No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  He had originally hated the idea of them coming with him, said he’d be better off doing this by himself. Actually, he still hates it. But it’ll go quicker this way, which he supposes is a good thing. Less time to get into trouble. But ever since Revera used her magic to remove everything good about him that was left—there wasn’t much, but it was enough to water the seed of his doubt—he’s been craving a little trouble.

  “Why are we even doing this?” Nakelle whispers to Kepp, probably thinking Karak can’t hear her. “We’re going to kill an entire nation.”

  “Revera has asked us to, she must have a good reason.”

  “And you believe that?”

  Kepp doesn’t answer, but Karak does. “No.” He looks back at their surprised expressions, Breel still barely breathing from his fear. “But when is there a good enough reason to do the unreasonable?”

  “It isn’t unreasonable if there’s a reason.”

  “My point exactly, she-elf.”

  Nakelle bares her teeth but Karak turns, a smirk on his face. “Do you know, Kepp?” he asks.

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Me or your lady?”

  “Both.”

  A thump and Karak knows Nakelle hit Kepp, but the elf must not flinch because there is no sound, recoil, or retaliation. What did Revera do to you? Karak rolls his eyes. What does it matter? The more unfeeling he is, the better. A quicker job. Though, a prolonged massacre is good for the heart every now and then.

  Breel gags. “Karak, I’m going to throw up.”

  “Then do it on Kepp’s lap because you’re not getting sick on my shoulder or Gotham’s scales. Unless you want to jump off. Feel free, I don’t care which.”

  Breel must be too sick to even defend himself. Karak watches as he looks back at Kepp, and Kepp’s face goes white.

  “Vomit on me, and I throw you off.”

  Breel groans. “Karak, land this stupid thing!”

  A growl comes from deep within Gotham, sending Breel clutching Karak even tighter. And on this fact alone, Karak sends Gotham down, falling through the air, a star being cast out of the vast infinity above. Gotham settles on a snow laden field, bits of stone rubble around them. As they hop off, Breel immediately throws up. But that isn’t what is going to inevitably catch the others’ eyes, he knows. Karak captures the sight, but not before Nakelle asks, “Where are we?”

  “Erendeth,” Kepp says as he walks from the dragon to the Ether elf. “The former capital of Nomarah.”

  The skeleton of the palace is all that remains, looking like part of the mountain it stands in front of. Chunks of smaller buildings, some villas, scatter here and there, but it is mostly desecrated. Ruins. Remains of what used to be the pinnacle of the country. Karak remembers this city. He also remembers destroying it. Leaning against Gotham’s giant frame, he crosses his arms. “It was destroyed in the War of Ardon.”

  Nakelle turns to him, eyes narrow. “I assume you razed it?”

  Karak blinks slowly as a serpent might. He knows what people say of him. Destroyer. Monster. Nothing he hasn’t called himself. They don’t faze him anymore. They didn’t for a long time, then they started to, then they didn’t again. It began again, but Revera stopped it and made it so nothing fazes him. No word. No emotion. No Meran queen.

  “Breel. Are you done yet?”

  The Trad looks sickly. “Can’t we just walk?”

  “If you want to walk through the fields of Eron, probably the most dangerous kingdom in Mortal next to Nomarah and Kahzacore, then be my guest. But I’ll be flying.” He jumps back onto Gotham, Kepp and Nakelle following him. But Breel doesn’t move.

  “I won’t get on that thing.”

  “Breel, now is not the time to stroke your pride or groom your fears. Get on this dragon before I put you on it!”

  He crosses his arms, like a stubborn child.

  Sighing, Karak tells Gotham to take off. Another silent signal and the dragon grabs the Trad with his claw, the man screaming as he’s lifted higher and higher into the air.

  “Karak! Karak, you son of a—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that too bumpy for you? Here, I’ll help.” Another signal and Gotham releases Breel from his claw.

  “Karak!” Nakelle shouts, but Karak is watching as the man falls, closer to the ground with every second. “Karak, get him now!” she yells.

