No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  His expression is as dead as his sister’s.

  “Asa, how nice to see you again.” He shudders, even his voice disgusts him. He needs to get back into his body—now.

  “Calzack, he should be here soon. He’s been meditating, communicating with the Spirits at the center of the island for days.”

  “Days?” He isn’t excited about that part of his future.

  When the door opens behind him, he turns. He’s met with the bald head, a black arrow tattoo points at his forehead and curls along to the back of his neck. As always, the purple robe. The white staff.

  “Dreema.”

  “Nelka, you’re back.”

  “Not yet. Make me pretty again or I’m going to float off into oblivion.”

  Dreema’s hard face is amused. “All right.” He gestures to a back door. “This way.”

  Calzack takes a deep breath and follows him out of the hut while the Awh stay behind. At the back of the hut, the glow of the Light Pool can be seen through the trees. It surprises him, really, that it survived when the island died. But Dreema says that there are not many things in Ardon more powerful than a Pool of Light.

  When they make it down the hill, the glowing blue surface of the pool illuminates the black forest around them. Calzack takes his clothes off but hesitates before entering the pool.

  “Are you positive it won’t burn my skin off? I’m not exactly an elf.”

  “No. You are an Arland. There are few things that can undo our magic, but a Light Pool can. The water presents no danger to you.”

  Calzack takes a deep breath, and with a shake of his head, he steps into the cool water. When he’s submerged to his waist, he feels a tingle in his skin. A boil in his blood, and a painless break in his bones. His skin sparkles white, and he’s amazed as the water travels up his body, enveloping him completely. The light shines brighter and brighter until he’s peacefully blinded, and he feels himself grow taller, his muscles tightening and his strength returning to him.

  His back straightens, and his bad eye returns to normal. He feels his hair shorten, turning from a dark brown-black to his own sandy-brown coloring. Now, a spark, and he knows his eyes are changing from a muddy brown to sharp green as his fair, ghastly skin tans into an olive shade. He feels his heartbeat even, no longer trying to support the unusual build of Calzack, and Dreema’s magic.

  And all at once, Calzack is gone.

  And Nelka’s back.

  He’s been a spy for Dreema for too long. And around Revera’s darkness for even longer. Now, he gets to become the Arland he’s meant to be. No more Nelka the Reckless.

  “I’m going to be the Arland who saves the world.” Nelka shrugs. “Or something less extravagant, but it feels good to think like me again.”

  Dreema rolls his eyes.

  “Nelka.” Dreema shakes his arms, the boy seems half-dead, he’s so deep in sleep. “Nelka, wake up.”

  He understands why he’s so tired. Magic takes a lot out of a person, and Nelka has been cloaked by magic for five years—longer than he’s ever been. It’s a dangerous job they have, but they must do it with entirety, or they’ll fail.

  Dreema looks at the sleeping boy. He rolls his eyes. I don’t have time for this. He takes his staff and bops Nelka against his side—the fleshy part between the ribs and the waist—and he flurries awake.

  “Ah—Spirits, I’m up!” Sitting up, Nelka holds his side, and glares at Dreema.

  “Good. We have work to do.” He turns and grabs Nelka’s clothes, throwing them at the young man. “And don’t take the Spirits’ name in vain.”

  The boy rolls his eyes. When Nelka is dressed, they head out of the cabin and into the forest, toward the center of the island.

  “I have been here for eight months. Searching, meditating. The Spirits are quiet, but the ancient Aia are speaking to me.”

  “The Aia?”

  Dreema pivots to him. “Darn, boy! Murder your forgetfulness before I burn it out of you.”

  Nelka gives him a face. “I’ve been trapped inside a lopsided body for five years! Your magic has scrambled my body and my mind. So, sorry if my memory has gone to the gutter.”

  Dreema exhales, jaw tight. “As a reminder…the Aia are powerful beings—more so than the Spirits, Sericia and Zyadar included. As Arlands, we are part of the Aia, but a lower and less powerful order—less than the Spirits.”

