The Broken Bow

by C D Beaudin

  “You know as well as I do that Awyn is a fighter. She will be fine.”

  Kepp nods but isn’t sure he believes it.

  Adriel gasps when the body in her arms stirs. She looks down at Saine, whose eyelids flutter and body moves slightly.

  “Saine? Saine, my love?” Tears well up in her eyes as his brown ones open slightly.

  Saine’s vision is probably clouded. The world just a stream of colors. But through all of that, in only a few moments, his eyes light up as he no doubt can see the violet eyes staring back at him.

  “Adriel?” His voice is raspy.

  “Saine.” The sound of her voice makes a weak smile appear on his lips.

  “Adriel. I looked everywhere for you.”

  She sniffles, gently placing her fair, bruised hands on his cheeks.

  “I’m here now.” She brings her lips to his, her wet eyelashes touching his face. The kiss is bittersweet. After all these years apart, so much has changed, so much new danger, and yet here they are, reunited at last.

  “Adriel. You’re…squeezing…too tight…”

  “Oh!” She lets go, and he tumbles to the ground with a grunt. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She helps him sit up against the rock again, Saine wincing as he moves his injured leg. She sniffs. “I’m so glad to see you. I never thought—”

  “I know.” He brings her into an embrace, arms violently shaking in obvious pain. “I know.” His arm around her, she nestles her head into his chest, and he winces.

  “Well, I’m obviously a third wheel. I’d feel much better with a fourth,” Kepp says, looking back down at Awyn. “You have to wake up now. Come on.” He gives her a small shake, but she still doesn’t rouse. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

  “Kepp, she’s going to wake up,” Saine says.

  Kepp shakes his head. “I don’t understand how you’re speaking, and she’s lying limply on the ground.”

  “Awyn has been through a lot,” Adriel starts, pain in her voice. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

  Kepp looks at her. “Do you really believe that?”

  Adriel’s hopeful demeanor has changed. “I don’t want to, but she may never wake up.”

  Kepp scoffs. “How are you okay with that? She could be turning into a Dalorin as we speak. We should be helping her!”

  “And how do you propose we do that, Kepp? We have no healer, no magic. I have had my time with her. If she goes now, then my heart will only die a little.”

  “But…” Kepp can’t contain his shock. “She’s your sister. How can you be fine with that?”

  Adriel pauses as if she has to think about it.

  “I’m not. But over the years,” she looks at Saine, “I’ve come to accept things.”

  Saine’s eyes darken. Kepp knows that Adriel is very aware Awyn could die. She’s not completely immortal, and if Raea’s magic lets go too early—if it is her magic—she could be gone.

  Adriel sighs. “My father is a dragon. My mother has disappeared. And now my sister could be dying.” She breathes in sharply. “Acceptance doesn’t mean it won’t hurt any less.”

  All three of them look at the silent Awyn. Her fair face lies hidden under the dirt. But she still looks peaceful. Beautiful.

  This young princess may never wake up. She may give up fighting…

  But right now, she’s in a world of her own.

  Awyn floats. Well, she thinks she’s floating. She’s back in the White Room—the name she calls the dimension Raea saved her from becoming a Dalorin in. It’s made of pure light, but White Room seems like a fitting title.

  She puts a foot out to step, finding herself standing on solid ground. But she can’t see a floor. Okay, that’s strange. She bites her lip, looking around as she walks. Lights twinkle all around her, and she feels like she’s being enveloped by a cloud-like wind.

  Then she hears a whisper.

  “Hello? Is anybody here?” She wonders if it might be—yes. A white light forms in front of her, then disappears, revealing the White Lady. “Raea!” She runs, wrapping her arms around her, feeling the warmth as the woman does the same. The woman who is her real mother.

  “Hello, my child.” Raea looks down into Awyn’s eyes. “You must know the truth, now.”

  Awyn nods, a tear falling down her cheek.

  “I do. Revera told me you and my father had an affair. And that Adara decided to raise me as her own.” The thought of Adara is bittersweet. She was her mother for the longest time, but she pulled away. And this woman in front of her…she was absent her whole life. It’s so surreal…who does she call mother?

