by C D Beaudin
Well, she thinks he is anyway.
I wonder who he was before he became Crozacar’s lieutenant? Was he just like his master? Once normal? Once free? As she ponders this, the man below looks up at her. They make eye contact. Awyn lifts her chin, surprised to not feel any fear, only a sense of danger and…longing, almost. They look intently at each other. Their eyes connect in a powerful gaze, neither of them seems able—or willing—to break.
“Are you not afraid?”
Awyn’s startled at the voice in her head. It’s not hers, it’s a man’s. It’s his.
“No. Are you?” Awyn asks, and she can swear she hears him laugh.
“Why would I be scared?”
“Because your beloved master is going to come back.” She says the words too quickly to stop them. She braces for a fire in her mind, or him to command his dragon to kill her, but none of that happens.
He’s just silent.
Awyn can feel his anxiety in her brain, in her blood. It’s like he’s giving her his emotion.
“You’re lying.” His thought is desperate.
“Why would I lie about something like that? Zyadar has been a wonderful pal of mine for a while now, and I happened to meet Crozacar. Or, well, I met Wilke.”
He’s sweating. Awyn can’t see it from her window, but she knows. She can feel it. Seeing him vulnerable is both disturbing and shocking…like he has a soul. But she continues on. “So, are you afraid now?”
The man folds his arms tightly over his chest, not a defensive gesture, but a victorious one. “No.”
Awyn frowns, not expecting that answer.
“I’m overjoyed. This time, I’ll be the one to kill him, and I’ll do a better job than that Idies.” His words are haunting, cutting.
Awyn isn’t exactly scared of them, but there is something about the way he says it that makes her nervous. She can feel his mind smile, and she looks away.
Smile? Why would he smile about killing his master? Doesn’t he worship him?
“Now you’re afraid.”
Awyn whips her head back to look at him as he speaks to her.
“I guess my work is done here.” He goes to turn his head, but Awyn can’t let that happen.
“Wait!” she yells. “Why are you doing this? What did these people ever do to you?”
“They did nothing to me. But Revera can give me the one thing I want if I help her.” He seems reckless, despondent, but somehow still has his lethal composure.
“What?” Awyn asks, not sure if she even wants the answer.
His stare seems to grow more powerful.
“Freedom.”
It’s amazing how far one can get while determined, Aradon thinks. He, Eldowyn, and Hagard are almost in Nomarah, only a few hours ride away. They met a farmer in Eron and borrowed his horse and cart. They’ve made enough headway to be in Olway within the next day.
In the back of the cart, Eldowyn and Hagard lie, looking up at the gray-yellow sky, as the evening fades.
“What do ya tink is gonna happen when we get ta de tower?” Hagard ponders.
“I assume we’re going to find Awyn and Revera, Awyn probably chained up. Then we’ll kill Revera and everything will be better.”
Hagard makes a doubtful sound.
“Da two of us know you, nor I, believe dat.”
“You are right. I don’t believe that. In fact, I know this war will last long.” Eldowyn sighs. “Too long.”
At the front of the cart, Aradon steers. He’s listening intently to their conversation. Hidden between and under their words is a lot of doubt and fear.
“Aradon, how are you doing?” Eldowyn asks.
Aradon remains silent. He’s very conflicted about that. Something’s very wrong, but he can’t tell them. He doesn’t even know why something’s wrong…or what.
“Aradon?”
“Oh. Yeah, I feel fine.”
“Okay, that’s good.” Eldowyn sounds like he relaxes, and Aradon focuses on the road ahead. The red grass below rushes past them as they ride, and Aradon sees the river approaching.
It honestly doesn’t make any sense that they got here so fast. It should have taken them at least a week, maybe half that if they didn’t rest. Normally Aradon wouldn’t speculate, but there has to be some sort of force pushing them along, the horse would have surely given out by now.
At the river, Aradon hops off the wagon and walks to the back. In the tray of the cart, Eldowyn and Hagard sleep, the dwarf’s loud snoring aggravating him.
“Wake up!” he yells, sending the two of them straight up, eyes wide.
