Beyond the Bridge

by C D Beaudin

  Remembering the early years can be difficult, knowing how reckless and ruthless he was as a young Red Warrior. Terrifyingly dangerous. That's what the people of Mortal knew him to be. He was legended to be a Besged, a super being, with long life and enhanced abilities, making him even more feared. Of course, no one knew whether him being one of the Besged was real—Aradon kept the truth hidden. He still does.

  He went into hiding, living with the Tanea for years, until he could no longer be recognized as the murderous young man he was. Slayer. That's what he was called. His face used to strike fear in the eyes of men. The Killer of Kings. Many of his “missions” were to kill leaders. “Political stands.” That's what his employers used to call them. Of course he didn't care, he just wanted another job. A part of him liked cutting his victims’ throats, stabbing them in the back. It wasn't until Lily that he realized how much of a monster he was.

  The memories make him shake his head, disgusted at himself.

  “Do you understand what I want you to do?” General Mekah's face had held no uncertainty. He wanted this. He didn't care about what he was asking Aradon to do.

  In Aradon's mind, all he could think about was—could he actually do the assignment? Not many Red Warriors could, not many criminals could. Could. More like would. Who would do something like that? Something so harsh, terrible? Something so evil?

  “Yes,” Aradon had said with a flat tone, hoping surety was written on his face. He’d known if he was going to do that, he'd do it without remorse or pity, without uncertainty, with one hundred percent will for the assignment. “By dawn, blood will have been shed.”

  Leaving the room, he’d whipped up his hood to cover his tied back hair, and his hand had rested gently on his sword. He’d walked swiftly down the long hall of the general's house. More like a small palace, the King of Rohidia paid his generals too much, not knowing of their greed and cruelty. Well, at least Mekah.

  Servants stopped to stare at him, the young girls trembled slightly as his dark figure walked past them, seeming to know he had the purpose to kill in his gait. They all knew who he was. Slayer. The name he was known by everywhere. Stories said he’d killed more than two hundred people, and he'd never been in a war. He was hired. Many called him an assassin, but Red Warriors were trained for more than that. They take down kings.

  The original purpose for the Red Warriors was to protect the people of Nomarah from invaders and warring kings. The first king of Nomarah, King Idies, created them for that purpose. When he died, and the land went into ruin, the Red Warriors became men of myth, wandering the countryside, stowing away into different and sometimes far off countries. They were men of honor. Now they’re either dead or faded with the countryside. Many had gone to live with the Tanea, the birthplace of the Red Warriors. Today, they continue to train new cadets, but are feared, not held high in the eyes of men, like they were in the First Age.

  Aradon had made eye contact with one girl, and she’d fallen to the ground, hiding her head in her arms. He’d stopped in his tracks. A young boy, no doubt her brother, had rushed to her from across the hall, putting his arms around her and looking protectively at Aradon. The boy, no older than fourteen, looked like he would be ready to die for his sister.

  Ready to die. Immediately they’d seen him as the reaper of death. At that moment, he’d realized that maybe he was growing up, or maybe he had seen too much death. And the life of the young, taken from them before they had a chance to do anything, to be someone, was something he no longer wanted a part of.

  He’d looked away, and closed his eyes, grasping the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He ran down the hall, squeezing his eyes, shutting the emotions away. There had been no room for feeling in his life, but it became harder for him to fight them.

  Outside the small castle, Aradon shuffled down the long flight of wooden steps. The servants in the courtyard and by the small wooden houses that made up Mekah’s servants’ quarters stopped, staring at him as he hurriedly ran down the steps. He’d been in flight mode, when fight was his usual gait. Mounting his horse, he’d urged it on, faster and faster, till he was going fast enough that the villa behind him had disappeared within minutes.

  Trees had flown past him on either side as he galloped down the plains, the sound of the river flowing through the forest. He knew getting to Watergate would be easy enough. Getting out of it would be a different story.

  A mountain away had lain Asgoreth, and within it, Watergate, the small town filled with narrow rivers that ran through the village, creating six little islands. But that night, no happiness would dwell in the houses of the Asgorethian town. The Blood Moon would rise at midnight, signifying the mark of thirty souls, passed to the Isle of the Dead.