  “This is true.” Raea’s brows furrow. “What’s wrong, love?”

  “Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you claim me as your own?”

  Raea sighs, smoothing back Awyn’s hair.

  “Because it would have started a war. Your uncle Atta wouldn’t have taken kindly to his sister being humiliated like that. But even so, I had bigger problems than the rage of your uncle.”

  “What?”

  “My sister. I knew she wouldn’t be able to forgive me. She loved Daron more than I did, I just happened to be there at the wrong time.”

  “What happened?” Awyn asks, her heart thumping harder, and in here, she can hear it.

  “She attacked me. In a place much like this.” She gestures to the white atmosphere around her. “This is one of the places where powerful elves can connect with the Spirits. And she exploited it. Her darkened heart was amplified when the Dark One latched onto her.”

  “Zyadar.”

  “Yes. But I managed to fight her off, with the help of Sericia. We fell out of this dimension and into the mortal world. But that was when she sent someone to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  Raea looks deeply into her eyes. I can’t tell her. It will destroy her.

  Awyn frowns as she hears Raea’s thoughts. Why would it destroy me? Do I…do I know the person who tried to kill her?

  “That’s not important. I was found badly wounded by one of my kin, a young healer. I taught her how to connect with light to heal my wounds, but the process is hard and painful. I’m not quite healed yet.” Raea raises an eyebrow when she sees Awyn’s wavering surety. “What is wrong, child?”

  “I know Kepp is alive, as well as Saine and Adriel. What about Eldowyn?”

  Raea gives her a knowing look.

  “You are asking about more than just Eldowyn. The Red Warrior is special to you, no?”

  Awyn can feel heat flush to her cheeks, and Raea smiles. “I am glad. He is an honorable man.” Awyn ignores the edge in her voice.

  “I’m not in love with him. He’s just a dear friend.”

  “I understand. But I don’t want to see you hurt either.” When she says these words, pain floods through Awyn’s body.

  “Arghh!” She hunches, spitting out blood. She looks with a fear filled heart at the White Lady. “Raea, what’s happening to me?”

  Raea puts a hand on her back. “You escaped Revera’s tower. But now you face another challenge.”

  Awyn throws up again, blood splattering all around her.

  “You must choose to fight. You must choose to live.” The light starts to envelop her once again, and Awyn feels her presence fade.

  “Wait! Mother. Don’t leave me!” Awyn reaches for her, but Raea has disappeared, and the White Room starts to fade into black.

  Awyn tumbles to the ground and looks around. Blackness everywhere. She struggles to stand, blood dripping down her neck.

  “Hello?” She shakes. “Mother?”

  “Your mother is not here.”

  Awyn’s eyes grow wide. She knows this voice too well. It’s demonic, taunting. Awyn gulps and straightens, not wanting to show her fear.

  “What’s this? I thought I had won?” The voice mocks. “The challenge was fair, no?”

  Awyn trembles in rage. “Of course it wasn’t! How am I not supposed to be afraid in your presence?” Awyn can feel her heart beat slo
wer, even though she’s trembling in fear.

  “I concur. But now I want the fun to continue. Do you remember a certain story from the First Age involving much destruction, death, and wars?”

  “Of course. The War of Ardon.” Awyn feels the stinging, ice-cold beads of sweat start to fall down her face, almost burning her. She groans slightly. “How could one forget? You destroyed everything.”

  “Ah, but I could only do it through a servant. You know of whom I speak.”

  Awyn can barely bring the name to her lips. His name is believed to bring terror onto those who say it. But she feels almost compelled to say his name.

  “Crozacar.” Awyn could swear she feels Zyadar smile, though, she cannot see him.

  “Right. He was my most loyal servant. He destroyed lands, took over them, and could have almost destroyed Ardon if it weren’t for those cursed five brother-kings and the elves.”

  “They locked the Sanarx away in Kahzacore and all the traitors of good.”

  “Yes. But do you know what they did with Crozacar?”

  Awyn swallows nervously. “They killed him.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you are mistaken. They killed his physical form, yes. But his spirit was free, and I made him into the thing everyone most dreads.”

