Caller of Light

by Tj Shaw

  “To lead unbonded Critons into darkness.” The Tiwan spoke with confidence as if he knew a secret.

  “You dipped the arrow in poison.”

  He nodded.

  “And you’re doing all this…” she hesitated, waving an arm behind her to the men battling across the ravine, “…because you think I’m a Dark Caller?”

  “A messenger on Critonback delivered a warning. Without the current Caller of Light, we couldn’t take a chance.”

  A jolt of white-hot fire lanced through her stomach and she doubled over, panting. She clutched her abdomen, gasping to fill her lungs with air that was too illusive to inhale even though she stood on top of a mountain in a windstorm.

  She choked on her words. “You started this because…someone sent you a message?”

  The Tiwan didn’t answer, not that she expected him to anyway. Their willingness to kill Marek and his men based on the possibility she could bind Criton and rider with a dark bond was absurd. She groaned as the horror of his words seeped into her clouded mind. The battle fell on her shoulders. The bloodshed was her fault. Because the Tiwans believed she was a Dark Caller, Marek’s death and the massacre of his men would stain her soul forever.

  Her legs folded and she crumbled to her knees. She cradled her stomach and watched giant teardrops splat on the shale in front of her. Who sent the message, and why?

  “If you wish, my Criton can end your suffering. Death by Criton fire is honorable.”

  Endless waves of pain knifed through her body. She was burning up from the inside because of a misunderstanding. She threw her head back and screamed, offering up her torment to the heavens. She would not die from Criton fire or curl up and die in front of this man. Forcing one foot then the other beneath her, she staggered to her feet and threw her arms out to steady herself until her legs stopped shaking.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I can’t say that I’m sorry for you, Dark Caller. You should’ve chosen a different path.”

  The sun crested on the edge of the horizon, presenting her with a brief distraction as she stared beyond the Tiwan and his Criton to admire its brilliance. The radiant, yellow orb streaked the heavens in fantastic shades of red and orange. Under different circumstances, she would’ve considered it one of the most beautiful endings to a day she’d ever witnessed.

  She continued in a flat, resigned voice. “I’m sorry, because you started this for nothing. I’m not a Dark Caller.”

  “There’s no need to deny it.”

  “Tell me this…” she paused to lean forward, resting her hands on her knees. “If I was a Dark Caller, wouldn’t your bonded Criton sense my dark energy and react with hostility?”

  She peered up at the Tiwan, but the ground swayed beneath her. As she struggled to regain her balance, her mother’s medallion slipped out of her blouse to dangle from her neck. The eye crystal caught the sun’s waning rays and cast prisms of light around her.

  For an instant, she thought shock then surprise unfolded on the Tiwan’s face.

  “Who are you?” he asked with a confused expression.

  She no longer had the strength to hold her head up, so she let it dip to her chest and laughed, although it sounded more like a raspy gurgle. “Don’t you think you should’ve asked that before you attacked?”

  She clutched her mother’s necklace. Just the act of reaching for the medallion almost sent her sprawling forward, but she righted herself. The necklace had always offered comfort during the darkest times in her life. She prayed to her mother, asking for strength because she would die on her terms.

  With a will she didn’t know lived inside her, she stiffened her spine and stood tall. She pulled her sword and with trembling hands, held it proudly in front of her. The wind surged around her, swirling her hair in the shifting currents. She gathered her last bit of energy and inhaled a deep breath into her burning lungs before yelling. “I’m Carina McKay, you bloody savage.” A small smile played across her lips. “And although I’m no Dark Caller, I did best some of your finest warriors.”

  The sun had almost slipped beyond the horizon, but a few bold rays burst forth spilling onto her blade. A startled gasp escaped her lips when the glow captured the beautiful design painstakingly etched into the metal. Master Dupree had crafted something special, just for her. It was her medallion. Next to the hilt, Sabian had etched two Critons with their necks intertwined, protecting the encrusted eye jewel.

  “Sabian, thank you for being my teacher…and friend,” she whispered before taking a wobbly step closer to the edge.

