Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

  The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. The overpowering scent he feared more than anything.

  He reached his temple along the path as he ran. The once elegant dome of the main hall had been smashed in by catapult fire. It was surrounded by the bloodied corpses of those gathered to pray for Shiada’s protection in their time of need. Lilanda was splayed out from the rock, body crushed by the stones.

  “Lilanda!” Zaedor called, rushing over. He threw off what rubble he could. Half her body was broken, bleeding from the concussive blows of the collapsed building.

  “Zaedor,” she squeaked out. “My husband is dead. You must stop them from killing the King. Our hope lies with him.” She could barely muster the words. Tears filled her eyes. An expression of lost hope. “Has—has Shiada forsaken us?” she barely asked, before passing into the next life.

  No, it can’t be. I have prayed to her my whole life. She would not abandon us, Zaedor thought. He closed Lilanda’s eyes and said a prayer to Shiada in desperate hope that she still listened.

  “Zaedor!” Lothel yelled, running into the temple.

  “Lothel, what is happening?”

  “It’s Rawling! His forces got in, but no one knows how. They came through the sewer system, the sea, everywhere!” Lothel said. “The whole city is sealed off. My entire brigade is dead. The drakes broke into the barracks silent as the night, killing everyone!”

  Zaedor grabbed him by the neck of his plate. “We have to save the king! Come with me!” Zaedor ordered, dashing toward the Citadel. Lothel followed him without pause.

  Enemy by enemy, they combated their way to the Citadel. There were warriors of all kinds: dual-wielding soldiers, powerful wizards, and shamans of the sand. It seemed as though Rawling employed mercenaries, able bodies to add to his already powerful desert army.

  “Die, traitors!” the villains yelled as they thrust blade, spear, and javelin into innocent residents of Amirion.

  Why would they say this? Zaedor thought. How could they believe we are the enemy? Zaedor was struck on the arm and chest, bludgeoning blows that knocked the wind right out of him. He pressed on and shook his arm. His elbow still throbbed with pain from the strike of the mace, but he pressed on.

  The once strong, clean-cut stone buildings of the city were riddled with cracks, breaks, and scorch marks. The Temples that stood for centuries fell before the might of Rawling’s armies. His soldiers struck swiftly and with great power. Bloodstains covered the flat stone street as they ran. Soldiers threw bottles of spirits paired with lit cloth upon wooden roofs to burn all they could as the duo ran.

  A disembodied voice whispered and echoed throughout the city in a language Zaedor did not understand, with violent turns of the tongue and guttural growls of the throat. Zaedor and Lothel stopped, looking around them.

  “What was that?” Zaedor asked.

  The voice became fierce as a massive violet orb of smoke appeared above the city. White, mist-like spirits passed quickly around the orb at rapid speeds. They swooped down to the city, and then returned to the sky.

  “What is that?” Lothel echoed.

  But Zaedor had a suspicion. Dark magic. He looked to Lothel with fear. Suddenly, a black spirit swooped in before them, making contact with the bodies of soldiers they slew, and those of innocent citizens of Amirion. The bodies were shocked alive, screeching in agony. A white mist was then taken by the spirits, dragged up toward the violet orb above.

  “Zaedor! What in the name of the gods is happening? Should we try and evacuate?”

  Zaedor felt helpless. He was one man—what was he to do? His whole life had been committed to his god, his people, and his city. In one fell swoop, it was all being taken from him. He had just one hope remaining. “The king!” he yelled. “We must ensure his safety! Without the crown, we are certainly lost!”

  Lothel nodded in agreement. “Let’s go, Captain!”

  The two warriors dashed for the citadel together. Countless bodies lined the streets. Screams could be heard all around them as the spirits came to take the souls of all who were broken and bloodied. Zaedor could do nothing for them now. Boulders and firebombs from the catapults crashed into the buildings around them as they ran, stone pouring over the streets. It seemed like an unending rain of fire upon their broken lives.

  The Citadel’s stone walls were broken and cracked from the mighty bombardment. The deep blue banners of Amirion were now burned to a crisp, the surrounding spire lights extinguished. In they ran, only meeting soldiers of Rawling, bearing his sigil of the iron fist on a field of bright yellow. The bodies of Citadel guards were already strewn across the halls.

