by Franc Ingram
Cornelius loved holing up in mountains, so Lorn figured the best place to start his search for his mother was the mountain range just inside the Failsea border. Ivar was rumored to have a stronghold somewhere on Mount Remorse, the highest peak in the mountain range. Every now and then, Lorn would feel an inkling of Oleana at the back of his mind, but he couldn't be sure it was really her, or just a ghost feeling he was clinging to. Yet the further he walked, the stronger it got, and his mother always taught him to trust his instincts.
The idea of going it alone felt right in his head when he started out. He knew it might be his last chance. But now that he was exhausted, traveling through unfamiliar woods, and the sun was dipping low in the sky, Lorn questioned whether he was truly up for the task. He should have at least conscripted a few of the Rangers. He was their king, they had to obey his commands. As the trees towered over him refracting what sunlight was left and leaving eerie shadows, Lorn thought about turning around.
Then he remembered how long his mother had been in the hands of Cornelius, and he couldn't take the thought of her staying there one more minute if he could save her. Lorn took a minute to get his bearings. When he started off he was just running in a general direction, mostly away from the fighting, and generally toward where Failsea's border should have been.
After what must have been an hour of stumbling around, Lorn wasn't even sure what realm he was in. He knew there were border markers around somewhere, but he hadn't been paying attention enough to look for them. All he had been worried about was being followed or running into more yetis.
Lorn looked around for any sign of where he might be. The only hint that he was headed in the right direction was an absence of the soothing rhythms of the sea crashing against the cliffs. The terrain was also getting rockier, so Lorn guessed he was coming up on the more mountainous region that lay inside of Failsea.
All noises of battle were long behind him. Lorn wondered if he might actually find a place to rest. From his study of the maps at the Crystal Tower, he knew Caledonia to be at least a day and a half's journey from the crest of the mountains. Tired from the battle and low on provisions, Lorn didn't think his body would take him that far without water and rest.
The nights were cold with the first touches of winter and he was in battle gear, not really designed for keeping a man warm in the wild. He needed a fire. His mother always warned him his impulsiveness was going to get him in trouble one day. He was definitely facing that day. But she also taught him how to survive with nothing but his training and wits to rely on.
Taking the chance of losing more precious energy, Lorn chose a sturdy, tall tree and climbed it as carefully as he could manage. He was grateful for his protective arm guards, for the tree bark was rough. As he struggled for hand holds, it scraped open some of the older callouses on his dried-out hands. Lorn pushed the pain in his hands and the burning in his shoulders and thighs to the back of his mind.
He climbed as far as the tree would take him. Lorn couldn't hazard stepping out onto the thinner branches at the very top. Clouds were rolling in, so Lorn gave them a nudge without a second thought. Clouds were easy to manipulate. A little wind pulled off the cooler ocean and he was in control. Storms were another matter altogether, so many different pieces and parts that had to work together to get what he wanted. Calling lightning and directing all that energy was a major pain. But it was also thrilling, and Lorn loved the challenge.
One day he would get the hang of tornadoes. His last one dissipated before it even got a good spin on it. He did manage to deflect a natural tornado a few months back, and saved a town in Arismas. Not bad for someone under the age of seventeen.
With the cloud gone, Lorn could see to the horizon. He spotted the mountain range. His current direction would have carried him south of it, forcing him to scale some steep hills to get back on track. He also spotted something more promising, a gap in the tree line that could mean either the river, or a road. Either way it led into the mountains. At best, Lorn could follow the path until he found some signs of a camp. At worst, he could use the path to find his way back into the Wild Zone and beg for forgiveness.
Sitting back on the tree branch, the few leaves still attached falling off at his touch, Lorn pushed the second option away. He would not return to Evermore without his mother. Alive or...well, she had to be alive. There was no other option.
