Exiled

by Blake Arthur Peel

  At first, it seems like I actually manage to get a safe distance away, but a quick glance over my shoulder reveals that the demon has turned to regard the straggling slaves who had not yet exited the valley. It begins making its way toward them.

  Cursing, I skid to a stop and ready my bow, quickly calculating the distance between us and nocking an arrow. I fire twice in rapid succession, sending the missiles flying through the air and into the monster’s spiny back.

  It shrieks in anger, turning once more to look at me. Unfortunately, I think I’ve only managed to make it even angier.

  Slinging my bow back over my shoulder, I take a few steps forward and pick up a rock, hurling it in an effort to coax the demon into coming after me again.

  It works.

  Once more, the demon claws its way up the hill, slinging quills and roaring so that its voice reverberates throughout the valley. I begin to run again, drawing it further away from the ravine and allowing the last of the slaves to escape. One of the quills grazes my left shoulder, slicing a bright line of pain on my skin. It isn’t a particularly deep wound, but it still hurts like the Hells themselves.

  I continue running until I hear Zara call out, her voice echoing toward me from the other side of the valley. Glancing in her direction, I can see her running toward the center ridge alone, quill dagger in hand.

  The demon, still intent on killing me, continues clambering toward my position, so I pivot and begin making my way to the center as well. The ridge should provide us with enough cover to avoid the creature’s tail or quills, at least for a little while.

  I push hard, coming dangerously close to the demon’s reach as I leap from stone to stone, but eventually I make it to the ridge, dashing around the other side just as Zara reaches me.

  “They’re safe,” she breaths, strands of hair sticking messily out of her ponytail as she gasps for air. “Now, for the hard part.”

  “I have two arrows left,” I reply, winded as well. “From what I can tell, its neck and face are weak points... I just need to be in the right position.”

  She opens her mouth to respond, but the quill demon rears its ugly, pig-like head around the corner of the ridge, red eyes blazing as it roars.

  We immediately make a break for it, running along the perimeter of the great rock in an attempt to escape. It seems to work well enough, the ridge acting like a barrier and preventing the thing from being able to skewer us. We manage to stay just out of reach, running in circles around the rock as the monster pursues us, but I quickly realize that we can’t keep this up forever. Eventually, we will tire and slow, giving it an opportunity to finally kill us.

  An idea starts to form in my mind, a smaller, wedge-shaped rock off to the side catching my attention. As we make another circle around the ridge, I explain it breathlessly to Zara.

  “Around this bend is another, smaller stone. Have you seen it?”

  She nods.

  “When we get close, I want you to get behind it. I’ll distract the demon. When I give the word, I want you to come out and attack its tail. Have your dagger ready.”

  She nods again, gripping the quill dagger as if her life depends on it.

  Then, I steel myself for what I know I must to.

  As we draw near to the wedge-shaped rock, I slow down, allowing Zara to run up ahead. Then, I whirl around, launching one of my two remaining arrows at the demon’s face. The arrow hits it in the snout and snaps, but luckily, the sudden attack causes the beast to stumble just a bit, enough for Zara to get into position behind the rock.

  Using the split-second hesitation to my advantage, I whirl around and run, bow in hand, around the bend and straight for the rock Zara is now hiding behind.

  The demon soon follows.

  When I reach the rock, pretending it is a dead end, I turn around and scream just as the demon bears down on me. My heart pounds in my chest, real fear gripping me as its tail comes within range.

  This is it, I think, preparing to spring. The moment of truth...

  Its tail rears up, like a scorpion preparing to strike, then brings its blade-like barb swiftly down, aiming right for the middle of my body.

  At the last second, I jump out of the way, diving into a tangle of thorn bushes. The branches rip painfully through my clothing, but I barely notice. It is nothing compared to the pain that barb would have caused.

  Unable to stop its strike, the quill demon drives its tail straight into the rock, jabbing it with enough force to send shockwaves through the earth. Chips of rock and dust burst from the stone, but my gamble pays off. Its barb is now embedded deep into the stone, held fast like a nail driven into wood.

