by L J Andrews
The stench of blood and death burned deep into Roark’s lungs. Like lead, the fire, screams, aromas of gutted bodies, settled in his chest until he thought he would collapse if he ran another step. Jershon was falling. Emperor Abram and local leaders were murdered; dead on their gilded thrones. And Roark was left in a race for his life.
What was left of the outer wall stretched toward the inky sky. Glittering stars shone down, falsely raining peace on the night. Roark gripped the top of one thigh when the muscles seized. Massaging the leg, he focused on an opening straight ahead. A few more excruciating paces. Holding his burning breath, Roark dove beneath the crumbled portion of the outer wall. Broken bodies of soldiers littered the dark space. Sick bubbled over his tongue as the scent of singed flesh gathered in his throat. With a sharp breath, Roark eased beneath the ruins of the explosive attack. An open chest wound in a dead soldier swallowed his hand. The blood was cold, but still sticky and smelled of harsh iron. Roark spat bile but pressed on in the dark rubble.
It seemed as if a strong fist curled around his innards when fierce, booted feet slammed about just beyond his hiding spot. Snarls of the beasts on chains broke in the night as snouts sniffed and tongues lapped at the broken bodies and flesh near the wall. Roark drew in a sharp gulp and released rapid puffs of air as he flattened his body against the stiff corpse of a soldier crushed beneath the rubble. The body reeked from having baked in the sun all day. Roark spewed his stomach but calmed his churning insides by breathing through clenched teeth. One more loud noise and he would be as dead as his new friend.
“He must have gone over the wall, General,” said a gritty voice.
“Search everywhere. Set the hounds.” A voice like a demon, sent a chill coursing down Roark’s spine.
Roark held his breath, knowing well who was outside waiting to torture his body until he broke into bloody pieces. The thin scroll tucked deep in his tunic seemed to scorch his skin. If needed, it would be his only leverage, or death sentence, whichever came first should he be captured.
Roark tilted his head, so his cheek rested on the grisly chest of the dead soldier. Chains clinked along leather boots as enemy soldiers stomped about. He caught sight of a curled snout, but the mutt took more interest in a body off to one side than to sniff out the life hidden in the shadows of the ruins.
He could see the hem of the purple robes marking the Mulekian officers. Careful not to disturb a single stone from the rubble, Roark inched off the body of the Jershon soldier. The dead man was shorter than his own towering length, but with a bit of luck the blanket of night might conceal the remainder of his long legs. Roark gagged, his shoulders heaved, as he tipped the corpse upright. The wound in the soldier’s chest went straight through, coming out worse on the underside. The poor man’s back was soaked in soured, dried blood. Three short breaths and forced his mind to ignore what he was preparing to do. Roark propped the body over the top of his own. Oozing death seeped through his once-white tunic. The soldier’s stringy brown hair brushed over Roark’s face, along with the prickle of creeping insect legs across his skin. Roark prayed the hairy scratch wasn’t caused by a lion spider, known to hide in dank rot surrounding the gutters along the outer city. One bite would boil beneath the skin until the wound split and festered so the nerve endings died, and tissues infected. The dead flesh stockpile would be a feeding frenzy for the eight-legged fiends.
Every muscle tightened in his body. Roark closed his eyes imagining he was home. His parents were working at the wooden table. The aroma of fresh bread and cheese wafted through the sickening carnage. His parents were alive in his mind, still honoring the nobles with stories, tales, and truths about the vibrant history of Jershon. Writing, scribing, recording everything. They weren’t torn on the floor of his family’s home. His mother’s throat wasn’t slit, staining the beautiful embroidered rug she’d spent last winter threading. His father’s kind eyes weren’t lifeless. Roark’s jaw pulsed as his mind struggled to ignore the bleak reality that had upturned his existence in a single day.
