The Warriors of Valishna (Cartharia Book 1)

by Spencer Reaves McCoy

  "I don't want to die like that," Eldrin cried out suddenly. He couldn't contain himself. He had lost self-control.

  "I don't want to!"

  He shoved his fist into the earth angrily. It met his knuckles with firm resistance, shattering at least two of them. The blood gushed down.

  Eldrin cried out but otherwise seemed oblivious to the pain. The pain on the inside was so much worse.

  He got back to his feet, swaying slightly, but not completely unbalanced, and cursed again. He began to walk this time, instead of running, but still trying to escape.

  After another solid hour, he found himself kneeling in front of a small stream, drinking. He didn't remember much of the walk there. There had been a lot of crying and a lot more yelling and cursing.

  As he sipped at the water, Eldrin looked at his face. It was mostly clean because of the amount of tears he'd shed but it was also completely covered in bruises and cuts. His cheek was swelling. Eldrin had a brief mental image of running into a tree in his frenzy.

  "What kind of man am I?" He whispered softly. His injuries had not come from fighting or protecting. He had abandoned his friends and fellow soldiers.

  He used his hand to slash across the water, disrupting the image. He turned his face away.

  He was ashamed. Eldrin could not deny that. There was nothing that he could have done that was worse than running away. He was a coward.

  He was cowardly, this was true, but a part of him felt an odd sense of relief too. For a moment – an hour – a few hours – Eldrin had been able to let go of his emotions. He'd been able to be himself. He had been wrong to leave but it had felt so right.

  How was he supposed to go back? Eldrin kept asking himself that as he sat in front of the stream, drawing shapes in the mud with his finger. Every death in the camp that he'd see, he would blame himself for. He could have helped prevent some of them. He could have saved someone's life.

  If Lamonte destroyed them completely, then what? He'd be the lone survivor of the attack because he ran away? Eldrin couldn't stomach the thought of finding out that all of his comrades had died while he had lived.

  Then, if they were still alive and well, there was the matter of facing everyone in the camp. He could come back and admit what he did and suffer the title of coward and possible reprimands or he could sneak back in and lie about his involvement. Neither of those options seemed to be the best bet.

  He could tell Matilyn about his break-down. She would understand.

  Right?

  Of course she would. Eldrin silently berated himself for wondering such a thing. Matilyn had always understood him. He closed his eyes, imagining her face. She smiled, she laughed, she yelled, she cried. She told him that she would always be there for him. She told him that they would always be best friends.

  They walked through the woods together. They walked along the beach too, to their favorite spots, to just chat. She told him that she was in love and asked for his advice on how to handle it.

  She fought off attackers. She defended him. She always did. She was injured though. She begged him for help. She begged him to heal her.

  He couldn't.

  She died.

  Eldrin's eyes flew open. He sat completely still for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He was by a stream.

  He'd fallen asleep there thinking about Matilyn. He sat up, rolling his neck. His entire body was stiff. He was covered in mud and twigs and leaves and blood.

  The blood was coming from his hand and from a barely scabbed wound on his arm. Eldrin stared at that cut for a long moment before all of the memories from the night before came flooding back in.

  He leaped to his feet, nearly sending himself into another panicked frenzy. He couldn't believe he'd abandoned his troops like that. He had to get back.

  Looking around, Eldrin realized it wasn't going to be that easy. He hadn't exactly left himself a map as to where he was going. No, he'd just run. At least he hadn't taken time to try to clear up his tracks. They were still fresh for at least the few yards in front of him that he could see. His vision was still somewhat blurry from just waking up.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  Shaking his head, Eldrin began to follow his own footprints. He had never in his life felt so ashamed. He walked for a long time, thinking the entire time about who he was and what he stood for. It seemed so much easier during the daylight to think about all of the good reasons he had joined the Arinford army.

  He wanted to help people who couldn't help themselves. There were people who couldn't fight. There were children and mothers and siblings that were too weak or young or old. Eldrin was none of those. He was a fighter.

