Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  “Kill me and you’ve killed her!” Lale screamed.

  The steel was cold against Aeolia’s skin. She held her breath, her heart thumping.

  “Kill her,” Talin grunted, his speckled blade held above them, “and you’ve killed yourself.”

  Lale smirked. “It seems we’re at a deadlock.”

  He tightened his grip on Aeolia. His arm pushed against her bruised back, but she was too frightened to feel pain. She stared pleadingly at Talin, and for a moment their gazes locked. His eyes were liquid green, and they somehow soothed her fear.

  Talin returned his eyes to Lale. “So we drop our blades together.”

  Lale laughed—a sound like crackling ice. “Pitiful, that your pity should foreswear your revenge.”

  The two swords clanged against the ground. Aeolia fell to her knees. She touched her neck and breathed in relief finding it unscathed. Her heart still pounded, and she drew a long, shaky breath. Noting the lack of ringing steel, she raised her eyes. Lale was gone, running downhill.

  “Why does he run?” Aeolia asked, Northtalk still strange to her tongue.

  “To fetch reinforcement,” Talin said. “Safer than dueling me alone, when you might sabotage him again. Lale has ever been the coward.” He knelt beside her. “Poor child... what have they done to you?”

  Aeolia realized how she must look: her skirt tattered, her hair tangled, her body bruised, her hands still stained from the ogre she had killed. She looked down into her lap with shame.

  “Here, drink,” Talin said, handing her a flask from his belt. Aeolia took the flask gratefully. She drank, the water running down her chin and dripping onto her neck. She had never known water to be so sweet, and she shut her eyes to enjoy it. When she felt a soft touch on her back, she looked over her shoulder. Talin was kneeling behind her, caressing her.

  “Don’t move,” he said, stroking her slowly. His touch was sweet and cool, flowing like the water, melting her pain. Aeolia pulled away.

  “Why are you touching me?”

  He said nothing and continued caressing her. It frightened her. A man should never touch a girl, she knew. It was sinful. And yet she did not resist. His touch was too soothing. He lifted her hair and rubbed her back. His second hand caressed her leg. Aeolia swallowed. What was he doing?

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispered. She had heard that if a man caressed a girl long enough, a baby grew inside her.

  But again he said nothing. Aeolia shut her eyes. Something was happening to her. Soothing waves were flowing through her. She rocked slowly to it. The pain in her bruised back faded. Her head stopped spinning. Strength filled her again. She panted.

  Talin removed his hands, and Aeolia ached for the loss of them. She opened her eyes. She felt healthy, restored. Even her empty stomach no longer hurt.

  “Put this on,” Talin said and wrapped his cloak around her. When the fur touched her back, it didn’t hurt. Aeolia reached over her shoulder and touched her skin. She gasped. The cane’s open wounds were now nothing but three more scars. She lifted her tattered skirt and looked at her leg, which had been battered by the rocks. Her skin was white and clear with not the slightest bruise. She rose to her feet, looking at Talin in astonishment.

  “You’re a Healer!” she said. She had heard of Healers. But then she frowned. “Why did Lale call you Forestfellow?”

  Talin cleaned his sword with a handkerchief, revealing the word “Stormshard” filigreed in golden wire. “My mother was a shaman in the Forest, my father a lord in Heland,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed to the blade. “I am of both bloods and yet of neither. I can heal bruises and cuts, but not mend broken bones. I can emulate a chameleon, but no other animal.”

  Aeolia pondered this a moment. A Healer and a Forestfellow. That would explain his accent, she supposed. Joren had once told her Healers spoke the same language as Stonesons, but she had never guessed they would speak it so differently, with vowels choppy rather than smooth, and r’s that rolled on the tip of the tongue. Of Forestfolk Aeolia knew even less, not even what language they spoke. She hadn’t even known they could emulate animals, only that they were wild and fierce, that they forged no metal and did not worship the Spirit who had created All Things. She knew so little about the Island’s kingdoms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know so little about Forestfolk, you see.”

  Talin shrugged. “You’ll be seeing many soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re going to the Forest.”

  Aeolia cocked an eyebrow. “We are?”

