Exiled

by Blake Arthur Peel

  I can channel source energy into radiant magic, but this is unbearably difficult, I think, fiddling with the square of coarse fabric in my own lap. If only I had some sort of reference book or something, this would be much easier.

  I’ve been at it for over two weeks, talking with everyone I can day in and day out, and still I feel like I am in over my head. Every time I feel like I make a little progress with the language, it gets buried with more information. Grammar patterns, conjugations, the lack of any discernable writing system makes communicating with these people extremely difficult, not to mention the fact that they labor from sun up to sun down, providing for themselves and their demon overlords.

  Kar’ii seems to notice the consternation hiding behind my smile, so she scoots closer to me, threading a thread of fabric through a hole with a bit of wood. “Siz yaxshi ish qilyapsiz,” she says slowly, clearly enunciating each word. “Sabr. Bu oxir-oqibat keladi.”

  I pick out the words “you”, “good”, and what I assume is “patience”, but the rest is lost on me. Still, her kind eyes make me grateful that she has taken a liking to me, and not for the first time.

  We continue to toil in the wide tent, mending clothing and weaving baskets as a warm breeze blows in through the open flap. The women, grandmothers, mothers and teenage daughters, chat with one another like every other group of women I have ever known, smiling and speaking about what I imagine are their families and experiences. It is a nice change of pace now that they have seemingly welcomed me into their fold.

  Kar’ii continues to practice words and phrases with me as we work, pointing to objects and patiently waiting for me to sound out their correct names.

  It is nice to have something resembling a friend among this people. It makes the process of understanding them much easier, especially when it has to do with their culture.

  Their language appears to be a corruption of the ancient language of Kamdyn, which fell more than a thousand years ago during the Doom of Byhalya. Based on my embarrassingly limited knowledge of ancient history, Kamdyn was one of the more dominant empires on the continent, their language being one of the most widely spoken. It was also among the first kingdoms to collapse during the invasion. There remain similarities between the tongue of Kamdyn and the common tongue of Tarsynium, but after centuries of isolation, they are few and far between.

  Still, despite these difficulties, I remain cautiously optimistic that I will eventually be able to communicate with them.

  Our lives, and possibly the fate of the world, depends on it.

  As I attempt to converse with Kar’ii and the others, my hands continue to work on the fabric in my hands. The threads appear to be made from some sort of coarse animal hair, woven to create tiny ropes of rough-spun strings. The fabric is unbearably itchy and uncomfortable – I should know, I’ve worn it while my mage robes were being cleaned – but it is better than nothing, which is exactly what the alternative is.

  I continue to sew, focusing most of my mental energy on memorizing various names for objects and ideas. Rock, cloth, food, tent, happy, sad, man, woman... the words are extraordinarily complex, yet at the same time simple in the way they are used. In truth, their grammar structure seems entirely simplistic when compared to that of my own language.

  This is what gives me hope to keep pressing on.

  From what I have been able to gather and observe, these people have a strange relationship with the roving armies of the R’Laar. They pay tribute to avoid being annihilated, but they also seem to revere the demons as some sort of twisted deities. They bow and scrape whenever the creatures are present, and speak reverently about them whenever the topic is brought up.

  It seems that time and abuse have ground these people down to nothing, creating an entire society of individuals with little to no self-worth.

  The youth among them, however, seem to be restless compared to their elders. They talk back and balk at their back-breaking work, much like any teenagers, and seem to regard Owyn and me with an unusual amount of reverence and respect. Perhaps their fiery spirits will eventually get crushed as well, but for now, they are the only ones who seem to have any fight left in them.

  Hours pass by, and I can feel my hands start to ache from working the fabric. What’s more, the stuffy tent has grown increasingly hot and my bent posture has caused my back to hurt.

  Eventually, we break for food, stepping out into the sun and over to another tent where bushels of withered, dry fruit have been prepared. Like most of the foods the slaves eat, it is bland and difficult to get used to, but I eat it all the same, having become famished for working through most of the day.