  “They were created by the Vaiur long before but were awakened when the Spirits were banished into the Shadow World by Sericia, so the balance of the world would remain,” says Nelka.

  Dreema stops, looking at him, impressed and surprised. “Well, I see you do remember some things.”

  Nelka shrugs.

  “That is the original purpose of the Aia. But of course, while the world is balanced, the balance itself has changed.”

  “’Rise, oh heroes of the East. Hear our call, hear our plea.’ And, ‘The balance of Mortal is unbalance, ever since the five kings won the war.’ Cited from the First and Third Prophecies. I remember more than you think."

  Dreema rolls his eyes. “Prophecies aren’t something to be forced.”

  “They’re boring.”

  He sighs. “Can you explain the passage from the Third Prophecy?”

  “While our world is unbalanced, that is our balance.” Nelka’s brow quirks. “How does that work?”

  “I do not know. But while we cannot do anything to bring back the Spirits to restore spiritual balance, we can open the Other World to achieve mortal balance.”

  “What will that require?”

  Dreema hesitates. Unless we can find another way…

  “I do not know yet, this is why I have been meditating, communicating with the Aia and trying to contact the Spirits in the Shadow World. With both our energies, someone should answer us.”

  Nelka nods. “All right. But is this a fasting project? Because I can’t give up breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

  “There will be no more need for meals if Revera takes over.”

  Dreema can tell Nelka doesn’t like that much.

  “What will happen if Revera takes over?” Nelka asks, hurrying to catch up to Dreema.

  “Destruction. Death.”

  “So basically, the normal bad stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you plan on stopping her?”

  Dreema turns to him. “I cannot. You cannot. No one on this island can. There are only two people who can stop her, and that is why I’m querying those beyond Ardon.”

  “Why?”

  “So that they don’t have to die.”

  Nelka’s clearly confused, Dreema can see. “Who? So who doesn’t have to die?”

  Dreema pivots away from him. They shouldn’t have to bear this burden, and it’s why he’s doing this.

  “The blood of the destined. The blood of the doomed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s what will save us all.” He cocks his head. “At least until we come up with a better plan.”

  Nelka puts out his hand, stopping Dreema in his tracks. “You know, being cryptic doesn’t make me respect you more. It’s really irritating, so could you drop the mysterious-wizard act and tell me straight the meaning of what you just said?”

  Dreema sighs. “Fine.”

  Chapter Two

  “Calen, get it!” Alise shrieked, her hands gripping onto the rope, feet digging into the ground as she’d willed herself to not let the stallion go. “Cal!”

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” It had been amusing, watching his little sister try to catch the large white horse by herself. Her lips had curled in a pink smile when she saw the animal, eyes lighting up. But now, her golden hair was tousled and her dress dirty. Standing, Calen approached the stallion, the lasso tight around his neck, as the beast fought Alise’s wavering strength. She was a little girl, with impressive strength, but it was her short attention span that may lose the horse.

  Running a hand through
his black hair, he scratched the growing hair on his jaw as he made his way over to the horse, dillydallying to annoy his sister. The sky above was blue, the sun bright, the clouds white and fluffy. A breeze had swooped in—perfection after three days of intense heat. The trees surrounding the small glade swayed in the wind, their leaves greener from that morning’s rain, their trunks and branches seeming healthy after a drink.

  Calen’s attention was brought back squarely to the horse. Putting his hand out, he let the animal see his palm. And allowed the horse to get used to it, not yet touching the white coat.

  “Horses are flightier than dragons.” He looked at Alise. “They’ll always run.” Still in front of the stallion, he gently put a hand on the horse’s neck. “Dragons, on the other hand, will sooner burn your head off before they let you anywhere near them.”

  “Tell me again why we ever try to tame the flame?” Alise questioned, hands red from gripping the rope so tightly.

  “We don’t tame dragons, Ali. We trust them, and they trust us.” He put his other hand on the stallion’s coat, petting it gently with long strokes, moving to his side.

  Alise huffed. “I thought it was because they fly and breathe fire. Great war weapons.”