  A wave of dizziness swam through her. Tears streamed down her face.

  She didn’t want to die.

  “Carina, move away from the ledge.”

  At hearing her name, she twisted around and glared at the Tiwan who had dismounted and was approaching her with his hands outstretched. A concerned expression flitted across his face.

  “Don’t come near me.” She wanted to sound forceful, but fear filtered through her words.

  “Please, I can help you.”

  “Like Haden.” She tried to raise her sword, but it had grown too heavy as the poison racing through her bloodstream drained her remaining strength.

  Mother, guide me home and may the end be peaceful.

  She dropped her sword and let the wind carry her over the edge.

  20 – RISE of an ANGEL

  Marek spun in time to witness Carina spread her arms like the rays from a morning star and plummet off the mountain as a Tiwan grabbed at the empty space she’d just vacated. The strength drained from his limbs and he dropped to his knees, digging his fingers into the chewed up earth.

  He failed her. He’d taken her from the safety of McKay lands. She had trusted him and he failed to protect her. A crushing ache gripped his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He would’ve welcomed a Tiwan slicing him open with a broadsword over the debilitating hollowness sucking away his spirit. What had happened? How had things gone so wrong?

  The sounds of his men fighting around him whispered in the background as he stared at the mountaintop where Carina had stood moments before.

  “Marek, get up!” Sampson yelled. Sampson and several soldiers had formed a defensive line to protect him from the never-ending assault. His men were loyal and would shield him with their lives.

  Marek’s eyes zeroed in on the man who had killed Carina, and who now stood with his head buried in his Criton’s neck. Was it regret? Was he ashamed to have caused an innocent to jump to her death? Had he wanted her for himself and now cried for his loss? A rage erupted from deep within Marek’s soul—a dark hatred that filled the gaping hole in his chest. Marek let the rage devour him, drawing upon its power to soothe him. He would avenge her. The man with the black Criton would beg for death and Marek would deny him. The Tiwan would cry for mercy and Marek would bleed him more.

  An ear piercing roar from FireStrike drew his attention. The animal reared onto his massive hind legs and launched into the air. Tiwan soldiers pelted him with arrows, but the swoosh from his powerful wings hurtled him skyward. Marek could’ve called him back, but why? He considered FireStrike a close friend and companion, a mighty Criton worthy of a king. But with his fire depleted and more arrows impaled in his wings than Marek could count, Marek didn’t see the point in making him return. They had bonded years ago and their bond had only strengthened with the passing of time. If FireStrike had the energy to take flight, he’d grant his Criton the chance to escape.

  Marek struggled to his feet, his body depleted and sluggish. Dirt and the blood of those he’d killed covered his body. Fighting was never clean. No one wanted to die. Even a mortally wounded man would reach for an inner resolve and fight until all the blood drained from his body.

  That strength of will and desire to live forced Marek to stand even though his body protested. Because if he continued to mourn Carina, to let her death overwhelm him, he too would die and lose the chance to avenge her.

 
His sword felt clumsy in his hand, the hilt sticky from blood and sweat. He hefted it, balancing and testing its weight before turning to face the battle. Surveying the field with an experienced eye, he located the Tiwan causing the most damage. That Tiwan would be the first one he’d kill. He could’ve chosen someone weaker, but what kind of king would that make him? A good king always sought out the strongest opponent.

  He raised his mighty claymore and planned his attack. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, strengthening tired muscles. He would strike hard and fast. He jogged toward the man who had just killed a young soldier named Jonas. Jonas would be the last of his men to die at the hands of that Tiwan.

  Another roar filled the air and every Criton on the ground took flight. Even Critons with riders on their backs joined the others in the sky. Critons from both sides flew together, circling overhead. Their unusual behavior halted the battle as puzzled soldiers gazed upward.

  Sampson loped over, his curly, black hair plastered to his head from sweat. He struggled to catch his breath. “Sire, have you ever seen this?”