  While the women toil and work in the small city of tents, most of the men and the boys go out into the hills, where they gather rocks or mine for ore. Others till the hard, clay-like dirt outside of the encampment, trying to raise stunted crops in this harsh environment. It is an arduous, labor-intensive life, but they somehow manage to make it work, even with the demons stealing a large portion of their provisions.

  We work the rest of the day, late into the afternoon, then return before sunset to prepare food for the men. When the workers return from the hills, we gather around fire pits and eat mushy grains, dry fruit and, to my dismay, crunchy insects resembling locusts.

  These I do not eat, politely declining them when they are offered.

  The nights are my favorite, as they are usually when I get to spend the most time with Owyn. Even though both of us are almost always exhausted from the day, we spend the few hours of night walking together through the camp, chatting and even joking with one another from time to time. As a sense of normalcy starts to enter our daily lives, we begin to resume the courtship we had started in Dunmar City, laughing and showing increasing affection for one another. Every night before we fall asleep, we share a kiss, and every night it becomes increasingly difficult to resist the urge to continue kissing late into the night.

  Even as I fall asleep, I find my thoughts always turning toward him.

  SEVERAL MORE DAYS PASS, with minimal but gradual progress being made in learning the language. I can start to string words together in juvenile sentences, and more often than not the women can seem to understand what I am saying.

  Interpreting what they reply is another matter entirely.

  As I sit in the women’s tent, this time weaving a basket with malleable plant fibers, I feel myself growing more confident with trying to speak.

  “Mening... ismim... Zara... siz-chi?” I say, trying to enunciate every syllable correctly.

  Kar’ii claps her hands together softly, smiling broadly. “Juda yaxshi!” She replies, congratulating me. “Juda yaxshi rivojlanmoqda!”

  I smile as well, feeling a genuine sense of accomplishment. “Sizga... katta rahmat.”

  The other women around us chatter and grin, giving me encouraging words.

  Pulling a length of plant fiber through a hole, I hold up my basket for Kar’ii to see. “Bu qantee ko'rinishga ega?” I ask, inquiring about how it looks.

  She shakes her head slightly. “Bu qanday ko'rinishga ega,” she corrects, though she still offers me a look of encouragement. Then, she points to my basket, where an obvious hole remains in its surface. “Bu teshikni aniqlash kerak.”

  I bite my lip, examining the hole and then returning to work patching it. “Rahmat,” I say, thanking her.

  “Muammo yo'q,” she replies, indicating that all is well.

  We continue on for several hours, talking and working the way we have every day. I begin to lose myself in the process, learning new things and keeping my hands busy while the day grows late. It feels good to finally be making progress, to know that my efforts haven’t been for naught.

  Abruptly, the sound of frightened screaming enters the tent, coming from somewhere outside. We all look at each other, then stand up, setting down our baskets and making for the exit.

  Everyone in the tent filters out, rushing to the outskirts of the encampment where most of
the other slaves have already gathered. Everyone mutters nervously beneath their breath, clutching their children close to them as they mill about in confusion.

  I spot Owyn making his way to our position and I go to him, picking up my robes so that I can move faster.

  “What’s going on?” He asks, hand going to his belt where his quill dagger is located.

  “I’m not sure,” I reply. “We heard the screaming and came immediately. Let’s check it out.”

  He nods and wordlessly follows me to the cluster of people. There, we find a young man of perhaps fifteen running toward us from the hills, waving his arms wildly. “Yovuzlar, tog'larda!” He screams, voice carrying over the badlands. “Ular bizning jamoamizni o'ldiradilar!”

  I chew my lip, stomach sinking as I decipher the words in my head. I cannot make out everything that he is saying, but key words jump out at me like snarling darkhounds.

  “What is it?” Owyn asks. “What is he saying?”

