by C D Beaudin
Sefa’s eyes turn, having a hint of coyness. “Son-in-law. If you were my brother, that would just be odd.” She walks away, and Aradon chuckles.
Someday he’ll marry that girl. Someday.
If he lives that long.
Across Kahzacore, the rain pours down heavily like a waterfall, and the whole black sky is lit up by the lightning. The thunder booms like giants drumming. The Sanarx and Tarken take cover under rusty shelters, some wood, some metal. Dalorin scream and screech everywhere, invisible, as the whole valley is one big shadow.
Revera walks along the muddy path, the creatures looking at her. Her hair and dress are soaked, but the intense heat of the ground floods through her. She hurries, especially considering the lustful stares of the Sanarx and Tarken. It’s not that she fears them, but every once in a while, she feels…mortal.
When she enters the tower, she wrings out her hair. Then makes her way up the long, winding steps. When she gets to the top, she opens the door to the large, round room, almost identical to the one in Nethess.
“Karak!” she calls. No answer. She walks over to one of the other rooms, finding it empty. “Karak?” She looks around the room, spying a hatch in the floor. She chuckles. “Karak, did you get yourself locked in here again?” She opens the hatch, seeing a young girl squished in the hole. The girl opens her eyes. Looking up at her, they grow wide with fear.
Revera’s light up. “Oh, look what we have here. Is this Brega, I see before me? Princess of Rohidia, beloved daughter of Atta?” Revera mocks.
“You are a venomous snake, Revera. My father will crush you with his army. You’ll be under the mighty foot of Rohidia, crushed to the bone!”
Brega’s statement amuses Revera. “The ‘mighty foot’ of Rohidia was cut off. By me.” She slams the door shut, resulting in multiple bangs from Brega.
“Let me out! My father will kill you. Do you hear me? He’ll kill you dead!”
Revera smiles as she walks away from her. Opening the door to Karak’s room, she sits on his bed, feeling the soft fur of his blanket between her fingers.
The door opens, and Karak walks in. He stumbles, but when he sees Revera, he straightens up a bit.
“Oh, hey, Revera.”
Revera cocks her head. “Do you always drink with your soldiers?” she asks.
Karak lazily leans against the wall. “I was merely checking on my citizens. They are doing very well. Prosperous, and all that…stuff.” His eyes close, and he starts snoring.
Revera walks over to him. “Oh, Karak, my stupid, moronic oaf.” She slaps his cheek, waking him in a flurry.
“What? What!” It takes a moment, but his eyes find Revera.
“Hello, again.” She smiles.
“Uh, hey. I was drinking…what the heck was I drinking?” Karak rubs his forehead, walking to his bed.
“Not alcohol, that is clear. Perhaps you drank too much of your special drink?” Revera says.
He groans, sitting, and grabbing the glass of water on his bedside table to take a sip. “Can’t get drunk off man’s poison, so most likely.” He chuckles, turning into an undead ball of laughter.
Revera sighs. He’s stupid when he’s drunk.
“I have business to discuss, but clearly you aren’t in the right presence of mind.” She walks to the door.
“Wait! Can’t you just, do a spell to make me not drunk…or whatever this is?” he asks, squinting at her.
Revera scoffs. “I’m not a miracle worker, Karak.” She slams the door as she leaves his room.
Passing through the main room, the black throne seems to mock her. She scoffs, and storms out of the tower.
Below in the village, Awyn hears the laughter and music. The fire blazes, big and bright, sparks flying into the air. Dancers wave their scarves around, their feet moving to the drums and other instruments.
From her window she watches but has no care to join them, celebrating…drinking... Hagard’s thunderous laughter drifts up, with probably a tankard in his hand. She turns away from the festivities of the night and looks into the fire in her own hearth. The low flames give off a comfortable warmth. She grabs a blanket from her bed, and sits on a small, worn, leather bound chair.
Wrapped in the soothing embrace, her eyes grow heavy as she watches the flames flicker and crackle—wood snapping and popping—the resin sizzling. She breathes gently, but her head turns to the door as it creaks open.
