by Sean J Leith
He found a tavern at a crossroad in the slums. The building was broken and dilapidated, made with rotten wood and had a crooked door. The chains holding the sign clattered in the wind. It read, Leena’s Lagers. Zaedor stumbled to the door and slammed it open. It was shockingly bustling, filled with unscrupulous thugs. The splintered oak wood bar extended from the stairs on the right all the way to the middle of the room, leading to a seating area filled with men and women drinking and feasting all around. He walked to the bar and slammed down into a stool.
“Food,” Zaedor said bluntly. He didn’t care what it was.
“Oh, um, okay,” a high-pitched female voice said. He didn’t look up to see who it was. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.
Zaedor didn’t drink any form of spirit, not before. He thought it clouded the mind, but now his previous beliefs were moot. “Mead,” he grumbled.
After a quick moment, a glass appeared in front of him, filled. He gulped it down, eyes never leaving the table. It burned his throat as it passed, but it felt strangely good. He asked for more, and received it promptly.
Zaedor thought about all the ways he could get through the guards and destroy the keep. He sliced through many of Rawling’s warriors in Amirion. How would this be any different? he wondered. His battle would be a worthy sacrifice, to avenge his kingdom by killing the one who destroyed it. Rawling was the old champion of the arena, but he was also fifty years of age. The grand coliseum stood beside his castle, where the gladiator games were held every few years. Members of all walks of life and every sect joined to celebrate the glory of competition in combat. Amirion battled well in all sections, of course, but was no more.
Zaedor gripped his stein tightly and huffed a breath. A plate slid in front of him. It had various dried vegetables, desert fruits from the Mirage Lakes, and a small kettlebird leg.
“Um,” the woman seemed to squeak out a whisper. She paused in front of him. “Are you okay?” the female voice asked. She only made Zaedor grip his glass tighter.
“I’m fine,” Zaedor grumbled. He lifted his head to finally look her in the eye.
Her bright yellow eyes glistened in the sunlight streaming into the bar, along with her tattered necklace—with a medallion resembling a blue sun behind an upturned sword. “You.” He paused, confused. Is she from Amirion? That’s impossible, he thought. His eyes widened, and he leaned back from the bar.
“I, uh, what about me?” she squeaked.
“What is your name? Where do you come from?” He gave no honey in his tone.
“I—I’m Leena. I’ve lived here my whole life,” she stuttered. “Might I ask who you are?”
Zaedor detached from the situation again, leaning back, unimpressed. “Zaedor, of Amirion,” he said.
“You’re from Amirion?” Leena said carefully.
“Yes,” Zaedor said with a vicious grunt, slamming his gauntlet on the bar. The room went silent, and the eyes of all patrons turned toward him.
Leena looked around awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I just heard that there were no survivors,” Leena said. “Sorry.”
“Well, looks like you’re wrong.” Zaedor growled at her. The mead was getting to him already. “How can you people be so horrible?” More heads sent lingering stares over to Zaedor.
“I’m only curious—” Leena’s voice dropped off.
“Hey, bub.” A man’s voice called out behind him. “Be nice to the little lady. She just served you food and drink without making you pay first—even though you are being rude. You should be more polite. She’s a nice girl.” He placed his hand on Zaedor’s shoulder.
Who the hell is this guy? “Why don’t you mind your own damn business?” He smacked the man’s hand away and shoved him. The light barely showed the man’s hairless face and scalp. He only wore simple, ratty clothes.
“It’s okay, Rodrick. I can handle it just fine.” She gave the ratty man a warm smile. “He’s been through a lot. He’s from Amirion,” she said quietly.
Zaedor clenched his fists. His mind was foggy from the mead, and he saw only red.
The hairless man drew out his mouth in displeasure. “You’re right, Leena. I’m sorry. He ain’t worth the fight.” The fool said it as if he had no cares in the world. He turned his back.
Zaedor had something else in mind. He wore a suit of armor, as citizens of Amirion did, and this man wore nothing but a cloth tunic and pants. Who does he think he is, challenging me? “What did you say? I’m not worth a fight?” Without pause, he charged at Rodrick with his fist raised.
