by C. K. Rieke
As the first arrow hit, it impacted the ground with an explosion that shot two of deren flinging into the air, the next fell directly into one of the beasts, and knocking two others over to their sides. Lilaci was off quickly, running towards the impact points, Roren followed.
By the time they got there the last tail of the herd was disappearing behind the rocks to the north, and there before Lilaci and Roren were five deren; four dead and one dying. Lilaci went over and took the arrow from the one closest to her, and walking over to the last deren, screaming and moaning, she knelt next to it, laid her hand on its injury and whispered a soft prayer. Then she ended the deren’s pain with the arrow.
Lilaci looked over to see Roren grinning ear to ear. “That was incredible,” he said.
“Don’t just stand there, get a fire going. I thought you were hungry.”
“I haven’t been this full in ages,” Roren said. “I almost forgot what not going to sleep hungry felt like. I could get used to this.” He lifted his arms up, put his hands behind his head and fell hard on his back onto his canvas cloth on the sand. He lay there, looking up at the stars as the fire crackled off the animal fat that slowly dripped onto the coals underneath.
Lilaci smiled widely as she took another bite of the dark meat. The rest of the meat was slightly tough, as the deren was such a muscular animal, yet they had begun by eating the heart— tender and flavorful. She wiped the juices that ran down both sides of her mouth. She relished this moment, as it was always a treat to enjoy something fresh and as rejuvenating as hot meat on a chilly desert night. There’s only one thing that could make this night any better. I wish you were here, Kera. There’s nothing more I wish than to see you fed and with a belly full of water as you sleep on the sands. This is your home— with me, and my home is wherever you are. She looked up to the stars. I can only just hope that you are safe. If there is any good in the gods up there, watch over her please. Perhaps there are some other gods I don’t know of— good ones— if you hear this please keep her safe until I come. I’ll protect her with everything I am, everything I have.
“Deep in thought?” Roren asked. His blue eyes were lit by the golden fire, and his normally bald head and shaved face were fuzzy with dark hair growing in. A bone necklace of white, cracked teeth and claws laid on the sand next to him.
“I was just thinking—” she said, “—I hope we find her in time.”
“Aye, me too. I believe we will. She’s a strong girl, and smart as a whip. The Order raised her up to use her skills to survive. I think she’ll surprise you, surprise us.”
“I hope so,” she said. “But, she’s still just a girl. She can’t fight someone with Fewn’s strength.”
“Survival isn’t all about physical strength,” he said. “You should know that.”
“Where I come from it is, along with the training to use it properly. Stealth, that’s another one of our strengths.”
“What about your other strength? What about that Sanzoral? You don’t talk about it much. I’ve never seen an arrow fly like that. Did you just learn to do that? You haven’t had the power of the gods that long, correct?”
“The purple light is on my mind constantly, even though I don’t speak of it much. I feel it growing stronger in me every day, it’s even consuming some days, it's all I think about, maybe that’s why I don’t speak often on the sands.”
“You ever have to practice using it? You know— to get better?”
“It’s funny, at first I couldn’t use it at all. There was even a time I was presented in front of the king and queen of Voru, with my mentor, and I failed to use it as a demonstration. That was the most embarrassed I’d ever been in my life. That feels like a lifetime ago. Now, I don’t necessarily practice it, it’s just as if— it’s growing inside of me. It’s as though it’s spreading through my blood and bones and seeping into every corner of my body and mind. If I need it, it comes. It still takes concentration, and I suppose I should practice it more though. Sometimes I think that the gods didn’t anticipate it staying in me this long, maybe they thought I’d be done with my mission and they would’ve killed me as a hero and trophy by now. Did they know it would continue to grow stronger in me all this time?”
“I don’t know if you’ll ever get an answer to that question,” Roren said. “You mentioned you had a mentor? Mind if I ask who it was?”
“No, his name was Commander Veranor of Sorock,” she said.