  “Zara, now!” I shout, prying myself from the thorn bushes.

  She emerges from behind the stone, eyes wide as she watches the demon shriek and struggle to pull its tail free. However, she doesn’t hesitate in the slightest. She bears down on the tail, raising her weapon high and then stabbing it repeatedly in the fatty part just above the stuck barb. Greasy black blood and purplish ichor spill out of the wound and onto the dusty ground, and the demon lets out a high-pitched wail of pain, thrashing in place but unable to move forward.

  Eventually, it manages to pull its tail free, but by the time it does, its barb is a broken, mangled mess.

  Zara scrambles backward but I race toward it, having successfully pulled myself out of the snarl of bushes. I ready my last arrow, nocking it to the string and pulling it back to my cheek. The demon bares its teeth, arching its back as if to shoot quills at me, but I loose my arrow with a snap before it can attack.

  It flies true, embedding itself into one of its eyes and deep into the monster's skull, puncturing its brain. It shutters, eyes growing dim, then finally collapses in a heap, breath leaving its lungs with a whoosh and then growing deathly still.

  I resist the urge to fall to my knees, quietly thanking the Light that my insane plan had actually worked.

  The valley becomes strangely quiet.

  "Light almighty," Zara breathes, shuffling over and throwing her arms around me. Her figure, pressed against mine, is shaking. "I can't believe we actually did it... again."

  "Yeah," I mumble, glancing over at the demon's body.

  Blood oozes out from its punctured eye socket, dribbling out to the thirsty ground and quickly being soaked up by the dirt. Its mouth hangs open, revealing a maw of jagged teeth and a long, wet tongue which flops out like a hunk of meat left out to dry.

  As we turn to head back to the ravine, still clinging to one another, we see that most of the slaves are gathered there watching us, their eyes wide with amazement. We pause, not really sure what to make of them – they appear to be looking at us like we are some sort of immortal deities.

  Not really knowing what else I should to, I raise the fist clutching my short bow into the air, indicating triumph.

  They erupt into wild, unadulterated cheering.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zara

  We are welcomed back to the encampment as heroes.

  From the minute we exited the valley, making our way back through the ravine, everyone seemed to regard us with an awed sense of wonder. They parted for us to pass through, giving us a wide berth, then followed us like disciples, whispering in hushed and reverent tones.

  Eying each other uncertainly, Owyn and I continued through the rocky crag to the plain where the tents are set up, moving tiredly as the people we had rescued tail us. Owyn’s arm is hurt, but it does not look too bad. I will no doubt have to help him apply some healing salve when we have a free minute to keep it from getting infected.

  As we approach the city of tents, everyone gathered there, mostly women, raises their voices in praise, overjoyed to see that their friends and loved ones had not been killed. They fall down, practically worshiping at our feet, as families tearfully embrace around us.

  “What’s going on?” Owyn asks, clearly uncomfortable by the adoring throngs reaching out and touching him while uttering thanks in their own
language.

  “They’re thanking us,” I reply, smiling politely to a woman as she comes up and grips both my hands in hers. There are tears in her eyes, and a big smile splits her wrinkled face. “They seem to be appreciative of our efforts to save their people.”

  “I’ve gathered that much,” he says, brushing away the grateful hands of at least five other people. “My question is, why all of this? You’d think they’d never killed a beast before.”

  I shrug, inching my way through the crowd and deeper into the encampment. “They probably haven’t. Remember, these people have had the fight crushed out of them. The fact that we actually stood up and protected them probably makes us seem larger than life.”

  The lauding continues, even as we make our way over to our tent. There, we kindly bid them all farewell and retreat inside, completely overwhelmed.

  Owyn closes the flap behind him and sets his bow down on the strange apparatus he had created. Then, he collapses onto the ground, resting on his mass of blankets. “Never a dull moment,” he says, heaving a long sigh.

  I smile wearily, sitting down as well.

