Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  And then the Stonish army stopped. They stood five hundred yards from Brownbury’s walls—just out of the crossbows’ range—and did not move. Roen smiled thinly. They fear our quarrels, he thought.

  He spotted Prince Lale among the Stonesons, robed in gray, sitting atop a charcoal courser. As he watched, the prince produced a silver horn from his belt. The prince gave a long blow like a wail. As one, the Stonish soldiers raised their arms and pointed at the city.

  What are they doing? Roen wondered. Surely they won’t try shooting stone darts. We’re well out of range, and besides—

  The crossbow fell from Roen’s hands. His mouth fell open. He gripped the battlements. Then he knew: there would be no siege. Not behind these walls. Not against these Stonesons’ magic. Roen’s knuckles whitened around a merlon. He tightened his lips. Beneath him, the proud walls of Brownbury were trembling.

  Around him, soldiers were blanching and dropping their weapons. The walls shook violently. Fissures formed, racing along the granite, like cracks in an old painting. One merlon came loose and crashed down. A wide crack sprung up from below, cleaving the wall. More chunks fell. Dust rose in clouds. The air itself shook. Men screamed and fled and fell to their deaths. Stonish magic was tearing the city walls as if they were of cloth.

  Wilon was organizing a descent, leading his men off the wall and mustering them in the courtyard. Roen gazed down at them numbly, as if seeing them for the first time. Slowly he came to realize what half the Island had learned already: you cannot fight the Stonesons and win. He stood still as the wall-walk creaked, cracked, and finally crumbled.

  The wall fell with him. Dust and debris blinded him. Pain exploded in his back, he bent backwards and screamed. Blood filled his mouth. Rocks rained down. For a long time, the rumble of crashing rocks deafened him.

  Then, slowly, the noise began to settle. Roen opened his eyes. Between swirls of dust he glimpsed broken limbs protruding from the wreckage. He had fallen atop his comrades, Roen realized. They were buried beneath him.

  The din had faded into a grumble of creaking stones and dying groans. Roen could now hear the Stonish drums beating. He heard thousands of feet marching toward the city. The pile of rubble on which he lay was suddenly swept aside, as if by some huge, unseen hand from the heavens. Roen went flying like a rag doll. Through the clearing in the wreckage, the Stonesons came marching into Brownbury in orderly lines.

  Healer soldiers who had survived the fall were fleeing madly. Healing himself hurriedly, Roen pushed himself out of the rubble and joined them. The Stonesons thundered behind, marching in steady beat. Roen and his comrades fled through the city’s narrow, twisting alleys, kicking up snow. Doors slammed in their faces. Shutters clanked shut. The citizens were locking themselves in their houses. Roen heard screaming behind him, and knew that those who ran too slowly were being butchered. Stone darts whistled around him. Men fell dead. Roen rounded a corner, momentarily saved from the barrage.

  Before the Stonesons could catch up, Roen rushed into an alley. Snow piled up over his ankles. He sloshed forward, his armor and helmet wobbling and heavy. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell heavily. When he rose to his feet, he saw two Stonesons standing before him.

  Roen’s heart leapt. He fumbled for his sword. The Stonesons approached him with drawn steel. Roen knew he was going to die.

  While he was saying his prayers, two shadows jumped down from the roofs. Within seconds the Stonesons were dead, their necks slashed open.

  “Grom! Nepo!” Roen cried.

  Brother and sister stood before him, knives in hands.

  “Quick,” Grom said, adjusting the patch on his eye. “Come with us. We’ll be safe on the rooftops.”

  Roen shook his head. “I must go see my father.”

  “Then bring him up to us!” Nepo said. Roen remembered how she had saved him and Smerdin long ago by giving them laceleaf. He wanted to hug the woman for her kindness. But again, he shook his head. If Smerdin saw the rooftops, the outlaws might not let him down. It had been hard enough convincing them to let Roen leave.

  Nepo seemed to understand. “Travel the rooftops to your father’s house, at least. The streets are dangerous.”

  Roen nodded. He shrugged off his armor and tossed his helmet aside, keeping only his sword. He followed the two outlaws up the alley wall onto the shingled roof. The snowy domes and spires of Brownbury sprawled around them. Below, squads of Stonesons snaked through the streets, arms outstretched, shooting any Healer soldier they spotted. They moved with grim intent, like hunters, clearing out the city. Roen grimaced and looked away.