He sucked in a sharp breath as the sound of stretching leather and metal echoed near his dead protector. Though he dared not look, Roark could sense searching eyes scanning the crevice in broken bits of wall. Weapons and armor scraped across the rock as a solider crept into the space. Roark squeezed his eyes and lips when the searching soldier’s hand pushed against the dead man’s chest. The corpse was poked and prodded and all Roark could do was plead to the heavens he wouldn’t be discovered.
The soldier cursed under his breath, his Mulekian accent heavy and uncivilized as he backed out of the crevice.
“General Kawal,” he called. “There is no sign of him.”
Roark shuddered. He’d never forget the gleam of the general’s silver armor; never forget the gold eyes of the dragon tagged on every medal, breastplate, even in the cuffs holding his robe over his broad shoulders. The dragon was the emblem of Jershon, and Kawal didn’t deserve the honor. He deserved the serpent of Mulek, for he was a poisonous snake. Kawal, a name Roark had come to know through the last months as peaceful negotiations on trade between the Mulekian Empire and Jershon had been transcribed in his family’s home.
It was all a lie. And if Roark’s parents hadn’t suspected treason and urged families to abandon their homes, many more lives would have been lost in scribe square.
Kawal’s growl filled the still of the night. “Form a perimeter around the city. I want an extensive search of the river and outer forest. Find the scribe.”
“What shall we do when we find him?”
When, not if. The twilight was a living nightmare, and with more time passing, Roark had little hope he’d escape with his life.
“Drain him of his blood, string him from the branches, crucify him for all I care—but bring me the scroll intact, or I shall do worse to you,” Kawal said with venom.
“On the honor of Emperor Baz, consider it done.”
The stench of the dead soldier had numbed Roark’s sense of smell by the time the furious footsteps of enemy warriors faded into the night. Still he remained hidden—he didn’t know how long.
Gray, cold light shattered the dark space between the rubble of the wall before Roark shifted his body free from the pungent, fallen defender. The air didn’t carry a chill, though Roark trembled without end as he tucked back against the boulders. His fist balled around the crinkled scroll hidden beneath his clothing. Unashamed, Roark allowed burning tears to bleed through grime, blood, and decay on his cheeks. In all his nineteen years, he’d never shed such emotion. In truth, his blessed life had no need to shed a tear.
He’d been raised as a scribe. Educated, and different from the working class of Jershon. Roark could remember as a young boy watching from the window, wishing he might learn to spar and wrestle with the other boys in town. He was kept indoors, learning to read, write, and translate foreign, forgotten languages. Now, what did it matter? The boys playing in the streets became soldiers, tasked with defending their great empire and cities—today they were dead, along with the nobles, the scribes, the merchants. The women were bludgeoned or enslaved to men who would not honor them. Children left fatherless, motherless, damned to be slaves to Emperor Baz of Mulek and his new general, Kawal.
Roark buried his face in the tops of his knees and bellowed a cry for the broken empire. He’d believed—no, been naïve enough to believe—Jershon would not fall to the ravishes of the barbaric neighboring empires. Jershon would remain a beacon to a shattered world since the lost empire, Elysium, had split into four violent pieces. When the first blood moon came, the Mount of Rays withdrew its power and the Light King died at the end of the Shattering War. Now, it seemed, so had hope died.
The Light King.
Roark wiped his face and coughed against the stench of his own hand as he ripped the scroll from the holster around his neck. He recognized the lost symbol of the Mount with its four peaks, representing the four gods of rays. The Mount was the symbol of the Light King who
was said to be blessed. Though most who worshiped the Mount believed the place was symbolic and not an actual mountain. Roark had been schooled with compelling arguments with both opinions, so he wasn’t certain. This scroll should be among banished contraband because of its connection to the king, but his father couldn’t resist when the trader had brought it into port two weeks ago.
Roark stared at the seal on the parchment. Kawal had one piece of the set, but Roark’s father had given his life to keep this half out of the murder’s hands.
The scene was forever burned in Roark’s mind like a personal brand from this night. Through the cracks of the floorboards he’d watched his parents be slaughtered by the edge of Kawal’s blade. Roark had waited less than the time it took to draw a full breath before rushing through the ventilation tunnel built into the cellar wall. He’d disappeared in the cloak of night, his family lost and soldiers on his tail.
