by C D Beaudin
It shouldn’t bother him so much, but there’s an anger inside him he just doesn’t feel like fighting. No. I won’t stand for this. If they want my heart, they’re going to have to rip it out of my cold, dead chest.
He lets his Besged strength gain momentum like a powerful, unpredictable force of nature. It can be helpful or destroy everything. He’s not accustomed to it and doesn’t know how to control it. As far as he knows, only the very first Besgeds had that ability. Everything declined from then on. The power became less pure and more infested with the mortal weaknesses and darkness. The Besged Dia—the only way the mortal part of the Besged can survive with the power—becomes possibly fatal, and more frequent. He’s experienced it twice already. The first time, he was a young child. The second, he was in a temple, a holy place—Dreema was there. Kaniel was still alive, Tamon was still alive…things were different, the second time.
It’s a part of him he can’t count on. And yet it may be his only chance at surviving this war.
He jumps up onto his feet, the ropes that were binding him snap and fly through the air, startling the men outside the cart. At first, they just stare at him. Good. While they’re confused, I’ll make my move.
He scrambles to grab his bow and sheath. But it’s empty. He grits his teeth as he starts rummaging through the pile of weapons.
But Giliad shouts, “Stop staring, fools! Grab him!”
The men yell and start catapulting themselves over the sides of the wagon, onto the still moving platform. A bump in the road jolts them all, and one Trad loses his balance. Aradon takes this moment, while the others are regaining themselves, to attack.
His eyes find an arrow and swiftly grabbing it from the pile, he draws it, letting it fly from close range into the fallen man’s leg. He shouts in pain, and the three others lunge at Aradon. He easily blocks them with one arm, sending them flying off the cart.
These men are not fighters. He scans the crowd now the wagon has stopped.
The man he shot cries out, gripping his leg. There’s more of them—eight. Aradon jumps off the wagon, his feet hitting the ground. For a moment, he’s dazed, but he shakes it off and his senses sharpen. He closes his eyes, the world seeming to slow.
Every twitch of a finger, every drop of sweat, every quickened heartbeat—he can hear it all. His senses are heightened, his muscles stronger, and his mind quicker.
He’s on the edge. On the edge of falling into whatever darkness the Besged state has become.
Stay on the edge, and you’ll be fine.
He opens his eyes. Two coming from the left. Three from the right. Another two from under the cart.
Just as a sword is about to make contact with his neck, he ducks, slamming his elbow into the man’s back, hearing a loud crack. The man cries out as he falls to the ground, and Aradon whips around as someone else crawls from under the cart. He slips the bow around the man’s neck, who struggles for air as Aradon twists the string and chokes him.
Two down, five to go.
Aradon runs forward, placing the group of guards between him and the cart. He charges at them, depending on only his training and Besged heritage to help him. With no weapons, only a bow, he tears the men down like stalks of wheat, not taking the time to watch as they fall to the ground. Not caring about their cries.
He is numb of feeling. Numb to thinking. His only focus is killing.
When he can finally catch a breath, he turns back, straightening.
And then there were two.
Aradon looks across the short distance that separates him from Giliad. As a chief’s son, he’s obviously a warrior. Unless, of course, this tribe has absolutely nothing in common with the outside world.
Giliad looks him over, his eyes thin and piercing. He grips his sword tightly and slightly raises his chin.
And in Aradon’s language he speaks. “Our priests need the three of you for the festival tomorrow. You will be sacrifices to Goddess Mokbethaht. We can’t turn up emptyhanded.” Giliad lifts an eyebrow as Aradon remains still. Then something washes over his brown eyes. Curiosity. “What is your name?” he asks over the bodies that lie sprawled across the dirt road, bloody and limp.
“Why should I tell you my name?” Aradon questions, barely thinking about the words that stream out of his mouth. In fact, he’s barely aware that he’s speaking at all. The only thing he can focus on is the rhythm of the blood streaming through Giliad’s veins.
Don’t go over the edge.