“What? What’s happenin’?” Hagard mutters, fatigue in his wake.
“Nothing. Just your cursed snoring,” he yells at the dwarf, huffing. “We’re here. Get off.”
Eldowyn and Hagard do as he says, hopping to the ground.
Aradon goes to unhook the horse and sees something. Oh, that’s why. On the horse’s red forehead, is a white Everstar. “So, the farmer gave us an Everbreed.” Aradon pats the horse. “Then that farmer must have been there on purpose, huh?” He’s never believed in fate or miracles, but this might count as one. The Everbreed runs off, disappearing into the darkening countryside.
His bow slung over his shoulder, Aradon runs straight for the river, jumping when his feet hit the bank. Through the air he flies, landing on the other side without a hitch. Brushing himself off, he watches as Eldowyn makes the jump, landing beside him.
Now it’s Hagard’s turn. The dwarf starts from farther away, and runs as fast as he can, jumping at the precise moment the others did. But he doesn’t make it. He lands right into the flowing river.
“Hagard!” Eldowyn shouts in alarm.
Aradon rolls his eyes and jumps in. He swims to the dwarf, who is rushed away by the current. When he grabs hold of him, he tosses him onto the bank, and lunges for it, pulling himself up onto the grass.
Eldowyn runs over to them. “Hagard, you fool of a dwarf, are you looking to kill both you and Aradon?” he asks as he helps Hagard up, lending Aradon a hand, but he swipes it away.
“I’m fine!” Aradon snaps, standing up.
Eldowyn and Hagard look at each other in worried confusion.
“Aradon, are you sure?”
Aradon turns away from them, his jaw clenched and hard.
“Yes,” he says in a venomous hiss. He takes a breath, calming down a bit. “I’m fine. Let’s go. I want to get to Olway before it gets too dark.” He sighs in exasperation and starts walking off.
“Please, let me fight with you!” Awyn begs her uncle as he prepares, grabbing his sword and gauntlets.
“No, Awyn. I will not have my sister’s child die.”
Awyn grabs his arm. “Please. I want to fight. I know how.”
“No! Don’t ask again.” He rips his arm from her grasp. His room is clouded with the night, and the emerald walls are dark green, almost a grayish hue. The king puts on his helmet, the tall, golden plume waving.
“Fine,” Awyn mutters and disappears through the door.
In the hallway, she stands at a window, looking at the Rohidian soldiers below as they rush through the city, toward the winter plains where the battle will take place.
In a fit, she pounds her fist on the wooden pane, jaw tight and anger bubbling.
“Let me guess, you want to fight?”
Her head turns sharply as Kepp walks up beside her. He’s buckling his breastplate, his gloved fingers fumbling, and Awyn sighs.
“Let me help you with that.” She grabs the buckle and does it up. “You men do things backward. You buckle up, then put your gloves on.” She looks up into his blue eyes. “Please. Let me fight with you. I need to fight.”
He puts his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry. You cannot. You need to stay alive for Mera. You will be queen one day; your people need you.”
Awyn sighs at this, knowing what he’s saying is true.
“All right, just…don’t die.”
Kepp smirk
s. “Me?”
Awyn chuckles, and she watches Kepp walk down the hall, preparing for the battle that’s about to take place. Her smile fades, and her heart grows dark as she waits for the inevitable end.
They’re not even supposed to be walking. We’re all supposed to be dead…and they’re going to war.
Olway is quiet tonight. Not too many people are out, and the usual giant fire is small, with only a few folks sitting around it. Aradon notes the distinct chill in the air, a wind of snow and winter.
“Dis place has never been so dead,” Hagard comments, moving out of the way as a man staggers, not watching where he’s going. He’s so drunk his eyes are slits. “And de people never so drunk.”
Up ahead a woman runs out of the tavern in a white apron stained in beer and wine. It’s one of the waitresses, her black, curly hair is piled on top of her head, and strands spring down to her shoulders.
As they get closer, she’s muttering and stumbling, clearly very drunk. Her hand is on her head as if she’s forgotten something. Her confused expression isn’t covered by her pounds of makeup.
