No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

When she pulls away, a tear falls down her cheek. “Find purpose, Aradon.”

  “I have none.”

  “If you have none for yourself, then find some for me. For Kaniel. Your father. You can still save Nomarah. And you have your army, you just need to grasp it.”

  “The Red Warriors.”

  “Yes. Don’t let yourself be executed tomorrow. Duel with the Master. Fight your way out of death. You give them an ultimatum—if you win, you become their king. They must fight with you in this war. For Nomarah.”

  “For Nomarah.” They touch foreheads.

  “You can still fight,” she whispers against his forehead. “And I’ve just given you something to fight for.” She shakes her head. “You aren’t Slayer. Nor the Bowman. Life has given you another chance to get Aradon right. Take it. It won’t give a fourth.”

  She shakes her head, cupping his cheek again. “Goodbye, Aradon.”

  Ethiah washes away, water over paint, dripping into the air and taken by a silent wind.

  His eyes open, and he sits up. Looking out the window, he sees the first few streaks of dawn. He breathes in deeply. It can all end in a few hours. Or he can keep fighting. He shakes his head, face in his hands, running them back through his short hair. He traces his finger over the scar on his arm, the raised bump on his side, his leg. Every place he ever got hurt. His entire body is riddled with scars. He will never be able to get rid of them or wash the slate clean. He cannot redeem himself. The scars will always serve as a reminder of what he has done, and what people have done to him.

  But that doesn’t mean he can’t change.

  He can grow. He doesn’t need to. Nor want to. But he can. He can figure Aradon out. He will figure him out.

  He walks to his door, the guard outside is alert, no mere palace guard. “Get back to the wall, traitor.”

  Spirits, don’t these guys have a different word they can use? He shakes his head. “No, I need to talk to the Master.”

  “Begging for mercy, Bowman? Or is it Slayer?” His snide comment doesn’t suit his soft face well.

  “It’s Aradon. And no, I won’t be begging.”

  “Then what? Negotiating?”

  “Last I checked, my business with him is none of your concern. A prisoner is allowed to request a meeting with the Master on the eve or morning of his execution.”

  The guard’s teeth clench. “Fine. Face to the wall, Aradon.”

  He does as instructed, and the guard unlocks the door. Shackled again, he remembers being escorted to Thasoe, when he was surrounded by friends and soldiers of a different kind. Awyn had taken a turn at holding the rope that bound him, but when the soldiers turned, she had let it go. “I didn’t like seeing you being tied up. Being treated like a prisoner.” She had said it naively. He deserved to be treated how he is now.

  The guard doesn’t ask any questions, he doesn’t speak at all, and it’s quite refreshing since everyone seems to have an opinion about him, even the ones he’s never met before.

  Outside, horses are being led out of the stables as Red Warriors direct what must be cadets. Likely going to train. Aradon sighs. He actually misses those days. Misses the friends he made—or the closest they could come to being friends. They were the ones who didn’t fear him but respected him. They actually laughed together. Imagine. Of course, what they laughed over was…not repeatable.

  The hall has a certain eerie emptiness. Aradon barely ever came in here, unless it was for ceremonies, and those are always jam-packed full of warriors. On the eve of his graduation, he and a few of his friends—Orion and Tahn included—rode to Olway and drank until they nearly died in a bar fight. They obliterated the competition, but that’s what happens when Red Warriors drink. An empty hall is actually sort of serene, now that he thinks about it.

  The Master lives in the Hall. He resides in the back, down a hall and has a huge room. Bigger than the room he stayed in while he was recovering in Rohea. That seems like forever ago.

  Walking down the hall, lit only by torches—no windows—the door on the end hits Aradon like a rushing bull. He’s really going to do this. Say what he’s going to say? Yes, it’s true. He takes a deep breath. It’s true. And he knows it. The warrior escorting him knocks on the door, and it opens, Eomare’s tired, old face looking at them.

  “Why have you brought the prisoner here?”

  “My name is Aradon.”

  “Silence, rat!” His eyes dart to the guard. “Explain.”

  “He’s requested a meeting with you.” His voice edges with what he says next. “As is his right.” The word right sounds like it could have choked him, strangled him. Is Aradon really that much of a monster to these people?

