by C. K. Rieke
“Whoever is out there,” Garenond called out. “Show yourself! Or hide in the shadows like the coward you are. We were sent on a mission by the king and queen of Voru themselves. You’ve already committed an act of murder against the crown, better to die fighting like a man, than to die hiding in a hole like the worm you are. You hear me? Come out where we can see you.”
Lilaci then caught a glimpse of a man, wrapped in tan cloaks, a near-perfect match for the color of the sands. He walked up slowly from her right side, emerging from behind one of the tall rocks, she assumed where the arrow had flown from. He walked up, no one saying a word as he stood at the side of a rocky outcrop. The Scaethers stood in front, the figure at the side, in between them and Lilaci.
He pulled his hood from over his eyes to behind his head, showing his wavy silver hair. His fingers were wrinkled and gnarled, and a tan eye-patch covered one of his eyes on his dark, tan, leathery skin. A heavy, deep scar crossed his forehead, and he stared at Lilaci with a piercing gaze.
“You’ve made a bad move, old man,” Dellanor said. “Wrong move . . . Deadly move.”
“You don’t scare me,” the old man said in a gruff voice. “You’re just a pack of grunts. Slaves hunting down slaves.”
“Who are you?” Lilaci said. “Why are you following us?”
The man turned his gaze from Lilaci to the high reaching mountain behind her. “She needs our help,” he said.
“Who? Kera?” Roren said. “You know of her?”
“They’re talking about the Dragon’s Breath,” one of the Scaethers said to Garenond. “If we can get her, we’ll be in even greater favor with the gods.”
“So that’s where the girl is?” Garenond said, looking towards the Dune of the Last Dragon. “Lilaci, I’m sorry, but you made your choice.” He motioned for the two Scaethers to pull back their arrows once again.
Yet like a lightning strike, the old man brushed back the cloak hanging in front of him to reveal a bow of silver with two arrows nestled in taught. He let them fly and each found their mark in the Scaether’s forearms, sending their arrows flying wildly away. Each let out a roar of pain as the arrows lodged in their arms. Dellanor ran at the old man quickly. He attacked the man with a wild swing, missing as the old man turned, and then another swing, and it appeared to glide right off of him.
The old man moved like as if in a dance. Lilaci watched him move like she’d never seen a soldier move. His long cloak’s tail grazing the sands as Dellanor heaved heavy blows towards him, missing by inches every time. He let out an infuriating yell. Dipping down low, the old man circled behind Dellanor, and sent a sweeping leg under his feet, and Dellanor landed squarely on his back. He was soon looking up to see the old man’s one dark eye looking into his, and the old man had turned Dellanor’s blade back towards him, hovering over his neck.
Then the old man looked over at Lilaci. “It’s the only way,” he said. “They would never let you go after her, not while they’re alive.”
Dellanor looked up with scared, angry eyes. “Wait, no. No!” Then, his own blade cut into his neck, and the sands ran red.
The only Scaether left with their full capacity was Garenond, and he stood there in a mix of shock and rage. Lilaci watched him with a ready eye, waiting to see his next move— the Scaethers were not known to fail in their crusades. The old man with the eye-patch stood back as the life left Dellanor’s body. The other two Scaethers went to cutting the lodged arrows from their arms quickly, as they were eager to fight once again.
Lilaci didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if this man— who’d been following them for at least several days without her knowing— was an ally, or if he just shared a common disdain for the Scaethers. The old man held his bow out towards the pack, as the two Scaethers in back both cut the tough Whitewood arrow shafts and pulled them from their arms, neither grunted or winced. They both quickly put cloth around their wounds and tied them off quickly.
“I will not allow you to leave this fight,” the old man said. “You would never stop your hunt for her, and that . . . I cannot abide.”
Garenond looked at the old man with fierce, scornful eyes. “Who’s leaving? You just signed yer own death warrant. It’s you who’s not leaving this place with your head still attached to your shoulders. That fella you just killed was my comrade, my— our— friend, and a loyal servant to the Queen of Voru, and the gods themselves. You’re gonna pay for what you’ve wrought.”