“Aye, that’s what I feared.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“All in the Order know his name, though I’ve never seen him,” he said. “He’s the leader of the ones who hunts her. Over the years we’ve pondered ways to kill him, but we always knew that if he was gone, he’d just be replaced by another.” He sighed. “What’s he like?”
“Veranor?” she asked puzzled. “What’s he like? Well . . . I suppose he’s like you’d imagine him; tall, strong, stern, vicious. He’s smart, and manipulative . . .” Her head chin sunk down to her chest. “He trained me . . . in a way I now find repulsive. He used a magic to keep me under his control. I fear he’s always going to be in my head.”
“Don’t think that girl, you’re strong, stronger than you know.”
“He forced my only memories of my family from me—” Both of her hands shot up to the sides of her head then, and a searing pain shot into her mind at the thought of her family. “Argh!” she groaned.
Roren sat up and reached out to touch Lilaci’s shoulder, which she shrugged off. He withdrew his hand. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
“I’m going to kill him and all those damned black magic mages. Every last one of them— someday,” she said as she lowered her hands.
“Whatever I can do to help,” he said. “Once we find her, we will find a safe place for her again— somewhere to hide that’s safe, and then I’ll help you get your revenge, if you wish it of me.”
She looked up into his deep blue eyes. “Thank you Roren.”
He lay back down again and looked up to the infinite stars in the sky. “We’re going to change the Arr for the better.”
“The Order teach you to have illusions of grandeur?” Roren seems to have a pure heart. The Order of Drakon must have been a completely different place to grow up than in Sorock. Where I learned how to kill and hunt, they seemed to have taught him about loyalty and virtue. The ones who taught me showed me truth came through oppression and strength. Roren honestly believes these lands can transform into a better place.
“No,” he laughed. “They didn’t teach me to have any illusions. They taught me how to fight though, that’s one thing you and I have in common. Even if we came from two different worlds.”
“That is true.”
The following morning Lilaci awoke to a thick, gray fog that’d rolled in throughout the night. She looked over to see the smoldering coals of the fire, and she saw Roren still soundly asleep. I would’ve noticed the fog normally as it rolled it. It truly is a gift to fall asleep with a belly full of food. Roren— you seem almost as passionate about Kera as I. Maybe you will grow to be a valuable ally. I hate to admit it, but any help I have against the armies of Voru and the gods is welcome. I only hope we will be enough.
She stood up, then reached down to her toes to stretch out her back. She reached up to the skies with a yawn, but her mouth was left open as she looked at the parting of the fog before her. Standing there, she stared to the east. “Roren.”
He shrugged slightly but didn’t get up.
“Roren!”
He rolled over slowly. “What is it? I was just having a dream . . .”
“Look,” she said.
He looked up at her, and then saw what it was she was looking at. He got to his feet and went to stand next to her. “If Fewn is taking her anywhere in this part of the sands, it has to be there,” he said.
“I hope so,” I know that’s the only place I’d take her.
Before the two of them, perfectly f
ramed between the gap in the fog stood the highest mountain either of them had ever seen. Atop the mountain was vaguely visible, but it was a carving of a massive— yet headless— dragon with its great wings spread out wide.
“Lilaci, that’s where they’re going. That’s where we’ll find Kera.”
“Let’s not waste time then. She needs us.”
Chapter Eleven
In his chambers, he sat on a square wooden chair in the corner of the room. Specks of dust wafted through the soft sunlight of a stained-glass window at his back. In his callused hand, he held a letter warmly lit by the light. He sat back in his chair rubbing his chin, then cheek, and finally washed his hand over the top of his head as he looked up at the ceiling. He tossed the letter onto his dark wooden desk and put both hands behind his head and sighed.