  The corridors were absent of light save the fires. Zaedor could barely see forty feet in front of him. He and Lothel panted heavily as they carried themselves up the stairs. They charged to the throne room doors hastily. Deep impact marks covered the dead guard’s chests. Their necks were riddled with blackened bruises, and their heads were caved in. The strikes even broke through the steel helmets they wore. Zaedor looked to Lothel with false confidence.

  He was tired, panting from running as they sliced through countless warriors, his left arm burned from magical flame. Lothel nodded, and the two of them kicked the throne room doors open.

  One lone man in a wolf-pelt cowl stood before the throne, holding the King by his beard. The queen’s lifeless body lay against the cracked stone wall at the side of the large hall.

  “Sorry, yer grace, but orders be orders. Thanks for the info,” he said mockingly.

  “No, please. I—” Faelin struggled to get out.

  The man’s arm turned massive, hairy and clawed.

  “No!” Zaedor yelled, running toward them. But it was too late, as the sounds of ripping flesh and Faelin’s hoarse scream filled the empty, broken hall.

  The man turned with the bloody, lifeless head of Faelin in his monstrous, clawed arm. Zaedor and Lothel dropped to their knees at the sight of the murderer’s face before them. It was lined with vertical, violet tattoos which reached down his arms, hands, and fingers. His jaw was chiseled and broad with thick stubble and emotionless green eyes cold as a northern night.

  “Well, hello. I ain’t a fan of onlookers, but I ain’t about to kill unless I got to. With some exceptions,” his voice dropped off, and he tossed aside the King’s head carelessly.

  Is he a shapeshifter? Zaedor thought. “You,” Zaedor recognized his voice from the previous night. “I heard you last night, on the street! What is going on? What is ‘the work in Solmarsh?’”

  The man didn’t respond.

  Lothel stepped in front and fiercely pointed at the man. “Who are you? What the hell is this!” he yelled.

  “They call me Cloaker.” With a low, graveled tone, he said, “You don’t see me comin’, and never know what I’ll be.”

  His answer meant nothing to Zaedor. Each word only angered him more. “My king, my people, my home!” His rational thoughts ended there. Filled with bloodlust, Zaedor let out a primal roar as he raised his greatblade and charged. “You die here!” he yelled.

  “I’m with you, brother!” Lothel charged alongside Zaedor.

  Cloaker cackled in his gravely voice. Strange colors and waves shifted around his body to transform him into a massive bear, twice the size of a normal man. He swiped his mighty claw, slamming Zaedor and Lothel to the floor with ease. Cloaker roared and charged at Zaedor. Zaedor deftly dodged out of the way, causing Cloaker to ram the pillar behind him. The pillar toppled, ceiling above caving in after it to slam onto the ground.

  Cloaker shook his head, unaffected, as if ready to charge once more.

  Lothel jumped atop the bear’s head to jam his blade into the beast’s shoulder. Cloaker let out a rageful roar, and caught Lothel with his massive paw and threw him against the wall. Lothel fell to the ground and croaked out in pain.

  Cloaker shifted again, true to his name. This time, he changed into a red-scaled dragon. He flew up and charged full speed at Zaedor. Zaedor de
flected his steeled claws and barely caught the dragon-formed jaw by the sword before a deadly bite could take place. Cloaker slammed him to the ground and pinned him down within a moment of Cloaker’s saw-like teeth. Ceiling stones fell upon Cloaker as he attacked, and Zaedor took advantage of the opening. He turned his blade to deliver a vital horizontal slash across the beast’s face. Cloaker screeched in pain, flew back to take a deep, guttural breath, and let out a fury of flame from his maw.

  “Zaedor! Catch!” Lothel tossed his shield to him.

  Zaedor caught the shield and barely protected himself from the blaze in time. His arm burned, but he had to continue. Zaedor ran forward, threw the blackened shield aside, and leapt at the dragon with his blade overhead. His mighty slash cut through Cloaker’s belly scales, striking the sensitive flesh beneath.

  Cloaker screeched again, falling to the ground. Once more, a new form arose. Waves and colors flowed around Cloaker’s body as he changed. He shifted into a massive, vine-laden mammoth of a plant—a stranglemaw.