The old man dropped his bow to his side and pulled a long broadsword from underneath his cloak. He used both hands to wield the long sword.
“It’s white,” Roren whispered over to Lilaci.
“I see that,” she whispered back. “I never thought in all my days I’d see one in the flesh.”
“These days are getting stranger and stranger,” he said.
The old man took a strong step forward, and a strong gust of sand rushed in, blowing his wavy silver hair in front of his tan-skinned forehead. “I am Demetrius Burr, Knight of the Whiteblade, sworn enemy of your decrepit and unjust gods, and all those who serve them. Your obedience to them, will be your greatest injustice. Of all the lives you’ve ruined, of all the lives you’ve taken— your greatest sin has been your allegiance to evil.”
“He’s a . . .” one of the Scaethers murmured, “. . . Whiteblade?”
“Sounds like it,” Garenond said. “Not only are we going back to Voru with Lilaci, and with the whereabouts of the Dragon’s Breath, but we’re going to bring back with us a white sword. This, boys, is going to be the greatest victory of our lives.”
“Hold, Garenond,” Lilaci called out in the growing winds, “don’t fight him. Return to Voru, say you never found us. Say Dellanor was lost to a sandworm. Bury his body and walk away with your lives. You’ve heard the tales of the Whiteblade . . . You’re a great warrior, we all are, but unless you want to die today, just leave. Let us be on our way, and you can live to fight another day.”
“You see what he did to one of us,” he yelled, pointing at Dellanor’s lifeless body, already beginning to be covered with a thin dusting of sand blowing in. “You know what it means to be a Scaether, although you may have forgotten. You cannot walk away with what you’ve done, Lilaci, and I certainly will not let him walk away from this alive. Whiteblade or Blackblade, I don’t give a shite, the sands are going to run with more blood this day.” He heaved his sword up before him, and the others behind him did the same. “For Dânoz, for the queen, for our gods!”
As the Scaethers ran at the Knight of the Whiteblade, and he ran at them, a storm rushed in with the speed of lightning. Lilaci watched as a maelstrom of sand and wind blew in quicker than she’d ever seen. Her first reaction was to shield her eyes.
“Lilaci, what are you doing?” Roren yelled out. “Let them fight.”
“It’s not me,” she replied. She found her Sanzoral deep within, and called on it to calm the storm, but she was shocked to find it was useless in slowing the storm.
“Stop it,” Roren said. “Make it stop.”
“I can’t, I don’t know why I can’t.”
“We’ve got to move,” Roren said, grabbing her arm, and as he began to pull her away, she felt a different hand grab her tightly by the other wrist. In the blinding sandstorm she looked back to see the old man’s silver hair blowing out from underneath his hood which he pinched tightly beneath his chin.
“I’m coming with you,” he called out in the storm. “I’ll help you protect her.”
“We don’t need your help,” Roren called back from the front. “We can take care of her on our own.”
“Beg your pardon,” Demetrius said. “But I don’t share your confidence. You were almost slain back there, if you don’t remember. I’m sworn to protect the girl, just as you have, Roren of the Order of Drakon.”
Lilaci looked at the old man suspiciously.
“You need me, and I need you to find her,” the man said.
She leaned in towards the Knigh
t of the Whiteblade, staring deep into his eyes.
“Well,” Roren called back, “whatever we do, we’ve got to get out of this storm!”
Lilaci was inches away from the old man’s face. “You can come with us for the time being, but if I get even the slightest sense that you’re not telling me the truth, or that you’ve got other plans you’re hiding from me, not even the dragons themselves could spare you from my wrath.”
Demetrius looked at her with a face of bewilderment and shock at her threat, then a great grin came across his face. “Splendid!” he laughed. “Pleased you’ve come to the right decision.”
“What do you want to do about the three behind us still in the storm?” Roren asked.
“If they come after us, they’ll learn to regret it,” Lilaci said. “Right now, we need to find Kera. We can deal with them later. Right now, let’s get out of here.”