The skin of rodrick’s arms shifted from pale flesh to bright in the blink of an eye. He caught Zaedor’s gauntlet with one hand and swung his other to crack it across Zaedor’s chin. Without pause, Zaedor crumpled to the ground, and everything went black.
* * *
The commotion of commonfolk echoed around him as sandy wind blew softly across his face. He opened his eyes to see himself laid in a small, hard bed with his feet extending off the end. Zaedor rose from the bed, feeling a stab of pain in his back from the sleep. His head still pounded from the previous night. The walls and floors were old wood, but stable enough.
“Ugh, what happened?” Zaedor placed his hand on the spot Rodrick struck, and it was very painful to the touch. He was glad he wasn’t in jail—or worse. He still had a job to do. Zaedor lurched to a stand, still in his weathered plate mail, smelling of old sweat.
He cracked the door open and heard talking from the stairs at end of the hall. Am I in the tavern? he wondered. He figured he would have been thrown to the street after picking a fight in a bar—even if he was provoked. Zaedor carefully crept to the end of the hall, passing closed, splintered wooden doors. He crept down the stairs, seeing the open hall of the tavern below. Leena organized kegs and glasses alone. No one else was at the bar at such an early hour.
Zaedor stood still, unsure if he should approach the bar or simply walk out before his anger overtook him again. Everyone in this town is an animal, he reminded himself. Before he could act, Leena’s innocent yellow eyes locked with his.
“U-um, hello,” Leena stuttered. “Rodrick carried you upstairs after giving you—that.” She pointed to her forehead.
“He could have just hit me with his fist,” Zaedor complained, rubbing his head.
Leena chuckled nervously. “Well, he did.” After a moment, she said, “S—sorry. He’s an Avatar. It’s something his people do.”
“Something they do?” Zaedor replied. He’d heard legends of the Avatars—shifters—but they were isolated far in the north, or so he thought. The image of King Faelin’s lifeless head entered his mind. Cloaker must have been one of them, he thought. A shifter. Now there are two of them.
“Yes, they’re from the ice forests of the northeast. All races there are born with the ability to shapeshift. It’s really quite amazing,” she said poignantly, with a tiny hop for emphasis.
Zaedor stomped down the stairs to the bar and slammed onto a stool once again. “I don’t care how they do it. They’re monsters. I saw one of them rip my King’s head from his body,” he growled.
Leena scratched the nape of her neck and rubbed her arms. “I’m so sorry,” Leena squeaked. “I didn’t know.”
“They’re beasts. All of them!” Zaedor roared. He hated them. He hated Cloaker and Rodrick, the murderous fools. Zaedor wanted their heads.
Leena drew back, frightened. “Rodrick is a good man,” she said. Standing a little more firmly, she said, “You shouldn’t judge others so quickly.”
He got up then, finished with where he was. Leena did not understand. She was naive, blinded by innocence, probably sitting in a tavern her whole life. He walked to the door and stopped. “I don’t have any money. I won’t be back.”
“That’s okay,” He was surprised to hear no complaints or resistance. “Rodrick paid your tab, and for your room.”
He didn’t want their pity. Zaedor had his mission.
“Why are you in Zenato, of all places?
” she asked.
He saw no reason to tell her. She was weak, fragile, and didn’t see the truth in front of her eyes. “I’m taking care of business,” he said bluntly, hoping that would end it.
“Revenge isn’t the answer,” she said quietly. He only heard one last thing before he was out of earshot. “It only comes back.”
Satiated and ready, Zaedor walked through the sandy streets to his final destination: the castle. It sat beside the grand coliseum. He never saw the arena, and never competed in the games. The few who fought there always spoke of how fantastic it was: the feeling of a victory, with thousands of cheers backing your blade. The core of the city had many temples of gods who focused on battle. None of which were Shiada, whose temple resided in the residential district. It may have been desecrated for all he knew. Zaedor refused to seek it—and disregarded her power entirely.