  Nepo clasped his hand.

  “Goodbye, Roen,” she whispered. “If the streets ever prove too dangerous, you know where to find us.”

  Roen opened his mouth to thank her, but before he could speak, Nepo kissed him full on the lips. Her fingers twined in his hair, and it was a long moment before she finally let go.

  Guilt filled Roen, and he tried to speak. “Nepo, I—”

  She hushed him with a finger to his lips. “I know,” she whispered, smiling. “You talk about her in your sleep.”

  Before Roen could reply, she spun around and leapt away with her brother. Roen watched until they disappeared. Then he turned around. He jumped onto the next roof, moving toward his house.

  Finally, sore and sodden, Roen stood on his workshop’s roof. He glanced down. Stonesons were scanning the surrounding alleys, but the street outside the shop’s door was momentarily clear. Roen climbed down the roof and knocked urgently.

  “Father,” he whispered, “quick, let me in.”

  From inside came the sounds of Smerdin rising to his feet and fumbling with the keys. From around the corner, came the sounds of thumping boots and whistling stone darts, coming closer. Roen drew his sword.

  Finally, the door opened and Roen rushed in, slammed the door behind him and locked it. Out the window he saw the Stonesons emerge from around the corner. Seeing no one, they marched on.

  Roen breathed in relief and leaned against the wall. Smerdin was watching him sadly.

  “At least you’re safe,” the wispy painter said.

  Am I? Roen remembered the tales he had heard of the Forest. They said Lale butchered every living thing he encountered there. But then, Lale could not rule tree towns. He could rule Brownbury. Roen did not think the prince would destroy what he could enslave.

  He laid his sword on the table, wondering if he’d ever use it again. Probably not. Heland was destroyed. All her armies were vanquished. She would not be able to battle Lale. Roen found himself thinking of Aeolia, how determined she had been despite her shyness. The thought gave him comfort. He knew that as long as she was free there was hope, that Sinther had not yet won, that there was still some goodness fighting the dark.

  A trumpet blared outside, accompanied by the sounds of marching boots and hoofs. Roen peeked out the window. He saw Lale riding down the street, his troops snaking behind. The prince’s silver hair and gray robes sparkled with snow. His one gloved hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The other was coned around his mouth.

  “Citizens of Brownbury!” the prince was announcing. “Gather at your palace when its bells toll six to hear your new ruler speak.”

  Behind the prince, Roen saw something that caught his eye. A woman was walking tethered to Lale’s courser, dressed in the manner of Forestfolk. A bucket covered her head, but somehow Roen knew she was beautiful. Stonish soldiers surrounded her, their swords drawn. Who was such a dangerous creature, that she needed to be so heavily guarded? Roen examined her as she walked by his window. From the rim of the bucket on her head, peeked two thick, orange braids.

  For a moment Roen could not breathe.

  A Forestfellow woman, with two thick orange braids.... No, it couldn’t be. There were a million Forestfolk with braids. It couldn’t be her. And yet... she felt the same. The air tingled with the same magic as in his dreams.

  Lale kept echoing his call as he rode down th
e street, but Roen scarcely heard him. He wanted to rush outside, challenge the Stonesons, and snatch the woman free. He could barely keep himself still. Who was she? How could she be real? Lale and the woman disappeared behind the corner, and Roen felt as if his soul were wrenched from his body.

  He turned from the window, Lale’s words sinking in for the first time. The prince would be addressing the people from the palace. The woman might be there with him. Roen had to see her again.

  “I’m going,” Roen said.

  “You should stay here,” Smerdin cautioned. “It will be dangerous for a young man.”

  “Lale won’t suspect me a soldier. I’ll wear my cloak and hood. Besides, I must... see the queen.”

  Smerdin looked sad. “There is no way you can help Elorien. Her fate is in the Spirit’s hands now.”

  “Then I must go learn what that fate is,” Roen said.

  Smerdin sighed and looked at his feet. Roen thought of the Forestfellow woman, and his heart ached. Who was she? Had she been dreaming of him too? He remembered how they had both been turned to stone, and how he had caught her when she fell. He sat at the table and waited.