  He grew to twenty feet tall, with a large mouth at its front, lined with three rows of blade-like teeth. The multitude of vines twisted and surrounded both warriors, grabbing them by the feet and slamming them against the stone walls.

  Zaedor’s ears rang loudly, and he was barely able to focus. Blood poured from his nose and forehead. Is this the end? he thought, distraught.

  Does it end like this for me? He struggled to slash at the vines that held him, and he fell to the ground. Gathering his strength, he scrambled to his feet, weakly raised his blade, and clumsily charged once more at the plant-form Cloaker took.

  Cloaker’s maw turned to Zaedor and breathed an acid-like mist upon him. He collapsed to the ground into a dazing sleep, out of his personal volition. The last image he saw, while hazy, was Cloaker, grabbing Lothel by each limb with his powerful vines and ripping them away from his torso. The massive maw overtook Lothel’s screaming body, and tore it in two with severing teeth, covering the room in his friend’s blood.

  * * *

  Zaedor roused to the acrid smells of smoke and dry blood. The ceiling collapsed in from the battle with the mysterious cowled man, and broken stone littered the room. His mind and body ached from the beating he’d received. How am I still alive? he questioned. Why did Cloaker let me live? Why the hell did he let me live?

  As he rose, Zaedor looked upon his old friend’s body. Six pieces remained—four torn limbs, and a torso bitten in two. A brutal savage, he thought bitterly. How could someone care so little, even enemies? Zaedor’s gag reflex was unstoppable. He threw the contents of his stomach upon the bloodstained ground.

  His friends were gone, his life utterly broken. Am I alone? Zaedor wondered. He looked next to see the decapitated corpse of his King, Faelin, and the broken body of the Queen. The once-brilliant throne of Amirion had been broken, as his city now was. He dropped to his knees in anguish.

  “Shiada, why have you forsaken us? Why leave us?” he asked.

  Zaedor stared to the abused ground, mind drained of all life. His tears flowed without relent upon the floor; the only sound left was the wind of the dead passing through the halls of the Citadel.

  His whole life disappeared before his eyes. All he fought for, all he lived for was now dead before him. He slammed his gauntlet upon the ground in anger, the clang of metal echoing through the empty halls of the broken Blue Citadel. All that followed was his scream of a broken man. He raised himself to his feet, barely able to stand. His sorrow and agony dragged upon his body like the mightiest of weights as he descended. The battered bodies of guards surrounded him while he walked the dark halls, not a light to be seen. As he reached the bottom of the Citadel, he stared down the main hall to the end, only to see all hope gone.

  The lone Torch of Night was extinguished.

  Zaedor’s walk through the city was agony incarnate. His sobbing was continuous; he wished to hold it back, but could not.

  He saw only broken buildings and dead friends. This can’t be happening. It’s all a dream. I’m dreaming—this is all a nightmare. It must be, he thought desperately. All that remained now was the sound of crackling flame and howling wind. No footsteps, no voices, no screams. The violet orb had gone, the magic finished. Whatever the army came for, they’d found.

  As he approached the entrance to Shiada’s temple, he saw a body he recognized, breath still remaining. “Oh gods, Noah!”

  He still had a small blade in hand. “I tried, Captain Zaedor.” The child could barely croak a word. His mother lay beside him, slaughtered. The boy’s body had been pierced with an arrow. He could barely hold on to what life he had left.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zaedor cried for the boy, and the city he loved. “I tried to protect you,” he continued, sobbing.

  “Don’t worry, Captain. I couldn’t even protect my parents,” he whispered.

  “I can heal you!” Zaedor scrambled to look for herbs for healing, but it was too late for the boy. The gods left him.

  Noah barely choked up three words that would follow Zaedor forever. “Don’t forget us.”

  The boy’s breath escaped his body as his form turned lifeless. Zaedor closed his eyes tightly, wishing for it all to stop, and for the nightmare to end. His own soft cries were all he heard, echoing through the empty alleys of death.

  Please, let this be a nightmare, he thought. My city is great, my king strong, my people, stronger. They aren’t dead, they can’t be.

  When his eyes opened, the bodies lay there still. Zaedor limped back to his home, the roof burnt but still standing. He curled into his bed, hoping that when he awoke it would all be the way it should have been: the people running and laughing, the king alive, his old friend still training the warriors in the barracks.

