by C. K. Rieke
“Garenond, listen to reason,” Lilaci said. This is it. It’s in his hands now.
He stood there, his beard blowing in the wind in the desolation of the desert, and with the great Dune of the Last Dragon looming high over Lilaci and her comrade. Looking over at Dellanor, in his wild fury, ready to kill, he seemed to be looking for some sort of sympathy from his friend, which he didn’t find.
“Dellanor, what do you think?” he asked.
Dellanor glanced over in confusion and anger. “What do you mean? There’s nothing to think about. We are thinkers, we’re weapons. What has come over you. Let’s be done with this and head home heroes. I’m done with talking, I only want my revenge!” Dellanor lashed out and began running at Lilaci and Roren, who both gripped their swords tightly.
This is it. Here we go. Their decision is made. They chose death.
Lilaci felt the magic of the Sanzoral flood into her mind and body, and she felt the hot, burning sensation in her blood, and purple flames erupted from her eyes. Raising her hands, she motioned as if holding up the sky itself, she lashed her hands forward, and with them a roaring wave of sand rushed forward. Dellanor didn’t have time to react, as the wave washed over him, forcing him onto his back. The sands stopped, and he lay there covered in a mound of sand that only shown his face and knees protruding from it. His expression of rage had turned to that of awe. He seemed to have forgotten the strength of her power, a power that had only grown since they’d last seen each other. He looked up at Garenond in shock but didn’t say a word.
“If this is how it must be,” Garenond said. “Then this is how it must be.” Putting two fingers up to the corners of his mouth, he let out a loud whistle that echoed around the rocks, looming high above them.
Lilaci and Roren could both sense the movements from the hidden figures, and then quickly they came into view, two on both sides of them, crawling atop two high rocks. They both leapt down, two more Scaethers, standing tall, both with strong shoulders, and both wielding long, sharp swords. Then two more emerged behind them. They didn’t leap down from the top of the rocks, instead they both knelt on their knees. Not dressed in the red sash, and not of pale skin like the Scaethers— these two had dark skin with tattoos on their face and both wore long necklaces of ivory. They began to chant and peered hard at Lilaci. Their eyes were dark, and heartless.
“Damn!” she yelled out. “Mages!”
Roren looked over at her, and she quickly began to summon her Sanzoral again, letting out a great swath of sand at the Scaethers. But then it hit her. Like the searing pain of a hot rusty dagger in the belly, and with the speed of a searing lightning strike, the mages’ spell entered her mind. She yelled out in agony, and clasped her head, falling to the ground. The sand she’d been controlling fell harmlessly to the desert floor. She held out a hand and attempted to unleash another swathe of sand, but the pain in her head incapacitated her. Damn, this isn’t good. They brought powerful mages with them. I’ve got to push through this pain. I’ve got to fight off their spell.
Roren reached over and pulled the bow from Lilaci’s back and grabbed an arrow. Lilaci pushed through the pain, and sent forth another gush of sand, knocking the two Scaethers onto their backs. Roren quickly strung the arrow, and setting his aim carefully, sent the arrow flying straight and true as it found its way deep into the mage on the left’s neck. He clutched it quickly as blood gushed from the wound. Roren reached over and grabbed another arrow, but once it was pulled tight in the bowstring, he looked up to see the other mage had disappeared behind the rock. The Scaethers were back on their feet and rushing towards them. Roren let the arrow fly, but the Scaethers gracefully dodged it.
“Lilaci,” Roren said. “I’m going to need your help here.”
I haven’t felt his pain in so long, I forgot how frightened of it I used to be. I’ve got to move past it. We are going to die if I don’t do something about that damned mage. Concentrate Lilaci, concentrate on Kera. She needs you. Shake it off!
Lilaci rose to her feet, with great effort. With the Scaethers running at them, Roren set his feet and held his sword out, ready to strike. As the Scaethers drew close, Lilaci raised her sword, trying her best to push through the pain. The two Scaethers in front came in quick, with their swords flashing.