  Finally, when the snow lay high in the streets, the city bells tolled six. Roen rose to his feet.

  “I go,” he said and pulled on his cloak, tugging the hood low over his face.

  “Are you sure?” Smerdin asked.

  Roen nodded. “Lale won’t harm me. He wanted to scare us at first, but he’s done killing now.”

  He squeezed his father’s shoulder, opened the door, and stepped outside into the cold.

  The snow was falling heavily now, flurrying in the wind. Roen shoved his hands under his arms as he walked, and held his head down against the wind. His breath purled white before him. The cold pinched his nose and made his eyes water. He saw drops of blood speckling the houses and knew that more blood hid beneath the snow. Here and there was the white lump of a snow-buried body.

  The streets were deathly silent, but not empty. Others were slinking toward the palace to hear Lale speak. At every corner, Stonesons stood with drawn swords, staring from the confines of their helms. Stonemark’s flag—a white firefly emblazoned over a gray field—billowed from the roofs of all public buildings.

  Finally Roen reached the royal gardens. The fringe of cypresses had been cut down. Roen walked across the snowy lawns, gazing at the palace. One of its towers had been toppled. The Stonish flag billowed from the others. Stonesons stood guard on the walls. The first fireflies of the evening were rising to glow, swirling around the heaps of stones and smashed statues.

  When Roen came closer, Stonish soldiers arrived to lead him into the palace courtyard. Several hundred of Brownbury’s citizens stood there, mostly women, old men, and children; most of the city’s young men had perished in the war. In the balcony above stood Stonish soldiers, but Lale himself had not yet arrived.

  Roen remembered that here, several moons ago, Elorien had named Hyan heir. The memory stung his eyes. He had thought those days hard, but now they seemed almost carefree. Everything was so much worse now.

  A shadow fell over the crowd as an ogre paced in to join them.

  “Grumbolt!” Roen cried.

  The gatekeeper gave Roen a sad look and came to stand beside him. He was bleeding from a cut to his head.

  “They naughty men,” he said to Roen. “They hit Grumbolt’s head. They get past gates.”

  With that the ogre burst into tears. His loud sobs were the only sound in the courtyard. Roen mustered his magic and healed Grumbolt’s wound, then stood patting the gatekeeper’s arm, trying to comfort him. He himself felt like crying.

  A horn blew above, loud and jarring, making Roen start. A Stonish officer on the balcony cupped his mouth and shouted, “Bow before Lale, prince of the Stonish Empire!”

  The crowd shifted uneasily.

  “Bow before your prince!” shouted the Stoneson.

  The people glanced at one another. Several people bowed reluctantly. Most did not.

  The Stonish officer gave a quiet command, and the soldiers surrounding him outstretched their arms. Stone darts rained onto the crowd.

  Screams filled the air. Several people fell bleeding. Others tried to flee the courtyard, but more Stonesons held them back with strokes of swords. Roen covered his head with his arms. A dart scratched his elbow. Another grazed his shoulder. His heart thudding, Roen bowed, pulling Grumbolt down beside him. The Stonesons continued shooting until everyone made obeisance. The only sounds were the weeping of the wounded and frightened.

  “You shall accept your prince in silence,” said the officer on the balcony.

  Some of the weepers silenced, but others continued sobbing. From the corner of his eye, Roen glimpsed the boots of three Stonesons enter the crowd. He held his breath. The Stonesons slowly paced among the cowering Healers. They stopped by a weeping child and one raised his sword. Roen shut his eyes. He heard the child’s weeping cut short. The Stonesons continued strolling among the people, landing their swords on whoever sobbed, moaned, or so much as stirred a hair’s length. The bodies were dragged out into the gardens.

  Finally silence reigned. The people stood bowing so still they seemed frozen. The only movement was that of a single red firefly swirling over the crowd. The townsfolk stood frozen for what seemed an eternity, the Stonesons gazing with scrutinizing eyes, until finally the horn blared again and the Stonesons bowed as well. With his head lowered, Roen couldn’t see Lale enter the balcony, but he heard the prince’s voice.

