by R. T. Donlon
Ursel, a fine hunter, but an even better mercenary. He had worked most of his life in the Highlands, but devoted his work to the Flatlands—his true home.
Axile, a master of the rituals from the Highlands who prided herself on adherence to the guardianship of all Portizu laws.
Drice, expert spearman from deep within the Jungle Territories, had accepted the Elite’s call with fervor.
Finally, the master archer of the Mountains—Fenir—a Warrior said to be able to kill anything from even impossible distances.
These were the most successful of the Portizu Tribes—those that would end Kyrah forever.
The Pack arrived within hours of calling. The sound of sharpening arrow tips, furnishing wooden spears, and the soft murmurs of Warriors resonated through the Highlands Palace. Collectively, they understood what they were getting themselves into and, for the most brutal of Warriors in all of the lands, this would be the Hunt of a lifetime.
“Filthy magic,” growled Ursel. “That bitch called herself one of us.”
Fenir lifted his eyes, but did not speak. Smeared ink layered his eye sockets into craters—perpetual white orbs lost in an abyss of overdone warpaint.
“But she was one of our best. If magic can change someone this quickly, what can the Shadows be up to beyond the Wall?” said Drice.
Ursel funneled his anger into the sharpener. The sound of grinding stones echoed from the corner of the room.
“Control yourself, brother,” Curala spoke calmly. “We will need the heart of taerji if we are to survive this.”
“Survive?” barked Axile. “We must and we will! This girl is an abomination!”
“But one with which we must tread carefully. She was one of us for far too long. Our people have been connected to her. To break those bonds will mean to accept the ultimate sacrifice.”
Axile, who felt a perpetual anger of her own bubbling at the base of her throat, swallowed it as if it were a rock, grimacing the entire way.
“I apologize, Elite. We all manifest pain in our different ways. My manifestation is in argument.”
Curala ran his own sharpening rock against the blade of his longsword. A slew of orange sparks fluttered to the floor.
“I know you well, Axile. There is no need for apologies. You have every right to feel betrayed. It is why we find ourselves here, in the midst of such a Hunt.”
He lowered his eyes and taerji deepened. He felt only emptiness, only truth.
“I have chosen you four because I respect the mastery of your craft. I have also chosen you because of your dedication to taerji. To make the best decision does not always mean making the right decision. Only in taerji can we know the truth. To kill one of our own—even such an abomination as Kyrah Laeth—is something unimaginable. Without the trance, your mind will surrender when you lay eyes on her. You will surrender to your Portizu ideals, perhaps even forget the hatred you have for her! I know because I have seen it happen—even to the best of us. It is because of this that I ask each of you to trust me. Do not relinquish taerji for any reason during the Hunt. Maintain focus. Harvest your pain. When the act is done and the girl is killed, you will understand why I have asked you to do such things.”
The four Warriors stopped their stone scratchings, nervous ticks, and heavy breathing. They listened to their leader with ferocious intent and, for the first time, Curala the Forgotten no longer felt out of place. He was trusted, admired.
“I will, my Elite,” Axile spoke, standing. She beat a strong fist against her chest.
“As will I,” bellowed Ursel.
“I, as well,” said Drice through Warrior-clad confidence.
All waited for Fenir to join, but his hollow eyes only sifted through the camaraderie.
“Fenir?” Curala spoke. “There is no harm in speaking your admonishments. We are among allies, among brothers and sisters.”
Fenir rested a newly furnished set of arrows in front of him on a wicker table, silently pulling his hands back gently from them as he stood. He straightened his back and withdrew his shoulders, allowing his hollow eyes to meet Curala’s stern glare.
“I will do as the Warrior Elite wishes, but I will admit that taerji for a Mountain Warrior is filled with much more danger than you can ever understand. There is an unpredictability in it that cannot be accounted for,” said Fenir.
No one in the room had ever heard the archer speak more than four words at a time, so the words came as a surprise.
“Only you know the dangers of such things,” Curala replied, “but I, too, am aware of the Lost Warriors of the Mountains. It is this that you speak of, I assume? You are surrounded here by the most successful Warriors of all the Tribes. We will not allow you to lose yourself. That is a promise.”
Fenir offered no resistance, nor acceptance, of Curala’s reassuring words. He simply stood with shoulders flexed. His hard eyes shone like glass.
“In the name of Turisic, we shall not fail,” Curala barked. “Trust in your god. Trust in your people. Trust in me.”
And with that, five of the Portizu’s best Warriors set out to hunt the sixth.
“We will find her,” Curala growled, “and we will make our Tribes proud.”
THE WALL (PRESENT)
They walked mile after mile through jungle and plain.
Not ran, but walked.
Kyrah felt every cut stone, every blade of sawgrass, even the plush of softened dirt under her feet as she never had before. She kept herself from boredom and worry by maintaining her breathing—slow, rhythmic draws of oxygen in, then even slower pushes out.
“There isn’t much north of here,” Kyrah said, “except—”
She knew where they were headed the moment she thought it.
“You know where we are headed, do you not?” Lider replied. Those glowing blue eyes swam in glossy white. “It is time, Kyrah.”
Time for what? she thought.