  With an eyeroll, Karak gets Gotham to dive, and with only a few yards to spare, Gotham catches Breel in his giant talons. Kepp helps Breel climb up, and when the man gets safely behind Nakelle, clutching her waist instead of Karak’s, his face is white with fear and anger.

  Karak raises his brow. “What?”

  “You’re a madman!”

  Karak grins, looking back. “I find it cute you’re just figuring that out now.”

  Breel glares, a steely, I’ll-kill-you gaze.

  Can’t kill what can’t be killed, Trad. Karak looks at the sky in front of him. The blood. The elven blood. That can kill him. But then he remembers what Crozacar told him. The only thing that could get him out of it. If he doesn’t drink elf blood, he will die. But if he kills the blood of the doomed… Karak smirks. Pure Immortality, here I come.

  It hadn’t been that easy. Letting Crozacar take hold. He didn’t want him to. Even after he said the life-altering yes, he fought hard not to let Crozacar’s magic into his soul. But it won, in the end. Either that or he gave up. Karak isn’t really sure. But he doesn’t care either. He doesn’t care about anything. He knows that should scare him, but he has no fear to give.

  Revera, though.

  He let her in with open arms, tired of feeling human emotions. He became something greater than the Spirits’ creations. Something no one has ever done before. He isn’t a sorcerer like Crozacar was, or Revera is. Nor is he a Spirit.

  If he kills the blood of the doomed, then he will be a true immortal. Elven immortality—much the same as the immortality he has now—is superficial. It makes one immune and invulnerable to many things, it prevents one from aging. But the real immortality is something no human—or former—has possessed. An immortality that no sword, spear, arrow or knife can pierce. And no form of magic or elven light can tear apart. Not even an Aia of the Arland Order can undo the level of immortality he can possess if he finds and kills the person who is going to either destroy or save the world. And if Karak succeeds, then it won’t matter which.

  Crozacar was a channel for Zyadar, the Spirit of Darkness. He had a direct link with him, was given some of his powers that only enhanced the magic he already had.

  Raea, on the other hand, is a channel for Sericia, the Spirit of Light. The White Lady can speak with her and use her manipulation of light. Revera once told him that Raea has a little magic herself, but that it’s not affected or more powerful because she has Sericia’s power. And because she spends so much of her energy on light, she let her magic go to waste and it withered away into nearly nothing. It’s still there, waiting for her to grasp it, but Karak supposes some can fight the lure of magic.

  As Crozacar was a channel for Zyadar, he did what Raea didn’t. He gave some of the power to Karak, passed it down to him. Karak used to think it was for some sort of legacy Crozacar wanted never to die. But now he wonders if he was just being selfish, so a part of him would always reside in Karak.

  He would have had a hold over him anyway, but with Karak holding a part of his power, his influence is only greater than it would have been. He doesn’t have magic, but he has a few abilities—seeing souls among them—that are beyond the capabilities of magicians. But Revera’s found a way around that. She not only shields her soul from being read by Karak, she also makes it easy for her to read others’. She makes people show it to her. Reading minds, digging deep into memories and minds until she gets to the soul. She can’t see them, but she can read and unravel the secrets and destroy them with her subtle ways.

  Karak tilts his head. Maybe not always so subtle.

  Karak had
paced, palms sweaty. “I can’t do this. I can’t.” He’d looked at Revera, her careless demeanor, lazy and bored, leaning against the wall, examining her fingernails. “I won’t.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

  She’d looked at him. “Quite. This back and forth you’re doing. It’s pointless. I know you are going to go through with this. You need this, even though some…” She sighed, disgusted. “Human part of you wants to keep all those crippling little emotions inside that gorgeous head of yours.” She’d smiled tightly. “It won’t work. You need this. You want this.”

  “I don’t.” He’d sounded like a child denying his faults, not wanting a punishment doled out by his parents.

  “But you do.” Her head had tilted, eyes narrowed. “What is stopping you?” She’d put her hands to his temples. He’d felt her digging around in his brain but hadn’t stopped her. There really had been no point. When her hands dropped, she’d looked almost…disappointed.