The loud clanging of swords rung out, sharp and fast. Roren blocked the blows of one of them, deflecting each shot carefully. Lilaci had to let her instincts take over, blocking each blow methodically as her vision was growing blurry from the pain.
I’m not going to be able to win this fight. Sooner or later I’m going to slip up. I’ve got to fight this fight another way.
She reached out for the sands beneath their feet and sent a torrent of sharp sand flying upwards at them, stinging their eyes and nostrils. As they moved back in their surprise, Roren pushed forward, this time with his sword burning in hot flames of violet. Bright embers flew from the swords as they collided.
The Scaethers seemed startled by the heat of Roren’s sword, roaring with hot flames. As Roren attacked, the flames flew down onto the two Scaethers, and one of their arms caught fire. He darted back, trying to extinguish the unnaturally hot flames in the sands, but found the sand wouldn’t put out the magical flame.
While the Scaether tried to frantically put out the fire, Dellanor shot in and ruthlessly swung his sword at Roren. Even with his sword alit, Roren was quickly forced back by the two. Lilaci knew her tricks were only stalling the inevitable; Roren was going to die unless she did something.
Searing pain scorched her mind, and the world around her was a blur. She could vaguely make out the color of fire the Sanzoral gifted to Roren’s blade. In front of him she watched the two figures as they attacked her friend. A ripple of yells and grunts echoed in her mind as she watched them battle. The pain in her head had become so overwhelming, it didn’t feel like pain, it had turned to fatigue. Her body was giving up, for it was too much to take, so it began to shut down.
The air and sky were a blinding haze of bright yellows and golds. What is this new sensation? Am I going blind? Have they put a new spell on me? No— you’re not going blind. You just need to focus. Roren needs you. If you pass out now, you’re going to wake up without feet, and you’re going to be dragged off helplessly back to him. Wake up! Fight!
Then, Lilaci slapped herself across the face, which only made the blurriness in her vision shudder, then she slapped herself again with her other hand. Her vision only slightly improved. Then, out of the sheer frustration she was enduring, she balled up her fist and smashed herself on the nose. The punch wasn’t hard enough to break it, but hard enough that the pain overwhelmed that of the magic. Her eyes welled with water, but once wiped that away, her vision cleared, and the pain subsided. Think of Kera and Roren. I’ve got to find that damned mage and kill him.
She knew the mage was hiding behind the rocks, and she also knew she didn’t have the time to dart around searching for him, so she decided to try something different. Dropping to a knee, she slid her fingers into the sand at her feet and closed her eyes. She felt deep into the ground, letting the grains of sand sift through fingers and mind.
With her fingers firmly in the sand, Lilaci began to move her hands in a circular motion. Twirling around in the soft sand, she opened her eyes to see the sands had begun to rise and circle around her. Rushing past her, the sands had turned to a rushing cyclone that grew in force with every second. Its winds grew louder as it raged all around her. She rose to her feet and began to walk forward, the cyclone of sand ripped through the air around her as she did so.
Before her, Roren was fighting the Scaethers in a furious blaze of swords and fire. He won’t last much longer against them, I’ve got to help. Lilaci raised her arms, and with a loud roaring sound, the cyclone doubled in size and fury. The tempest was growing to a sandstorm all around them, and soon the Scaethers found themselves fighting in the maelstrom.
In the storm, Lilaci concentrated. In the swirling cyclone,
she felt out to the sand as it became more violent and raged on. She felt the sensation of the sand as it struck the rocks that loomed high around them, and to her then, it carried with it a particular feeling. It had a specific tone and texture to it. Then, she felt the sand when it hit the metal of their swords, again, it had its one ring. Then, focusing more, she felt when the sands rushed against human skin. It was like as if the sands speaking to her. That’s it. I can feel Roren and the others in the storm. I can sense where they are. Wider. I’ve got to make the sands reach out and find the mage. Concentrate.