  He nearly screamed as someone dropped down in front of him. It was a dead body.

  "What...?" Eldrin took a step closer, looking at the puffed up eyes of a woman. She had obviously been dead for quite a bit. He knelt down in front of her anyway, feeling for a pulse. "Gods..."

  "There are no gods." A voice behind him caused Eldrin to spin around.

  Four Lamonte soldiers all grinned in return.

  "That's when Three found me," Eldrin finished, "Those men tried to kill me. They thought they had. They left me lying there, collecting flies and getting closer to death with every second that passed.

  Four was silent for a bit, watching Eldrin as they walked. The story of how he'd run away had carried them for quite some time. Eldrin had become aware, at some point during, that the others were listening in but he had continued on anyway.

  "So you ran away," Eight finally said with a laugh, "You make it sound so dramatic."

  "It's not dramatic," Eldrin said defensively, "It's who I am."

  Four blinked at that, "Running away is who you are? What are you talking about?"

  Eldrin frowned at his friend and then glared at the rest, "I'm a coward. That's what I'm telling you. I was too scared and so I left."

  "People run away all the time," Eight said dismissively, "I'm sure that all of us have at some point." She glanced around and everyone else nodded in easy agreement.

  "Besides, you were going back at the end," Four pointed out.

  "That's true," Eight said with a nod. "You were going back – that doesn't make you a coward. A coward would have kept running."

  Still frowning, Eldrin considered what they had to say, "I never made it back though."

  "Intent is what matters," Four said with a sigh, "I've been telling you that. You have to stop thinking about actions and start thinking about intent. You intended to go back. You got caught by soldiers. Then Three took you in."

  Eldrin hesitated, not wanting to agree. He had held it against himself for so long.

  Three looked back at him, "I already knew the story."

  "How?" Eldrin asked, confused.

  "When you were near death, you talked a lot. You would beg forgiveness for running away at some points, at others you would ask for your friend's life to be spared. These memories are the ones that I'm able to use against you when we're practicing mind dis-arms."

  Eldrin glared at her, taken by surprise.

  "When you get over them," she said with a small smirk, "Then I can't use them. When I can't use them, nobody can. At that point, you'll be ready to face Sullivan himself."

  "I'd like that," Eldrin said after a long moment. "I'd like that a lot."

  He was finally somewhere where he belonged.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Mine Own Jealousy Curiosity

  "I'D LIKE TO VISIT THE CELLS," CATHERINE told the guard at the front of the dungeon doors. He'd been stationed there since Prince William's arrival.

  "I apologize, Princess Catherine, but I can't allow that," the guardsman said. "It would be inappropriate."

  "How would it be inappropriate?" Catherine asked, "I am the crown princess. I should see the prisoners and listen to their cases to determine their innocence or guilt."

  The guardsman shook his head, "With all due respect, Princess, your father said that nobody was
to be allowed down in the cells, you included."

  "Did he specifically name me?" Catherine inquired.

  "No," the guardsman admitted, "But he said not to allow anyone down below, other than the guards who go down to offer food to the prisoners. New requirements, what with the special guest that's there and all."

  "Right," Catherine said, "Of course. I understand. You are just trying to do your job."

  "I'm glad you understand," the guardsman said. He looked relieved she hadn't thrown more of a fit.

  Catherine gave him her warmest smile and stepped a foot closer, "How long have you been a guard in the castle?"

  "Oh," he said, "I don't know exactly. Three years? But this is my first time working the doors."

  "You do a marvelous job at it," Catherine said, "If it had been me, I would have given and allowed the daughter of the king to have her way, but you, you stand up for what is right. I applaud that. I admire that in men."

  She took a step closer. Now the guardsman looked uncomfortable. "Thank you."

  "You're handsome," Catherine said, "Much more so than the guard working last night. How old are you?"

  "Twenty two," the guardsman said, blushing.

  "Really?" Catherine asked, "You look closer to my age. You remind me of someone. I can't quite recall his name. He was handsome, like you though."

