Exiled

by Blake Arthur Peel

  The crowd begins to grow restless again, arguing voices rising up like steam from a boiling kettle. Elias tries to respond, but is quickly drowned out by the tide of angry voices.

  “We should call a moot!” Someone declares to the approving shouts of others. “Let us decide now who will lead us!”

  “It should be Sturgis!” Shouts another. “He’ll never bow to the whims of the king!”

  The arguing grows even more intense, devolving into a mass of shouting and blustering buffoons. Elias stands in the center of it all, stoic mask cracking as he apparently tries to grapple with the situation. Even I can see the fury start to boil beneath the surface. Sturgis, on the other hand, looks pleased by the turn of events, his eyes bright as many argue on his behalf.

  The man wants to be named Protector more than he cares to admit, I think to myself, annoyed. Why can’t these people see reason? They’ll willfully go for vengeance even though they know it will kill them in the end. It’s madness!

  As the debate rages on, I find myself growing increasingly angry at the foolishness of it all. Is this what their leaders died for, so they can tear themselves apart with all this bickering?

  Finally, the frustration grows too intense within me, and suddenly I am unable to contain myself anymore.

  “You’re all a bunch of insufferable idiots!” I scream, leaping to my feet. Surprisingly, this seems to do the trick, and a shocked silence falls over the crowd. Many of those closest to me turn and stare, aghast that I would speak to military leaders in such a flippant way.

  Somehow, I find it difficult to care.

  “What is wrong with all of you, honestly? We’re facing the greatest crisis humanity has ever faced, and you’re focusing on petty revenge? It’s maddening! If this is what we’ve come to, then maybe we deserve to be crushed by the R’Laar.”

  Still, nobody objects to my words. In fact, the only sound that can be heard is the crackling noise of the brazier. I take this as a sign that I should keep talking.

  “To an extent, I get where many of you are coming from. You haven’t even seen a demon, much less fought one in the flesh. Well, I have, and let me tell you, it’s bloody terrifying. If you think King Aethelgar’s knights are bad, wait until you have to face down a gorgon.”

  More silence ensues. Elias gives me an encouraging nod.

  I take a deep breath and continue. “I’ve been with the Nightingales for quite some time now. Hells, I gave up my right hand fighting beside you lot.” To emphasize my point, I lift my stump into the air, giving everyone a view of my deformity. “I’ve diced and drank ale with most of the men in this camp, and I’d guess that most of you would consider me to be an honest enough fellow. With that in mind, please listen to me when I tell you that you’re out of your league here. All of us are. That’s what makes this so important. In order for us to survive, we are going to have to unite with the other side, even if that means shedding blood with people we disagree with. Because in the end, it doesn’t matter if you are Nightingale or kingsman... all of us will die together.”

  Suddenly feeling compelled, I turn to Elias and gesture toward him with my good hand. His face betrays a grimace, as if he can anticipate what is coming.

  “We do need someone to lead us through these difficult times. And, frankly, the only person I’d feel comfortable following is this man here. I nominate Elias Keen to become the Protector of the Nightingales!”

  This time, the crowd absolutely erupts.

  “A ranger? As our leader? Absurd!”

  “How can you suggest such a thing?”

  “You’re bloody daft, boy!”

  Still, others raise their voices in agreement, shouting, “Here, here!” and, “An excellent suggestion!”

  “Xander Thel trusted Elias as a personal confidant,” I reply loudly, explaining my choice. “He is an honorable man, and is probably the only one who can unite us all in the fight against the R’Laar!”

  The arguing continues, voices shouting angrily at one another and opinions ranging in every possible direction. On the other side of the brazier, Elias eyes me with a stern look in his eye, as if to say, “Now look what you’ve done.” I meet his stare and simply shrug, giving him an innocent-looking smirk.

  Eventually, one of the Nightingale captains cups his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice and yells, “Alright, you’ve all had your say! Let’s go ahead and put it to a vote. Then we will finally have some direction.”