Aradon waits for her approval of entry. She nods solemnly, and he comes in, the door left ajar. He sits down next to her. “Are you prepared for tomorrow?” he asks.
“As prepared as one can be in this situation.” She sighs sadly. “I am not a warrior, Aradon.” She looks at him with sadness in her heart.
“You are more a warrior than all Red Warriors combined. No one can understand what you went through. You survived, Awyn. That is who you are. A survivor.”
She gives him a halfhearted smile. “Survivor,” she says softly. Then her eyebrows furrow in worry. “Do you think the Meran army will be strong?”
“An army is only as strong as its leader,” Aradon reassures.
Surely Tamon isn’t a good king. Awyn hopes with all her heart that what Aradon says is true.
“Do you think we can defeat them?” Awyn looks at Aradon, their gazes connecting.
“Like I said, an army is only as strong as its leader. Toccama and Errek are great, strong warriors.”
“No, Aradon. I know you can’t see it, or maybe you don’t want to, but you are who these people follow. Even the chief. You are the king. You are their king.” She tilts her head, thoughtfully. “You will lead us into battle, Aradon. And you will lead us into victory, I am sure. But we can only win if you believe in yourself too. I can’t believe for you.”
Aradon turns his gaze to the fire. “All my life, since I left home, I have tried to achieve my father’s dream of having me be the one to restore our kingdom. But I am not certain it is my dream.” He glances back at Awyn. “If I don’t know what to believe, what to be certain of in my own life, then how can I be certain of anything else?”
This time, it’s Awyn who looks into the fire, seeking guidance. From who, she isn’t sure. Perhaps from the universe? From Raea? From her own voice inside? And somehow, she finds the answer.
“Maybe you don’t have to believe. Maybe you just have to do. Pondering won’t do you any good. And thinking is dangerous,” she says, talking to herself more than him. She looks straight into the Besged’s blue eyes. “But if you don’t ponder, if you don’t think, you just do. Then you have a chance at life. And after you’ve lived, without the thinking, without the pondering, you can choose what you believe, and what you can be certain of.”
Aradon smiles. “You’re pretty smart, you know that?”
She smiles back at him. “It’s one of my best traits.”
They chuckle, and she leans against his shoulder, both staring into the glowing fire.
Aradon wakes up to the burning embers of the fire. Is it morning? He looks to the window, it’s dark and stars still dot the sky. No, night. Where am I?
He looks around. A bed. A chair. And he jolts in surprise at Awyn sleeping, leaning on him. When he calms down, he takes a closer look at her.
She’s so peaceful, so innocent. How can anyone hate her?
He tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, and yawns, still tired. He stands up, pushing the blanket farther up Awyn’s chilled shoulders. When he’s in the doorway, he looks back at her for a moment, then closes the door, walking through the hall. Errek approaches him as he walks through the corridor, the dark wood around him illuminated by the lit chandeliers and the moon outside the windows.
“Have you come to tell me you’ve changed your mind?” Aradon asks.
“No, brother. I will fight with you until the end,” Errek insists.
Aradon nods halfheartedly. “It seems everyone is saying that.”
“Well then, you should be glad to have such loyal soldiers.�
� Errek pats him on the shoulder, his large, tall, muscular figure walking past him.
Aradon grasps his wrist, and Errek turns to him. Aradon, struggling with words, doesn’t quite meet his eye. “Errek…you’ve been a brother to me. For that I’m truly thankful.”
Errek smiles softly. “You should be. You’re so frustrating.”
Aradon chuckles. “Thank you, Errek.”
The man nods and walks on.
Aradon sighs, sitting in the small alcove where the window is. He looks out beyond the village, beyond the forest.
The ocean. The rolling waves. The sea mist. All his life Aradon hasn’t had many chances to see the ocean. All his time in the Tanea, and he’s never been in the water—felt the warmth—or maybe the cold of the sea against his legs. He’s felt the cut of the sword, the thud of a mace, the punch of a fist. But never the ocean water.