“Because then I’ll spare your friends.” He lifts his sword, gesturing for Aradon to look, and suddenly all awareness floods back.
Behind the cart, four figures emerge. Two muscular, tall dark-skinned men, gripping ropes tied around two, smaller, lighter people. Aradon keeps a steady expression, but his eyes probably betray him as worry washes over him.
He must have had scouts hiding in the tall grass. Aradon takes a breath. He looks at his straight-faced friends. They’re scared. He can see it in their eyes. His jaw tightens as he turns his attention back on Giliad.
“Let them go and you can have me,” he offers.
Giliad scoffs.
Aradon hears Eldowyn’s disagreeing sigh, but pays no attention, keeping his eyes trained on Giliad.
“Very noble of you. But tell me…why would I agree to that?” Giliad asks, an eyebrow raised.
Aradon stands taller. “Because I am worth more to your god than these men combined.”
Giliad, clearly interested, crosses his arms.
“How much are you worth, then? Three elves? Five?”
Aradon looks straight into his eyes.
Giliad is clearly uncomfortable at this gesture.
Aradon’s neck twitches slightly. “Twenty.”
Giliad’s jaw drops. His men holding Eldowyn and Hagard are equally as shocked.
“Twenty! No man is worth twenty elves. You dare rob Mokbethaht of her souls?” His brow furrows in anger. But to Aradon it looks more like blind allegiance, with the tiniest spark of doubt.
“I am not robbing your goddess of anything. I will please her, be sure of it. What man would give his own life to spare someone else’s?”
Giliad glares at him, as if he’s trying to work out if Aradon’s serious or toying with him.
“A foolish man, that’s who.” He turns to the two men and gestures. One brings out a straight, hollowed out stick. He brings it to his mouth, and Aradon knows what’s coming. But he doesn’t move. He just watches. Waits. The man blows, and Aradon feels a sharp piercing in his side, then the world swarms, a windstorm of color swirling around him, making him dizzy and woozy. There’s a tingling sensation in his toes, then his feet, traveling up his legs, and a sharp pain floods into his abdomen, numbing his limbs. He falls onto his knees, his eyelids drooping heavily, shutting him in darkness. Everything grows numb now, and he succumbs to the blackness.
When he comes to, his eyes open slowly at first. His head pounds, aching, like there’s a drum beating in his skull. He winces as he sits up, leaning against what feels like a beam.
His eyes fully open, he can get a good look at his whereabouts.
A room, bigger than his last prison, filled with absolutely nothing. A sheet lies under him, probably for what is supposed to be a bed. The ground is rough stone, and the atmosphere is damp. I’m underground. Dim light streams in, though, and Aradon can make out the glow of a torch beyond the barred window of the closed door. He sighs. Might as well get comfortable.
“Ahem.”
Aradon jolts at the sound. He looks at Eldowyn and Hagard, who sit on the other side of the room. It turns out he only saw half of it.
Their faces are blank, their eyes tired and deeply annoyed.
“I’m really tired of getting captured,” Eldowyn says solemnly.
Aradon’s too shocked to say anything.
“Aye, me too. Dey just toss us around like livestock!”
Eldowyn nods, over-enthusiastically.
Aradon just stares. “How long h
ave I been asleep?” he asks.
“I’m guessing roughly twelve hours. The guards have swapped already,” Eldowyn answers.
“Where are we?” Aradon doesn’t look at them, not sure if he wants the elf to answer. But he does.
“The dungeon under Poy. We’re going to be sacrificed to their Moon Goddess when the moon’s at its highest peak.”
Aradon closes his eyes and knocks his head on the wooden beam behind him.
“So much for yer plan to get Kepp’s friend to help us,” Hagard grumbles, and the elf quickly jabs him in the stomach with his elbow. The dwarf yelps. “Oi!”
“He would have helped us. But I don’t see how we’re going to get to him,” Eldowyn says loudly, obviously not aware of his volume.