  “Dragons aren’t weapons, love.”

  The voice was their mom’s, her hair the same gold as Ali’s. A hand on her hip, she watched as Cal motioned to Alise to loosen the grip on the rope.

  “If you keep showing her, she’ll never learn.”

  Cal looked at his mom. “She’s bored too quickly, and this guy’s too beautiful to lose.”

  His mom laughed. “In all of Altare…” She shook her head. “Alise, you must learn this if you are ever to train a dragon like your brother here.” She took the rope from Alise. “I will show you this one more time, then it’s your turn, fika.” Little one.

  Cal backed off, letting his mom take the lead. Elena Cavrow. She was one of the greatest trainers in all of Altare’s history. She was a legend, had a natural gift with animals, and the flying fire-breathers alike. Her eyes studied the stallion, connecting with his gaze. She held him there, almost speaking to him, but with no magical gift. His mother was only a normal woman with a tremendous ability. She had often told Calen he had the same gift. He was talented, sure, but nowhere near his mom’s level.

  She trailed her hand on the horse’s face, neck, and side. Then laid her arms over the stallion’s back, resting her cheek on his coat and closed her eyes. The horse’s head turned toward her. Then, in a swift motion, she climbed onto its back. The stallion was jittery for a few moments, his head bobbing. But he calmed, and his mom patted his neck.

  “See, Ali. It’s easy if you feel the animal, if you connect with it.” She smiled and hopped down, then watched as Alise brought her own hand to the animal. His sister smiled, and his mom put her hand on her shoulder.

  No longer a girl. No longer a mom. Now burned, ashes in the wind.

  Rain poured. The sky was black, the stars and moon nowhere to be seen. Thunder boomed, lightning cracked across the sky. The trees were burning in orange flames, the air seeming to have caught fire as well. The army of Sanarx around him. They had beat him to the ground, and Calen was holding his gut, having no choice but to focus on the pain to erase his family’s death. But the army had parted, and when he looked up, darkness. There was nothing else in the man’s eyes. Pure, black darkness.

  “What do you say?”

  His lips shook. “Yes.”

  The man held out his hand. “Welcome to the new world, Karak.”

  Karak shoots up, hands clutching the blankets spread over him. Sweat clings to his skin, heart shaking. He desperately looks around the room, seeking the grounding reality that he’s no longer in Altare. He’s in Kahzacore. In Marduth—the dark tower that looks out over the gruesome valley that once caged the bestial Sanarx, and the formerly-men Tarken soldiers. It’s his command that keeps them here. Karak holds onto that. He’s in his room, in bed. This is reality, this is his reality. He takes a deep breath.

  Nightmares. An aftereffect, one could call it, from letting himself be taken by evil. Crozacar gave him a choice. He should have just died, let the Dark Lord kill him instead of letting what followed next happen. He became a monster, a symbol of fear in the eyes of the people of Ardon. And now he’s doomed to re-live his choice in his sleep, as well as in his wake. There is only one moment when he can be free of the torment he feels in every second of his life. But the one who can make the moment happen…is on the other side of the Five Kingdoms.

  “Oh, but this isn’t a nightmare, Karak.”

  His gaze shoots to the foot of his bed, terrorizing horror striking his bones, breaking them with fire, his heart freezing. Terrible pain fills him as he gazes upon the black eyes, the void of nothing that his master bared with such pride and sorrow for Karak to feel pity for him. But the pity never erased the fear that only Crozacar, the Dark Lord, can punish him with. He clutches the blankets like a frightened child. Because this man makes him feel like one.

  “Get out of my head!” he screams.

  Crozacar’s glare goes darker than anything ever could, blacker than any night sky, than Awyn’s hair, or Revera’s heart. Black as the Darkness the Spirit Zyadar rules over. Karak can feel his heart pound, his soul constrict. It’s one of the downsides to his powers. He can see souls, but he’s also more sensitive to his own. He feels the pain. Crozacar grips onto his soul, holding it with his eyes, and the sickening sensation as he twists it. Karak screams, falling out of bed onto his knees. He looks up, pain blurring his vision of the Dark Lord.