  “I think he’s saying there is a demon in the hills,” I reply uneasily. “And that there are people trapped – in danger.”

  He curses under his breath, running a hand through his unruly hair.

  Around us, mothers wail and cry out in despair, no doubt lamenting the fact that their friends and family members would soon be dead. When the young man reaches the edge of camp, sweating and gasping, he continues to wave his arms and shout, begging for help. “Biror narsa qilishimiz kerak! Agar biz hozir harakat qilmasak, o'lamiz!”

  I take a deep breath, not really sure how to proceed. Light... is this a common occurrence out here? They simply get attacked by an enemy and don’t have the means to defend themselves? There must be something that can be done.

  Surprisingly, it is Owyn who comes up with a solution.

  “We need to help them,” he says, setting his jaw determinedly.

  Still chewing my lower lip, I nod my head. “Of course. But what can we do? We almost got ourselves killed last time.”

  He hesitates for a moment, then responds, “Wait here.” Then, he turns and sprints back in the direction of our tent.

  The youth continues you shout urgently at the gathered crowd, and several of the women nearby have started to weep, those surrounding them patting their backs comfortingly and looking around with haunted eyes. I have to resist the urge to wring my hands in anticipation, not sure what to do next.

  When Owyn returns, I see that he is carrying what looks like a bow in one hand and a length of string in the other, a handful of crude-looking arrows tucked under his arm. He comes to a stop before me and drops the arrows to the ground, then begins uncoiling the string. Bending the bow slightly, he loops the ends of the string around notches carved into the wood, then tests the spring by pulling on it. Then, nodding in satisfaction, he bends down and picks up the arrows, which look to have been tipped with sharpened stones and fletched with spines from a thorn bush.

  “Let’s go,” he says, slinging the bow over his shoulder.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask anxiously. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a talisman to use.”

  He frowns, then pulls out his quill dagger from his belt, handing it over to me. “Use this. It isn’t much, but it’ll do some damage if you see an opening.”

  Grimacing, I reach forward and accept the weapon, hefting it in front of me warily. It is lighter than I expected, like a shard of hardened tree bark, and it seems like Owyn had made something of a handle on it by wrapping the base in a scrap from his cloak.

  “Alright,” I say after a few seconds of hesitation. “I’ll follow you.”

  Owyn takes off at a jog, making his way toward the hills while I follow suit. Many of the people gasp and point, astonished that we would rush headlong into certain death. The youth, who had grown hoarse from all the shouting, lets out a cry of appreciation and begins to follow us, hope entering his haggard expression.

  Together, the three of us rush off to face down yet another demon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Owyn

  The rays of the sun beat down on us as we sprint, and I am quickly covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.

  Delicately grasping my five improvised arrows, I lead the charge away from camp, running along the dusty trail leading to the hills. Behind me, Zara and the slave boy run as well, struggling to keep up, and I have to consciously slow my pace somewhat to avoid outpacing them. Still, we close the distance quickly and are soon entering a rock-strewn ravine.

  “Zara,” I say, turning toward her and slowing down. “Tell him to lead the way, if you can.”

  She nods, then regards the youth, who is panting beside us. “Siz... yo'lni ko'rsatasiz?”

  The boy frowns in confusion, then suddenly seems to understand. “Meni kuzating,” he replies, then takes off running through the ravine.

  “Thank you,” I say appreciatively, amazed that she has learned to communicate with them so well.

  “Don’t mention it,” she replies, and the two of us go off after him.

  He leads us down a winding trail through the hills, passing boulders and thickets of snarly, jagged thorn bushes on the way. Soon, I begin to pick up the telltale signs of a struggle, as well as the tracks of something large. Scuffmarks mar the dirt, and broken thorn bushes litter the path. The further we delve into the hills, we actually begin to pass bodies, bloody and studded with enormous quills.