  Aradon had looked up at the mighty mountain face. Trees bordered the base, and snow capped the summit, just visible from the clouds above. The darkening sky had reddened with the coming dusk. Turning into the forest, he had spied the path that many used to sneak in and out of Rohidia and Asgoreth. It ran between the two mountains, with a narrow, but usable path, heavily sheltered by brush and trees. Many rode horses through here since it was a small and shallow river. Besides, a horse with no rider would bring attention to the kings, and Red Warriors frequented the path.

  At the base of the mountain, Aradon had peered into the dusky path. He’d turned his horse in, making the way through the long passage, the water splashing the horse’s legs. Looking up, he’d admired the sky, a light orange, with purple and blue as the sky faded into night above. Faint stars could be seen, with a purple gaze from the lilac sky below them.

  A rigid turn in the river had made it difficult for his horse to move, making the horse squeal as Aradon tugged on the reins, trying to straighten the beast out. It may have been common to take horses through there, but that didn’t mean it was the easiest thing to do.

  Emerging from the path, relief washed through him, but was short-lived when his conscience started poking at him again. He remembered his thoughts. This was just cruel. Anyone who would do this was just cruel. He’d cocked his head, feeling the relief of the bone crack, and shook off the doubts, however prominent they were.

  Through the night he galloped, the chill of the dark sky above, lit up with the millions of stars that inhabit the heavens, basking in the light of the Everstar, a bright, shining symbol of hope and creation. The grass, a dark green, and the forest of Radian on the other side of the plain, still had a slight glow against the night. But the firelight yonder created an orange haze on the plains, and the trickling of the rivers that made up the town.

  He rode up onto the dirt path, looking below at the river flowing close to him, separated by a small patch of grass, while fifty feet away was another flowing river, a small bridge over each of them. The six rivers created a circle, outlined by the town, and a stone courtyard where they met.

  Aradon had spied the house—a small, wooden building, with a dim light showing through the draped window. Dismounting, he hadn’t bothered to tie his horse up, knowing a swift escape would be imminent.

  He had hesitated as he put his fist to the door. I can do this. Swift, simple. He knocked on the door. A moment had passed, with no sound coming from inside. He grabbed the handle, pulling it, finding it to be locked. A heavy kick dislodged the door, revealing a lit fireplace, blankets thrown from the two beds, and drawers thrown onto the ground, emptied of their contents.

  A hint of pink had peeked out from a blanket, and he picked up a small, ragged doll, with black hair, wearing a pink dress. He gripped it tightly, shoving it into his cloak. Leaving the house, he’d mounted his horse, and rode toward the forest. That’s where they would have gone in a hurry, he’d thought. He’d urged his horse on, galloping toward the dark trees.

  Tying his horse up, he’d slowly walked through the forest, his black cloak had concealed him perfectly. Above him the trees, tall and full, let only a little light from the moon shine down. Aradon had taken out his sword, the metallic sou
nd of it rubbing against the sheath. The slight ringing it made when the breeze hit it, caused a stir in the bushes near him. He’d stopped, moving his eyes to them, and spied a hint of color, making him turn. As he did, a large figure jumped out at him, knocking him to the ground. They wrestled, the man’s hands around his neck, and Aradon had tried to feel for his sword somewhere on the grass.

  He’d knocked the large man on the head, making him spill onto his back, and flipped onto him, his sword only a few feet away. The man shoved his hand in Aradon’s face, his fingers digging below the eyes. Moving his knee onto the man’s chest, he dug into the man’s underarm, making him yell in pain.

  A set of arms locked around Aradon’s neck, pulling him back. With one swing Aradon put a knife into the figure behind him, causing two screams—one from the man on the ground, the other from a young girl, no doubt his target.