Annoyance erases any composure Aradon once had. “Be quiet! We mustn’t let the guards know we’re awake. We need time to think about how we’re going to escape being sacrificed to a god, and having our hearts consumed by the High Priest and the rest of our remaining flesh ripped from our bones and fed to the people of this twisted nation!” It isn’t until he stops that he realizes they’re staring at him, shock in their eyes. He huffs, crossing his arms.
“All right. Maybe my brother’s friend will find out we’re here and rescue us,” the elf says unconvincingly.
Hagard and Aradon ignore him, and the three of them sit in silence. After Aradon’s rant, none of them have the courage—or will—to speak.
Not that they would ever admit it, but they’re probably terrified.
Chapter Nine
Haydrid races down the hallway, the emerald colored marble walls rushing past as he runs as fast as he can through the castle. The servants scramble out of the way to avoid him, and guards look from their posts, their eyes following him, instead of traditionally looking forward.
His reflection passes in the guards’ shiny gold metal uniforms as he hurries down a corridor. The soldiers stand every few feet, emerald decorated golden spears in their hands, their backs straight as a board. Although they can’t help but cock their head as they watch him run down the emerald hall.
He turns a green corner and pushes past a swarm of servants, carrying blankets, towels, and large bowls of water. They murmur as he pushes, trying to get to the front of the moving crowd. They’re all on their way to her, to care for her.
When Haydrid emerges, he grasps emerald handles and pushes through two golden, wooden doors into a room. His father and several doctors stand talking in hushed voices, so the girl on the bed won’t wake.
Haydrid doesn’t care. He rushes to her, kneeling on the green floor, and takes her frail hand, kissing it softly.
“Brega,” he whispers. This gains the attention of Atta and the doctors.
“Don’t wake her, son,” Atta says in his powerful voice, even though his obvious worry resonates through the room.
“I’m not waking her. I am comforting her.” He looks at her thin, sleeping frame. Her face is a perfect triangle, now that there is virtually no flesh on her. Brega’s eyes are closed, and they seem lighter than butterflies. Purple lips stand out—not from the makeup she loves—but the cruel weather she endured to return home.
“Haydrid, come here,” the king demands.
He ignores his father and focuses on Brega, her small hand in his rough one.
“Haydrid,” his father snaps. “Come. Here. Now.”
Haydrid tightens his jaw, but he reluctantly stands and walks over to Atta.
“Yes, Father?”
Atta gestures to the doctors, who nod in respect.
“Sires, Brega has been through a traumatic experience. Her physical wounds will heal in time, but her emotional scars, those will be everlasting,” one younger doctor says. Tucked under his arm is a book of modern medicine and sciences, his brown cotton jacket fitting just slightly too snugly.
“For the physical side of things, make sure she eats five small meals a day. She will not want to at first, but do what you must, even if you have to force her,” another older one states. “Brega is very weak, and if she continues to starve, her malnutrition will kill her.”
Atta and Haydrid nod solemnly. The doctors, along with whom Haydrid gathers is the apprentice, bow their heads, and take their leave.
The silence feels like a knife. No, a sword. The feeling of the metal piercing through the skin, through the flesh, scraping the bone.
It hasn’t always been like this with his father. They were once close, once best friends, one could say. But when Haydrid’s mother died, Atta became distant. Brega clung onto him as a younger sister would, and his relationship with his father was never the same.
Haydrid knows Atta loves them, but once his beloved queen died, his heart shattered, and the pieces are lost. His children have suffered because of it.
Brega would never have been captured if it weren’t for him. The morning of her disappearance they’d had a bad fight, and she went riding in the woods to calm down. She was missing for too long, at least to still be in Rohidia. That’s when they feared the worst.
Revera had her.
But it turns out it could get worse.
When she’d returned to the palace, bloodied, starving, and nearly frozen to death, Brega had managed to get three words out before she’d fainted.
“Kahzacore. Tower. Karak.”
The last word had been what really pierced his heart. The fact that his beautiful sister was in the hands of that…snake, was unfathomable.
Haydrid wants that immortal’s heart, and Atta wants his head.
Though, getting it will require more than an army.
It will require a god.