Lorn wanted to stay in the tree and rest but if he tumbled off in his sleep, the fall would surely break his back. He summoned up what strength he had left and lowered himself down the hard, old tree. It was more like a controlled fall that would have scraped off all his skin had he been unprotected. Instead he left flecks of red leather embedded in the bark, and some of his blood from the cuts in his hand. Drawing his bow was going to be killer for the next couple weeks. There had to be a way to make gloves that protected his hands yet didn't interfere with using his bow.
Once his feet hit the ground, Lorn collapsed in a heap. His breathing came in ragged gulps. He laid his head on the crisp, dried leaves that covered the ground, trying to get his body under control. The cold ground sapped more energy than it gave, turning his sweat into beads of ice against his skin.
"I think I may have rushed into this a little unprepared." Lorn told the sky above. He could see the faint outline of the rings where The Twelve lay. He wanted so desperately for them to reach out and talk to him, give him some direction, maybe even a glimmer of hope. Yet all he heard were the chirping of birds and the squeaks of some unknown animal scurrying through the brush.
Lorn didn't like the silence. Never did. Spent too much of his formative years huddled in dark alleys forced to be still and silent, waiting for danger to pass by him like the shadow of death. Once he started to feel safe in Oleana's care, he filled their home with the sound of his play and the changing tones of his voice, which she encouraged every step of the way. "At least I have some semblance of a plan and," Lorn sat up, his bow and quiver digging painfully into his back, "the weapons I love. I know there has to be something edible in this forsaken forest. What else could I need?"
Lorn forced his legs under him, not liking how shaky he felt. He kept three steps in mind. He always did better with small goals. They were more manageable, not so overwhelming. All he needed to do was,
Find the River.
Find Food.
Find Shelter.
After that, it would be a new day and the possibilities were always endless with a new day. One day Lorn was a beggar on the street, the next he had a mother who loved him, a cozy bed to sleep in, and a full belly. One day Lorn was just a hyper-active teenager who had enough fight training to rival that of Ranger squad leaders, and a thirst for knowledge that would have put most students to shame. The next, he was a king who was expected to unite five warring realms into one peaceful paradise. A day could change a lot of things. By the end of tomorrow Lorn would know for sure where his mother was.
The silence felt heavy on his chest, pushing him forward. "Okay so I'm on my own. Not the first time. I know what to do. Find the road, river, whatever. Don't get killed along the way. How hard can that be?" Lorn tripped over a half-hidden tree root, landing on his knees. "I'm guessing pretty hard," he said as he stood. He brushed the dirt off his legs and kept going. Forward. It was the only direction, the only thing that mattered.
01101001
Lorn found himself on the rocky banks of the Talian River, a tiny tributary of the Alignment. The sight of crisp cool water nearly brought him to tears. He began to run through the trees toward the water until he spotted the signs of a camp.
Lorn froze, pulling his sword from its holder at his hip. He spun around looking for any signs of his enemy. He saw nothing but wide-open space. A closer look at the campsite showed it was old, the fire pit long since abandoned, leaves having fallen over the cold burnt logs. The discarded chicken bones were pitted from flies that had their way with it. Lorn laughed, overcome by his relief.
"Almost walked ri
ght into trouble there. Mom would have kept me from running off like that with one of her stern looks. Never thought I would actually miss them. But she'll be back to telling me to calm down in no time, then Leith will stop looking at me like he's afraid I'm going to blow away with the next stiff wind. The guy worries too much." Lorn put his hands in the river, intending to scoop up some water. The coldness of the rushing water soothed the burning in his cracked flesh, so he just let it run over his palms until his mouth couldn't take the wait anymore.
Lorn greedily shoveled water into his mouth, feeling his body temperature drop with every cold sip, and remembering just how exposed he was. The sun was leaving, almost completely buried under the horizon, taking with it what little warmth could be found.