She considered asking, but she held it back behind her teeth. In only a few more minutes they would reach their destination—Relu’s Wall—and the mission of the monster would come to fruition.
Renay walked behind the others. It had grown cold as the sun dropped to the West, so she kept her arms interlocked for some semblance of warmth. She kept silent, only speaking when being spoken to, swiping intermittently at insects threatening to take blood from her exposed skin.
“The Wall will rise on the horizon over there. The evening sun will give us just enough time before the Shadows take full strength in the night,” Lider explained. “It is time to prove your worth to us.”
Kyrah stopped walking.
“Worth? We had a deal. You save my mother and I join your group. That’s it.”
Lider smiled while the monster snarled.
“You’ve spent every day training for this moment and now you wish to waste it? And why? Because of fear? Enough games, Warrior. It is time to show us why I have chosen you to protect us from the Shadows of the Tension Fields.”
Renay buckled. Had the monster just said what she thought it said? Only the strongest of Ix’a Scouts were allowed to venture past the expanse of the Fields. It had been deemed too dangerous some time ago by the Elders. Lider twitched somewhere behind the expressionless visage of his blue eyes while Kyrah controlled her breathing, keeping herself close to taerji but not enough to fully immerse.
“The Tension Fields are impassable,” said Kyrah. “The Portizu built the wall in memory of Relu because the Fields had already grown too difficult to travel. And with the arrival of even more Shadows, it’s made things even worse…”
“ENOUGH!” Lider barked.
The word contained enough force to change Kyrah’s stature, like a strong enough wind to knock her off her feet. She bent her knees, close to wuru, no longer complacent, but the monster within the boy had already calmed.
“You have yet to reach your potential, Kyrah. If it becomes necessary, I will force it out of you. I will not allow a single member of my group to succumb to
something as pitiful as fear before they have seen what can truly become of themselves.”
Kyrah hesitated, lifting her eyes to those of Lider’s—slowly and collectedly.
“I don’t even know what to call you,” she said. “How can I trust you if you have never even offered me your name?”
The voice seemed nothing but calm, apathetic. It was in complete control.
“I go by many names, but you most likely have only heard of one,” Lider spoke. “The Ruganon.”
She felt her heart fight against the trained breathing of taerji. Each thump brought her closer to tears. She battled the flood of emotions ripping their way to the forefront of her softened eyes.
“This has changed things for you,” Lider whispered. “I can feel it. You have heard of me, haven’t you?”
Kyrah nodded. She had heard the stories of the final battle of Brax the Finisher and the monster, but to see the beast this close was an entirely different narrative. Had the Portizu been right all along? Had she succumbed to twisted magic?
“I have sacrificed my entire world for you,” Kyrah growled. If it were not for the taerji state, she would have found herself screaming. “I had everything.”
“You are not doing this for me…or yourself, for that matter,” the boy said. “You are doing this for your mother, your father. It will serve you best to remember that.”
She breathed and peered forward toward the Wall. She could see the first of it appearing over the horizon line.
“I don’t know how to feel,” she said. “I have heard the stories of you—stories that bring grown men to their knees.”
“Then you know that we have much work to do…all in such a very short amount of time. You will have pursuers. They will not hesitate to kill—”
But before the Ruganon could finish what it had to say, Kyrah had already bolted for the wall.
By the time the others caught up to Kyrah, she had already scaled the Wall’s Eldervarn frame. The edges of her silhouette burned against the setting sun and she hopped from one plank to the next, pulling herself up gracefully across the latticework wooden face.
“She’s scared. You scared her,” Renay whispered. They watched from the base. “She is not who I thought she would be. I thought the Portizu were immune to fear?”
“No, my dear,” the Ruganon replied. “They are just very good at hiding it.” His eyes flickered to the first footrest across interwoven planks of wood. “We must join her at the top. We must climb.”
“There is a strength in her, though,” Renay continued. “That I can see.”
“She is stronger than you could possibly imagine,” he said. “The others will be, too. Everybody serves a purpose. Everybody. It will do you best to remember that.”
There was heat behind the monster’s words directed at her.
“There are more like her?”
“Of course,” the monster continued. “This is only the beginning.”
One panel to the next, Renay pulled herself up. Lider followed quickly behind her. They reached the rough peak of Relu’s Wall just as the last glimmers of sunlight vanished from the horizon. An agitated wind had increased from the north, threatening to fling them from the cliff.
Kyrah stood with her back to the others. Her Warrior tunic fluttered against her dark skin.
“When you stole me from the fight with Curala in the Highlands, I thought that would be the end of it, but I should have known. Curala will never stop. His thirst for blood will never cease.”
“I should have known better,” the monster replied. “I should have been a bit more…elusive.”
“We have created an enemy for life. Everywhere we go now, we must watch over our shoulder.”
Kyrah lowered her eyes, recognizing the chill of twilight.
“He must be eliminated. If he will not stop—” the monster continued.
“No!” Kyrah barked.
The raw curiosity behind Lider’s eyes surprised even Kyrah.