  Please, gods, bring me back to reality, he thought. With his eyes filled with tears, he eventually slept under the moonlight.

  * * *

  When he awoke, the sun rose to warm the streets once more. The calm wind passed through his home, and his roof was still open to the sky. With reluctance, Zaedor rose to his feet. He sauntered to the door of his home and heard the caws of crows and vultures, and smelled the flesh of dead men.

  No, please, Shiada. Don’t abandon me. I won’t believe it.

  Zaedor opened the door, and it was all the same.

  Buildings left broken.

  His people bloodied and slain.

  Prayers lay unanswered.

  I have been abandoned.

  Through the temple quarter, his precious shrine broken and bodies crushed. Through the market quarter, his favorite places burned beyond all recognition. Hundreds of heroes were left slaughtered and covered in dried crimson stains.

  He gathered a small set of supplies while considering his path. He had to know the truth, and his anger for vengeance overtook him. I cannot let this go unpunished, he thought. Zaedor took up some of the food and water abandoned in the streets for the journey he knew he must take.

  As he walked through the city gate, he looked back at the kingdom that once was. The bright stones were destroyed, the banners of hope burned, and the Blue Citadel scorched and broken. The flame of hope he kept inside for this place was now extinguished.

  He turned away, focusing instead on the vast plains before him and the Zenato desert beyond that. The land he knew was behind him, and all else a mystery before him. The sun sat high in the sky, intense heat warming his steel armor.

  “Rawling,” he growled. His hands shook with rage, teeth gritted in anger, and eyes burned with ferocity. There was no place for kindness left within him. Only one thought entered Zaedor’s once-pious mind now.

  “I will burn him alive.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Safety in Numbers

  Jirah Mirado

  Jirah listened carefully to Gorkith’s news after he returned from the capital. Alexandra came from Solmarsh as well, but Jirah hardly paid attention. The campfire flickered weakly from the gentle rain, and the soaked stones
, mud, and soggy leaves covered the ground. The thin smell of ash was dampened by the scent of the wet foliage. Jirah enjoyed the smell of nature during a rain, but he preferred the dry heat. The midday sun carefully peeked out from behind the clouds above.

  “They’re missing?” Jirah asked, confused. If the five went to any camp, it would be Wolf Camp, where they received their first mission. Jirah kept the other camps secret from most in case of capture. However, Asheron may have known the locations of others if his threat was true.

  “Yes, sir,” Gorkith said in his stale voice. “According to the capital, they were imprisoned nine days ago. Eight days ago they escaped, and—Miggen was killed.”

  “No—” Jirah’s voice dropped off. You drake, Asheron. You’ll pay for this, Jirah thought to himself. Miggen was a good man and a good soldier. He was trustworthy, and now Jirah had one less under his command. “How did they get out?” he asked. They could be dead. It could be a ploy by that wretch Fillion to get my teams searching in the open.

  “They don’t know. The jail floor had a weakened wall leading to another room, but it was a dead end.” Gorkith almost seemed to laugh as if he had a sense of humor.

  Jirah wasn’t sure what to make of them. From what he heard they were not resourceful. He only met Lira, whom he found to be innocent and anxious more than anything.

  He did not know his sister well as he hadn’t seen her in twelve years. Jirah fled his home in the east to join the war in the west against the Broken clans, among other reasons. His service was appreciated and rewarded here, unlike his old life in the east. In the military, he proved his worth to himself. I showed my potential to those who mocked me, he thought triumphantly.

  “I might send you out to scout for traces of them. I can’t continue thinking that I got them killed.” He paced back and forth, squishing the damp ground beneath his plate boots. “Alex, what news comes from Solmarsh?” Jirah called out.

  Alexandra stood up, towering over her commander. She ran her fingers through her thick, red hair that draped down to her mid-back. Her pale skin was dirty from many long days of riding, accentuated by the multitude of freckles decorating it. “Nothing about five people. No guards.” She looked confused. She wasn’t the brightest star, but a good scout and loyal soldier. She was a long way from her home in the northwest mountains of Renalia, and lived a vastly different lifestyle from her training as a tanner.