  Talin nodded. “Lale has a dozen soldiers in every town in the Beastlands. No doubt he is leading them here as we speak. To beat him now, I must face him where he is weak and I am strong, where he is alone and I have friends. The Forest. Lale will be unable to bring his army there; the Forest’s border is patrolled. That’s where I’ll kill him.”

  “So what do you need me for?” Suddenly the Forest didn’t sound so tempting. Aeolia did not wish to be anywhere near fighting; she did not think she could bear the sight of blood again. Besides, she was headed to Stonemark to find Joren, and that was in the other direction.

  “What do you think I need you for?” Talin produced a stone from his belt and gave Stormshard two quick licks. “Lale followed you here all the way from Stonemark. He will follow you into the Forest as well.”

  Aeolia understood. “I’ll not lure a man who wants to kill me, just for your revenge!”

  Talin gave her a steady look. “Lale has been hunting you for ten years, girl. He will keep hunting you until you’re dead. So you can either keep running till he kills you, or you can come with me.” His voice softened. “We’ll catch him together. You’ll be the worm, I’ll be the hook.”

  A shiver ran through her. A worm. Bait. But Talin had saved her life, and Aeolia could not bring herself to refuse him. It seemed she would still see blood before she saw Joren again.

  She sighed. “All right.”

  “Good!” Talin slammed Stormshard back into its scabbard and straightened his baldric. “Now, are you hungry?”

  The thought of food made Aeolia’s mouth water. Before she could speak, her stomach grumbled embarrassingly.

  Talin smiled. “In that case, I’ll build a big fire, lots of smoke for Lale to see. We’ll cook rabbit stew while we wait for him to catch up.”

  Talin turned to walk into the copse of birches. Aeolia stared at him a moment, then followed. If she feared luring Lale, her hunger overpowered that fear. Together they walked amid the white trunks, collecting dry branches and twigs from the moist earth. The hill ended abruptly with a steep slope, as if some huge beast had bitten off its eastern side. They descended the declivity slowly, holding hands for support. In the grassy valley below, the last wisps of mist were dispersing in the breeze, and there they set camp and built a fire.

  Aeolia tossed twigs and leaves into the flames, creating abundant smoke for Lale to see and follow. When the flames were lower, Talin cooked a skillet of rabbit and roots. The smell made Aeolia’s mouth water. When the stew was ready and Talin handed her the pot, she forgot about the world, and ate.

  “You must have been hungry,” Talin said a moment later.

  Aeolia glanced into the pot and felt herself blush. The pot was empty and glistening clean. “I’m sorry!” she said. “I didn’t even notice....”

  Talin tossed back his head and laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve got plenty more. I’ll cook another pot. We’ll see how fast you can wolf it down this time.”

  Aeolia squealed. “I didn’t wolf it down!”

  “True. Wolves chew.”

  She bit her lip. “I was hungry, all right? And you’re a good cook.” The ogre used to give her only turnips and sometimes pepperwort soup or porridge.

  Talin filled a second pot. “What’s your name?” he asked as he stirred.

  “Have I not told you yet? It’s Aeolia.”

  He frowned. “But that’s a Stonish n
ame.”

  “Of course it is. What else would it be?”

  Talin shrugged. “Well, Lia, Esiren or Stonish, you have the appetite of a troll.”

  Esiren? That was what Lale had called her. What did it mean? Aeolia was meaning to ask, but then the second pot was ready, and all thoughts but of food left her mind. One pot more, and they doused the fire and set out east.

  They ambled between the hills, walking slow enough to make sure Lale followed. Aeolia took care to shove her feet deep into the soil, break twigs, bend branches, and flatten grass. At one point, she tore off a piece of her skirt and hung it on a hawthorn. They walked so slowly, and their trail was so blatant, Aeolia expected to see Lale appear any moment. But he never did. By late afternoon they reached a river, and when the sun touched the craggy chalk horizon, they set camp on the bank, under an old hickory.