“Curala the Forgotten is the only remaining Warrior to assume the stature of Warrior Elite. Without a leader, the Portizu Tribespeople will descend into chaos, anarchy. Curala will mend the wounds that I have opened and unify the Tribes in my absence. He will be their master of taerji. He will be the leader our people need. He will take over for Velc Tahjir.”
The Ruganon paused. The name returned memories he wished not to remember.
“What is it?” Renay asked. “What’s wrong?”
The Ruganon turned to the two women across from him, then directed his squinting gaze into the tree line below.
“We have company.”
The jungle at night contained the calls of savage animals and the whistling of haunting winds, but the calm of taerji stilled their minds. The Pack ran single file through the uprooted paths of the Northern jungle and reached the Wall.
“Three all together,” Axile whispered, squinting through the darkness. “They are all up there.”
“One of them is the girl,” Drice interjected. “I can feel it.”
“We all feel it. She’s here,” said Curala.
“But the fact that she is not alone—” said Ursel.
“Curala, what’s the plan?” interrupted Axile.
Curala stilled for a moment, allowing the core of taerji to wrestle his stirring emotions. He felt the distant, but looming thump-thump of his heart cool into only a pitter-patter, like rain dripping from a windowsill.
“The lightest of the crew should approach from the western side of the Wall, near the Impassable Cliffs. Another will scale the eastern slope, just beyond the Great Chasm. The others of us will wait.”
There was a feigning expression of disdain that fluttered its way through the group’s collective expression, then disappeared quicker than it had emerged.
Fenir took one step forward.
“I will go first,” he said. “Archers have the lightest feet and the sharpest aim.”
Ursel stepped forward, but offered only an outstretched open palm.
“It will only be fitting if you take the eastern post, Elite. This is your kill. A death by any other means will not be of the same significance to our people.”
Curala processed Ursel’s proposal for only a moment, then agreed.
“Go, Fenir. I am right behind you,” began Curala.
The archer took off in a bolt of speed.
The Warrior Elite turned to the rest of his crew of Portizu mercenaries and spoke a final, few words.
“Do not forget—always in taerji. Always.”
“Go, Teacher,” Axile spoke. “Make our people proud.”
Curala turned with eyes focused to the top of the Wall.
“The girl is mine,” he whispered.
And he knew, above all else, this would be true.
Lider pointed out across the Tension Fields.
“We must be beyond the Fields before morning,” he explained. “Otherwise we will miss our chance.”
“By morning? That’s impossible!” Renay spat. “No one has crossed the Fields quicker than three days! There are Shadow Clouds every hundred feet!”
“Easy,” the monster spoke, lifting an open palm in her direction. “Kyrah will get us there.”
“Our chance for what?” Kyrah asked. “What is beyond the Fields?”
“I do not have time to explain,” the monster spoke, increasing the volume of his tone. “It’s now or never.”
The first of the arrows zipped past Kyrah’s face, cutting a small slash in the flesh of her ear. The sound of it startled her from taerji. She grimaced at its pain, then harnessed the energy into the balls of her fists. Another arrow whipped passed the artery in her leg, missing by less than an inch. She turned toward the attacker on the other side of the Wall, but a third arrow cut a deep gash in her shoulder. She dropped to one knee and lifted her eyes. Only the black shape of a man with bow in hand stood at the far end of the wall.
“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” he spoke. “I could end this
now…or you can tell me what this is all about.”
Lider lifted a hand toward the archer, but Kyrah waved it away.
“Don’t,” she said. “I can handle this. This is my battle to be win.”
“If you can’t, I will.”
“Who are these outsiders?” Fenir barked. “And why have you abandoned your rightful position? It doesn’t make sense, Kyrah. You are shaming your family—your father, your people, me.”
Kyrah stepped forward. She had not recognized the voice until now. The archer stepped forward, allowing the silver light of stars and moon to wash over his already sullen face.
“Fenir,” Kyrah whispered. “Is that you?”
He nodded sternly. She allowed the tips of her fingers to brush his jawline from ear to chin. There was something between them—a spark, a hint of intimacy long ago extinguished.
Lider and Renay watched from a distance.
“It has been such a long time,” she whispered.
“Why are you doing this? Everything you trained for—”
Kyrah bowed her head in disappointment. It was enough to stop Fenir’s disillusioned rant.
“Fenir, you will see soon enough. I am not doing this for me. I am doing this for—”
The distinct sound of metal clamoring against wood transcended the whistling of the wind. Curala’s longsword clanked over the lip of the wall. The Elite pulled himself up and over with both hands.
Fenir stepped backward, drawing his bow, loaded with a jaggedly finished arrow.
“Trust me,” Kyrah directed toward the archer. “See it in my eyes, Fenir. I am thinking clearly. My intentions are pure.”
Curala rose to his feet. He flipped the sleeves of his tunic so that they tightened around the meat of his arms. His shoulders and arms flexed against seams, threatening to rip through. Intimidating, yes, but more for show. What Kyrah saw was not the ropes of muscles behind fabric, but the beads of sweat rolling from the Elite’s bald head down to the sides of his face.
“So it has come to this,” Curala yelled. “I have tried so many times to end you, Kyrah Laeth, but you continue to find ways to escape, in cowardice, no less.”