  Turning around, a woman had her hand to her chest, blood seeping between her fingers. She’d looked at Aradon, her eyes fearful and wide, her mouth clenched in pain, then she’d stumbled back, falling to the ground. Another rustle in the bushes, then the man stomped his boot to the ground, and the rustling had stopped. He’d been telling her to stay in the bushes, Aradon thought. Turning back toward the man, he grabbed his sword, and plunged it into the man’s chest, who coughed, blood spattering Aradon’s face, his eyes wide and shocked. He’d stood up, looking at the two parents lying on the ground, limp and lifeless. Dead.

  He had turned his attention to the bushes and slowly approached them, dropping his sword, taking out his knife. There was more rustling. Suddenly a young girl bolted away, deep into the forest.

  “Son of a—” Aradon had sheathed his knife, picked up his sword, and run after her.

  The sound of a waterfall had become prominent to him as he approached a pool. Emerging from the trees, he’d stared at the rippling water, the surface shining from the bright moon above. The rough rock behind it creating the rise for the waterfall made a border around the silvery pool.

  Aradon had squinted, looking closely at the waterfall. Behind it was darkness. A cave. He’d hopped up onto the rocks, walking along the wet surface, careful not to slip on the edge. Approaching the cave, he’d carefully ducked under the waterfall, peering into the small, narrow tunnel. It must go into the mountain, he’d thought. Smart girl. He’d gotten on his hands and knees, and ducked his head, to not bump against the hard rock ceiling.

  At the end of the fifty-foot tunnel, Aradon had emerged, finding a large cave room, with sharp rocks jutting out from the high ceiling and floor. Above, a large opening in the ceiling revealed the moon, lighting up the huge cavern.

  “Are you here to kill me?”

  Aradon had turned toward the voice. A young girl emerged from the shadows, dressed in a pink dress, her dark hair tied up with a white ribbon. She’d looked so innocent. So unaware. He’d closed his eyes, shaking his head. I can’t do this, he’d thought. He sighed, pulling out the doll he’d found.

  “Is this yours?” The little girl slowly, hesitantly, had walked up to him, snatching it away, and tightly hugging the dark-skinned doll.

  “My mama made this for me.” Her eyes were wide and brown, her dark hair falling from its tie. She looked Aradon up and down, landing on his sword. “Did you kill my mama and papa?”

  He’d felt the tickle of a tear prick at his eye. “Yes.”

  She gulped, backing up a bit, holding her doll tightly. “Are you going to kill me too?” Fear took over her innocent face, her lips quivering.

  Aradon sighed and knelt down at face-level with the trembling girl. “Your name is, Lily, right?”

  “Yes.” Her voice shook.

  “Then, Lily, I’m not going to kill you. You’re going to run from here, grab my horse, and ride it to Nethess where you will be safe.” He’d handed her a dagger from his belt, and she’d hesitantly taken it, grasping it in her small hands. She was no older than ten, starting a journey that didn’t happen to the oldest of folk.

  When she’d left, Aradon had looked up at the sky above. A cloud had passed over, and the silver of the moon had turned a deep, blood red, with a fiery orange haze.

  When the Blood Moon rises, thirty souls will pass to the other world.

  He’d gone to hide with the Tanea after that night, who have been said to help men like him, and the men who emerged from the place of the Gold Ones was forever changed, in more ways than one.

  He’d changed, no longer the murderous young man. Every night he thought of Lily, if she got to Nethess, who she turned out to be, had she been killed when Revera took over. He’d actually sent Hagard to look for her among the Kawa, to see if she’d gone there for refuge like many of those who had escaped the purge in Asgoreth. Some wounds never quite heal, no matter who causes them, or how they’re caused.

  His memories had carried him to his camp for the night. He now sits against a stone, poking at the fire with a stick, his horse neighing just a few feet away. The night is cool but humid, the grass damp and cold from the rain earlier. The forest around him creates a shelter from the small breeze flowing through the trees, rustling their leaves. He looks to the sky, the bright moon looking down on him. Aradon closes his eyes, basking in the silver glow of the moon’s ghost.

  After the Tanea, he became someone more honorable. Instead of Killer of Kings, he became Dethroner of Kings. Maybe the meaning is the same, but it rests gentler on his conscience.