  Talin caught a trout and sat to build a fire. Aeolia left him and ambled along the riverside, over the slippery stones. She had never before just walked for pleasure, and she wanted to feel what it was like. It felt strange. Even the physical act itself, walking without her fetters, still felt odd. But the ability to go wherever she wished and when she wished it—that was nearly unfathomable. She had never imagined it could feel so odd, having no chores, no daily routine, to look at the setting sun and not know what the morrow would bring. Aeolia smiled softly. Freedom. And yet.... The longing for a home, for a brother, for somewhere to belong—these were still her companions. She sighed. No, this was not how she had envisioned her freedom.

  The music of the river grew louder as she walked, splashing like rain. Ahead grew an alder, stretching its branches over the river like a gateway. Daisies grew amid the tree’s roots. Aeolia thought to pick some of the flowers for Talin, or perhaps place one in her hair like she used to as a child. She skipped over the mossy rocks toward the tree, held onto a branch, and swung around the trunk. She found herself staring down a waterfall.

  For a moment she could not breathe, and her heart stopped in her chest. She stood frozen, numb fingers still hooked around the alder’s branch, staring into the churning basin below. She saw the foam welter, the waves crash against boulders, the spray rise in a cloud. She had never been so terrified. She whimpered and blundered backwards, where she tripped on her skirt and sat down hard.

  For several moments she sat dazed, her legs spread out before her, her arms hanging limp at her sides. And then, strangely, she began to cry. The tears just formed and flowed down her cheeks and fell into her mouth, and she could not stop them. Once her life too had flowed straight, to Joren, to Stonemark her home. But her beautiful alder had hidden a waterfall of its own, and now she was falling, tumbling, crashing against boulders that altered her course. If only she could say that somewhere, however far away, was a brother who loved her, she would have been content. But she could not. Joren had promised to save her, but only his friend had come, and he had tried, for reasons she couldn’t guess, to kill her. Had the ogress been right? Had Joren betrayed her?

  “Lia! The fish is ready!”

  Aeolia knuckled her tears away, embarrassed by them. She turned her head and saw Talin, the setting sun at his back, motioning her to return. She moved hastily over the boulders, and together they sat by the fire he had kindled. Aeolia nibbled at her meal; she was not hungry. They sat together and watched the flames as gloaming spread around them.

  The fireflies came with darkness, as always. The first dot of light rose from the grass to swirl lazily in the sky. A second soon joined it, then a third, and soon the sky swarmed with numinous specks of floating, flickering light. Aeolia sat and watched them, and as always the sight calmed her. Fireflies are the stuff of magic, Joren would say. It is magic that glows inside them. Aeolia smiled softly. Magic fireflies. If she looked carefully, she could see four different colors of light. Some of the fireflies glowed white. Others glowed orange, and others red. The prettiest, Aeolia thought, were the fourth kind of fireflies, those that glittered like gold. Each color was a different magic, Joren would tell her. Four different magics, one for each of the Island’s human countries.

  “Are you finished eating?” Talin asked, tearing her from her thoughts.

  “Yes, Mas—” she began, caught herself, and blushed furiously. “Yes,” she finished hastily.

  Talin wrapped up the remaining fish and placed another log in the fire. “Lale isn’t yet in sight,” he said. “We can afford a short rest.”

  “Is it safe letting him get so close?” she asked hesitantly.

  “We can move as fast as him if we need to. As long as he remains behind us, we’re safe. Sleep. I’ll stay up and watch.”

  “You should sleep, too.”

  “You need it more. You’ve had a rough day.”

  She was tired. At the thought of sleep, her lids drooped as if pulled by weights. And so she did not argue. Talin leaned against the hickory, and Aeolia curled up in his cloak. She tucked herself in like Joren had always tucked her in, with the blanket folded under her like an envelope, to contain her warmth. She lay wiggling her toes, watching the fireflies and listening to the gurgling river. She remembered how she used to sleep back at the cottage, in the old barn with the cow and the goat and her dreams, and soon she found herself thinking of her former mistress. Without her, Aeolia thought, I would not be here now. She shut her eyes and mumbled a prayer for the dead ogress’s soul. She considered for a moment, then prayed for the ogre as well. He had been cruel to her, but he had also fed and clothed her, had given her a roof when her father would not. She felt she owed him as much, at least. There was no one else to pray for his soul now.

