wasn’t doing anything.

  “Why aren’t you doing anyting!” Hagard had scolded, but Dom had gripped his arm, shaking his head. His breathing ragged, he’d torn out of his brother’s grasp and leaned over his father, looking at his weak face. “Papa?”

  “Hagard.” His voice was weak, sweat dotting his skin. “My boy.”

  “Papa, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s your dream. It was mine.” His head slowly turned, and his weak hand had pointed at a trunk near their sofa.

  Hagard had gripped his hand. “What?”

  But his father never spoke or moved again.

  Hagard remembers the agony and sorrow their family went through for the next week. His mother wailed, wouldn’t see anyone. Ava took care of Duril while he and his brothers were working the smithy shop, making sure their family didn’t lose their house or livelihood. But then Hagard couldn’t handle it anymore. He’d packed a bag, but before he left, he’d opened the trunk.

  Now, Hagard exhales, running his thumb along the metal rim. The band was packed away tightly in a cloth, likely a memory for his father of what a violent drunk his own father was. Hagard puts it to his forehead, the cold stings but he doesn’t care.

  A voice makes his heart stop.

  “I can’t believe you still have dat.”

  His hand starts shaking, the violence of it something he’s only experienced when he was sobering up all those months ago. Closing his eyes, he tries to pretend he never heard it. To erase it from his mind and smash the wall of memory it was etched in.

  He doesn’t succeed.

  “Silence never looked right on you, Gard.” A pat on his shoulder makes his heart jump out of his chest. He has no courage to look at the dwarf as he sits next to him. “Yer really not going ta say anyting?”

  His voice is caught in his throat. He can hardly breathe, but this dwarf is asking him to talk, to say hello, to ask how he’s been over the past two decades.

  “Hagard, really. I will get Lottie ta sit on ya. He’s gained a fair amount of weight since ye abandoned us.”

  Oh, that word. It stings.

  “I—”

  “Oh, so you can talk?” Dom’s tone is angry, spiteful, and hurt. “Dat’s great to know because we tought you never came back because you lost yer tongue!” He stands, but Hagard jumps up after him and grabs his wrist.

  “Don’t walk away from me!”

  “I’d say you sound like Papa, but you don’t deserve dat compliment.” He looks at the sky. “Wait, I just said—”

  Hagard embraces h
im in a hug. “I’m glad you are alive.”

  It takes a minute, but Dom hugs him back. “Of course, I’m alive. I’ve been at de smity, not fighting a war.”

  Hagard pulls away. “I’ve been fighting a war.”

  “Yeah, we know. All of Lauden is talkin’ about ya.”

  “How do dey even know?”

  He shrugs. “De farmer who gave you his horse told a bunch of us on his way trew Ailand. Why did you tell him you were going nort’ to fight in de battle?”

  “Sleep deprivation?”

  “Aye.”

  Hagard rubs the back of his neck. “Look…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had a dream and I put it before my family. I never should have done dat.”

  “No, you shouldn’t’ve.” Dom sighs. “But you did. And dere’s not’ing anyone can do to bring back de time we lost. We’re family, Gard. And we’re dwarves. It’ll only take a song and a few beers to cry our forgiveness.” He puts his hand on Hagard’s shoulder. “So…would you get drunk wit’ your broters?”

  Hagard chuckles. Dom hasn’t changed a bit, except for the beard on his face and a slight age to his eyes. But still, he’s the same brother he’s always been. He always thought seeing his brothers again would be some grand affair, with him coming home with war medallions and a scale vest of the dragon he slayed. But this is better. Simpler. Intimate. But better. Hagard grins. “Sweet sentiment for a drunken night.”

  “Is dat a yes?”

  He nods. “Do you even need to ask?”

  Aradon watches Hagard joyously reuniting with what must be his brothers from the flap of a distant Red Warrior tent. Lucky for him, he gets a tent to himself, not having to share with those who want to kill him. He isn’t sure where he stands with the Red Warriors, but he can tell by their steely gazes, it’s somewhere between a rock and a hard place.

  Turning into his tent, he sits on a blanket, no plush pillows like the royals will have. He finds them uncomfortable, he’d rather sleep on the ground. Grabbing his sheath, he takes out an arrow and starts sharpening the bronze. He only vaguely remembers becoming Slayer seven months ago, when he was under Revera’s magical influence. He couldn’t bend his bronze bow. He can now, no problem. It’s a mystery that will likely remain unsolved for the rest of his life.