by S L Matthews
A hand shot forward, forcing Celien’s arm away from the flame. “I would not do that, Professor,” Syndra said, tucking Celien’s hand into the safety of her blanket.
Celien whipped her hand free in anger. “Gods, be damned!” she whispered, hoping not to wake the camp. “What is this place? Mist that isn’t mist. Fire that isn’t fire. Dead that aren’t…”
Syndra turned her entire body, kneeling before Celien as she had knelt before the fallen soldiers. Red and yellow feathers fluttered in the breeze, and blue light flickered off her bare skin, beneath a maze of bone. Her eyes grew purple, darkened by the flame’s reflection. The Kurodai warrior stared, and with all the sincerity her broken language could muster, offered a simple statement.
“Professor Caro, your faith has taught you to believe only in what you see.” Her eyes darted to the soldiers before returning to Celien. “This forest—it will challenge your faith—and destroy your beliefs.”
Celien sat in silence, staring at the Kurodai. Her eyes drifted between the horizon, the stars, and the mist, before landing on the bodies, crumpled near the pyre. Their forms were rigid, their yellow tabards forever stained with the color of blood. Their eyes remained open, fixed on the night sky. Their hands were curled into fists, forever clenched in the grip of death.
“Why do you watch over these men, Syndra?” she asked, her jaw clenched slightly. “What will become of them?”
Syndra angled her shoulders, glancing at the bodies, then turned back to Celien. “I think you already know the answer to that, Professor.”
Celien sat in silence, staring at the clenched fists as they slowly tightened, then uncurled. She turned to the camp and her family, warm under their blankets. “What of my family?” she asked, anger creeping into her words. She met Syndra’s gaze once more. “My husband and little girl—are they in danger?”
Syndra’s eyes jumped over Celien’s shoulders, to the small mounds of blanket huddled together in the middle of camp. “I think you already know that answer as well, Professor.”
A darkness rose in Celien’s heart, and her eyes drifted back to the soldiers and their clenched fists, shadows of the fire dancing behind them.
“How many groups have you escorted to Valshyr?”
Syndra was surprisingly quick to answer, “122, Professor.”
“And,” Celien began, unsure how to ask the next question, and equally afraid of the answer. “How many returned?”
The Kurodai warrior kept her posture perfectly straight, almost serene. The answer flowed from her lips with little effort, yet haunting.
“None.”
Celien’s heart raced as the dead soldiers’ fists clenched once more, slowly and methodically. Her eyes welled with tears. She took a deep breath and calmed her emotions. “You must help my family. They don’t deserve…” She nodded toward the bodies while their fingers inched in and out of their death grip. “That. No one does.”
Syndra paused for a moment. “I have already helped your family, Prof…”
“The same way you helped 121 expeditions before us?” Celien shouted, her gaze shooting back to the statuesque warrior.
Syndra’s eyes sharpened and her shoulders pressed back. She held her pause, staring back at Celien while an uncomfortable silence permeated the camp.
“You are in the Forest of Valshyr. The land of my people. We were part of this land before man, and we will be here long after.” Syndra leaned forward, holding Celien’s gaze. “We fought beside you against your Gods. And for that, your people brought ruin upon mine.” Anger built in Syndra’s broken words. “Your people brought the mist, then fled our lands, leaving it to destroy our cities, our forests, our way of life. I do not expect man to solve the mysteries of the mist, Professor, but I do expect them to die trying!”
Both women continued to stare at one another while silence cloaked the encampment.
“So, you would see us sacrificed then? My husband, my innocent daughter, this expedition. For spite? For the sins of our fathers?”
Syndra’s words turned coarse, her broken accent struggling to speak the words. “When the war was over, your people settled west. They fled these lands and built a life of prosperity, far removed from the destruction of my homeland. While my people died and the forest turned to ash, you created towering castles and cities of jewels. In the thousand years since then, how many of you have come searching for answers. How many have offered an apology? The mist creeps closer to your cities and villages. Make no mistake, Professor; I know why you are here. Why weren’t you here before our cities turned to ash, and our magnificent forest turned—to this?” Syndra lifted a handful of ash, letting it sift through her grasp.