  “Fine. Wait here.”

  The guard nods as Eomare opens the door wider and allows Aradon in, his shackles clinking together as he awkwardly shuffles in. Looking around, he sees the patterned rug on the floor, embroidered in dark colors. It must have come from one of the western countries, as are most of the furniture and ornaments in this lavishly decorated room.

  “Well, you always were one for flourishes.” Aradon gestures at the Master’s red beaded hair. “You crown yourself with wealth.”

  “I’d say I deserve this, but I have no need to explain myself to you.”

  “You just did.”

  Eomare glowers, walking over to a table and pouring himself a glass of purple wine. “I know you, Aradon. I know you don’t like talking when you fight—at least you didn’t—so why talk now?”

  “You call this a fight?”

  “Not in so many words…” He takes a sip. “But yes.” He leans against a plush chaise.

  “You put on a front for the troops. All this lavishness. You hide it from them. Pretending to be strong and of the earth, the sword your child, and blood your drink. But you sit in here with the fireplace crackling and a silk robe falling past your feet like a wealthy lady of a villa situated on a hill. And you clearly don’t care all that much that I’m a traitor.”

  He takes a handful of grapes, popping one into his mouth. “I couldn’t care less. But I have all of them to feed. They’re hungry, Aradon. They always need to have their fill of bloodshed or they get a bit cranky.”

  “I’ve seen what Red Warriors do when they’re cranky. Or when they’re bored.”

  “As I recall, you slit a woman’s throat,” says the Master.

  “Not one of my prouder moments.”

  He dips his chin. “Yes, well you were a demon. But that was a bit rash, even for you.”

  “Again, not proud.” Aradon walks farther into the room, the shackles making an obnoxious clanking sound that’s too loud for comfort. He’s always been one to hide in the shadows, to be soundless. This is uncomfortable.

  “Do you believe in the Creed at least? I mean, the un-perverted version.”

  “Eh, it’s just another scroll to read. As a Master, I have to read it, prick my finger and press the blood to the page to ‘solemnly swear I will uphold the teachings and purposes of the Creed.’ But oaths can be broken.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  The Master exhales. “Now, why are you here? Come to grovel? Beg for mercy?”

  “I’ve come to, as you said, fight. I want to duel you for my life. If you win, well, I’ll be dead. If I win, I get the Red Warriors for my purposes.”

  “What purposes? Reclaiming this Spirit-forsaken kingdom?”

  “Yes. And stopping Revera.”

  “That’s a lost cause.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Eomare fiddles with the grapes, thinking. “Why would I even agree to this?”

  “Because I served the regiment faithfully for years. I fought, I killed, I did everything in the name of the Red Warriors. I was honorable and loyal. Now, I deserve a chance to fight for my life, as the Creed has written. ‘One who honors the regiment wholly shall be granted the chance to fight for freedom, readmittance, and life.’ I’ll be fighting for all three.”

  “You can’t.”


  “Where does it say that? Is there fine print I failed to notice? Being a Red Warrior is being walking fine print, Eomare. You don’t find out the truth until it’s too late, I’m just one of the few who didn’t like what I found out.”

  “Even if I did agree, your death isn’t enough for me. I don’t care whether you live or die. You’ll need to sweeten the pot if I’m to risk my life.”

  “Unconfident?”

  “Greedy.”

  “Fair enough.” Aradon taps his foot, the shackles clinking. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to have to go all in. Turning to the table, he spots a knife and grabs it, putting it to his arm. He grunts, carving into his skin. He throws the knife to the table and digs in the wound with his fingers, pulling out the Everstar pin his father gave him all those years ago. He ignores the look of disgust on the Master’s face when he holds it out to him. “I’ll give you Nomarah.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Their horses thunder down the plains of Nomarah, nothing but wide-open spaces of white snow in front of them. A crisp wind at their back, it pushes them forward, a change to the usual pelting ice against their faces. The sky is even shining with sunlight, the blue infinity clear of clouds. But the wind shows no sign of relenting.