As he knelt there on the bank shivering, Lorn saw something that both made his day and made him mad. A pink fish jumped out of the water inches from his face, diving back in as quickly as it came and disappearing down the river. Fish plus fire would have made his night but the river was fast and cold, and he had nothing to make a net or cast a line. Not enough light left to rig something up either. His choices were to ignore the food so close by, or get wet and pray that he didn't get caught in the current and get too cold for the fire to warm him up, a fire that he hadn't even started yet.
Lorn wanted to scream. His belly grumbled. He shivered in his boots and he stood at the bank frozen, unsure of what to do. He felt as sure as he'd ever been about going after his mother, but deciding whether to catch fish was a problem too big for him to solve alone. How foolish had he been to think he could be a king. He couldn't even survive a night on his own.
Lorn jumped into the water with both feet, tired of wasting precious light. The bitter cold traveled through his armor and layers of cotton padding straight through to his marrow. Lorn could imagine the frost crystals forming in his blood stream, choking the life out of him. His teeth clattered together like cymbals.
But he moved forward anyway. Forward was all that mattered. He took one shaky step after another until he found what looked to be the center of the river and a flat area to stand on. Once Lorn had his shaking knees under control he braced himself against the steady pull of the current. He stood hunched over, as still as he could manage, and waited. The waiting was torture, the frigid water felt like it was stripping skin off as it rushed past.
His mind wandered, trying to distract him from the biting cold. He remembered his mother teaching him how to milk the cow on their farm. He remembered being so scared that the animal would kick him if he didn't do it just right. Oleana placed her hands over his showing him the correct motions.
He also remembered the first time she put a sword in his hand. Most people started off with wooden practice swords, but his mother insisted he learn from the start how dangerous the real thing could be, get a feel for the weight and movement of steel.
Lorn missed the first fish that jumped up, distracted by his musings. It sailed past him before he could even move to catch it. He had to stay focused. Lorn breathed through his nose, taking in the fresh misty air that hummed off the river. There was a distinctive mineral tang to it that must have come from the riverbed. The stone beneath was a beautiful fuchsia color that seemed to glow in the low light. Lorn was intrigued by the swirls of white running through the rock. He wondered what could have produced such an odd composite. He filed that question away at the back of his mind for another time. Kameke would know. She knew everything. Except how to get The Twelve to speak up.
Another fish headed his way and this time Lorn was ready for it. It leapt into the air to overcome a large rock that was protruding from the riverbed. Lorn snapped his fingers around it mid-flight. The scales were rough and slippery. The fish contorted to get free of his grip but Lorn held on. He rushed back to the bank with his prize in hand. Once he got close enough to the rocks Lorn smashed the fish against a rocky protrusion until it ceased fighting. Lorn threw the fish on a nearby patch of grass before returning to his fishing spot.
When the sun was gone for the night and the stars shown as brightly as a rainbow, Lorn had three fish and a fire going. He was so tired he'd moved past the aches and pains his body had been plaguing him with and into the land of numbness. His brain felt foggy. He had a hard time focusing on a task, remembering what the next step was, but the smell off cooking fish kept his limbs in motion. He'd stripped off most of his wet clothes and sat as close to the fire as he dared. Then he moved closer until he felt the little hairs on his legs withering from the heat, but it felt so good he refused to move.
Lorn got through one fish before his body refused to obey him anymore. It needed rest and was going to take it whether he liked it or not. He had all night to figure out what his next move would be, so he let his eyes fall closed and Lorn dreamed of tearful reunions and viscous enemies.
CHAPTER SIX: BITTERNESS AND BIRTH
Heading up the line of refugees, Leith called for a halt once the river was in sight. Lysander was grateful for the respite. His arms felt like they would fall off if he had to carry his father another inch. They had left all sounds of battle long ago and ran into no further trouble. The warriors of Gaeth and Failsea must have been too busy celebrating their win to bother the battered refugees. The river's edge was as good a place as any to rest for the night. They could follow its branch straight into the Wild Zone and to Evermore.
