Exiled

by Blake Arthur Peel

  “We don’t know when that will be,” I say in exasperation. “It could be tomorrow, it could be six months from now. That’s what makes this situation so dangerous. Every day we spend in this wasteland is a day we could be preparing the kingdom for the inevitable.”

  He grunts and returns to his work, turning away from me and fiddling with the fibrous rope. Under his breath I can hear him muttering something about work needing to be done.

  “Fine,” I reply, forcing away all emotion and trying to be like a mage, cold and logical. “Arguing like this is stupid, and it doesn’t accomplish anything. We can both get what we want out of the day, we just need to compromise.”

  He glances over at me but does not offer a response.

  “I’ll help you with the traps and gathering water, and whatever other chore you deem necessary, and you’ll come with me to take another look at the Arc this afternoon. Deal?”

  He hesitates, then finally nods. “We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to get everything done, but... deal. Let’s get started.”

  I walk over to where he is crouching, taking the makeshift snares as he proffers them to me. My fingers, more slender than his beefy ones, are better suited to tying the miniature traps, and he busies himself with the demon quill, using it to carve some wood.

  Time moves slowly as the day wears on, the heat of the sun radiating the hills and causing both of us to sweat profusely. I feel dirty and grimy and hungry, but I spend most of my time inside my own head as I work, focusing my mental energy on a way to get us out of this mess.

  Perhaps there’s a way to manipulate the energies of the Arc, I think, going over the mechanics in my mind. If I could somehow trick the Arc, create some kind of disturbance in the flow of the radiant magic, then perhaps I could open up a hole at will. It would be risky. Dealing with a power as great as the Arc of Radiance is always risky without the aid of artifice. However, we don’t have very much choice in the matter. Of course, all of this is pointless unless I can somehow get my hands on a source crystal...

  That always seems to be the setback. A mage without a talisman is useless, like a knight without his sword.

  Disarmed. Impotent. Useless.

  I settle glumly back into the rhythm of work, walking along narrow trails in our ravine and setting traps while Owyn shores up the defenses of our cave. They are menial tasks, but even I must admit that they are important for our survival.

  Hours pass, along with my patience as we tarry on. My fingers hurt from foraging for berries among the thorn bushes, and my back aches from sleeping in a cave and from constantly bending over. Owyn seems to work like a pack horse, moving from one task to the next without as much as a peep of complaint.

  In truth, it is more than a little aggravating.

  Finally, Owyn relents in his ranger’s responsibilities and allows for the two of us to make the long trek to the edge of the Arc. We fill up on as much water as we can drink from the spring, then set off, hiking through the hills and sticking to cover as much as possible.

  We move slowly, cautiously watching for any signs of demons, but fortunately nothing jumps out at us. The big, frightening monsters only seem to come out when the sun goes down.

  I find myself wishing that we could shelter closer to the Arc. Then, if any gaps were to suddenly appear in its surface, we would be able to quickly rush through. However, I remind myself that Owyn wasn’t exaggerating when talking about the dangers of being too close to the edge. Even if we were able to spot an opening within reach, chances are that there would be demons attempting to get through as well.

  Yes, I think, walking behind Owyn as we make our way into another small valley, we’re going to have to figure out another way for us to get back.

  We descend into the valley and begin climbing our way to the top, trudging through brambles and uneven terrain. More than once I am forced to hold onto the ranger’s arm to avoid tumbling down the rocks to my death. When we reach the top, I can see the vast dome of energy rising up before us, signaling the end of our journey.

  “I’m going to scout ahead,” Owyn whispers as we crouch down behind a boulder. “Make sure the coast is clear. Wait here for me to get back.”

  “Alright,” I reply, settling down behind the great rock.

  He pulls out his quill-dagger and sets off, slinking silently toward the Arc like a shadow, moving from cover to cover.

  I comb my fingers through my tangled, filthy hair as I wait, nervously praying that no demons are lurking about nearby. Light send that the way is safe. I would hate for this trip to be wasted.