“You can’t let them die,” Celien said, turning back to her family. She waved a hand across the sleeping camp, then dropped her hand into the ash. “All of this. It was my idea.” Celien turned to Syndra, who remained stoic, kneeling before the blue pyre.
“I encouraged him. I pushed him. He resisted, but I knew if anyone were to find the secrets of the mist, it would be him.” Celien’s words grew somber as tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. “But as always, my husband rose to the challenge. For the first time, people from Cyrea and Saracia have come together in this common interest. There’s no group better suited to discover these mysteries. But, if anything happens to my family, it will be my fault.”
A hint of emotion twinkled across the stoic sentinel’s expression. Syndra relented, and her tone softened. “I will take your family to Vashyr, as promised. But the great city is nothing more than a broken promise, a maze of riddles, of questions without answer.”
Celien grew determined, desperation filling her voice. “What then? I’ll do anything. How do we seek answers that no one else has found?”
Syndra turned back to the fallen soldiers, withdrawing her weapons and placing them beside the fire. “Feathermoon will provide safety for your family. It will provide a home for your scholars and treatment for your wounded, but it will not provide the answers you seek. Valshyr is the heart of the mist, but the riddles found there will only lead you in circles. To the valley of kings, you must go. The ancient lands of my people. Kir’Anora.”
Celien once again turned her attention to the soldiers, matching Syndra’s gaze. Horror gripped her chest as realization set in. “My family. They won’t be safe there, will they?”
With surprising quickness and honesty, Syndra added simply, “No.”
Celien turned to Eramus and Marina. A peace fell over her while she watched them sleep, both stirring under their blankets, neither able to find the comfort they sought. She imagined the fallen soldiers, stirring in their own—slumber. There was no internal struggle, for her decision made itself.
“They will stay in Feathermoon.”
Tears threatened while Celien’s tone grew forceful, determined.
“I will go alone. Will you take me?”
She reached for Syndra’s hand and waited for a response. The women stared at one another in silence, until the sentinel gave a final, reluctant nod. A pit formed in Celien’s stomach. She feared how the conversation with Eramus would go. Even more so, on how it would end. Her eyes unfocused while she returned her gaze to the Saracian warriors.
“They’re going to turn, aren’t they? That’s why we have to get them to Feathermoon.” Dark thoughts flooded Celien’s mind, for no logic could explain what she just said. “How do you know so much about them, anyway?”
Syndra bowed her head, settling into the ashen dune. With reluctance, her voice cracked, and a haunting whisper fell from her lips.
“Because Professor, I was one.”
The expedition rode all morning, through a blanket of mist. Marina rode ahead of her parents, regularly checking behind her to ensure they were still there. They argued a lot, always looking forward while their voices faded to obscurity.
They never argue, Marina thought, trying to recall even the slightest moment in their past, yet try as she might, she came
up empty. Whispers shot through the shadows as scholars and archeologists argued in secret, and warriors bickered amongst themselves.
Something was happening. Marina sensed it and cursed the expedition for not shouting what everyone else already knew—everyone but her. Her innocent glances back to her parents grew into exaggerated stares, only relinquished once one of them lifted their eyes to meet hers.
When the caravan reached a winding path, the mist slowly receded, and light once again caressed Marina’s cheeks. It was warm. Not warm enough to ease the fear in her heart, but enough to break the tension. Higher, they climbed as the sun peeked into her world.
Like emerging from a giant cloud, Marina’s head crested the mist. Before her lay a rocky hill, stretching across the horizon. All around, a river of milky white fog swirled through the valley, winding like a snake. She was above the mist, and the sun bathed the entire valley in its glow.
The caravan continued to climb, cresting the hill. A large stockade fence emerged before them, flanked with wooden towers. Soldiers traversed the walls, jumping to attention as the expedition emerged from the valley below. Whatever lay beyond the fence was concealed from view, but Marina could hear the bustle of activity and the merchants calling for their wares.