  “Please,” he begs. “Go. Just go.”

  “I’ll never go.” Crozacar smiles a toothy, devilish grin.

  No. How can it be devilish if he is the devil?

  But the man fades into whatever corner of Karak’s mind he came from. And this time, Karak wakes up for real. Sweat. He tastes his fear, can hear the blood rushing through his veins. Striding over to the table in his room, he grabs the pitcher and pours the red liquid into the goblet. Karak gulps it, desperate and weak, fear still gripping him, his soul on fire. He hates the flavor of the drink, but in order to keep himself from being trapped on the Isle of the Dead, he must drink the elven blood.

  Perhaps this was one of Crozacar’s rare jokes. Making me drink blood. But he downs the liquid quickly and feels calmer. It may be undesirable, but it helps the fear subside. Good for something, I guess.

  Taking a deep breath, he leaves the room, entering the main black marble area, the stone stretching far above his head, a rigidly curved cylinder of stone and metal. The room is mostly empty, except for the black throne that sits against the wall, facing the balcony. However, the room becomes crowded when his eyes find the sorceress standing on the balcony, leaning over the parapet. Scratching his head, and feeling irritated, he makes his way over to her. He finds her gazing down at the ground, her black, curly hair dangling past the railing.

  “Would you blame me if I pushed you?” He leans on the railing, his back to the world.

  “No.” She looks up at him, a sideways glance. “What about you?”

  “You’d be doing the world a favor.”

  Revera chuckles. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

  He crosses his arms. “Shouldn’t I?”

  She straightens, dainty hands on the railing. “I’ve seen many things, Karak.” She looks at him, her ice-blue eyes reminding him of the moment he craves. “You have a part to play yet, don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You will help the world one day.” She quirks an eyebrow. “So, tell me, Karak. Why is dying a favor?”

  “The grave’s a stronghold. It will protect the people of Ardon from the evils I do.”

  Revera scoffs. “Oh, please. We all do evil, we all have that element of wickedness within. It’s what we do with it.”

  “You’ve chosen to destroy the world, what should I choose?”

  Her eyes narrow, bu
t her lips remain light-hearted. Secrets reside in those icy eyes of hers, and he has yet to unravel them. “If you are wise, you’d choose to destroy the world with me.”

  “Is it wisdom or lack of choice?” He studies her, and her lips curl in a smirk.

  “All in the eye of the beholder, Karak.”

  “Is the beholder still alive?”

  She laughs. “Are you?”

  He pushes his tongue against his teeth, head tilted. “All in the eye of the beholder, Revera.”

  The sorceress smiles. “Very true, very true.” She leans on the parapet with him, silver dress brushing against his leg. “Tell me, what do you see in her?”

  “Revera. Is that jealousy I detect in your voice?”

  “More amusement, than jealousy. I’m amused you can carry on with her, you can see souls, you see the shame she feels.”

  He turns to her, straightening. “Yes, I can see souls. And the pain she feels, the grief, the shame. But I can also see the spark of hope ignite when I appear to her, and that I cherish.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I too, feel shame. I’m more of a monster than you’ll ever be, Revera. You have no idea what it means to be a destroyer of a world. At least not yet. But I do. And it stays with me every moment.” He looks out at the mountains of Kahzacore. “She makes me feel human, no longer a monster. That doesn’t mean I’m naïve to who I am, Revera. But it does mean I have a way to feel glad in my shame. Shame is human.” He looks back at her. “Do you have a way?”

  She raises her chin, eyes thin, long black lashes brushing her fair cheeks. “Who said I had any shame?”

  He smirks. “I can read souls, remember?” A lie tailored only to her.

  Now it’s she who smirks. She knows it’s a falsity. “Not mine, you can’t. So, what makes you think I have any shame?”

  “I’ve let you stay here, Revera. Your tower in Nethess was destroyed. But I’ve welcomed you here. I see you when no one else does. I see your weakness.”

  She steps closer to him. “Do you, Cal?”