  Suddenly, I hear some rocks shift in the valley below, and a bit of movement catches my eye. Turning toward the source of the disturbance, I catch a glimpse of something moving around not twenty paces away, ghosting through the brush like a wraith.

  “Light almighty,” I whisper, picking up a rock and clutching it close to my chest in fear. “What was that?”

  For a moment there is silence, then I hear the sound again, like someone creeping about down below, disturbing the crumbling rocks.

  I hold the rock up as if to throw it, waiting for a darkhound or some other monstrosity to lunge out of hiding, but instead my eyes grow wide, mouth dropping open in surprise as a figure emerges from behind a cleft in the hill. It is not a darkhound or any other demon I have ever seen before.

  It is a young boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old.

  He is dressed in a strange sack-cloth garb and wearing his dark hair long about his shoulders, and he moves like a wild thing, always on the lookout for a predator.

  He looks up, seeing me crouching on the hill above him, and freezes, staring at me with eyes that appear to be just as surprised as mine.

  Time seems to stand still, the two of us staring at each other, and for a moment, he looks as if he is about to speak. Then, Owyn's voice calls out from behind me.

  "We're safe for now," he declares, without fear of being overheard. "There doesn't seem to be any demons around here."

  The youth tenses, then bolts, dashing behind some rocks and vanishing from sight.

  Chapter Ten

  Owyn

  "Wait!" Zara shouts, her voice sounding concerned. "Come back!"

  Confused, I jog over to where she is hiding behind the boulder, bringing up my makeshift dagger in case of danger.

  I find her standing up, looking down into the valley with her hand outstretched, a look of shock and eagerness on her face. Upon seeing me, her eyebrows pinch together and she begins gesturing wildly below. "There was someone down there!" She says excitedly, pointing to a spot a several paces away. "A young boy – an actual person!"

  Quirking an eyebrow, I look into the valley skeptically. "A person?" I ask. "Are you certain?"

  She nods emphatically. "We have to go after him! Maybe he can help!"

  "If there's another person out here, he is probably a dangerous criminal," I reply. "That's the only reason anyone is ever exiled."

  "A boy criminal?" She demands, getting heated. "He's getting away... we have to go after him!"

  With that she takes off down the hill, going dangerously fast down the treacherous hillside. Groaning inwardly, I rush after her, if anything to keep her from plummeting to her death.

  We make our way quickly down the hill, descending into a gulch littered with red-colored stones. There, surprisingly, I see the tell-tale sign of footprints marring the dirt. Alright, I concede to myself, following the trail. Maybe she wasn't seeing things after all.

  The footprints, smaller than a fully-grown man, wind through the gulch and into another ravine, going around another hill in a direction opposite of our shelter.

  When we jog around the corner, I spot someone climbing up one of the hills.

  Skidding to a halt, I grab Zara by the arm and pull her behind a gnarled stand of bushes.

  "He's going to get away," she complains, but I raise my finger to my lips, indicating that she should be quiet.

  "I'm a ranger, remem
ber?" I whisper quietly. "I'll be able to track him. We shouldn't let him know that we are on his trail, though, because there could be others. We don’t know if they'll be friendly."

  She opens her mouth to protest, then hesitates as my words sink in. Finally, she nods her head in agreement. "Fine," she replies more quietly. "We'll track him. But we do it today. There are still several hours left before the sun goes down, and I don't want to lose him."

  The thought of being stranded in these hills at night with no shelter makes me feel uneasy, but I reluctantly agree. Zara can be bloody difficult to reason with when she sets her mind to something.

  We wait for several long minutes as the strange boy climbs over the hill. When he vanishes over the top we emerge from our hiding place, creeping along the trail cautiously, careful not to make too much noise. The lad’s footprints, while difficult to follow at times, still provide a decent enough track to follow as we make our way through the hills.