  Things always seem to go this way with us, a brief period of peace where both of us are hard at work, followed by an abrupt descent into madness and chaos. Ever since that fateful day in the Emberwood when the two of us met, things have been difficult. Truly, it feels at times like the end of the world is upon us. Still, I think, looking affectionately over at him, there’s no one else I’d rather be with at times like this.

  For the next few hours we rest, letting the afternoon slip by while life goes on outside our tent. We spend the time chatting and napping, and I make sure to tend to the wound now crusting on his upper arm.

  Through the tent flap, I can see that the sun has started to set. Night would soon be upon us, and food will soon be served.

  Thank the Light, I think, stomach rumbling. I’m famished after all of that running.

  Something about almost being torn apart by a terrible monster makes one extremely hungry, I’ve found.

  We are about to head outside when somebody actually slips inside of our tent. I recognize her immediately as Kar’ii, and she glances from Owyn to myself, then lowers her eyes shyly. “Meni kechir, Zara,” she says in a soft voice. “Men sizga biror narsa aytmoqchi edim.”

  She seems different than she did before, more respectful, reverent, even. Owyn quirks an eyebrow at her, but I give her an encouraging smile. “Erkin gapirish, Kar’ii.”

  She looks up at me, then gestures to the tent flap. “Biz sizning qahramonatingizni nishonlash uchun bayram qildik.”

  “What is she saying?” Owyn asks, pulling his ranger cloak around his shoulders.

  I frown. “I think she said something about a feast... and a celebration.”

  “A celebration?” He asks, frowning as well. “What for?”

  “I’m not sure,” I reply. Turning back to Kar’ii, I ask, “Nega bayram?”

  She insistently gestures at the exit. “Chunki bizni qutqarding. Biz sizlar uchun ziyofat qilamiz.” Then, she opens the tent flap and slips back outside.

  “That’s... a bit odd,” I remark, glancing at Owyn and shrugging. “Regardless, I’m quite hungry.

  “Me too,” he replies. “Let’s go.”

  Together, we push open the flap and step outside, where we are met by an eruption of clapping and cheering. I am surprised to see that most of the camp had gathered around our tent, hundreds of individuals smiling and clapping their hands. Even the elders are there, I note, with their painted beads and dour expressions. They, along with a few others, look unhappy that we are being met with such adoration.

  But they are in the vast minority, and I find myself breathless in the face of so much kindness and open admiration.

  Owyn and I look at each other in shock, and as the cheering dies down, a stream of people comes forward and takes hold of us, towing us along and leading us toward a ring on bonfires on the edge of camp.

  As we are pulled through the crowd, I catch hints of what is being said around us. “You saved us,” some people cry, while others say things like, “Thank you,” and “Please, accept our gifts”.

  When we reach the bonfires, my eyes take in a sight that is a true wonder to behold. Baskets of fruit have been laid out in excess, along with bushels of flat bread and varieties of spices and multi-colored sauces. Great pots, made from crudely-forged iron, steam in the coals, boiling grains, and in the center of it all, above the largest of the fires, is the corpse of the quill demon, cooking on an enormous spit. Its spines had all been removed, and its flesh now sizzles from the heat of the fire, giving off a savory aroma that makes my mouth water.

  “By the Light,” I mutter as Owyn lets out a low whistle.

  It’s more food than Owyn and I have seen in weeks, and it looks utterly amazing.

  The inhabitants of the camp flood onto the feasting grounds, many of them picking up bowls and proffering us food. They seem to hesitate, the humble wastelanders apparently waiting for the two of us to take the first bite.

  Looking over at Owyn, I shrug and pick up a piece of flat bread, dipping it into some sort of red paste and putting it into my mouth. As soon as I swallow, the crowd cheers again, this time delving fully into the festivities. Some people pick up instruments and begin to play, creating odd, jovial-sounding music with a mixture of pipes and multi-tuned drums, while others begin to carve large swathes of meat from the demon’s body, passing them around for everyone to enjoy.