The coliseum was truly colossal. He could hear the cheers from outside its mighty walls. There were statues of combatants all along the many levels on the outside, some brandishing weapons, bare hands, or flowing flames. Surrounding the whole building was betting tables and booths for the fights, along with all forms of merchants.
Zaedor came to the fortress of Rawling himself. It was a miniscule, plain building in comparison, built with sandstone. The thin pillars surrounding the structure bathed in the bright desert sun almost constantly. Two soldiers guarded the door of the large, domed structure.
He stood outside not a hundred feet from the steps with fists clenched, thinking long and hard about his task: how to defeat each soldier, how to adjust for their weapons or if they wielded magic, and preparing against whatever form they would take. The biggest obstacle was Rawling. He is weak without his guards, he knew. He is an old man, and a coward.
Minutes went by, and his stance stayed ever resilient. Soon, hours passed, and he remained adamant. He grew hungry but did not falter. He grew thirsty and did not weaken. As night fell, the guards closed the doors and moved inside. People walked around him, and long stares and confused looks followed as he glared the castle door down. He ran through the scenario a thousand times in his head, working up to defeating every soldier in the damned kingdom and murdering their king. Blood will have blood, Zaedor swore. In his last standing moment, he could not think of any other way to live on. He chose to fight for justice. He stepped forward, toward the castle.
“Hey! Hey you!” a man yelled.
Zaedor looked around, confused. A small man shrouded in the darkness of night waved his hands wildly. He looked back to the castle’s doors. Not now, he calmed himself. Revenge could wait a few moments. “What?” he called back.
“My house is being robbed! Help, please! Brigands! I need help! Please!” he yelled desperately. Zaedor looked around, seeing no one else in the distance. He couldn’t turn an emergency such as this down, not even in his new state of mind. He dashed around the corner, meeting a powerful fist to his face. He staggered back, only to take two more strikes to the gaps in his armor. An arm came around his neck and restrained him, making it difficult to breathe.
“Haha! Rope ‘im boys! I hear Amirionians like him are one-in-a-million now!”
Weakened from the blows, Zaedor couldn’t stop them. His hands were bound, and he was soon blindfolded and gagged.
“You’re gonna make us a fortune!” the man’s voice echoed.
Chapter Eighteen
A Dream of Bloodlust
Saul Bromaggus
Saul opened his eyes and saw a vast land before him. He stood atop a circular stone platform, high above the clouds.
Am I dreaming? he thought. He peered over to see many formations of land on each side—forests, islands, lands covered with ice and sand—at a much further distance than any normal Broken could..
He looked over the edge to see the tower descend for miles, it seemed, built atop a mighty beast of rock at its base.
The platform was carved with various runes, each stone intricately placed and formed as part of the floor in an image of perfection with no match. The tower was lined with ten pointed stones, like a crown, each with a mark of a god—but two were shattered.
There were eleven in all. He recognized the three crashing winds of Gadora, the tri-pointed cracked earth of Yggranda, the five blazes of Kannakash, and the two waves of Urikar. Then there were many he did not know. A trident, a star, even the six-pointed sun he was marked with, among many others. Saul had no armor, weapon, or shield, simply a pair of beige linen pants and no shirt. A glow flickered along his arms—his red and blue markings.
“Where am I?” he said aloud. The crash of thunder and lightning echoed from behind him. He spun around to see a vision of unfathomable divinity.
A tall, granite-skinned woman with dark almond eyes, a bold-featured face and long, platinum-silver hair stood at the platform’s center. “You are atop Eternum, Saul,” a hard, female voice rang from behind. “In the center of Renalia.” Stepping toward him, the subtle glimmer of silver ringmail shone in the light above, accentuated by the black cloth underneath gold rings sewn into it.
Deep down, Saul knew who she was, but couldn’t believe it for a second. “Who are you?” he asked.
With a smirk, a subtle jolt of electricity traveled across the hilt at her side, coming to a blade’s hilt shaped like a dragon’s head. “I am Gadora. I know you see it,” she said calmly, walking closer to him. “I took a form you understand.”