  "Thank you," the guardsman said again.

  "What's your name?" Catherine asked.

  The guardsman hesitated before supplying, "Kyle."

  "Well, Kyle," Catherine said, "When you're off duty, perhaps we can see each other again. That is, unless, you don't like me?"

  "No," Kyle said quickly, "I like you just fine."

  "Good," Catherine said.

  Kyle smiled at her.

  "We'll see each other very soon then," Catherine said. She leaned up on her toes to place her lips gently against his cheek. He had light stubble from where hadn't shaved. Catherine hated stubble, but she didn't allow it to show on her face. Of all the guardsmen she'd spoken with, this was the first who'd given her any sort of encouragement.

  When she pulled away, he was blushing. Catherine smiled once more, and this time, it was a bit more sincere. He'd work for her purposes.

  Penny walked listlessly toward the Chapel, her footsteps slow. Joanna's words kept replaying in her head. She hadn't gotten a good nights' rest since the night in the Chapel. It didn't help that Kenneth had started staying over at the Remmus's.

  She didn't love him. She barely liked him. But she wanted him there with her. She couldn't have that though, not without joining the resistance. She didn't want to do that either. So she laid awake at night until her tears had run dry and she'd wake up in the morning and find a glass of wine.

  Then she'd go to the chapel. It was dangerous to be out in Valishna by herself. The soldiers were known for their violence and viciousness. Only Peter Sterling bothered to stand up for the citizens, and even he was one of them.

  Sometimes Penny would ask Robert to stay over. Most of the time, her brother would. He didn't understand what was wrong with her, or her marriage, and Penny couldn't tell him. She hated Kenneth for what he was doing, but part of her was proud. It was so brave, so brave, and so foolish.

  The sound of a crowd drew her to a stop. She hesitated and then continued towards the sound of the noise. A few blocks up, she came upon the scene. A large crowd had gathered outside one of the shops on the streets.

  "You've been withholding," a soldier was saying to a thin, balding man.

  "No," the shop owner argued, "I haven't. I've paid my share of taxes."

  The soldier shook his head, an expression of disgust crossing his face, "This is why our King has to wage this war against your greedy kingdom. Men like you--men withholding from the rest of the populace. Children are starving and for what? So men like you can live grandiosely?

  The shop owner his mouth to argue but the soldier slapped him with the back of his armored hand, hard, before he had the chance.

  "I'm going to teach you what happens o me that don't give for the greater good," the soldier promised, "Recruit Arris! Present!"

  Penny ducked her head down behind the crowd when the man called out. She watched her husband make his way slowly to the center o the crowd. He was dressed in typical military garb that Lamonte soldiers wore. It made him look different somehow, older.

  She watched as Kenneth saluted the soldier, "Sir."

  "I want you to whip this man," the officer said, "Forty lashes."

  Penny heard herself gasp with the rest of the crowd. Ten lashes were considered a strict punishment; twenty, quite harsh. Forty was almost unheard of. Men had died from less.

  Kenneth lost a little of his color but otherwise nodded. "Forty lashes... uh, yeah, I mean, yes sir!"

  Two other soldiers came forward, picking up the shop owner, who was now protesting furiously, by his arms. They dragged him forward to a hitching post and bound his wrists to it.

  Kenneth glanced around hesitantly. Another soldier stepped forward, offering out a long, leather whip with pieces of metal imbedded in it. It had been used on more than one occasion against the populace of Valishna.

  "This will teach you," the first soldier said, "Get to it, Arris."

  Penny watched in horror as Kenneth raised the whip and let it fall on the man's back. The shop owner howled out in pain and indignation. Kenneth raised the whip again, letting it fall. There was nothing lax about his duty either; he performed it well. Blow after blow fell, heavy hit after hit.

  Near twenty lashes, the man lost consciousness, his body slumping forward on the post, his blood pooling around him on the dirt from the serrated cuts on his back. Kenneth stopped, but the officer motioned for him to continue; he whipped the man relentlessly.