  Awyn’s eyes grow large. “The Isle of the Dead. It’s Crozacar’s spirit?”

  “Yes. And now, I’m going to free him.”

  “You cannot! He has no physical form anymore,” Awyn yells to the abyss around her.

  “You are wrong. A soul does not need its own body to become physical again. It only needs a vessel.”

  Awyn’s eyes widen. “Revera.”

  “Yes. And I’ll convince her. It won’t take much. Just a little…burning animosity.”

  Awyn gasps. An intense, searing heat fills her body, and she can feel herself burn from the inside out. She starts screaming, blood gushing from her skin, the burning excruciating. She digs her nails into her face, trying to get to whatever fire is inside, drawing even more blood, and screams even louder when she feels her eyes start to catch fire, her face, then her whole body. The blackness becomes crimson red, and she can hear beyond her screams the devilish laughter of Zyadar as he watches her suffering from afar.

  Awyn stumbles forward, falling to the ground, reaching out, crawling along the invisible surface, gasping for air, pleading for mercy. Screaming for anyone. Why is this happening to me? Why must I be the sword’s mark?

  “Mother! Help me!” She can feel her legs turn to ash, and the rest of her body, until there is nothing left of her.

  The Black Room is empty once again.

  Awyn is screaming, but she won’t wake up. Kepp doesn’t know what to do. Awyn’s head is in Kepp’s lap as he holds her, and the two men look at Adriel for guidance.

  “Adriel. What do we do?” Kepp asks frantically.

  “I have seen this before, but she should have awoken by now.” Adriel holds her hand to Awyn’s forehead, the gem on her own brow glowing. Her violet eyes close, and the glowing intensifies, but Awyn doesn’t stop screaming.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Adriel says, defeated.

  “We can’t just let her suffer!” Kepp yells, and Saine puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  Adriel looks at him with pleading eyes. “I don’t know how to stop it, though.”

  Quickly and without warning, a freezing wind sweeps through, sending convulsive chills through their bodies. It goes as quickly as it came.

  “What was that?” Saine asks.

  “I don’t know, but Awyn has stopped screaming,” Kepp says. He looks at his sister’s face. “Awyn? Are you there?”

  Awyn’s eyes open in a second, and she shoots up.

  “Revera is going to fuse with Crozacar’s soul! It’s going to end the world!” she spurts out without a breath.

  All three of them furrow their brows in confusion.

  “Um, Awyn, let’s just calm down,” Adriel suggests, helping her lean against a stray rock. “You need to rest.”

  “There’s no time. We need to stop Revera. Raea said I need to fight!”

  Adriel and Kepp look at each other.

  “You spoke with mother?” Kepp asks.

  “Yes, but that’s not important. Before I started burning, Zyadar told me of his plan to make Revera free Crozacar so she can destroy the world.”

  “Uh, you mean Mortal, right?” Saine asks.

  Awyn shakes her head. “No. The whole of Ardon will be destroyed. Our world will end.”

  In Awyn’s frantic eyes, she looks as if an evil has latched onto her. Adriel puts a hand on her back, but Awyn recoils from the touch.

  “Stop, it burns.” The words string together so fast, she may not have spoken at all.

  “Awyn, you need to sleep now.”

  Awyn turns on her knees, looking out onto the desert. She closes her eyes as if a feeling is washing over her. Then she looks to the west.

  “No, I don’t. But we need to get to Rohidia. All of us.”

  Chapter Eight

  The cart bumps and jolts against the corrugated dirt road. The grassy lands spread out far, until the jungle border of Terandore cuts the plains off. And on the other side, beyond the grass, lies the ocean. A churning, dangerous sea that is filled with death. In other places, the sea might be a pleasant sight, but the Trads cast the bones of their victims into the waves. At least, the bones they don’t use to decorate their huts and the Temple of Cia Ro.

  That’s not the only thing the Trads use bones for. They tie string around teeth and make necklaces. The Emperor wears a crown made from a jawbone, with the teeth still attached.