  Hagard has always hated the fact that he needs child-length stirrups. He’s taller than a child, but he’s shorter than a fully-grown man. He hates being around these tall horses. In Lauden, they bred smaller ones, but they weren’t ponies, he often had to tell outsiders. Now, as he rides, he frequently adjusts his position in order not to fall off. He misses the Everbreed, they were perfect for riding, even though they’re larger than regular horses. Spirit horses. Gotta love ‘em. The one he rides is abnormally bouncy, causing his stomach to ail.

  “Looking a bit green there, Gard,” Alfie calls over the wind.

  “I’ll manage!” He slows the horse down, Alfie following. Hagard’s eyes narrow as he scans the white horizon, the flat plains of Nomarah, few hills, but their presence looms so far that the snow laden world looks curved. Looking east, the way back home, Hagard makes a decision. “Let’s continue west.”

  “That will take us to the Kawa.”

  “I know. De Kawa is de last safe haven from Revera, possibly even for animals.”

  “Safe havens are lies in these times.”

  “I know.” He snaps the reins, the horse galloping faster. The feeling of fleeing fills him. Desperation and abandonment make his heart pound with every thud of the horse’s gait. The situation is so dismal he can’t fight the memory of when he first felt these feelings. He’s repressed them, turned them away, unwilling to look the dark memory in the eyes. If he does, what will become of him? Surely, he’ll want to go back, to see his family again. But his father made it very clear he was to never return. But what does the will of a man matter when he’s dead?

  “Hagard, come fishing wit’ us,” Duril had begged.

  It was the only thing he’d enjoyed those days, walking through the bright fields of Lauden to the stream where they always caught mooneyes.

  Hagard had pushed the sickly, thin boy away with a gentle hand. “I’m busy.”

  “What are you doing?” Shorter than most, he’d had to stand on his tiptoes to see the document Hagard was reading. “Army enlisting guide?” He’d looked at Hagard with questioning eyes, but Hagard avoided them. “Papa doesn’t want you looking at dat anymore, I tought he told you dat?”

  “Papa doesn’t understand.”

  “Den he won’t understand later, so if you come to de creek, not’ing will have changed.”

  Hagard had looked at him, seeing hope in the boy’s eyes. With a sigh, he shoved the sheet into one of his books and placed it under the couch cushion. “Dis will remain between you and me, aye?”

  “Aye,” Duril had replied excitedly.

  “Let’s go, den.” Leaving the small cottage, they’d walked through the backyard to the shed to gather their fishing rods. Hagard helped Duril with his, giving it to him and the bait bucket to carry while he carried the tackle box.

  Along the road, they walked through Ailand, the largest town in Lauden. Cottages lined the dirt roads, with grass between the fences and the street. Sweet flowers grew from window boxes and gardens, the golden fields neighboring the red plains of Eron outlining the town.

  The creek they trekked for lay in the forest beside the town, so small it was off the map, but not small enough there were no fish to find. It was a long walk, but worth it, and Hagard got to spend time with his brothers before he left for the capital. The walk also led them past the Amberhill residence, which was always a brightness in Hagard’s growing dark days. He and his father fought too often. He knew when he left, they would drift so far apart, they’d never find their way back to each other.

  His dreams were too large for his father. Barnel Branchin was a simple man, with simple interests. He’d worked at his smithy shop and brought home enough coin to keep their family afloat. He’d expected Hagard and his brothers to take over the shop, and while his brothers seemed content with it, Hagard dreamed of something more. The army. He’d wanted to become a soldier. Some said it was only a silly fantasy, but he’d make sure it became a reality.

  Coming along the street, they’d passed a larger house, with two floors and several windows, flowers spilling from the window gardens and birdhouses scattered colorfully among the berry bushes and trees. The colorful yellow curtains of the fourth window on the second floor made a smile creep along Hagard’s lips.

  “Wipe dat smirk off before Mr. Amberhill sees.”

  Hagard had turned to see Nalden, his best friend since childhood, as he bound up to them with a flower tucked behind his ear. A smile spread wide across his face, he had a skip in his step.

  “He’ll be out in de fields for de next hour yet.” Hagard had wrapped his arm around his fellow dwarf’s shoulder but kept his slow pace so Duril could keep up. “Old Man Keeker let ya out early?”