Her heart lifted, momentarily forgetting the tense moments of the morning. She hadn’t enjoyed the smell of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon in nearly a week, and hadn’t heard the clang of an anvil since Volaire’s Landing.
Marina galloped ahead, anxious to be among the people, to free herself of the fog that clung to her the entire trip. An enormous wooden gate creaked open, revealing the tent city of Feathermoon. She passed under the gate and down the makeshift dirt roads, embracing the filthy faces and the putrid scent of the street.
When Marina reached the end of the bluff, she gasped in amazement. Before her, as far as her eyes could see, were the ancient stone buildings of the greatest city known to man. Magnificent walls stretched from one horizon to the other, while towering spires and cathedrals reached for the heavens. The colossal buildings ascended from the mist like a city born from the clouds.
She had been to the most magnificent cities known to man: Sephyra, Cambridge, Wyvern’s Rest, yet none of them compared to the majestic, natural beauty before her. To her left, a towering, jagged mountain range cut through the sky, while in the distance, Marina caught a shimmering glimpse of the Emerald Sea. Through it all, lay the mist. It wound through the maze of streets and highways. It ebbed in and out of the valley and hugged every curve.
Valshyr was like nothing she had ever seen. It was the most beautiful sight of her young life, yet as she peered out upon the ancient valley, one emotion stood out among all others.
Fear.
| Chapter XIII
Broken Charm
Splintered wood and debris pushed up the shore, nestled within the blackened beach. Icy waves licked against the rocks, along with a pair of rugged, leather boots. Cooper felt the warmth of the sun, high overhead, followed by the immediate chill of the sea, only to be bathed in warmth once again. One wave at a time, Cooper’s body pushed its way further up the beach. His lucid dream morphed into reality, and the sound of waves filled his senses.
He woke with a chill. His entire body felt as though it had been frozen, thawed, then frozen once more. His hands and feet failed to respond while his legs rolled with the waves, regardless of his wishes.
Where am I? He wondered, cracking his eyes to reveal a menagerie of wood, shingles, and bodies, half-buried in a blanket of blackened sand. Sinister shadows lurked among the debris, slinking in and out of sight.
“This one’s movin’ too,” whispered a cracked, menacing voice, followed by a metallic sound and a muffled groan.
Cooper bent his knee, rolling against the oncoming waves. Or, so he thought. The numbness in his muscles continued to defy any thoughts he had of moving. Another icy surge pushed him further against the sand, grating against his cheek and flipping him over.
A disheveled, bearded man knelt before a red-cloaked soldier. His blistered hands dug deep, scouring the Cyrean’s armor for secrets. His ragged clothes hung from his skeletal form, as did his saggy, wrinkled skin. A torn cloth clung to his waist, his bare chest left exposed to the elements. Branded into the beggar’s shoulder was a sinister form, a wingless eagle clutching a broken blade.
Great, a deserter, Cooper thought.
Behind the deserter stood a younger, taller man, yet equally frazzled. His skin bore a more favorable color. The outline of ribs against his chest, however, told a similar story, as did the brand across his chest. The taller man clutched a wooden pole, ending in a curved tip. A makeshift blade had been tied against it, tethered together with dirty rags. The bloody, metal tip hung over the soldier’s limp body, poised to strike.
The soldier flinched, clutching the old man’s ankle and yanking him onto his backside. The Cyrean leaned onto his elbow. He withdrew a dagger from his belt and lunged for the beggar. The tip of the spear thrust forward, erupting through the back of the soldier’s neck.
“Dammit boy,” the old man cursed, scrambling away from the limp, red cloak. The dagger tumbled into the black sand and the soldier collapsed, followed by a large wave that pushed all three further up the beach. The old beggar pressed against the spear, cursing at the younger assailant once more.