  The noise settles down, everyone glancing at one another uncertainly. Then, the captain begins the process of voting.

  “All those in favor of Sturgis becoming the new Protector, raise your hand.”

  A respectable number of people put their hand into the air. The captain tallies the votes then nods his head. He rattles off a few more Nightingales’ names, but none of them garner more than a few hands.

  Finally, he gets to Elias. “All those in favor of Elias Keen the ranger becoming our new Protector, please raise your hand.” A number similar to that of Sturgis put their hands into the air. The captain begins counting them.

  I can’t help but feel nervous as the votes are tallied. If Sturgis is elected, I think to myself, then the Nightingales will either return to Dunmar City or wage war against the king. Both scenarios will be equally disastrous for the kingdom.

  When the captain is finished, he turns to regard the assembled group.

  He heaves a deep sigh, then reveals the decision. “The new Protector and leader of the Nightingales is... Elias Keen.”

  Many people gasp at the revelation, while others exclaim in frustration. Whispering ripples throughout the group, and Elias looks just as shocked as everyone else. At first he seems to wilt, weighed down by the sudden responsibility, but then he straightens, his jaw set and his expression as intent and stony as ever.

  Sturgis abruptly stands up, his face drawn and his eyes glittering in the light of the fire. He approaches Elias, moving with a determined gait.

  I tense, preparing to throw myself at him, but am surprised to see that he stops a few paces away from the new Protector, his head bowed in deference. He drops to one knee, causing the whole group to grow silent once more, and raises his voice for all to hear. “I accept the results of this moot,” he says, voice sounding pained but resigned. “I vow to serve you until my dying breath. Long live the Protector!”

  After a brief hesitation, everyone in attendance, myself included, falls to one knee and declares, “Long love the Protector!”

  Elias, appearing to be at a loss for words, looks over the gathering for a long moment, his posture stiff. Then, he clears his throat. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting to be chosen as your leader,” he says, tone gruff as ever. “I desire only to preserve the people of the realm. Needless to say, I will serve to the best of my ability, and will give my life for you and your people, if necessary.”

  He pauses, as if considering what he should say next, then continues. “I believe the first thing we should do is solve this dilemma with the king. It is imperative that we unite as quickly as possible, but we cannot do that with him sitting on the throne. The man cannot be reasoned with, so I will lead a small force of veterans to the capital city and sneak into the palace. Once there, I will end his life myself.”

  Many of the men nod their heads and rumble their agreement, no doubt gladdened to hear such words from their new leader.

  Elias raises his fist into the air. “For the Nightingales!”

  The crowd roars in response, “For the Nightingales!”

  “Now,” he says when the clamor dies down, hand straying to his belt knife. “Let us go and end the conflict.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Owyn

  Scratching my chin, I watch from my perch on the hill as the slaves busy themselves with their daily chores. The sun beats down overhead, making the parched land appear to shimmer, and in the scrub brush all around me insects chirp and flit around in the hot, dry air.

  More than two we
eks have passed since we first came to the slave camp, and we are still no closer to getting back inside the Arc of Radiance than the day we arrived.

  I pick up a stone and toss it down the hill, watching it tumble to the bottom far below. I feel so useless, I think to myself glumly. There’s not much to do except wait around for Zara to figure out how to communicate with these people.

  In truth, she has made amazing progress in the last few days. Every waking moment she spends with the people, speaking with them and attempting to learn their language. Her scholarly interests make her perfect for the job, and even though the majority of the people are still wary of us, many have started to warm up to her, sharing their food and resources with us as a result.

  I, on the other hand, feel like I’m going mad with boredom. I exercise, going through fighting stances and keeping my body fit, but one can only do such things for a limited time. The hours in the days are long, and it is starting to wear on my nerves. Half of the time, I have even begun laboring with the slaves themselves, hauling rocks and breaking stones with their primitive tools. More than anything, I hate feeling unproductive.