  “Snored off. I snuck out.”

  “Sneaker!”

  “Goin’ fishing I see?” Nalden had looked down at Duril. “Goin’ ta catch some moonies?”

  “Maybe a rainbow!”

  “Good luck wit’ dat, laddie.” Hagard had petted Duril’s curly red hair. “Rainbows aren’t in da little rivers.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say dat.”

  The three of them turned, and Hagard had flushed red with heat.

  Ava Amberhill. Her long golden locks fell down her fair shoulders elegantly, the flowery, yellow dress setting off the green of her eyes perfectly. Ava’s smile was pink, and her lashes fluttered like blonde butterflies. She’d approached Duril and passed Hagard with only a light look in his direction before bending to give Duril a muffin that smelled of chocolate and blueberries.

  “Here ya go, lad.” She’d ruffled his hair. “And I’ve caught a rainbow in de little rivers before.” She’d straightened, eyeing up Hagard and Nalden. “Gard, your siblings are in a bit of a scrap at de tavern.”

  The sight of Ava floated away, and Hagard had been brought back to dismal reality. “Why are dey even in a tavern?”

  She’d shrugged. “Don’t ask me. But I saw your papa closing de shop early for de party tonight. I’d get it settled before he does.”

  Hagard had swallowed. Turning to Duril, he’d bent down to his eye level. “Duril, we can go fishing anoter time, aye?”

  His shoulders had slumped. “Aye.”

  “All right. Nalden, come on.” Rushing to the tavern, Hagard hadn’t even gotten a chance to look back at the golden-haired lass he admired so much. She was smart, strong, and witty. But also sweet and kind. And funny. She always had the best sense of humor.

  The Lazy Bear was a favorite of the people of Ailand. Every night it came alive with music and laughter, drunken singing, and even though heads would split in the morning, the memories of the previous night were always worth it. Hagard had his share of fights at the tavern, but he was always welcomed back. Everyon
e was.

  He now wishes he hadn’t been welcomed back.

  He feels the dream dissipate, the memory fade as he returns to a dreamless sleep, but it’s interrupted by a single word.

  “Hagard.”

  A faint voice. Hagard groans, burrowing deeper into the tree he sleeps against, not willing to waken.

  “Hagard!”

  A pain in his side and his eyes open, gasping. “What da—Alfie?”

  “Wake up. I heard something in the trees.”

  Hagard groans, closing his sleepy eyes. “Den take care of it, you’re a grown lad.” He sprawls his arm across his face, blocking out the suddenly too bright starlight.

  “Come on, Gard,” Alfie gripes, his voice unwavering.

  Hagard’s jaw clenches at the name, no longer willing to let this boy call him the name he heard growing up. “Don’t call me Gard.”

  “I won’t if you wake up.”

  Hagard glares darkly at the boy. “I’m already up.”

  “Then you’ll have no problem standing.” He holds out his hand, but Hagard brushes it away and makes it to his feet, the wet snow sticking to him like he’s its source of life. The cold clutches to his skin, face numb, ears numb. His hair is stiff and his nose stings from the chill of the night. He hates wet snow. It sticks, it clings, a reminder that this winter isn’t going anywhere unless the sorceress dies. It’s also a reminder that she ain’t dying anytime soon.

  With a huff, Hagard stretches, yawning. “Being afraid of noises is like being afraid of air.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Hagard gives him a look, but Alfie doesn’t retract. “I’m only being cautious.”

  An exasperated breath leads into his speech, “Right.” Might as well indulge de boy. Hagard grabs his ax and looks around. “Where did dis noise come from?”

  “The bushes.”

  “Dere’s bushes all around us, Alfie.”

  “Northern region, then.” He points.

  Hagard rolls his eyes, eyeing the bushes in what Alfie thinks is north, but from the stars above it’s actually east. Sighing, he stomps over to them, his stocky frame leaves no mystery to where he steps, boots imprinting deeply into the sticky, deep snow. There’s nickering of horses in his ears, and he looks through the bushes, shaking his head. “Alfie, dere’s not’ing here.”