  “Really, Karak? Her?”

  “What’s so wrong about it?”

  “You know what’s wrong. Stringing her along when nothing will ever come of this relationship. The term’s laughable actually, when applied to this…flirtation. What is your motive? She’s beautiful, I’ll give her that.” She’d smirked, her words preening to her own self.

  Awyn looked a great deal like her aunt. But the greatest difference was their eyes. Revera’s were sharp, feline-like, and burdened with sorrow that only Karak knows of, and only Kepp would understand, darkened with her magic and her own demons. While Awyn’s are more doe-like, still sharp and cunning but a soft innocence of the child she used to be. But within the innocence a blaze of experience resides, and day by day it burns away the child within her. He hasn’t seen her in a while. Perhaps the child’s ash now?

  “But Awyn is weak now. She can’t afford another lie in her life.” Revera had approached him, a gleam in her eyes. “Cut her loose before I’m tempted to. I’ve been wanting to watch her bleed for centuries.”

  Karak’s brow had furrowed, and he’d felt confused. “Centuries?”

  She’d grinned. “With time, all will understand.”

  Karak had shaken the comment off for the moment. “Revera…I can’t do this. Not without seeing her again.”

  Her jaw had tightened. “Fine. I will grant you a dream with her to say your goodbyes, if you agree that after…Calen dies.”

  Karak had looked at the ground, defeat heavy in his chest. His eyes flittering to Revera’s. “Agreed.”

  The day had passed too slowly. When Karak finally found himself falling asleep, he’d began to regret his decision. Why had he done it? What possessed him to face her right before he knew that his care for her would be erased? Even more, he’d want to kill her. He’d want to kill everyone, when Calen was gone and only Karak remained. He was a monster that he could no longer fight, and one he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to become Karak. But he knew he wouldn’t survive the war if he stayed Calen.

  Revera had been right.

  Calen needed to die.

  His eyes had opened. He’d sat up, water pooling around him, dripping off his clothes and skin. Looking around, it had taken him a moment to realize he was in the ocean, nothing in front of him but an endless, starry sky reflecting atop the calm waves of the pleasantly cool sea.

  “Is this Revera’s doing?”

  He’d looked behind him when the familiar, darkened voice sounded a melody of pain and distrust. Awyn’s black hair was done in a loose braid, falling along her shoulder. She was dressed in casual blue, her lips still red as blood and skin like the winter around them. But in the dream, he saw no snow, only frigid sand and the ocean ahead.

  “Does it really matter?”

  “She wants to kill me.”

  “I wanted to kill you.”

  She glared at him, hugging herself and more reserved than he’d ever seen her. “But you didn’t. Revera will.”

  “You’re so sure she will succeed?”

  Anger had flushed her face. “You aren’t around anymore, Karak. You don’t pop up when I need you. When I need anyone. You don’t understand what my life has come to.”

  “That terrible?”

  Her hands had dropped to her sides. “A sorceress is trying to kill me. It would seem she has the power of the Spirit of Darkness on her side, my brother just tried to kill my other brother, and I’m losing my mind.” She’d shaken her head. “Life’s good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She’d slumped down to the ground next to him, a sigh escaping her lips. “The only time I feel sane is in my dreams. They’re mostly empty, but when I do dream, I’m here, at the ocean. Or in some peaceful meadow watching a lightning storm.” She’d looked at him. “If that’s peace…then what does that say about me?”

  He’d tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “That you haven’t lost all you were when you were a child.”

  Her brow had furrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “I know more than you think. I won’t tell you how I know, it may seem a bit…evasive. But I know you used to ride horses with your father on cool mornings. And pulled Neodyn’s hair. I know you never sat at your window watching the rain. You were outside, playing in the puddles. You never liked to dress fancy because you hated court, thought it was boring. You loved cookies and hated crust on your bread, but you ate it anyway because you didn’t want the cooks to do any extra work for you. You made friends with all the servants and their children. Your favorite palace guard was your father’s long-time friend, George. He was a grandfather to you as Esmeralda was a grandmother.” He shrugged. “Call me creepy, if you’d like. I have my ways.” A smirk tugged at his lips, but he didn’t let it grin completely. “I like what I saw.”