“Excuse me, miss,” Eldowyn says as they walk up to her. “But are you all right?”
She looks at him, her head turning sharply. Her eyes are green and wide, a bit discombobulated and pink lip paint is smeared across her cheek.
“They were all black. Well, not black. Shadows,” she says, eyes fearful, not talking to anyone in particular. Her words are quiet, and her tone is choppy as if she’s not sure what she’s saying or how to say it.
“Who?” Hagard asks.
She looks down at him.
“Not sure. Not sure. They screamed. Screaming, screeching. Loud,” she mutters incomprehensibly for a moment. “Devouring. Killing.”
“Killing?” Eldowyn repeats.
The waitress nods.
“Yes, killing. Freezing. Zooming past. Into them. All of them.” She points around the town, and for the first time since they’d gotten there, they see all the bodies lying in the shadows. Ice freezes over them, their hair snowy, and skin cracked.
Eldowyn rushes over to one, Hagard and Aradon following, leaving the woman alone to talk to herself. The elf bends down to see the body. His eyes are open, but a thin layer of ice covers them, fear in the pupils behind it. He looks up at the others.
“Dalorin.”
“All of dem?” Hagard ponders. “Dey’re all goin’ ta become monsters?”
Eldowyn doesn’t say anything, and as if by silent consent, they all quietly head toward the tavern.
“They were attacking everyone,” the bartender says as he pours their drinks at the counter. “Everyone was screaming and running. People haven’t stopped drinking since they left only hours ago.” The man wipes his hands on a cloth with a sigh. “They drown to forget.”
“Do you know why they were here?” Eldowyn asks, a drink in his hand.
“No. But I think it had something to do with what’s going on up north.”
Aradon leans forward. “What’s going on?”
Checking to make sure no one’s listening, the bartender leans in. “People say the Sanarx have escaped. The dragon and that lieutenant too.”
“De Sanarx have escaped?” Hagard exclaims.
Aradon elbows him. “Be quiet.”
All around them people stare, looking away from their drinks, no longer drowning themselves in alcohol. But after a moment they go back to drinking and their loud chatter.
The bartender leans back in. “Rohidia is supposedly their first stop to attack. Atta’s army is weak now, ever since winter never died up there.”
Hagard takes a gulp of his ale, Eldowyn following. Aradon doesn’t touch the stuff.
“Is there anything else?” the elf asks.
“Aye.” He looks around suspiciously, then leans in very close to them. “Rumors are that they had visitors before the Sanarx came.” He looks over his shoulder again. “Two girls, both elves. And two men, one an elf.” The bartender stands back up, leaving Aradon confused and wondering.
Elves? What would elves be doing in Rohidia? He raises an eyebrow.
“Come on, let’s get a room.” He hops off his stool, the elf following him. Hagard takes another big gulp of his drink and reluctantly comes with them.
In the room, Aradon is careful to lock the door. He lights the fireplace and sits on one of the hard beds, waiting for the others to get situated.
“Elves in Rohidia? You don’t think—”
“Yes, Eldowyn. I do,” Aradon admits.
Eldowyn’s face contorts into something confused. “But…how?”
“I think she must have escaped. And maybe your brother is with her. Perhaps even Saine.”
Eldowyn’s eyes dart around, as if he’s not sure how to process this.
Hagard looks at them, confused. “What is going on?”
“We think Awyn, Saine, and my brother are in Rohidia,” Eldowyn says blankly.
Hagard nods. “Okay, den. When do we plan on leavin’?”
Aradon raises an eyebrow at this.
“Oh, come on. I know well enough when you two are plannin’ on puttin’ us inta danger.” Hagard clasps his hands together. “So, when da we leave?”
Aradon grips the hilt of his sword. “When dawn breaks.”
The drums repeat in a rhythmic pattern, over and over again. Perhaps two hundred yards away, the army of Sanarx and Tarken stand, weapons of different sizes, but all as terrifying. Their armor is spiked and plated, working as a weapon on its own.