  Eventually her tiredness became too strong to resist, and it pulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  She awoke at dawn.

  She pushed herself up, blinking feebly. Talin still sat under the hickory. He smiled at her.

  “You let me sleep too long,” she said.

  He frowned. “Excuse me?”

  Aeolia realized she had spoken in Ogregrunt. She felt her cheeks flush. So clumsy she was!

  “I meant to say: You let me sleep too long.” Her tongue still felt awkward around Northtalk’s smooth vowels.

  “Lale never showed up,” Talin said. “He must have been tired, too. I didn’t want to get too far ahead of him.”

  Aeolia shrugged one shoulder. Lale had seemed determined, but he had a clear trail to follow, after all, so he had time to spare. Aeolia rose to her feet, shivering in the brisk air. She walked to the river and knelt on the bank, and where the water pooled in a cradle of stones, she gazed at her reflection. What she saw surprised her. Her hair used to be straight and fine, its color a brown so pale it was almost blond, like almond peels or the fur of a mouse. Caked with mud as it was, it now looked dark as cinnamon, and tangled as an ogre’s beard. Her face, once round and soft, now had a hollow look, which made her eyes seem too large. Was this who she was—a dirty, haggard vagabond? Was this how Talin saw her? She plunged her head into the cold water, scrubbing her face and hair till it hurt.

  They continued their journey, eating a breakfast of grainy bread, riddled cheese, and leftover fish as they walked. Aeolia was careful to step around the fairy rings in the grass, even though Talin said that was only superstition. Why else should she be so cursed, she reasoned, if not for having stepped in one once as a child? As time went by, however, Aeolia found herself burdened by heavier concerns. Lale still had not appeared. They walked even slower that day, leaving a trail a blind man could follow. Every once in a while, Talin climbed a tree or crested a hill, gazing west. But the scarred Stoneson was nowhere to be seen. It seemed unlikely he’d lost their trail or given up. Perhaps he was so confident, he moved even slower than they did.

  By noon they left the river, and Talin announced they were only a day away from the Forest. Aeolia had never imagined it could be so close.

  They climbed a rocky hill, pebbles cascading beneath them. The waterfall still rumbled faintly in the distance. They asce
nded the scree slowly, using their hands for support. Several fallen firs, bedecked with moss and snails, littered the slope, giving them further handhold. Boulders crowned the hill, big as a man, and they reminded Aeolia of her old king in Stonemark.

  She said, “My brother used to tell me King Sinther is made of stone.”

  Talin nodded. “Both in skin and heart.”

  “So it is real, not just a fairytale. I was never really sure.”

  Talin nodded. “You see, Sinther is a Firechild.”

  “A Firechild?”

  Talin looked at her, and Aeolia thought she saw sadness in his eyes. She bit her lip and lowered her head.

  Talin spoke softly. “Every kingdom has its own color of fireflies, with its own magic. Once a century, there is born someone blessed by the fireflies, someone able to wield their magic more than his kin. Such a person is called a Firechild. For him the fireflies glow.”

  “For him they glow?”

  Talin climbed over a fallen log. He gave Aeolia his hand and helped her over. “When no Firechild lives the fireflies of that magic sleep,” he said. “When a Firechild is born they begin to glow at night, and glow every night until their Firechild dies. Nobody truly knows why.”

  Blessed by the fireflies, Aeolia thought. It sounded enchanting. “But Sinther is cruel; his heart is made of stone, you yourself said. Would the fireflies truly bless him, if he is... wicked?”

  “They say he was not always wicked,” Talin said. “When Sinther was young, he used no more magic than any Stoneson—shaping stone, creating stone, but no more. But when he discovered his talent, Sinther moved underground, where he drew power from the surrounding rock and turned himself to stone. So much magic he used, they say his heart and sanity turned to stone with his flesh. As long as he’s underground, nothing can harm him, and so he remains there and sends Lale to do his killings.”

  Aeolia pondered this for a moment. Could all Stonesons truly control stone? True, she had left Stonemark at age six, but she was still Stonish, and she had no power over rock. Perhaps the magic required special training.