  The boy grimaces and avoids these corpses, eventually leading us to a wide valley nestled between three large hills. In the middle of the valley, there seems to be a rocky ridge jutting up from the ground, upon which stands a huddled mass of about twenty slaves, who are all cowering in terror.

  Beneath the ridge, bristling like a giant porcupine, is a quill demon similar to the one Zara and I had faced before. It appears to be pawing up at the slaves, trying to nab them one by one with its sharp-toothed jaws.

  “Wait for a moment,” I growl, grabbing the boy by the back of his shirt and pulling him back before he can charge headlong into the demon. “We need a plan.”

  Crouching down low, Zara explains something haltingly in their language, and the boy seems to understand.

  “This isn’t good,” I mutter, peaking out to get a look at the creature. It looks to be even larger than the one we had faced before, and seems to be enraged with some sort of bloodlust, clawing and shrieking at the cowering slaves.

  “I thought they only came out at night?” Zara says, coming up beside me to peer at the thing. “It was dusk when we fought off the other one.”

  “Not sure,” I reply, unslinging my bow. “Perhaps it was disturbed while it was sleeping?”

  One of the slaves on the outside of the huddled mass gets caught by the monster’s stinging tail. We watch in horror as it uses its barb like a spear, stabbing a hole deep into his chest and flinging him off the rock, sending his bleeding corpse flying into a thicket of bushes many paces away.

  “Hells,” I curse, shaking my head in disbelief. “This is going to be harder than I thought. The reach of its tail alone makes this trickier.”

  “You think you can do some damage with those arrows?” Zara asks hopefully.

  “Maybe,” I reply doubtfully. “If I can get a decent shot. The problem is those quills... it’s like the thing is wearing body armor.”

  “Then we’ll just have to provide you with that shot,” she says, setting her jaw determinedly. “First thing’s first. We need to draw it away from those people so that they can escape. Then, we’ll focus on trying to kill it.”

  “Alright,” I say, nocking an arrow. It isn’t as smooth or durable as the bow and arrows I am accustomed to, but it should do the job if I’m careful. “I’ll get it’s attention. You take care of the people.”

  With that, I emerge from our hiding place and take a few steps forward, drawing the arrow to my cheek and taking aim down the shaft. I loose, the bow snapping it forward and sending it in an arc toward the quill demon. My aim is a little off, but I still manage
to hit the thing in its less-spiny flank, causing it to turn its glowing red gaze toward me.

  Alright, I think to myself, taking a deep breath and slinging the bow on my shoulder. Here we go.

  The demon lets out a furious roar, turning away from the rocky ridge and lumbering toward my position at an alarmingly fast rate. I sprint off to the side, scrambling over rocks and making my way up the side of a hill in an attempt to escape.

  As expected, the demon gives chase, opening the way for Zara and the youth to run forward to aid the other slaves. I am not able to watch them, however, as I am too busy running for my life.

  The uneven terrain of the hill works to my advantage, the quill beast having to circumvent many obstacles in order to follow my path, but it still manages to get close enough to launch a volley of knife-like spines at me.

  They plunk like crossbow bolts all around me, causing me to curse under my breath and dive for cover behind a large rock. Once the barrage stops, I resume running, cursing myself for a fool for suggesting this whole rescue mission. Should’ve just kept my mouth shut, I think to myself, taking a zig-zag pattern along the side of the hill. Should’ve just stayed low and waited for all of this to blow over.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Zara leading the people off the rock and toward the ravine leading back to camp. She glances over at me anxiously, clearly worried about my well-being.

  The monster lets out another roar, lashing forward with its tail but coming up short, gouging the rock a few paces away from me.

  Eleven Hells, that was close! I need to put more distance between us, or else I’ll end up with a hole in my chest.

  I search about for anything that can be used to kill the thing. A precariously perched boulder... a bottomless pit... anything at all, but nothing stands out as being even remotely useful.

  Putting my head down, I push myself harder, racing up the hill in an attempt to outrun the ferocious demon.