Looking around, he noticed the area was relatively flat and had enough grass cover to be as comfortable as they could expect outdoors. He saw several good spots to station scouts as a lookout. Their retreat wasn't stealthy. With so many civilians to look after, enemy troops would be tempted to attack the weak. Lysander wanted to push forward until they were safely back at Evermore with its medical facilities, but they couldn't risk taking the slow-moving, lumbering group into the untamed terrain at night.
"Settle here for the night," Leith called back to the crowd. "Squat along the bank an' get comfortable."
A collective sigh rippled through the civilians, and Lysander knew they had been putting on a brave face along the march, but they were all tired and needed rest. They needed time to process all they had just lost.
Finding a flat, secluded spot to put Nadir down, Lysander and Wade lowered their burden as gently as they could. Nadir groaned weakly then made no other sign of protest. He was alive, they could deal with the rest in Evermore.
Jonathan pushed his way through the settling crowd. He glanced down at Lysander and Nadir. A fleeting look of sorrow passed over his face like a death mask. Then he caught sight of Leith and powered forward.
"We lost Caledonia, lost the head of the river, and almost lost a great leader," Jonathan spat, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger at Leith's chest. His face was red and beads of sweat collected on his forehead despite the cool breeze coming in off the river. "All because you Kings are a discordant, untrained trio of incompetents."
Lysander stood, opened his mouth to object but Leith was faster.
"Be not the time or place," Leith half-whispered through gritted teeth. The ex-thief looked like he was going to crumble under the weight of his own clothes, and Lysander felt the same. All his energy was focused on worrying about his father. There was nothing left to deal with Jonathan's delicate ego.
"I expected better of you three," Jonathan yelled his voice cracking with barely contained rage, his hands thrust up in the air. "This plan was reckless from the start and look what it got us. If this is the best three kings of legend can do, then I'm starting to think Darten was wrong in placing our future in your hands."
Lysander wanted to let it go, wanted to walk away, but the argument was fast drawing a crowd. Soldiers from multiple realms were watching. Citizens of Caledonia were caught up too. Lysander couldn't just let the insult pass. He grabbed the older man's shoulder and forced Jonathan to look him in the eye.
"You may be a respected councilor where you're from," Lysander yelled, "but here you should learn your place. Win or lose, the results rest
on our shoulders," he pointed between himself and Leith. "We make the battlefield decisions and trust our men to respond in kind. We lost that fight." Lysander paused, the image of his father being run through flashed in front of his eyes. His panic and grief flaring up enough to choke the life out of his words. He blinked back tears and swallowed hard against the bitter taste of his own failure. "We lost not because of tactics, but because we were outnumbered and out-flanked. We managed to get so many safe because of Leith's quick thinking." Lysander stuck his finger in Jonathan's chest, tapping against the hard armor, and staring into the older man's hard, blue eyes that had no yield in them. "So, the next time you think about questioning me, consider whether you're doing it out of jealousy or just plain ignorance."
Jonathan brushed Lysander's hand away with a roughness that rattled the sword at his hip. "I feel sorry for the world forced to live under a king like you, you arrogant..."
A woman's scream cut through the air forcing every head in earshot to turn and look. The woman was in a group of disheveled Caledonia villagers looking for a good spot to settle in. She doubled over gripping a belly so round she looked like she might split at the seams.
She was going into labor in the middle of a grassy field, next to the river bank, at twilight. Lysander forgot all about Jonathan and rushed to her side. The crowd backed away as Lysander moved in, Jonathan and Leith right beside him.
"By The Twelve, are you okay? What do we do?" Lysander squealed, his heart in his throat.
"I'm sorry sires," the woman wheezed between sucking in big breaths. "I felt the pains all day, but I thought I could hold out until we got somewhere safe. I don't want to have my baby out here like this! I don't know where my husband is, and I can't do this by myself," her voice rose with every syllable, tears rolling down her puffy cheeks. Her grip was like a vise squeezing Lysander's hand.