It had been nearly a week since his meeting with Queen Serinaas and the gods, and Commander Veranor had been left to his own accord, waiting for word from Gorlen, the Witch Queen. She’d disappeared into the city. He cared not to know what her intentions and passions were among the people of Voru. He wanted to please his gods and rise to become one of the elite of their civilization and reap the rewards as such, but he wanted to stay as far away from the Witch Queen as he could. He knew her truest desire— she relished in the pain and slow agony of those beneath her.
“So, Gorlen,” he said softly to himself, “now you want me to come find you. And what a place you want to meet, eh?”
He rolled open a square drawer on the left side of the desk and rummaged through neatly stacked paper and papyrus, reaching to the back of the drawer. He produced a brown-colored bottle and popped a cork from the top. An aroma of honey, oak and wax wafted into the air, and Veranor took the bottle to his lips and drank one big gulp. He pulled the bottle back, and then took two more large gulps, the last one seemed hard to swallow. He threw the bottle back into the drawer.
Standing up from the chair, he lifted his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. He went over to the corner of the musty room and he grabbed his sword, neatly tucked into its scabbard. He put the belt around his waist and shifted it so the hilt of the sword was just where he liked it on his left hip. Then he grabbed the dagger with its leather hilt and slipped it in at the small of his back.
He looked up into a hazy mirror placed just to the right of a window in the corner of the room and peered at his face for a few moments.
“For the will of the gods,” he said to himself. His face was stern and cold. “Do it for yourself, you will walk away from all of this more powerful and wealthy than any other before you. She may be a witch, but she’s one of your gods.” He took a deep breath, and opened the door with a sharp creak, and walked out into the warmth of the midday sun, and into the busy crowds on the city streets.
He walked powerfully, and with great poise and confidence through the streets, any who saw him approaching were quick to make a path for the Commander of the Scaethers. His tunic’s cape tails floated along the dusty cobblestones as he made his way not towards the capital, but away from it. On either side of him merchants were yelling and laughing. Children ran by, scuttling in groups of abandoned orphans, searching for food or some generous, pious vendor.
The great pyramid loomed high above the city behind him, as Veranor ducked into a thin alleyway to his left, shooting into its cool shadow. Trash was piled high on either side, and at the far side of the alley, a group of young men stood at attention as the stranger walk casually towards them. Two of them stood at the front and quickly drew short daggers, pointing them out towards Veranor. He continued his long strides towards them.
The four men began to laugh, as the two in front flashed their daggers in the air, trying to intimidate the commander.
“Slow down old man,” one of the young men laughed. “Where you in a hurry to?”
“Yeah,” another said with a smirk, as he hopped down from a crate he was perched upon. “We just need a little help is all.”
“Give us what you have,” the other one at the front yelled. Veranor didn’t stop or say a word.
“Old man, just give us—” one of the young men said, then his expression went flush, and his eyes went wide. He appeared to have seen Veranor’s red sash at his waist as a gust of wind rustled up his tunic’s light cloth. The young man grabbed at his friend’s shoulder at the front, trying to pull him back, but his friend continued to hold the dagger out at the man.
“Hey, put it down,” the frantic young man at the back beckoned, as he pulled at his friend at the front. “Forget it, let's get out of here.”
“No, look at the leather on that sword he’s got,” the boy at the front said. “That’s worth a few orecks, maybe more.”
“Hey, he’s one of them, let's get out of here,” the young man at the back said, as he and the boy next to him darted out of the alley and towards the busy streets again.
The young man at the front looked over at the other boy next to him, also holding out a dagger. “Nah, we got this, more to keep for ourselves. Come on old man, do yourself a favor and just hand over what you got. No need to make this bloody.” Veranor didn’t stop, and he was a mere ten paces away at that point.
The boy next to the aggressive young man grew nervous quickly, and after taking a step back and lowering his dagger, ran out of the alleyway, and was soon gone.
“Cowards,” the last boy remaining said. “Now stop where you are, and hand over the sword. I’ll cut you, I swear to the gods I’ll cut you.”