  Marek had witnessed something similar during his childhood. The Critons were acting as though a transitioning was about to occur. But that wasn’t possible because all the animals on the field were adults, a juvenile would never be taken into battle. He stared at the marvelous spectacle of Critons circling, diving, and infusing the air with their rebellious screams before shaking his head in bewilderment. “They’re behaving like it’s a transitioning.”

  “Is that possible?”

  As if on cue, FireStrike hovered in the sky and bellowed, his eyes blazing and tail snapping back and forth in agitation. Marek called to FireStrike, but the Criton amazingly ignored his plea. FireStrike squealed again, his attention focused on something in the gorge below.

  Marek turned to Sampson. “Whatever is bothering them is in the ravine. Let’s go.” He covered the ground in long strides, but fear for what he would see twisted his gut. He hoped the river had carried Carina’s broken body downstream.

  He had just reached the edge when Sampson threw him to the ground as another Criton swooped up from the bottom of the canyon, barely missing them with its sudden ascent to soar with the animals above. The Critons formed a protective ring around the newcomer.

  “It is a transitioning,” Sampson whispered.

  Since transitionings were a vulnerable time for young Critons, they usually occurred in the early morning hours when darkness provided cover. Marek had never heard of an evening transition, let alone one happening during a battle.

  His eyes widened in surprise. He recognized the small Criton female with the undersized wings and dull, mottled green coloring. Mira, Carina’s little Criton, had followed them.

  “Sire, look! Someone rides upon it.”

  Marek’s pulse quickened. Carina’s motionless body lay doubled over Mira’s neck. A flood of emotions rushed through him, the strongest being relief. She’d not fallen to her death.

  “Can she survive a transitioning?” Sampson asked.

  Marek clasped Sampson’s shoulder. “Let’s hope so.”

  A sky full of Critons roared in unison drowning out additional conversation. Mira’s body shimmered until she lit up the heavens like the sun, forcing Marek to raise his hand to shield his eyes from her brightness. Sparks flew outward from the blazing center and shot into the darkening sky like a beacon as the magic of transition changed Mira into an adult Criton capable of bonding with a rider.

  The deafening bellows from the adults subsided until only the steady beat of their leathery wings whispered through the air. The light enveloping Mira and Carina faded and winked out. The other Critons dispersed, but Mira lingered, hovering in the sky as if testing her new wings. Even from the distance, Marek could tell she’d transitioned into an amazing Criton just as Carina had predicted. Mira’s throaty cry pierced the silence before she arched her elegant neck to survey the land.

  She belted out another scream then pinned her wings to her body and dove, her large head scanning the ground. She spotted Marek and angled toward him. While those around him scattered, Marek stood his ground as the young Criton landed with a thud, vibrating the ground in front of him with the fury of her descent.

  Carina clung onto Mira’s neck. He approached with his hand extended. Mira tilted her head and fixed a large, emerald eye on him, her elongated, golden iris contracting. He touched Mira’s neck. She twitched, but didn’t shy away.

  Even though Carina was his goal, he couldn’t help but assess—and admire—the beautiful Criton. She radiated in the soft glow of transition, but would settle into a rich, green sheen. Perfectly proportioned legs and wings balanced her long, lean body. Once she filled out and developed her muscle, she would be a fast, agile Criton.

  His hand trailed along Mira’s neck as he walked toward Carina. When he approached Mira’s shoulder, she snorted and turned her head to watch him.

  Sampson and the rest of his men circled Mira, but maintained a safe distance. Sampson spoke softly, his voice full of concern. “Sire, she just transitioned. There’s still magic coursing through her. She’s unpredictable.”

  At the sound of Sampson’s voice, Mira raised her head and curled her lips into a growl but made no sound.

  “Sampson, be quiet,” Marek hissed. “She won’t harm me.” His hand roved from Mira’s shoulder down her back until he touched Carina. His body trembled when his fingers grazed Carina’s knee. Feeling her body again, the world settled into place. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Although arrowshot, her wound didn’t appear fatal. An oppressive tension that had knotted his shoulders with its unseen weight slipped off him on a quiet exhale. But his solace was short-lived.