The three of them, Lilaci, the former Scaether, Roren, one of the last living members of the Order of Drakon, and Demetrius Burr, of the mythical Knights of the Whiteblade ventured off into the blinding sandstorm towards the Dune of the Last Dragon, to hopefully find Kera, the Dragon’s Breath, so that she may some way bring about a new age in the Sands of the Arr.
Part III
Dune of the Last Dragon
Chapter Fourteen
Whistling winds turned to howling swaths of biting sand. The storm had even blocked out the sun. She felt the crawling sensation of small thin legs on her thigh, she reached over quickly and brushed it off. Huddling her legs into her chest, she inched her way back into their makeshift cave. The walls were dark and hung low enough that they both had to duck their heads down and squeeze their way in through a break in the rock only nearly wide enough for Fewn to fit through.
“Do you want some light?” Fewn asked, her head was back against the wall as she seemed to be examining the rocks above them.
“You mean make a fire? In here?” Kera asked, her legs still tucked into her tightly, and her chin hiding behind her knees.
“I can make one if you get cold, or if it's too dark in here for you. Just a little one, there’s a small hole up in the entrance that should let out the smoke.” Fewn looked out the crack in the rocks before them, and the sands blowing sideways with a ferocious force. They were lucky to find such a shelter in the storm that seemed to come from nowhere. “I’ve heard of storms like this up here, coming as they do. But I never pictured them being anything like this. I wonder if they get worse the further north you go.”
“You think it will be over soon?” Kera asked, her mouth still hiding behind her knees.
“I honestly have no idea. As quick as it came, it could be over in a couple of minutes. Are you tired? You could rest if you want.”
“Do we have any more food?”
Fewn pulled over her pack and rummaged through it with a shuffling sound. “Look what I’ve got . . .” She pulled a wilting piece of prickle-less cactus. She raised it out of the pack and hovered it in front of Kera’s eyes. “Whose hungry? Open up wide.”
Kera shook her head from side to side, closing her mouth tight.
“Come on, open up,” Fewn asked with a kind tone. “Hungry girls need to eat.”
She continued to shake her head, this time with her eyes shut tightly. “I’m sick of cactus. I don’t want any.”
“You need something in your stomach, come on. Please, open up, it’ll make you feel better.”
“I want something else, I can’t even look at that thing now,” Kera said. “I want some meat, or milk, or some sweet vegetables. I’m tired of not having anything.”
Fewn sighed, and withdrew the cactus, cutting off a bite with her dagger and putting it in her own mouth. “I forget what milk even tastes like now.” She leaned over and looked at Kera. “Once we get to the mountain, I’ll find us some real food.”
Kera looked over at her with an unsure expression. “Promise?”
“I promise.” She chewed on the tough cactus with a smacking sound. “You do know what’s on the other side of the mountain, right?”
“Nothing,” Kera said.
“Wrong,” Fewn responded with a smile. “There’s no more land, but there’s the sea.”
“So? You want to cross the sea next?”
Fewn looked at Kera curiously, “You ever been to the sea before?”
“No, nothing good comes from there.”
“I assume that’s what you’ve been told, but actually, many good things come from the sea.”
“Like what? I hear you can’t even drink the water, you’ll get sick. Another torture of the gods.”
“That may be the truth,” Fewn said. “But even if we can’t drink it, there are animals that can, and they live in it, they swim in it, all day and all night.” She paused, and then leaned over whisper into Kera’s ear. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Kera didn’t move, but her eyebrows upturned slightly, hardly noticeable.
Fewn leaned back. “That’s fine,” she said with a sigh, and placed another piece of cactus on her tongue, and let it fall back into her mouth. “You probably wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.” She chewed on the cactus, smacking it loudly in her mouth again, and then she smiled. “It’s a really good secret though.”
A few moments later, Kera removed her chin from her knees and murmured to Fewn, “Fine, tell me the secret.”
“That’s alright, the time passed. I think I forgot it anyways. What were we talking about again?”
“Fewn, you were talking about the sea. What is the secret?”
“Secret? About the sea? I don’t remember. Were you going to tell me a secret?” she asked with a wide grin.