Swallowing gritty knots in his throat, Roark silenced the fresh, raw memories and unsealed the parchment. Perhaps it was several things that churned his stomach like a bubbling soup pot, but as he scanned the writings Roark knew how valuable this information was, and what might happen if the wrong people should find it in their grasp.
“It’s true,” Roark sniffed, studying the drawings and explanations of the extinct powers. Mystic rays were still worshipped in secret in the land. To those who believed the Mount of Rays still existed, then they believed certain blessings of power had been granted to people called Lightborn.
The Shattering War that divided Elysium and created the nickname the Bloodlands ended two hundred years before his birth. Among the hidden Mount temples, worshippers whispered Lightborn still remained in the shadows. Roark had seen scrolls of scripture from the gods of the Mount many times over the years, and found the religion fascinating, but unbelievable. The Light King had been mystical, just, and honorable. He’d taught every man, woman, and child had rays of powerful light with a unique voice. If only each person would choose the path to unlock their strength, but Lightborn had something more.
Histories spoke of the power of the Light King’s people—some might venture so far to call them magic—but Roark hadn’t believed most of the legends. Decades ago, after the dark Emperor Mal defeated the king, he’d slaughtered the Lightborn, along with worshipers of the gods of the Mount. And since Mal’s death, not a drop of Lightborn blood had returned, if any ever existed at all.
Roark tilted his head to study each description on the scroll. Detailed symbols littered the map with directions and risks along the way. Diagrams and images of each ability were clearly labeled with notes in his father’s hand off to the side. He scanned the scroll, checking for accurate weaving in the paper appropriate for ancient times; sniffed the parchment to know what sort of historic ink was used. Squinting in the cold light, the burning inside Roark’s chest made it impossible to ignore the authenticity. In short, he was reading a map to a mythical place that seemed so real.
“Lightborn could still exist in the Holy Kingdom.” Roark rested his head against the cool stone and gasped against the throb of his pulse.
Kawal had the first piece of the scroll; simply descriptions of three lost amulets that could help a man receive added strength from his own abilities and the Mount of Rays. The amulets would assist on a journey to the Light King’s former kingdom, but this map, this is what Kawal truly wanted. If some of the fallen king’s people remained in the lost Holy Kingdom, their power could fuel an army greater than any in the Bloodlands.
Roark dragged his dirty fingers through his ash coated hair. Speaking only to the darkness, he slowly worked through every scenario. “If it’s true,” he began, glancing at the dead soldier. “Then Earthbreakers might still live. Mindweavers are manipulating. Every Lightborn might be protected by Fireshapers, they would have the talent, my friend.”
Closing his eyes, Roark softly tapped his head against the boulder at his back. He might’ve been slipping into madness, but for a moment he didn’t care as he inched next to the slaughtered warrior. “Can you believe it? The Lightborn could still exist. If the god-blessed people of the Light King are out there, then whatever man had the loyalty of such people, well, he would be an unstoppable force. Makes sense why the entire army is focused on a scribe’s son, right?”
A sudden chill raised bumps along Roark’s arms as he held up a finger. “But if Emperor Baz is after this scroll, who else knows? How long until the Blood Emperor, Sha’run and his Blood Knights come for the map?” Swallowing against the scratch in his parched throat, Roark shifted to his knees. “We can’t let that happen.” With a swift glance at the soldier, Roark patted the rigid shoulder of the dead man. “You served well, my friend. I’ll avenge you. I promise.”
Roark shoved the parchment back into a leather tube beneath his tunic. No one could ever find the scroll. He would destroy it by fire when he escaped his fallen city. Roark’s heart bled in anguish knowing he would never be able to return to the glittering place filled with rivers and green hills and vineyards. Roark of Jershon was dead as of this moment. He would become someone new, disappear. Until he found the Holy Kingdom. Roark bit the inside of his cheek, accepting the blinding rage boiling through his veins. He would survive. And by all the rays of the Mount he hoped existed, this day would be avenged.