  Entranced by the fire flickering, an owl hoots, and the whistle of the wind through the trees creates a calming atmosphere, making him doze off into sleep.

  The gray morning makes for a cool day, easier to ride in, the breeze whipping his cloak back as he gallops on the road, the river flowing monstrously a few feet beside him. The road goes on for miles through Nomarah, still remaining after the fall of the country long ago. After the fall of the greatest king in history.

  King Idies was the oldest of the five brothers, the greatest warrior, the wisest ruler. Nomarah prospered under his rule. The First Age—Nomarah’s Golden Age. After the war of the First Age, and Idies was killed, his four brothers declared Nomarah as No Man’s Land, none of them wanting to claim their dead brother’s land as their own. Apparently, none of them knew he had children, because his descendants went into hiding. Hagard is very good at collecting information. Though, this has a more personal connection to Aradon than he cares to admit.

  Still miles away, Aradon spies the Dark Woods. The forest is black from the distance, but he has been there before. Colors of red, gray, and black fill the woods, each with its own story. It still confuses him why Revera destroyed the lives of her own kind, as she grew up in Radian, along with her twin sister as princesses, to be one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world.

  But Aradon learned long ago that people can surprise you.

  The creatures that now roam Radian are of evil, like the ones from long ago, in the First Age, when the balance of the world was good and evil. Dalorin dwell there. Once elves, now turned to shadows that devour their victims, turning them to shadow as well. They were a weapon used in the First Age, when the war was raging. Creatures of light are immortal, but once slain by a mortal blade, they turn to creatures of darkness, and can only be brought back by the Light Spirit herself.

  Approaching the forest, Aradon comes to a fork in his path. He can go through into the Dark Woods, or he can turn left to Winter’s Pass or right—to Mera. The forest has no path, so getting lost is easy if you don’t know where you are. Remember. The fate of Mortal depends on you finding her.

  He urges his horse on, entering through tall, black trees, their gray leaves whistling in the howling wind. Night. A day away, yet seemingly here with the dark canopy letting no light from the gray sky in. His horse is skittish, with his ears darting every which way. Below a shadow passes, making the horse rear, and Aradon tumbles to the ground. His horse turns back toward the light, and out of the forest.

  He rubs his arm, grabbing his sword that had falle
n out of its sheath. Standing up, he jumps as a shadow passes behind him. He breathes heavily, holding his chest, gripping his sword till his knuckles turn white. The Dark Woods. It can make even the bravest men lose their mind.

  Through the forest he walks, his eyes wide, not blinking, beads of sweat rolling down his face. His hand grips his sword, even though, in his heart, he knows it won’t help him. Creatures of shadow can’t be killed by a mortal weapon. Only a sword bathed in a Pool of Light can kill something that is not living or dead. But no one knows if even that works. No one’s seen one and lived to tell the story.

  A hard shove sends him flying through the air, knocking him hard against a tree. He lies on the ground feeling bruised, his face covered in blood. His legs don’t move—paralyzed—his arms not responding to his will. Broken. His eyelids droop, sending him into darkness.

  Chapter Three

  Awyn dips the cloth in the bowl of hot water beside her, dabbing the stranger’s forehead gently, cleaning his wound. She wrings the cloth out, dipping it into the water again as Kaniel comes inside from collecting herbs from his small garden outside the forest.

  “He’s feverish,” Awyn says softly, turning back to the dark-haired man lying on the bed she once found herself in only a few days ago. She dabs his cheeks, the blood coating the cloth. Beads of sweat and redness cling to his face. “He’s ice cold.”

  “I’ll make him a tea. It should help with the fever.” Kaniel picks up the kettle, placing it over the fire on a metal rod. “Keep cleaning his wound. It’s not deep, but we don’t want it to get infected.”

  Kaniel looks over Awyn’s shoulder as she grabs the string and needle. She threads it, then pricks at the man’s forehead, threading the string through his skin, starting a suture. Kaniel looks closely as she threads in and out of the skin, tightening every three stitches. “Very good for your first time.”