  Things become increasingly tricky as Zara and I crest the top of the hill. If we simply walk down the other side while he is in the valley, we risk being seen and our cover blown. This forces us to take things more slowly, and for me to scout ahead to make sure that he is out of sight.

  The hours grow long as we follow his path, winding through the rocks and brush in a dizzying path. There are times when I am sure he is on to us, his path so twisting that it makes me think he is trying to lose us, but in the end my ranger skills win out.

  The way always remains clear to me.

  Eventually, it comes to a point when I begin to worry that we will not have enough time to make it back to our shelter before nightfall. As we come to the top of another hill, I motion for Zara to stop.

  “We need to start heading back,” I say softly. “He's leading us on a wild goose chase.”

  She looks up at the sky and bites her lip, clearly concerned by the lateness of the hour.

  “Just a bit longer,” she says at last. “I have a feeling that we are getting close.”

  I let out a sigh and shake my head. “Close to what, Zara? Right now, I don’t have any clue where we are!”

  She looks as if she is about to reply when she glances over my shoulder, apparently seeing something behind me. Her eyes go wide and she points, causing me to look in that direction.

  On the hill opposite us there is a cluster of rag-wearing people, scrawny and struggling to lift a large rock up out of the dirt.

  I immediately fall into a crouch behind some bushes, prompting Zara to do the same.

  They look like they’re workers of some kind, I think, squinting to try and make out the details. Why would they be toiling to gather rocks?

  Keeping low, I begin to creep closer to get a better look into the valley. Below, I discover there are even more of these people, milling about around a flat-bed wagon laden with rocks of every size. There are dozens of these people, all with the same scraggly hair and dull-colored clothing, their postures bent and unassuming.

  “Light almighty,” Zara whispers beside me. “They look like a bunch of slaves!”

  “Yeah,” I reply uneasily. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  We become so engrossed in watching these people labor that I fail to notice something sneaking up to us on our right side.

  I twist, bringing up my quill-like dagger, only to realize that it is the same boy we had been following, his eyes wide with surprise and wonder.

  “Ah, Hells,” I mutter, feeling like a fool for not paying enough attention to my surroundings.

  “Bego’nalar!” The youth shouts, his voice echoing throughout the valley. “Har birimiz, bego’na odamlar bizni topdilar!”

  Everyone in the valley stops what they are doing, gazing up at us at the top of the hill. Everything grows deadly quiet, an uncomfortable feeling washing over me.

  "Owyn," Zara asks, her voice sounding unsure. "What do we do now?"

  "I'm not sure," I admit, glancing from the boy to the people gathered below.

  "Har kim!" The youth continues, seemingly excited by our presence. "Dunyodan chegara! Biz ularni uyimizga qaytarishimiz kerak!" He strides up to us, completely unafraid, and offers a hand to Zara, which she takes uncertainly, getting up from our cover.

  We'll just go along with it, I suppose, I think to myself begrudgingly, pushing myself up to my feet. But if I catch even a whiff of trouble, I'm getting the two of us out of here.

  The young man beams, not letting go of Zara's hand and leading her down the hill to where the rest of his people are gathered.

  I follow behind them warily.

  The slaves, if that is indeed what they are, look even scawnier than they had from a distance, their skin tanned by the sun and their limbs thin and spindly. They, unlike the boy, seem to regard us with fear, avoiding eye contact when we draw near and even shying away.

  One of the men, who appears to be a few years younger than Elias, breaks away from the rest and approaches us, fixing the young boy with a look of concern.

  "Bu musofirlarni bu erga keltirib nima qilding?" He says, phrasing the strange words like a question. "Siz qonunni bilasiz."

  "Ular xavfli emas, otasi," the boy replies eagerly. "Va unga qarang... u chiroyli!"

  The man shakes his greying head, looking over the two of us with a deep frown. "Biz ularni yuborishimiz kerak."

  The boy's eyes widen in horror, and he shakes his head vehemently. "Yo'q, otasi! Agar biz ularni yuborsak, o'lishlari kerak!"