Maybe he will someday.
Chapter Twenty
The plan is simple…in explanation. Go along the outside of the Meran Mountains, then take out the guards at Vergo’s Pass. Fairly easy. Then comes the hard part. The Dark Woods. Traveling through those will be tricky for an army, there will definitely be some deserters. Once the vast woods are cleared, they attack Kevah, find the king and kill him.
Aradon goes over the plan in his head. Over, and over, and over. He focuses on the upcoming battle. The last conversation he had with Sefa was horrible. She was crying, and he even shed a tear. Perhaps they both know that they will never see each other again. Aradon hopes with all his heart that this will never be true…but something inside tells him he shouldn’t hope to see her ever again.
The army walks along the outskirts of Eron, the Meran Mountains to the right of them. The soldiers are dressed in the armor, but still have war paint on. Aradon walks at the front of the army, along with his small group of friends, and of course, Toccama and Errek. Saine will lead the army when they arrive in the Dark Woods.
Awyn walks beside him on her horse in lighter armor dressed for battle. Over black boots and pants, she wears a small set of chainmail, and a breastplate designed as a corset held together by a black belt around her waist, holding her sword. She looks arresting and ready to take on anyone with her silky black hair braided behind her, even though some strands have come loose from several days of walking and riding.
Her face is blank. Her posture indicates no emotion. She just looks forward. “Are you okay?” Aradon asks her from his horse.
She looks over at him. “Should I be?”
The way she turns a question into one of her own, her avoidance almost frustrates him.
“I suppose not.” He turns his attention forward, leaving her to her own thoughts as she rides along, away from him, seemingly lost in thought.
A breeze sweeps through, blowing flags, snapping them in the wind. Awyn closes her eyes, feeling the cool breeze against her already cold skin. She can’t imagine what this battle will be like. In Arleaand it was different. Only three of them against a tiny army. This time will be much harder. She will watch friends die.
She clicks her tongue, sending Blancar past the front lines, and gallops away from the army, up a small red hill. Riding up to the base of two mountains, she sees a path between the two. She can almost feel the touch of the white snow that falls on the other side. The side of home. Her horse takes a step into the path, but she hesitates, not sure if she should cross the boundary.
The neighing and chatter of the army behind her grows louder as they make their way down the hill. She looks back into the path as the green Meran grass disappears and the snow falls.
“Awyn? What are you doing?” Eldowyn calls as the first rank starts to pass.
She turns away from the path and resumes her position in the front lines.
“Nothing, Eldowyn.” She sighs, and mutters under her breath, “Nothing.”
The elf looks at her, something like sadness in his blue eyes. “I know you’re nervous about the battle, I can see that much. But there is something else bothering you.”
Awyn looks away from him. There is something bothering her. Though, is it unusual that she isn’t sure what?
It’s the middle of the day, and a cold wind whips through. The sun is covered by dark gray clouds. Rain will be coming tonight. A storm. Awyn sits on a small ledge on the mountain, maybe ten feet off the ground, eating a soup one of the men made. The broth is almost completely water, and the meat is rabbit…she thinks.
The loose strands of her hair flit around in the breeze, and she closes her eyes as she feels the wind from the west. She can smell the fresh air, the rain of last night, and the night before. In Eron, one can expect a storm every night. She places the empty bowl next to her, popping the cap off her water bag and drinking. Awyn feels the metal against her lips and skin, wincing as she cuts her lip. “Ah! That was stupid,” she mutters harshly, more so than needed. She dabs her lip with her finger, flustered and agitated, more than just the stinging bothering her.
“You all right?” Saine asks as he climbs up to the ledge. He pulls himself up, sitting beside her.
She looks at the blood on her finger. “Yes, I’m just not used to this chainmail.”
“Oh, yeah. I prefer not to wear the stuff, but it does give the illusion of safety in a battle.”
Awyn stares at him. “That was a surprisingly ineffective way to reassure me I’m not going to die,” she says acidly.