  “Carina,” he whispered. He squeezed her knee. When she didn’t respond, he spoke louder. “Carina.”

  Her motionless body lay slumped over Mira, crouched in a fetal position. He ignored the erratic pounding of his heart. Something was wrong. But he refused to entertain the possibility she could be dead. His mind slammed the door closed to that agonizing avenue of thought.

  He stepped closer, his body brushing Carina’s leg. Sampson opened his mouth to protest, but Marek stopped him with a threatening glare. Carina’s head rested against Mira’s neck, her hair obscuring her beautiful face. Her fingers gripped Mira’s pale green mane with a white-knuckle, rigor mortis hold. He brushed the hair off her face, pinning it behind an ear, and tried to keep the quaver out of his voice when he again whispered, “Carina.”

  Agony knocked at the door he’d just dead-bolted shut. He couldn’t prevent it from wrapping ice cold tendrils around his heart as it chanted of her death in the far corners of his mind. He choked on his words, his throat too tight to speak.

  She’s alive, she can’t die. His fingertips traced along her cheek. Willing her eyes to open, his fingers tracked down her neck to check for a heartbeat. Before he reached her pulse point, he stopped and fisted his shaking hand. Gritting his teeth, he bit back the urge to shout out his frustration and rising fury to the Gods, condemning them for Carina’s senseless sacrifice. She was pure, the light guiding him home in a valley of darkness. She could not be dead, not while he still breathed.

  Lowering his voice, he whispered in her ear, demanding her compliance. “Obey me, Carina McKay. Obey your king and open your eyes.”

  Although her eyes didn’t open—her obstinate character would never bow to such a mandate—a quiet moan tumbled from her lips, a faint acknowledgment of her awareness of him.

  His eyes misted as relief washed through his veins, flooding him with hope. But her cold body and ashen skin shot warning arrows through his heart as he tugged her hands free from Mira’s mane. “Carina, I’m going to help you,” he said before placing his arm on her lower back to avoid the arrow.

  She whimpered when he slid her off, and her eyes briefly fluttered open before shuttering closed again. He cradled her against his chest and murmured a quiet thank you to Mira.

  Mira snorted an
d stamped a foot before flying the short distance to FireStrike, who had resumed the arduous task of pulling arrows from his tattered wings.

  “Sire, they’re gone,” Sampson whispered.

  Marek glanced up from Carina’s pallid face to confirm Sampson’s observation—the Tiwans had disappeared. “Move the men. We’ll make camp in the shelter of the trees and tend to our wounded and dead.”

  He strode toward the tree line. The plateau was littered with the wreckage of battle, forcing him to step over dead bodies and churned up dirt while trying not to jostle Carina. “Johansen, find the healer,” he bellowed.

  “Aye, Sire.” The blond-haired soldier raced off.

  Marek placed Carina on her side underneath a cloister of tall pines. He resisted the urge to remove the arrow, leaving that responsibility for the healer.

  Sampson had followed him the short distance and waited until they were alone to speak. “Sire, now is our chance to escape. We should use the cover of darkness to get out of this blasted land.”

  Dunston, a grizzled veteran, approached with a tattered blanket and some strips of cloth. Marek nodded and took the items. Before draping the blanket over her, he packed the strips of cloth around the arrow shaft to staunch the bleeding in a feeble attempt to ease the helplessness consuming his mind. Satisfied she was as comfortable as he could make her, he straightened to his full height and stood over Sampson. He spoke without emotion. “She’ll die if we leave.”

  Sampson fidgeted, but didn’t back down. “Look at her. She’s dead already.”

  “How many men did she save? And you would just abandon her?”

  Sampson clasped Marek’s shoulder. “I don’t understand your affection for this mixed blood, but we won’t survive another assault. Everyone will perish because of her if we stay and they attack again.”

  Marek stepped away, forcing Sampson to release his shoulder. “As captain of my men, you disappoint me.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Instead of preparing for our defense, you would refuse me and run?”