  The older man crosses his arms, staring the boy down sternly.

  "Men ularni yubormaslikka ruxsat bermayman," the boy continues earnestly, clutching Zara's hand tighter. "Ular bizga yordam berishi mumkin!"

  The two stare at each other for a long moment, until the older man eventually deflates. He sighs, gazing over his shoulder at the other people and then up at the darkening sky.

  "Yaxshi, o'g'lim," he says at length, throwing his hands up into the air in defeat. "Kun kechikkan. Uyga qaytishi kerak biz bilan olib keling."

  The boy brightens, a smile splitting his sun-darkened face. He then turns to Zara and says in a gleeful tone, "Otam siz bilan biz bilan kelishi mumkinligini aytadi!"

  "I think... this is a good thing?" She says, looking at me uncertainly.

  Then, the group of slaves begins to depart, carrying their burden of rocks and trudging away with bent backs. The youth begins to pull Zara along, pointing in the direction the people are moving and jabbering excitedly in his language.

  "What's happening?" I ask, suddenly worried. Narrowing my eyes, I shoot a suspicious look at the passing slaves, who all shrink away from my gaze.

  "I'm not sure," Zara replies, "but I think they are taking us to where they live."

  "Don't you think we should investigate a little first before we go off with strangers?"

  "I don't think I could shake this one even if I tried," she replies with half a laugh. "Come along, Owyn. These people seem friendly enough."

  Grumbling under my breath, I set off after them, falling into step beside Zara and the youth. The others give the three of us a wide berth.

  Let's hope that this doesn't end up getting us killed, I think, keeping a hand firmly on the handle of my dagger. Then, we leave the ravine behind, kicking up a trail of dust behind us.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zara

  The slave caravan, if that is indeed what it is, makes its way through the hills at a hurried pace, wheels bumping on the uneven terrain as the people walk silently beside it. No beasts of burden pull the rock-filled wagon. Instead, it is pulled by the slaves themselves, a half dozen of them using their sinewy muscles to haul it along.

  Many of them cast their eyes about nervously, searching their surroundings as the sky grows darker by the minute.

  The young boy, with his wide, dark eyes and his tangled mess of hair, insists on pulling me along by the hand, shooting encouraging smiles at me every so often as we trudge along beside the wagon. Owyn strides just behind me, his hand warily clutching his curvin
g quill dagger.

  "I don't like this, Zara," he mumbles, just loud enough for me to hear. "What if these people are leading us into danger?"

  Glancing over my shoulder at him, I give him a questioning look. "Aren't you in the least bit curious about who these people are?"

  "I'm more interested in keeping us from getting killed," he replies gruffly.

  I pause, considering this for a moment, then glance back at him once more. "I don't think these people mean to do us harm. Just look at them – they’re scared to death! We’re probably the first outsiders they’ve ever seen!”

  Light almighty above, I think to myself, the realization finally dawning on me. These people must be the remnants of those who were trapped outside when the Arc of Radiance was created! Perhaps they were refugees, fleeing the destruction of their native lands! Suddenly the implications start to spring up in my mind like mushrooms after a forest rainstorm. That's why we can't understand them, I think, growing more excited. Their language has been corrupted! They've been living in isolation out here for over a thousand years! Does that mean that they've been serving the R'Laar this entire time?

  My thoughts begin moving quickly, turning like a windmill inside my head. What does a thousand years of servitude do to a society? What remains of their humanity after so long without freedom?

  The horror of their situation makes a part of me feel ill, but the scholar in me cannot help but be fascinated by this new information.

  We continue on silently through the hills, eventually coming out onto a wide plain just as the sun sinks beneath the horizon. There, just outside of the undulating, rocky hills is an encampment of sorts, spread out like a miniature city. The encampment is comprised mainly of primitive tents, made from skins and rough lengths of wood, and bonfires burn at various places within its borders, causing it to glow with an orange light.