“What can I say, I’m not the most reassuring person.” He shrugs.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Awyn puts pressure on her lip with her thumb.
Saine digs into his satchel. “Here.” He puts a piece of soft cloth on her lip, replacing the pressure of her thumb.
She smiles softly at the kind, out of character gesture. “Thank you.” She puts her hand to the cloth, and Saine’s returns to his lap.
He sighs, looking out onto the red fields of Eron. “I can’t tell you what war is like. I’ve never been in one. I do know that my father, no matter how dead inside he sometimes seemed, would wake up every night in a cold sweat, sometimes even screaming.”
Awyn can see the pain it has caused him through the years and puts her hand on his back.
“I…don’t know how to comfort you. But I do remember what it’s like to see a father in pain.” She remembers the dagger in her father’s stomach, seeing him, eyes open, leaning against the headboard of his bed. He was in his nightclothes, the blood seeping through the black fabric. She’d walked into his room, and the blood was soaking into the white sheets too. Calling for a guard, they came running, then they took him to the court physician. And the cries of the servants when he was declared dead. Her own cries, in private. A princess never shows sadness in public. Her mother taught her that. And when the queen found out, all she did was cry one, silent tear, and locked herself back in her room.
Awyn doesn’t actually know if her father was in pain, he might have already been dead when she arrived. The physician never told her. Probably to spare her the thought that she saw her father dead.
Saine smiles softly. “I didn’t tell you for your pity, if that is what this is.” He hops onto a lower ledge and looks up at her. “No need for lying.” His eyes are understanding. He turns away from her, and jumps down to walk among the many soldiers, and over to the group, where Eldowyn, Dreema, Hagard, and Aradon all sit.
When she sees them all together, she can’t help having a bad feeling. Like…they will be separated soon. It’s probably common before a war, those thoughts. But the feeling pulses in the back of her mind, and it seems every time she talks with one of them, it thuds louder.
I wasn’t lying.
The citizens stare as Kepp and Revera walk through the White City. The bottom level is busy with hungry, tired people. Their clothes are ragged and tattered. The once green trees that grew in the dirt along the edges of the white stone ground are shriveled and brown, the leaves crinkled and crushed underfoot, the sharp snap as they walk along.
The fear that was on
ce held in their eyes has disappeared, even with herself, the sorceress walking among them. Kepp stops in his tracks as two small kids run across the wide stone ground, into a door built into the mountain.
“Come, elf. We must not stop for these people. They respond to power. And we will show them power,” Revera says without a second thought.
Kepp nods, following her to the steps. They climb as the staircase winds around to another level. Under the stairs the door to inside the mountain stands where the army’s hideout is, and where the people go if there is ever an attack on the city. Where they will be soon.
“Why does Tamon not care for these people?” he asks. Young and old lie on ratty blankets and canvas sacks, a bowl laid out for anything these poor people might be able to spare.
“Tamon only cares for himself,” Revera says as they pass three prostitutes.
Kepp’s nose crinkles in slight disgust. But pity also dulls the blue of his eyes.
They walk through the palace halls, the floor shiny, the walls the same. The ceiling above is almost glowing with the light from the always lit chandeliers. The giant windows tower above them, probably ten men high. The drapes lining the frames of the windows are a rich, silky crimson red.
They turn a few corners, and find themselves at Tamon’s room. Revera wants to bust through the doors, but remembers she needs Tamon to like—no, trust her. She knocks softly.
“Tamon? Are you busy?” No answer. She rolls her eyes, a frustrated groan escaping her lips. She opens the door, and Kepp follows her in. No one is in here. “Tamon?” She walks farther in, looking behind the bed where the plump man cowers. “Tamon!” she yells.
“I thought you were here to kill me,” he says shakily.
Revera grabs his collar, hauling him onto the bed.
“You would know. There would be war drums and screams outside.”
Tamon goes to speak but closes his mouth when he sees Revera’s cold stare. “I will be braver in the future,” he says simply.