  Terandore has awful rituals. Aradon is aware that the full moon sacrifice of a child is nearly upon them. If they haven’t stolen someone from another nation, they’ll kill one of their own and let the High Priest eat the heart. It’s deranged. Inhumane. Barbaric.

  And now Aradon, Eldowyn, and Hagard are their prisoners. No child will be sacrificed this ritual.

  They will be.

  Aradon’s eyes open, his lids heavy. He groans as the cart bounces over a rock, sending him a few inches into the air, then slamming hard against the wooden floor of the wagon. He winces as he tries to move, but then realizes he’s tied, wrists and knees bound tightly together.

  He grunts as he twists, trying to get onto his left side so he isn’t facing the wall of the cart. He flings himself, in an attempt to get airborne, and slams hard against the wood. Groaning, he lets his muscles loosen, and his breathing becomes heavier, deeper, and more tired. He’s so tired. Just…one more…try…

  With all his strength, he jumps, twisting in the few seconds he’s airborne, and lands on his left side. He can see the elf and dwarf tied up exactly like him. Their faces are pain ridden, even while asleep.

  These Trads must have given us something to knock us out. I don’t know how else they could have gotten us in here without waking us up.

  Another jolt of the cart, and pain rushes through his side, shooting into his back. He automatically moves to put his hand on his previous wounds but is sharply reminded that his hands are tied when the rope burns against his wrists.

  Aradon sighs. Guess I’ll just…lie here.

  With no clouds in the sky, there’s no shade, and they roast in the intense heat of the savanna. They jostle as the wagon continues on the bumpy road. Aradon gathers the horse pulling it is barely able to move forward due to the unsteadiness of their pace.

  Parched and aching, Aradon drifts in and out of consciousness. When he finally starts to come to, his eyes barely opening, he hears voices. It startles him. Is he imagining things now? But then the fuzziness of his mind clears, and he can hear them loud and clear.

  The Trads are speaking. He strains his neck to hear their conversation, their thickly accented voices deep and grainy through the wood. It’s another language, but he knows some of it.

  “Okbah, are you bringing your family to the festival? I hear
it’s going to be a tasteful event,” one of them says, resulting in a laugh from another.

  “Ah, we wouldn’t miss it! The High Priest is allowing all of us to watch the ritual to Mokbethaht.”

  Aradon’s eyebrow raises at this. Mokbethaht? The Trads’ Goddess of the Full Moon?

  “You two! Stop talking and keep your eyes sharp. We don’t want any uninvited guests on our way to Poy,” an unfriendly, leader-type third voice chimes in.

  I count three men so far, Aradon thinks. He’ll have the advantage if they think he’s knocked out, and he can get a better look at the surroundings for their escape.

  Irritated grumbling comes from the two men. “Why is he the boss? He isn’t chief, he isn’t Emperor.”

  “Kahman, he is the chief's son, so we must listen,” the man—who must be Okbah—whispers.

  Aradon’s having trouble keeping up with translating and the multitude of voices.

  “Aye, Giliad is just a hotheaded kid. He has much learnin’ to do before he can become chief,” the angry whisper of Kahman exclaims. But he must have been whispering too loudly because the cart stops. The clomp of boots on arid ground sounds as someone else walks over, and from the tone of his angry voice, Aradon can tell it’s the man from before—the chief’s son.

  “What is all this talking? Are you speaking ill of your next chief?” His voice is firm but there is anger under the otherwise poised tone. And just under the surface, Aradon can sense a child.

  “Sir, we would never talk about you in such forms,” Okbah says, his voice both pleading and defensive.

  Giliad is quiet.

  “Very well. Roquahn, onward!” The cart starts moving again. Four, now. He can hear the metallic clinking of metal on metal, a sound he’s too familiar with. Swords. He moves his head, so he can see the back of the wagon and spies a sack. He wriggles down to it and taps it with his feet—weapons. The bronze tip of his bow reveals itself.

  And suddenly a bolt of rage shoots through him. Seeing them sitting there, like they are just another weapon. And those outside the cart, talking and laughing about…nothing. He and his friends are barely able to move, the sun beating down heavily on their half-naked bodies.