  The one spot of light in all of this has been the fact that our basic necessities have been met. We no longer have to worry about food or shelter, and the demons have not returned since that day when the girl was taken.

  Still, I think, picking up another stone and tossing it, it would be nice to have a purpose in all of this.

  Eventually, I decide to make the long hike back down to the camp to check on some sinews curing in the tent.

  The trail down is rather steep, but I manage it well enough, navigating past the thorny bushes and jagged boulders in my descent. Nearby, a half dozen slaves load stones into a wagon, moving sluggishly in the heat of the sun.

  As I traverse the uneven terrain, an interesting thought enters my mind, sparked by a story I had heard when I was just a boy. The Legion of Light, the fabled army that sacrificed itself fighting the R'Laar so that the Arc of Radiance could be created, had fought in hills just beyond the borders of Tarsynium. I wonder if this is where they made their last stand, I think idly to myself. Could the great general Luca Dhar have set foot on this hill himself?

  The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

  I make my way back into the tent encampment, and the long-haired youth who we had met first rushes up to meet me. His eyes, wide and dark, dart from my face down to the makeshift dagger on my belt, a look of respect passing across his sun-tanned features.

  “Siz qaytib keldingiz!” He says excitedly, falling into step beside me as I walk toward our tent. “Menga qanday urish kerakligini o'rgatmoqchiman!”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” I reply, walking faster in an attempt to outpace him.

  He speeds up as well, staying beside me with little trouble. “Kuting,” he says, “men sizga o'zimni tanishtirmoqchiman.”

  Reaching out a hand, the boy tries to grab my arm in an attempt to get me to stop. I immediately spin, snatching his wrist and twisting his arm out of the way so that he cannot grab me. He lets out a yelp of surprise, and every slave in the vicinity stops what they are doing to stare at me. Instead of being mad, though, the youth looks up at me in amazement, something resembling adoration entering his eager eyes.

  Feeling embarassed for reacting in such a way, I release him and take a step back. “Sorry,” I mutter, abashed.

  The boy looks down at his arm almost reverently, then back up at me, a big grin splitting his face. “Siz jangchisiz,” he says softly. “Men sening kabi bo'lishni xohlayman.” Next, he places his hand on his chest, as if gesturing at himself. “Yari.”

  It takes me a moment before I begin to understand. “Is that your name?”

  Still smiling, he repeats the word, “Yari.”

  “Yari,” I reply, nodding. Then, pointing at my own chest, I say, “Owyn.”

  “Owyn,” he says, pronouncing it with a long ‘ee’ sound.

  We stand there for a moment, looking at each other as an odd understanding passes between us. This one is a fighter, I realize, noting the way he looks at me, especially the demon quill on my belt. He looks up to me because I actually know how to defend myself.

  For a brief moment, I feel the urge to take him under my wing, to teach him everything I know about fighting and standing up for myself. But the feeling passes a few seconds later, and I clear my throat uncomfortably. Probably for the best I stay clear. He’ll probably only wind up getting himself and others killed.

  “Well,” I say at length, nodding to him. “Nice to meet you, Yari. Now I’d best be off.”

  I begin walking again toward my tent.

  He begins following me, but I quickly turn and level a finger at him. “No,” I say forcefully. “Stay.”

  This appears to work. Comprehension flashes in his eyes, followed by frustration. He mutters something, then wanders off, disappearing between some tents.

  I blow out a breath, then shrug it off. Can’t get too close to these people, I think, continuing my walk. That’s Zara’s mistake. Sometimes, it’s best to just look out for yourself. Especially when the end of the world is concerned.

  The way to my tent is clear, and I make it back without suffering any more interruptions. As I pull open the flap and step inside, it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Zara is off mingling with the people, as has been her habit of late, and so the tent is empty except for our meager assortment of possessions. Rough-spun blankets are spread out on the dirt floor, along with a few primitive personal grooming implements and a bowl of water. Water is scarce out here in the wastes, but Zara somehow managed to secure us with enough for washing.