Chapter 3
Thieves Waste
As a child, Isa once feared the forests and jungles. The cries of creatures unseen created vivid images in her young mind of fanged beasts waiting to feast on her flesh. She’d rarely ventured outdoors as a girl. At first, she’d thought it would keep her protected from the forest, but it didn’t take long to learn the truth. The true beasts were men and women walking the streets of all the empires. Men and women who took the mixed children of two bloodlines and made them slaves in the frigid death mines filled with ice or sent them to Sha’run where most rumors told tales that their blood was drunk by his knights. Isa sighed as she studied the dark treetops. Now, the forest was a refuge from the human beasts of the Bloodlands.
Through the army of towering oaks, the Tyv survived like any community. Isa tossed scraps and peels into the hog pens like a farmhand would. The pig bodies were still too slim, but when the frosts came to Thieves Waste, the meat and fat would warm the bellies of the entire guild. Isa suspected most people, including imperial patrols, knew the sort living in the shadows of the trees. But if an unsuspecting wanderer stepped beyond the border of neutral lands it would seem like nothing more than a quiet village.
The guilds would never allow an outsider deeper into the refuge than the gardens and animal pens. For beyond there a traveler might see the weapon stores, or the practice fields where thieves sparred, or the vaults of herbs and elixirs for poisons. No weary traveler would be brought to the dressing areas where thieves could transform into someone else before taking a job. Powders and paints were stored in glass jars to lighten or darken skin. Three layers could turn the blackness of a Mulekian to the alabaster complexion of a Zaharan, and back again without appearing false. But out in the stables and pens a traveler could find rest with the pleasant outcasts living in the forest, and remain oblivious to the wealth, skill, and danger among the guild.
Of course, Isa hoped if a traveler did step into Thieves Waste, that the poor soul would stumbler upon her guild, and not one of the other two living to the north and south. Those guilds would not give a barn to sleep or herbal teas to soothe the chill of night.
Isa grumbled and tossed the basket of dried corn to one side. “Gabhar, I warned you sticking your big head into the coop would cause trouble.” The goat brayed and bucked, its horns trapped between posts on the fence where pheasants, chickens, even odd silver-winged turkeys waddled about looking for more kernels. “You greedy beast. I was coming to feed you, but now I’m half-tempted to let you go hungry since you’ve eaten most of the meal for these birds. You know they aren’t as intelligent as you and won’t eat just anything to survive.”
She chuckled
as she held tight to the frustrated animal and maneuvered his head to free the horns of the post. Isa pulled out a knife from her boot—the same blade she’d tossed at Bale’s shoulder—and sliced through a bit of rope wrapped around the goat’s hoof. The animal darted to its pen once free and left a pungent splatter of mud across Isa’s tunic.
“I figured I’d find you speaking to the animals. Tell me, do they talk back?”
Isa frowned as she wiped off the dirt, but she kept her grip tight on the knife. “What do you want, Joshua?”
Joshua, a thief of Tyv six years her senior, stood two heads taller than Isa and she hated how his size intimidated her. She tried to hide it, but by the way Joshua always smirked down his nose, he knew. Today Joshua wasn’t alone. Isa nodded a curt greeting to his most loyal thugs, Liam and Amoni. Isa called them thugs for she’d seen both men in drunken tussles, and they didn’t fight fair, but Isa hadn’t ever been touched by any of the three men. Surprising, since for some reason from the day she’d been taken in by the guild, Joshua seemed as though he’d rather hang her from a tree and let the birds peck at her until death than treat her as a fellow thief.
“Hadeon asked for you,” Joshua said as he rubbed the side of his neck.
“What’s happened to you?” Isa reached out for the bandage around his neck. The white cloth was stained a brownish color from dried blood.
Liam chortled. “Joshua got a little too close to his mark’s daughter.”