Without a pause, he dropped to one knee with eyes at the stones below, a fist at his centre. Breathless. Is this a dream?
“Rise,” she said strongly.
He hesitated. One bowed before elders. One knelt before royalty. One wasn’t to look upon prophets.
But she was so much more.
Divine.
Infinity.
The being he would and always wish to represent.
He drew his eyes upward, seeing her dark eyes bore into him as if piercing his mind, body, and soul. “This is a dream,” she said, smiling slyly. “I am here to give you a hand.” To which she held hers out.
He froze.
This was far more than a being such as him deserved. He was forsaken. Exiled. Dishonored. She—she was honor.
But he held out a shaky hand, and she helped him rise to his feet—yet she still stood taller.
She strolled past him and stood at the edge of the platform. The rings lining her silver skirt that led from right hip to left knee made an angelic chime that echoed within his soul. “This place connects gods and men, even in dreams.”
“But why help me?” Saul asked incredulously. He feared questioning his goddess—the most powerful warrior ever known. He questioned not knowing whether rushing her was a good idea or a foolish one. He was cynical that she even was Gadora, even if it was a dream. Saul rarely second guessed himself. Now, he second guessed every movement. Every thought. Every word.
Gadora glanced back at him. “Straight to the point. I like that.” She chuckled. “The land is at an imbalance.”
“How do you mean?” Saul inquired.
She shook her head, platinum hair blowing with the subtle wind. “The world is constantly in a balance between good and evil, order and chaos. Something set it off its tilt. Gods are constantly at war with each other, but we know full well that if you anger the balance, everyone dies. Balance is a silly thing, when calm and collected. Yet disturbing it has cataclysmic consequences.”
But he was still an exile. A mortal. “What does this have to do with me?” Saul was still in sheer awe of being in her presence. He wanted to kneel and salute her again. His knees weakened by her very words, but he stood tall to show respect—uncertain if that was what he should even do.
She shrugged. “Potentially nothing. The imbalance is coming, whether or not we wish it so. Pieces of the game began moving the moment the blood moon sat high in the sky.”
The blood moon. His father once told him a blood moon was a sign of unity, and of change. In past days, Saul’s life had changed signi
ficantly. “What could I possibly do?” Undoubtedly, Saul was a strong warrior—but he was also an exile in a land of foes. He had no power or influence here. Or in Kathynta—but now, he was far from home.
His goddess looked to him with a furrowed brow. “Don’t be a fool. What kind of person have you become?” She stepped toward him. Each step send a shock of fear through him. “You are of my clan in the Vale, and yet you question your existence?”
Saul knew not to apologize. He stood up straight, and said what was in his heart. “I wish to slay the Dragon. I want to spill his vile blood upon the land, and that of the traitors who follow him,” Saul said confidently. “That is what I want. First, the Dragon. Then Renalia.” I will take that land back for my people.
Silence. The Silence was unbearable. Her blank expression could have meant the end of him. Or greatness.
To Saul’s surprise, his goddess smiled, then tilted her head as if enjoying her examination of the mortal before her. Then she let out a hearty laugh. “So bold. So honorable. Do you say that to yourself and the rising sun every morning?” She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “I know,” she said, looking over the land. “That old fool in Rhoba is right about many things, you know.”
“Gorum?”
“Yes.” Stepping toward him, she placed a stony finger upon his red marking of the three crashing winds. “What do you think these mean?”
Saul froze. He felt a jolt travel through him the moment she touched his flesh. “I,” he stuttered. Looking into her dark eyes, it was as if she stared into his very soul. “I want to believe in my fate,” he said plainly. “But I wish to choose.” It was a choice to believe in a deity, in a leader, that made a follower the most loyal and valuable.
“Seems I believe you’ll die, Saul.” She looked at his arm a moment, and smirked. “Would you accept this fate that I have given you?”
Saul opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He couldn’t say those words. Doubt. He could be struck down. But looking into the eyes of the ultimate judge, he knew the truth was all he should give. “If you wished me to die for a reason I would not believe in,” Saul said, eyes staring into hers, “then you would not be the goddess I believe in.”