“Yes, you were going to tell me a secret—” She looked over at Fewn, who appeared in no hurry to tell what that secret was. “Argh, Fewn, you are so infuriating sometimes. I forget which one of us is the child sometimes.”
“Alright,” Fewn said, “I’ll tell you. No need to get so grouchy. So, the secret is, the animals that live in the sea. They’re fast, like lightning.”
“You mean a fish swimming in water, yeah I know they’re fast. What’s the secret?”
“If you don’t want to hear me tell it, then you can just continue . . .”
Kera sat back quietly, with her arms crossed over her chest.
“There, so the secret is that the fish in the sea— small and large— if we can catch one, we will eat like a king and queen for days. You see, the meat in the sea, imagine it's like the most tender, succulent, mouth-watering piece of meat you’d ever put in your mouth. It’s so juicy, the flavors just gush out of your mouth. You don’t even have to chew it, it’s like eating a cool, sweet butter. And after you eat it, you’ll sleep like you’ve never slept before. You see, there’s a magic to the meat that puts you into a sleep spell, rejuvenating your mind and body. You forget your pain, you forget the pain in your past, and your soul is set at rest. It’s only temporary, but it's a strong magic.”
Fewn looked over at Kera who was looking at her with wide eyes. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth, but if you’re even partly right, I want some now. That sounds so good.”
“Well, once this storm is over, we should be there in a day, and then I’ll catch you all the fish you could eat.”
“Have you been there before?” Kera asked. “. . . to the sea?”
“Me?” Fewn scoffed. “Well, I mean . . . I haven’t actually been there myself. But I’ve heard plenty of stories about it . . .”
Through the crack in the cave the winds continued to howl and bellow. The small fire’s light created a warmth Kera hadn’t felt in the last week. Normally she slept out on the open sands with one stone at her back to protect her from the cold winds at night. Now, she felt a sense of safety, not a common feeling for her, and now she had a destination, maybe there was something there at the mountain that would help her, something to guide her.
Staring into the dancing fire’s flames, she let the other end of a long stick s
he held fall into the flames. Caressing the golden embers, the stick lit aflame. Kera looked over at Fewn, who Kera could tell was sleeping. Fewn was a subtle sleeper, it was difficult to tell at times if she was awake or not, except for her one tell— when her mouth hung open slightly. As she slept with her back to the wall, Kera stood up delicately in the cave, trying not to make a noise to wake her.
The cave wasn’t big, yet it was half-buried under the sands on the outside. Once Fewn rustled them in to make a shelter from the ongoing storm, they’d been taking time to enjoy their break from the harsh sands, and the constant walking. About a half-hour ago, Kera noticed a crack in the rocks at the right side of the cave, not far from where she sat, and once her stick held the fire enough, she stood and walked over to it. She stuck the side of her head up to the crevasse, it was two-thirds her height. She didn’t hear anything, it was a stagnant darkness with no sound. She then turned her head and stuck her nose into it, yet she couldn’t smell anything except the odor of a cave that hadn’t seen light in who knew how many years.
Then, she heard a subtle sound, like a faint whisper— a whisper too weak to hear. It was like a gentle breeze blowing through a hollow tree. Kera put her ear up to the crack again, and this time she heard the whisper again, but this time clearer. “Kera . . .” the wispy voice said.
“Yes, I’m here she said. Who is it?”
“Kera . . .” the drawn-out voice called again. “See . . . You must see with eyes open . . . Come . . .”
Kera was startled by the voice calling from the darkness further into the crack. She thought about rousing Fewn, and looking back, she saw Fewn still sleeping soundly back by the fire. “I should get her,” Kera said to herself. “No, something tells me this is for my eyes only.”
Lifting the stick, she slid it into the crack, examining the walls on the other side of it. There appeared to be a tunnel of sorts, and a solid floor of rock and sand. She lifted her foot high enough to squeeze it through the crack, and then looking back at the sleeping Fewn, she pushed the stick further into the crack. Her arm followed, then her head, and she struggled to get her chest to fit through, but she soon found she was standing on the other side of the crack, and in the tunnel, in which she had to hang her head with its low ceiling.