  She’d shaken her head. “But I’m not that girl anymore, Karak. I don’t jump in puddles and I don’t remember the taste of cookies. Nor the feel of Neodyn’s hair in my palm or my father’s laugh. I forget his smile. I can picture it, but it fades.” Her eyes welled with tears, but some of her strength must still have remained because they didn’t fall.

  “I’m not a child anymore, Karak. I’m a young woman, sentenced to a life I never wanted, nor dreamed of. I don’t want to be this girl anymore. Or a warrior. And you know what? I got my wish. Because I no longer fight. I can’t. Awyn is lost to me. I am…” She’d shaken her head. “I don’t know who I am. They say I am me, stripped but still me.”

  She’d blinked, an unusual pause for a moment. “They said they’d never leave me.”

  “They?”

  She’d looked away from him. “Why are you here, Karak?”

  “I needed to see you one last time.”

  Awyn had turned back to him. “One last time?”

  “I’m…leaving.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He hadn’t been sure what to say. “You’ll see me again. I promise.”

  She’d shaken her head as he stood. “Wait, Karak. What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Karak? Karak, wait!” She’d chased after him, grabbing his arm. “You’re just going to leave again? Abandon me again?”

  It had hurt him. Her touch. The look in her eyes. “Yes.”

  She’d shaken her head, seemingly disgusted with herself. “I should never have let you kiss me.”

  Karak had scoffed. “Don’t tell me you regret it.”

  “Of course I regret it! I let myself need you. And for that I’m dependent.” She’d shaken her head. “I can’t be dependent on you.” Her eyes swelled with tears. “But without you I have nothing.”

  “You have even less with me here, Awyn. You deserve real hope, not the twisted fantasy of it I can provide.” He’d turned, but her hand caught his.

  “Karak, don’t walk away from me.” Her voice had been desperate.

  He’d ripped her hope away from her. Whatever hope she had left, if any. Whatever
comfort he could offer her…he’d stolen it.

  “You don’t understand.” He’d shaken his head. “It’s too late.”

  He’d exhaled, defeated in every sense of the word. And yet, something seemed to have grown inside him. An evil. “I’ve walked away from myself.”

  The last thing he saw before he opened his eyes were her tears releasing from the dam she’d built.

  Karak bellows, a hysterical laugh that isn’t completely real and makes the others look at him funnily as he rests against Gotham.

  “Are you all right?” Nakelle questions.

  “Oh yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m great.” He shakes his head, the memory so laughable it hurts. How pathetic he was. How pathetic she was. Pitiful. Awyn, daughter of Daron, Queen of Mera. Only sane in sleep and yet that has become a torture for her as well. The satisfaction he now gets from seeing her tears is a beauty in this too sunny day.

  “What’s so funny?” Kepp asks as he eats the lunch they begged Karak to land for.

  He grins. “Just remembering a story. It’s about a girl and a boy who depended greatly on each other. One day, the boy made a decision. He would no longer need the girl. And when he told her, she was heartbroken.”

  “What’s humorous in that?” Breel queries, an edge in his voice. Seems he isn’t quite over me nearly killing him.

  Karak shrugs. “Maybe nothing. But knowing that it’s true just makes me…” He smiles, grabbing a piece of the cooking rodent Nakelle managed to hunt. Biting into it, he’s met with disgusting, metallic flavor and great pain. Dropping the meat, he’s shocked to see a bloody knife on the ground. Putting a hand to his mouth, his palm is spotted with blood.

  “Karak, what’s wrong?”

  He looks back at Kepp, then at the knife—it’s meat again. No blood, no pain. He shudders. I did what you wanted, didn’t I?

  He hears Crozacar’s voice in his head. “Just trying to make a point, Lieutenant. Just because you’re dedicated again, doesn’t mean the chains are off.”