  Owyn and I are led to a place in the middle, between the fires, where we sit down on some mats and accept massive amounts of food from the revelers. Fruits, breads, grain mash, even deserts resembling pies are laid at our feet, given to us to enjoy.

  The food is actually quite good, and I eat so much that soon, my stomach feels like it is about to burst. Still, I nibble, determined to try everything, sharing smiles with Owyn who seems to have eaten his own weight in meat.

  We continue to eat, watching the people mill about, interacting with one another, talking and laughing. Some have even started dancing, moving to the tribal music in a way that would have been considered improper back home. I find that watching them has caused me to blush furiously, and mask this by picking up another piece of flat bread and bringing it up to my lips.

  Once Owyn and I have eaten our fill, our bowls are taken away and brown pitchers are brought forward, along with small, clay cups painted with swirling designs.

  Kar’ii breaks away from the dancing and approaches us, kneeling down on the mat beside me and offering me one of the cups.

  “What is this?” I ask in her language, accepting it with both hands.

  “Uzqi,” she replies, picking up a pitcher and pouring its contents into my cup. The liquid is clear, and it gives off a rather pungent odor, reminding me of some of the cleaning solutions stewards would use to scrub the floors at the Conclave.

  “Uzqi,” I repeat, crinkling my nose.

  Kar’ii pours herself a cup and downs it in a single gulp, grimacing only slightly then letting out a mischievous giggle. She motions for me to drink as well, but I hesitate, put off by the powerful stench.

  “Whoa,” Owyn says, sniffing the pitcher. “This stuff is strong.”

  “You know what this is?”

  He glances at it, then pours a little into a cup. “Some sort of alcohol, I’d wager. Probably made from fermenting the roots I’ve seen these people eat.”

  I examine my own cup for a few moments, then bring it tentatively to my lips.

  “Careful now,” Owyn warns, sounding insufferably condescending. “I don’t think this sort of drink is for the faint of heart.”

  I shoot him a flat look, then quickly dump the contents into my mouth.

  I immediately regret the decision.

  The uzqi burns my throat like magefyre, making my tongue feel numb with its horrendous taste. I have to force myself to swallow it, then fall instantly into a fit of coughing, my eyes beginning to water profu
sely.

  Owyn, Light curse him, starts laughing harder than I’ve ever heard him laugh before.

  When my ability to speak returns, I give him a nasty glare. “What’s so funny? You think you could do any better?”

  He reaches up and wipes a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “This isn’t my first time drinking, Magus. I know that I could do better.”

  “Alright,” I say, pointing to his cup. “Prove it!”

  He eyes the cup for a split second, then tosses his head back and drinks, gulping down the foul stuff just as Kar’ii had. For a moment, he looks perfectly fine, his eyes regarding me stoically from the other side of the mat. Then, his face grows bright red, and it seems like he cannot hold it in any longer. He begins to cough, the cup falling from his hands as he struggles to regain control.

  This causes me to laugh so hard that I let out an unladylike snort, which only makes the both of us laugh even harder.

  “Pour me another cup,” Owyn says after a moment, wheezing. “I want to try that again!”

  I pour him some more uzqi from the pitcher, then proceed to pour one for myself. For the first time in a very long time, I actually feel like I am having fun.

  The people around us watch and laugh as we drink, but I pay them little heed. Right now, it feels like it is just me and Owyn, and that everything is right with the world.

  I begin to feel tingly all over, the uzqi quickly working its way through my system and making my whole body feel warm. It removes my inhibitions and makes me feel more bubbly and impulsive. Even Owyn seems to relax, his normally stoic demeanor cracking as we lose track of the number of cups we drink.

  After a time, I’m not sure how long, my eyes wander over to the musicians and the dancers. It looks like they are having the time of their lives.

  “Come on,” I say, acting on impulse. “I want to dance.”

  Owyn glances at me in alarm. “Dance?” He asks, voice cracking. “Here? Now?”

  “Yes,” I reply, standing up. I reach out my hand for him to take. “Or is the great Owyn Lund, ranger’s apprentice and slayer of demons, scared of a little music?”