  On the far side of the tent rests a strange contraption of my own creation. It resembles a loom of sorts, spindly lengths of wood lashed together with fibrous cords. It stands about waist-high off the ground, and currently contains two items I have been working on.

  One of the items is a curving piece of sapling I was able to find on the edge of the hills. Really, it is no more than the stem of an overgrown thorn bush, but it should serve its purpose well enough. It is held in a slightly bowed position in the contraption, held in place in something of a vice.

  The other item, much more delicate than the other, is a length of string held taut between two sticks. It runs about the length of my arm and is a white, milky color, with a strong but uneven texture. I had fashioned it out of the sinews of a strange, cow-like animal that the slaves had slaughtered for food. Zara was particularly interested in the scientific impact of discovering a new species, but I was more interested in the tendons in its leg, cutting them out and threading them together to create this string.

  When put together, the wood and the string should produce a fair short bow, which will be of immeasurable value should I ever have to fight the demons out here.

  I approach the apparatus and pluck the string, nodding in satisfaction at its springiness. It’s nothing compared to the durability of the composite bowstring from my ranger’s longbow, but it is far better than nothing. The bow itself seems to be faring well, too. Its surface has begun to harden significantly from the fire treatments I have been giving it at night, but has still manage to maintain some of its supple nature.

  Fortunately, the slaves kept some sort of odd-smelling root oil for cooking, and I have been able to use it to help cure both the wood and the string.

  It’ll be ready soon enough, I think to myself, settling down cross-legged on the floor. At least then I will be able to breathe a little easier.

  I immediately set myself to the task of crafting some arrowheads, grinding them down on a flat stone I had dragged into the tent a few days ago. Piled on the ground beside me is a pile of rocks I had gathered in the hills. They all somewhat bare resemblance to the distinct triangular shape of an arrowhead.

  As I begin grinding down the small rocks on the stone, I allow my mind to wander, enjoying the labor-intensive, repetitive task which also helps me to feel l
ike I am finally being productive. I’ll need to find myself some shafts for the arrows... maybe those reeds in the valley a few hills over will suffice? My biggest challenge will be finding feathers to create fletching.

  Fletching is extremely important for the flight of an arrow.

  There has to be something in the local fauna that will be of use. The leafy spines of a thorn bush, perhaps? If I could rig something like that to my arrows, it should serve well enough.

  I work late into the afternoon, grinding down the arrowheads until I have a collection of suitable stones. That being complete, I set out to see if I can find some sticks that will work as shafts.

  Zara can work on the technical side of getting us out of here, I think as I step back out into the blistering sunlight. I’m content to be the muscle that will protect her.

  With that thought in mind, I set out once more into the hills.

  The concerned eyes of the slaves follow me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zara

  “Bugun qandezan,” I say, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. The women gathered in the sewing tent giggle as I apparently butcher the pronunciation.

  “Bugun qandaysan,” Kar’ii corrects, emphasizing the ays in the middle of the word. The phrase, which I have interpreted to mean, “How are you today?”, has proven much more difficult to pronounce than I anticipated. For all I know, I could have just said, “How do you smell today?”, or something equally ridiculous.

  I nod, determined to get it right. “Bugun qandaysan,” I repeat, doing my best to say the phrase exactly as she had.

  The young mother smiles, nodding excitedly. “Juda yaxshi,” she says, reaching forward and squeezing my hand. “Siz ko'p narsalarni rivojlantirdingiz.”

  The rest of the women bob their heads and chatter amiably, continuing to work on the garments resting in their laps. Some of the words she said sounded familiar, like “good” and “improving”, but she spoke them so fast that I only have a vague idea at what she is saying. I decide to go to my usual routine of nodding and smiling in return, trying not to get discouraged.