Their putrid, sour smell burns the noses of the Rohidian soldiers. The Sanarx’s giant bodies tower over most of the soldiers, both Tarken and Rohidian. Their black, burned skin seems to almost smoke, polluting the air around them, the sky blackening over the gray morning. Patches of the Sanarx’s skin are raw, a pinkish-gray, and at their neck small white boil-looking bumps. Their pointed, elf-like ears are long and chewed with holes and nicks that are pierced with metal rings. Next to the armor, they wear only ripped loin-cloths and high, black gladiator sandals.
Kepp’s nose twitches at the smell. His hand on his bow, in the other an arrow, and his sheath is slung on his back. His armor is the same as everyone’s, a steel breastplate painted with a golden leaf, over a green padded tunic. Their boots are tall and reinforced with steel, climbing up their legs to just below the knee, flexible for easy movement.
On their heads are plumed helmets. Green and gold hair rises out of the helmet, swaying slightly in the wind. An upside-down ‘T’ shaped piece of steel covers their noses, their eyes shaded in darkness.
Kepp looks at Saine, who stands next to him. They were placed in row five. Haydrid and Atta, in their armor, are at the front of the entire Rohidian army. They sit on horses, each colored a beautiful, rare gold roan. The horses are also somewhat armored, with a helmet protecting their head, stretching over the forehead, and curling under the ears.
Ahead, Atta rides out and faces the army. His voice is commanding and strong. “I know you are frightened of our enemy. I am too. But we must not falter, if we are to win this war. We must be brave, we must be strong. We must fight not for ourselves but for Rohidia! We don’t fight for glory or honor! We fight for Rohidia, our home here and families. We don’t fight for riches, wealth, or victory. We fight so those who fled shall return! We fight so the curse shall be lifted.” Atta raises his sword in the air, the tip of the blade gleaming. “We fight for the weak. We fight so our families shall suffer no more. We fight so they don’t have to!”
He turns his horse toward the Sanarx. “We fight for Rohidia! On this day, let it be known of our stand. Let it be known that we fought, that we died, so that our lands, our people, could be free of this enemy!” He lowers his sword, pointing at the Sanarx.
“And so sounds the drums of war,” Kepp mutters. He looks at Saine and puts out his fist. “We fight as brothers.”
Saine smiles, taking his hand.
“As brothers.”
“For Rohidia!
” Atta yells, and the army charges forward.
Chapter Sixteen
The rain falls heavily on the ground, bringing up the mud and making the snow underfoot slushy. Black and charcoal clouds in the gray afternoon sky and the heavy downpour makes it hard for the soldiers to see as they fight to the death with the army from the west.
Swords clash against swords. Bludgeons crack helmets. Maces tear skin bluntly off. Everywhere, men fall. Everywhere, men take their last breath.
The snow is stained with blood, creating a metallic, sour smell in the air, different from the foul odor of the beasts they fight. Men fight with weeping cuts and stab wounds, and fast forming bruises, knowing if they give up now, nothing will be left of their once great kingdom.
The Sanarx are relentless. They fight through cut off limbs and deep gut wounds. Their weapons are half the size of them, some hooked, and carved saws. They cut deep, and they let loose dark crimson blood. Their own blood—a dark, black red—oozes out of their skin, but they keep fighting. It seems the only way to stop them is to cut them off at the neck.
Though, Karak knows from personal experience that an arrow to the head works just fine.
He fights just as fiercely. Having no fear of death, he is the perfect warrior. He doesn’t wear armor. Black pants, boots, and a shirt with a heavier, leather tunic over it. Two straps crossing over his chest are holders for his swords with several knives and daggers hidden in his clothing and boots, ready for any attack.
His swordsmanship is highly skilled. The swords are just an extension of his arm, slashing and piercing as he moves silently. His stealthy movements are too fast for the armored soldiers, killing them before they have time to turn around.
Karak is a reaper of death. He doesn’t feel, he doesn't think.
He just kills.
And he’s good at it.
It’s been two days.
Through the window, Awyn looks down at the battlefield below. The window in the throne room is the perfect spot to watch. The fighting is outside the walls of the city on the winter prairies. The citizens who stayed were sent to the palace. Here they will receive a warm bed and meal for as long as the battle below carries on.