  “You must forgive my men. They’ve been long from home, and their tempers are short.” The prince sighed. “Well, all’s water under the bridge. You may rise.”

  Slowly, glancing around nervously, the crowd straightened. Roen saw Lale now. The prince stood on the balcony with his hands on his waist, a small, satisfied smile fluttering across his split lips. No, Roen decided. That was not satisfaction in his smile. It was amusement.

  Behind Lale, surrounded by guards, stood the Forestfellow woman. Roen caught his breath. The bucket still covered her head, but the woman stood tall and straight. Pity and desire swirled through Roen, so thick his head spun. Suddenly he realized that, though he had never seen her out of his dreams, he loved her. It was a strange feeling. Lale was speaking again, something about annexing Heland, but Roen had thoughts only for her. He’d have given his life for one chance to lift that bucket and see her face in waking life.

  His musing was disrupted when two Stonesons dragged a middle-aged woman onto the balcony. The woman wore rags, and her gray hair lay disheveled over her face. Blood speckled her lips. She looked vaguely familiar. She was probably a beggar he had passed before in a street corner, Roen decided. But why would Lale bring her out onto the balcony?

  Lale drew his sword.

  “Just to emphasize that Sinther is your only ruler,” he said.

  The prince grabbed the old woman’s hair and pulled her head onto the balcony’s balustrade. He raised his sword and brought it down hard. The blade severed the woman’s neck and clanged against the railing. Lale lifted the bleeding head and stuck it onto a spike in the balustrade.

  “It will stay here until it rots!” he cried.

  Finally Roen recognized her. She was no beggar. She was Queen Elorien, the mother he hardly knew.

  Grumbolt recognized her too.

  “Urmajesty!” the ogre cried and began running toward the balcony, howling.

  “Stop, Grumbolt!” Roen shouted, but Grumbolt paid him no heed. Stone darts peppered the ogre, but he seemed not to notice. Caterwauling, he began climbing the balcony’s columns. Darts soon bristled from him like a porcupine’s quills, but he continued climbing until he grasped the balcony’s ledge.

  Lale slammed down his sword, cleaving the huge hand, but Grumbolt swung his leg onto the balcony and pulled himself up. He crashed through the balustrade and rushed toward the prince, howling with berserk rage.

  Lale’s guards whipped around their prince and faced t
he ogre. Their swords dug deep, but Grumbolt kept standing. He grabbed the guards and tossed them off the balcony like weeds. They thudded against the ground. Grumbolt turned to face Lale.

  Suddenly, the ogre froze. He whimpered. Blood blossomed on his back, where peeked the tip of Lale’s sword.

  Lale drove his sword deeper, pushing Grumbolt toward the balcony’s edge. Grumbolt flapped his arms feebly, too weak to harm Lale. The prince put a foot on Grumbolt’s stomach and pushed, at the same time pulling his sword with both hands. With a long sucking sound, the blade came free, and Grumbolt tilted backwards.

  For a second, Grumbolt teetered on the edge of the balcony. Then he fell. The crowd rushed away, and Grumbolt thudded onto the ground. The earth shook.

  Roen cringed and glanced up at the balcony, expecting Lale to shout and order a reprisal butchery. What he actually saw made his breath die.

  The Forestfellow woman, now unguarded, had the bucket off her head. She was fighting Lale. She had the same face from Roen’s dreams, with the same slanted eyes, deep and green like the woods she came from. Lale slashed with his sword and she hopped away, snarled, and turned into a tiger.

  The Forest’s Firechild! Roen gasped. He held his breath as he watched the fight.

  Lale swung his sword in arcs, not letting the tiger near. The tiger, unable to attack past the slashing blade, turned into a cobra. The snake spat, but Lale blocked the venom with his blade. The cobra raced toward the prince’s feet, turned into a woodpecker, flapped onto Lale’s crotch, and began pecking madly. Lale screamed and ripped the bird away, but it morphed into a ferret and jumped onto his sword hand. The ferret mauled wildly, biting and clawing. Lale’s sword clanged against the floor.

  The ferret jumped free and became human again. Slowly, the beautiful woman lifted the fallen sword. She straightened and brought the point to Lale’s throat, her eyes cold as snow.

  The balcony curtains opened behind her.