“Get it done right the first time, will ya?” He dug into the crimson armor, retrieving a small coin purse from the soldier’s belt. “Damn kid.”
Cooper watched in horror as the pair worked toward him, searching body after body washed up on the beach. They skewered those that moved, emptying pockets and plundering the secrets of those that did not.
The sun beat down on Cooper’s body, lingering high overhead. In time, a tingling sensation crept from his fingers and toes, climbing through his arms and legs. A spark of hope lifted his spirits, yet the constant crunching of sand inched closer. A wooden board groaned, splashing against the nearby waves. Cooper angled his head as a large door flipped on its end, tossed aside by the younger man.
Through the haze and glare of the afternoon sun, Cooper made out the fine lines that etched across the board, now wedged deep into a blackened dune. He blinked, bringing the lines into focus.
A door?
Like a nightmare, haunted visions of fire and flame scorched through his thoughts: crossbows, swords, and the icy waters of the sea. A tall, thin body stumbled over the rail of a ship, followed by a horrendous splash.
Cooper coughed up water, his mind snapping back to attention.
Taryn!
He thrashed his arms and legs while waves spilled over his body. Cooper tried rolling to his knees, but lacked the strength to get his legs under him.
“We’ve got another one, boy,” croaked the old beggar, a crusty finger angling Cooper’s direction. His son charged, lunging forward with his bloodied spear.
Cooper flung his shoulder skyward. The spearhead scraped across his shoulder, plunging into the sand inches from his chest. Tiny, blackened granules shot onto Cooper’s face as he lunged for the spear. He rolled, pressing against the wooden shaft while the rusted blade scratched against his chest.
The young beggar’s eyes grew wide as the pole shifted from his fingers. He countered, yanking the spear from the sand, but Cooper continued to roll. The crude implement bowed, then snapped, leaving the beggar with a jagged, splintered stick.
The old man lunged, pressing Cooper’s head into the sand. Salty, blackened particles flooded Cooper’s mouth while the smell of urine and sweat assaulted his senses. Cooper’s gaze shot skyward as the beggar’s son flipped the stake in his hand and lunged.
The stake plunged through Cooper’s shoulder. Cooper screamed, pain surging through his arm and chest. A bitter wave washed across the beach, wrenching Cooper’s shoulder free, ripping the splintered wood from his flesh. In addition to the familiar chill, a searing pain now erupted across his shoulder as the salty water washed over his wound.
Cooper rolled to his knees and spun to face his assailants, yet once more, his legs failed to respond. His knees buckled, his body collapsing backward into the sand.
“You made this harder than need be, boy,” the wretched older man grumbled. He retrieved the bladed end of the spear, joining his son as they advanced upon Cooper.
“Now listen, guys,” Cooper said, crawling away from the insidious duo. “Whatever you’re after, you can have. I just…”
Cooper paused as a subtle glint of metal flashed in the afternoon sun. A small, silver charm draped across the old beggar’s neck, a winged angel glistening in the sun, taking to flight. Cooper’s retreat halted, and his blood boiled. He clenched his fists and rose to his feet as the men angled their weapons against him.
“Where did you get that?” Venom dripped from Cooper’s words. Rage filled his heart as he glanced to the singed, wooden door, breaking against the abyssal waves.
The old man glanced to the charm and chuckled. “What’s it to ya, boy?”
Cooper advanced, screaming, “Where is he?!”
The beggar lunged. Cooper caught the broken handle, wrestling it into his hands. He twisted the spear tip and thrust it through the beggar’s chin. The blade erupted through the top of the old man’ head while a wave crashed against them.
“Where?!” Cooper screamed, but the beggar’s eyes merely flickered and rolled back in his head.
“P—Pa?” the son shouted, bringing his splintered spear down upon Cooper. The fractured pole struck Cooper's wounded shoulder, eliciting a howl of pain. Cooper recoiled, grasping the spear, twisting away in agony. The pair battled for control of the weapon, but the beggar’s son proved too powerful, his muscles not frozen from hours in the icy water.