Her powers were growing, and the sands grew to a magnificent storm of immense power. As the sands ripped through the air and skies, she focused in on every surface the sands brushed against. Where are you? You bastard. Where are you? Ah, there!
The sands had reached the skin of another. It was just beyond the tall rock that stood askew as it leaned to the right. She immediately went into action. Even with the storm a potential help to Roren, she let the sands fall quickly back to where they were. She knew the mage was the main target. Once he was dealt with she would have her full clarity and focus back, so she ran. Dodging in and out of the rocks she soon turned around the right-leaning stone and was only twenty meters from the mage, who quickly lashed out with his magic. His arms twirled as he chanted, and the pain returned to Lilaci. Her legs gave out as she ran, and she went falling to the ground, clutching her head.
I can’t think through this pain, my visions going blurry again. It’s unbearable!
Trying to push through the pain, she looked up to see that before her, Garenond had appeared, standing before her with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“I gave you the chance,” he said. “Now this is going to have to go our way.”
To his side she watched as Roren was brought over, his hands gripped tightly behind his back. His face was dripping with blood and covered in sand. Dellanor shoved him onto his knees.
“This is what you deserve, you bitch,” Dellanor said, spitting on Roren.
“I’m sorry,” Roren said.
The pain gripped Lilaci, yet she reached down into the sand at her feet, her fingers feeling each grain.
“Don’t even think about it,” Garenond said. “If I see even one grain of sand move, he dies. She looked up to see Dellanor sneak his sword’s blade up to Roren’s neck. Then the two Scaethers behind both pulled bowstrings back with fine arrows, both aiming at her. “If you try anything, he’s dead, and you’ll be unable to walk. Give up, Lilaci, you’ve lost. This is the end.” Garenond looked over at Dellanor, fixated on Roren, letting his sword sway back and forth in front of his neck. “Dellanor, hold. Give her the chance to surrender.”
“Don’t matter,” Dellanor said. “I’m going to kill his one, if for no other reason than to watch her lose a friend. So, she’ll feel the same pain we feel now.”
“Lilaci, lay flat on your stomach, and throw your weapons to the side,” Garenond said.
What do I do? What were you trained to do? I wasn’t trained to surrender— ever. If I try to use the Sanzoral, they’ll kill him. If I can kill the mage, I may have a chance against all of them, but without Roren’s help, I won’t be able to fight all of them in a sword fight. They’re going to kill him if I don’t do something, but they’re too far away. If I give myself up, they’ll kill him anyways and this will have all been for nothing. What do I do? I’ve never been trained for this. If only . . .”
Just then, Lilaci heard the subtle snap of a bowstring being released, followed by the quick, zipping sound of an arrow streaming through the air. Her eyes shot open, expecting to see an arrow shooting right at her. But to her surprise, both of the Scaethers held their arrows firmly in their bows. A streak of red appeared to their side, and just beyond Garenond, an arrow of Whitewood with an obsidian tip struck the mage. It shot through the right side of his head and left the blood arrowhead pierced through the other side.
In their surprise, the Scaethers seemed to be in a brief spell of confusion. Even Dellanor was looking at the mage— their magical advantage in the fight— falling over like a tree being blown over in a storm. Lilaci’s mind was instantly free from its grasp, and that clarity gave her a strength like she’d never felt before. She poised like a cobra about to strike, and then unleashed a torrent of sands up from where they all stood. The sands rushed at them with the force of a tidal wave in the sea, battering the Scaethers and blinding them.
Roren, who’d been watching Lilaci the whole time for his cue, pushed Dellanor’s blade from his throat and with a quick flash, sent the back of his head into Dellanor’s nose. Roren rolled away from the rushing sands behind him.
Seconds later, the Scaethers were recollecting themselves in an offensive position. They hadn’t been hurt by her attack, but Roren was back at her side, wiping his eyes and face clean of the blood and sand.
“What was that?” Roren asked. “Another arrow? Someone else following us all this time?”
“I don’t know,” she responded. “For all I know it could be a group of people. Hopefully not more Reevins, not now.”
“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.