  Penny couldn't watch past thirty. It was obvious at this point that the man was badly wounded and that any further lashings would render him unable to heal properly. She felt dizzy as she made her way away from the crowd.

  The further she got away, the more anxious she was to get even further from the scene. After a few minutes, she realized she was running. She didn't know where she was running too, she just ran. For hours, she just ran.

  Kenneth found Penny sitting on the beach in the same spot they'd shared on their wedding night. He sat silently down beside her, still dressed in his uniform.

  "I can't do this," Penny said, "I just can't, Kenneth."

  Kenneth let out a sigh. Penny knew he must be tired, yet he'd spent the evening chasing her down. Despite everything, he cared for her. Somehow, he cared. It didn't help any.

  "Nothing feels right anymore," Penny said, "Nothing ever felt right."

  "Pen," Kenneth said.

  "No," Penny said, "Please don't try and make me feel better, Kenneth. I don't think I can stand that right now. Stop being so nice to me. You don't care about me."

  Kenneth ran a frustrated hand over his face and uneven stubble, "I care for you," he said.

  "You're never home," Penny said, "You spend all your time with Ryan, and with the rest of them. Sometimes you don't even sleep in our house."

  "You don't want me there," Kenneth said, "You don't. Do you? You made it clear, Pen--Penelope. You made it clear that I--we--that my friends aren't welcome in our... in our home."

  "I didn't do that," Penny said, "That's not true."

  Kenneth laughed. It was a weary sound, "It's true. You didn't want to be part of it. You don't want to be part of it. You made that clear. What? Was I supposed to keep having meetings there when you so clearly disapproved?"

  "You're right," Penny said, "I don't want to be part of it! I don't want to risk my life for nothing, Kenneth! Is that so wrong? I just want to be safe, and happy. You're supposed to support me. I'm your wife, not Joanna."

  "Don't talk about her," Kenneth said sharply, "Don't you dare bring her into this, Pen. Leave her alone."

  "Your precious Joanna," Penny said, "The one who can never do wrong, right? Why would I want to dr
ag her into this? You can't help but rub in my face how much you care about her, the righteous one, even though you're forced to spend your life with me, the selfish one."

  Kenneth shook his head, "That isn't true. You know it's not."

  Penny said nothing. It didn't matter what was true or false anymore. She kept seeing Kenneth whipping that man.

  "I saw what you did," she whispered.

  "You saw what I did?" Kenneth said blankly, "What are you talking about now?"

  "To that man," Penny said, "The one that the guard ordered beat. I saw you do it. I saw you beat him, knowing it would kill him. I saw you kill him, Kenneth."

  Kenneth stared at her. The color drained from his face, "You saw me," he repeated. "You saw what I did."

  Penny nodded. She felt a surge of triumph at his expression. It was wrong, and it felt vindictive, but she felt it nonetheless.

  "I didn't have a choice," he told her, "I joined the city patrol, Pen. They tell you to do something and you do it. If I hadn't, well, I would be beaten. Best case. Come on, you know this. You know why I had to do it."

  "And who chose to join the patrol?" Penny asked, "Who was it? Did they force you to volunteer?"

  Kenneth drew back from her, "You know why I did it."

  "That's right," Penny said, "I know why. For your precious resistance. So you could pretend to do something good. What do you even do at your little meetings, Kenneth?"

  "If you came, you'd know," Kenneth said coldly.

  "I don't need to come," Penny said. She pushed to her feet. The words seemed to tumble out of her mouth of their own accord. She couldn't have stopped them if she tried. She wanted to hurt Kenneth. She wanted to make him feel unsafe, and lonely.

  "I don't need to come," she said again, making a wide gesture with her arms, "Because I've seen what you've done. You've done nothing. You can't do anything. You need me because without me, you're all nothing. You sit around and you talk, and maybe you plan, but you don't do anything. You'll never do anything."

  Kenneth shook his head. He came to his feet as well, "Stop it, Pen."