As Veranor walked up to the young man, the kid thrust his dagger at the commander— it was as sloppy of an attack as he’d ever seen. It was like putting a knife into a young Lu-Polini’s— kids with the pale skin and widow’s peak— hand for the first time. Veranor grabbed the kid’s wrist, he could feel the bones tense under the strength of his grasp, and the kid squealed in pain. Veranor cupped the kid’s hand, holding the blade firmly inside his grasp, and lifted it slowly up towards the boy’s neck.
“Hey, wait, no!” he cried. “I— I didn’t mean it, I wasn’t going to do nothing, honest! Stop, please stop!”
“You called your comrades cowards,” Veranor said in a cold voice. “Cowardice and wisdom are not the same. Look who is the only one here on the brink of the deep blackness.” He slid the tip of the dagger into the side of the boy’s throat. His cries turned to screams, blood-curdling screams. “Your friends knew when to run; only a fool would face a Scaether one on one. Insect.”
He threw the boy’s lifeless body to the sand and threw the dagger on top of him. Veranor spat on the corpse, and continued his walk, yet he carried a pleasurable smirk across his face. It had been so long since he’d killed, he’d missed it.
Another couple of streets down in the same alleyway he approached a decrepit shack two stories high, with chunks of wall missing on the lower level, but the top level appeared to be in pristine condition, it could even appear newly built. As Veranor reached down to the door latch and popped it open, he caught the unmistakable scent of torture, and pain. It was difficult to describe, it was filled with sweat and fear— a desperation most men would never know, the longing for death, but the agony of life in pain.
He entered the lower room, and he could already hear the moans of misery in the room above. Veranor reveled in power and victory. He held nothing higher in regard than the death of his enemies, and the adrenaline of the win, but he held no esteem for prolonged torture. No, that was a tool of the malevolent, and the evil.
At the far corner of the room, he climbed a stair, and popped open the latch. He took one last deep breath and entered the room. It was windowless, and the air was thick, like a clear fog. Along the four walls were men— and women— in varying states of death. Some strapped to devices he’d never seen. Few of them had the strength to look up at him, and begin to cry to beg him to help, or simply to kill them. At the center of the room was a lavishly decorated bed of fresh down and silk sheets. Veranor’s entrance seemed to stir Gorlen from her delicate sl
eep atop the bed. She yawned and turned over to look into his eyes.
Gorlen was half-naked underneath the sheets, and her flowing blond hair flowed down onto the silk-laden pillow as her light blue eyes pierced into Veranor. Her clean, tan shoulder was exposed and reflected the candle’s glow from the corners of the room.
“Commander Veranor, welcome,” she said, not rising from her bed just yet. “You must’ve received my invitation.”
Veranor had to glance back around the room to remind himself where he was. He’d realized in his few meetings with the gods, it was easy to get fixated on them, and forget everything else. It was like a spell or enchantment they wore like a jewel. “I did.”
“Well,” she said with a pause. “What do you think?” She looked around the room at the tortured soles barely clinging on to life. She smiled in pride like they were her trophies.
Veranor paused, not knowing quite how to respond. “Thank you for your summons, how may I serve you?”
She slipped a bare leg out from under the pillowy, soft blanket, and then the other. Covering herself with her arm, she reached over and collected a white, gleaming silk robe from a tall thin rack protruding from the side of a wardrobe cabinet of black stone with thin white streaks darting through it. She wrapped the white robe around herself and stood slowly. She walked over to a man who was strung up with sharp, curved hooks in his back, and he was blindfolded. She grabbed the blindfold delicately and then ripped it harshly off his head.
Shaking in terror, the man’s eyes darted around frantically, looking at Veranor briefly for mercy, then he looked into the Witch Queen’s eyes. His head sunk, and he shut his eyes forcefully. “Please, no more . . . No more,” he cried.
“This man,” she said, twirling the blindfold with her finger. “He’s a heretic. He was spreading lies about us, their gods. He lied about me. I listened myself as he spread his hatred to those few with the nerve to listen.”