And they don’t have one.
An intense heat fills the room. The blaze of the fire laps at the air, snapping as crackles and pops fill Aradon’s ears. He frowns as he starts to feel the scorching heat against his skin. Opening his eyes, he quickly squints when the sharp sting of ash and smoke make their mark. He’s drenched in sweat, his hair slick and shirt…off?
But, no. There’s something on him. Or…around him.
He cranes his neck. Three sets of ropes tie him tightly to a smooth rock slab. All around him orange and red fires blaze, the yellow tips eating the air in the room. He catches his breath and inhales smoke, coughing and spluttering.
Aradon struggles against the ropes but they don’t budge. He squirms, tries to twist around, but they won’t let him. Huffing, he squints at the rock ceiling—the glow of the fires illuminates the smooth stone of the walls and roof.
Where is he? What is this place?
The thoughts that course through his mind aren’t the terrified thoughts a normal person would have. But something about this feels so real…
And so dreamlike.
A dream. This must be a dream. Aradon shakes, and he is fully aware now. He’s heard of this. Some cases of being awake—lucid, is what men of science call it—during dreams. But how can he even be sure this is a dream? He can’t move. He can’t speak.
But he can feel.
Which should suggest anything but a dream, right?
A black face suddenly appears in the flames. A shadowy silhouette of a man. He’s broad, but any possible features aren’t there. It does look like he could be wearing some sort of headdress, by the way the top of his head fans out in different directions. A thin line spreads open on the black face, revealing the flames behind the figure. The mouth.
“Besged,” the scratchy, squeaky voice says. “The Moon Goddess demands a sacrifice. Yours will be greatly revered.” It raises its hand, and Aradon sees the gleam of a knife. But it’s not a shadow.
It’s real. And it’s about to be plunged into his chest at any moment.
“Wait,” he says, but no sound comes from his mouth, nor do his lips move.
“For a man who is worth twenty elves, you certainly don’t put up much of a fight,” the shadow teases.
The transparent smile appears again. “Time to die.”
The gleam of the knife sho
ots like a falling star, plunging into his chest. Aradon feels the excruciating pain fill him as the man roughly slices through his skin, the blood pouring out of his body. He can no longer breathe, but only watch as this figure digs his shadowy hand into Aradon’s chest and tears out his still beating heart.
Aradon screams and collapses, all life torn from his limp form.
All pain. All fear.
Are no more.
Aradon shoots up, sweat drenching him, his hair slick, his skin even more so. His eyes are wide with fear, his breathing rapid. He quickly, frantically, looks at his arms, his legs, his torso. Relief washes over him when he sees no burns and no blood. But that feeling dies very quickly when he realizes they’re all going to be sacrificed like that in less than a day.
Now knowing what his friends’ and his own death will be like, he can’t let it happen.
Aradon quickly stands and walks over to the elf and dwarf, who are deep in sleep. Eldowyn’s head lies crookedly on top of Hagard’s, and Hagard’s forehead leans on the elf’s shoulder. Aradon sighs, looking at these two unlikely friends, sleeping peacefully.
Unfortunately, the peace won’t last.
He shakes them, and when they don’t wake up, he shakes harder.
Hagard’s head cocks upright. “What’s ‘appening, are dere swords?” He looks around the room.
The elf and Aradon just look at him.
Hagard snorts.
“No, but there will be fire and daggers if we don’t find a way to get out of here,” Aradon says.
Eldowyn closes his eyes, his brow furrowed. “You had a vision. A vision of what’s to come. Your spirit is burdened.” He opens his eyes.
There is a slight hint of suspicious curiosity in the elf’s bright blue eyes, but Aradon says nothing.
“But how are we to escape?” Eldowyn asks. “We have no weapons, and even you are limited.”
Aradon nods, even though he knows he could get them out of here. But every time he even thinks about changing into the Besged state, he feels a strong, dark sensation. A sensation he knows he won’t be able to resist or come back from. So he’s refrained from the Besged state ever since the fire in Winter’s Pass.