No Man's Land

by C D Beaudin

  Maybe they’re right…or perhaps they’ll be the ones screaming by the end.

  She smirks. She really hopes it’s the latter.

  When she reaches the edge of the valley, her eyes sharpen when she sees two figures sitting in the stone circle. Still some distance away, she swears to herself, making her way down the hill. When she gets to the base of the valley, she ducks behind a tree. She’s a sitting duck in an otherwise bare forest, no rocks or brush to cover her. Enhancing her vision, she sees the two figures clearly. One wears a purple robe, the other—she raises an eyebrow. Interesting.

  Weaving between the trees, it only takes her a few minutes to get close enough, and when she walks out from behind a tree, she’s comfortable. She’s approaching. Strength. “Well, this should be more surprising, but alas, it seems I just cannot be surprised anymore.”

  They instantly look in her direction, the Arland’s staff shining, ready to attack her. The taller, younger one looks at her, and fear instantly comes to his eyes, though, her mind reading suggests he’d prefer to lie about his angst.

  “Revera.” The pure spite in the wizard’s voice makes her stop short.

  “Spirits, this isn’t even fun anymore. All of you need to use a different tone. My name’s starting to get a bad reputation.”

  She lays her gaze onto the young man, brow raised. “I must admit I like this form better. So, who’s the man behind the bumbling deformation that was my henchman Calzack?”

  “Nelka.”

  “Nelka the what? I assume you’re an Arland apprentice, so you must have a title.” She tilts her head. “You Arlands are like Red Warriors that way. I just connected that now, sometimes I can be so slow.” Her bubbly, mocking voice disturbs even her. She’d roll her eyes but now isn’t the time. “So. Who are you?”

  “Nelka the Brave.”

  “Wrong.” Revera grins tightly. “Try again.”

  He sighs, seeming embarrassed. “Nelka the Reckless.” Even under his breath, she heard him.

  She chuckles. “Oh, now I understand the hesitation.”

  “What are you doing here, Revera?” Dreema questions.

  The smile wiped from her face, she glares at him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be an ally of Awyn?”

  “She must have done fine without me.”

  A grin threatens her lips. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  Dreema’s brow creases. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “The princess is queen now.”

  “Well…that’s great…so—”

  “She’s insane.” The bluntness of her words stun the wizard, amusing her. “I’d say she’s senile but she’s younger than this war, so…”

  “Her birth caused the war,” Nelka argues.

  She shakes her head, staring at him. “Just brush right over everything else I said.” She turns to Dreema. “What are you teaching him?”

  “Not how to communicate with sorceresses, but how to stop them.”

  “Don’t be like that, Dreema. We were bonding. Now you’re threatening to kill me and frankly, it hurts my feelings.”

  “You don’t have feelings.”

  “Stone. Cold.” She smiles. “This is fun.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “Didn’t ask you.” Revera narrows her gaze on the wizard. “Do you feel guilty about leaving Awyn alone?”

  “It needed to be done. Nelka was getting unstable in the form of Calzack. He needed to be transformed back.”

  Nelka looks at him. “I could have lasted another month!”

  “It took me long enough to talk with the Spirits and Aia before I sent you a message, Nelka. You wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  He crosses his arms. “Dreema the coward.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.”

  Revera laughs. “I don’t have to do anything, do I? I’m guessing you’re about seventeen? Maybe eighteen?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Right. Dreema the father. Never would have guessed.”

  “He isn’t my father,” Nelka spits.

  “He might as well be.” She gazes into Nelka’s eyes, searching his mind. “Oh. You had a rough childhood. Sorry. Struck a nerve?”

  Nelka goes to speak but Dreema stops him. “What’s your point, Revera?”

  “My point is you two don’t even need me to start a fight. Youths are sensitive,” she whispers.

  “I’m not sensitive.”

  “Case in point.” She exhales. “But if you two will excuse me, I have some business that requires the center, so if you could leave, that would be appreciated.”

  Dreema shifts his staff. If he uses it, she’s going to have to run. Her magic has been stripped and weakened, she won’t stand a chance against the magic of the Aia. “What business?”

  She swallows. “If you must know…” Her fists flame in fire and she unleashes a bolt of scarlet heat on the two Arlands, sending surprised gasps from their lips as they duck, falling to the ground.

  Dreema lifts his staff, a beam of light firing from the crystal entwined in the white wood. It hits her chest, leaving her gasping for air, winded.

  Lifting her hands in the air, her focus is shifted to Nelka, who begins muttering an ancient Arland spell that she doesn’t understand but recognizes the language. She’s never been great at languages. She sends a wind toward him, hurling the young Arland into a pillar. He groans, and just as she turns her flames on Dreema, he sends another blast of light against her chest, a burning cold that not only makes her scream but sends her fire toward Nelka. It burns him across the face, his scream contorted as it sears into his flesh.

  Dreema yells, rushing to his pupil. “Nelka!”

  “Spirits.” Nelka groans, his face bright red, scarlet spreading across his nose and around his mouth and eyes, face mangled.

  Revera grins. “No longer pretty?”

  Nelka yells, grabbing Dreema’s staff and hurls a beam at her, knocking her off her feet.

  “Nelka!” Dreema scolds, but Revera is impressed.

  “Oh. You’ve learned.”

  “Yeah, well contrary to popular belief…” Nelka stands, face contorting in pain, but the burn begins to disappear. Still gripping the staff, he looks to Dreema. “I listen.”

  Dreema smiles, blue eyes proud. “Reckless.” He tilts his head, nodding. “Brave.”

  Nelka grins in pride, then turns back to Revera, whose boredom must show on her face because their smiles fade.

  “Beautiful.” She shrugs. “But a bit sappy.” She cracks a knuckle. “I’ve really enjoyed this, but I have things to do.” Walking toward them, she raises chunks of ground, hitting them with rock, falling to the ground. Moving more earth, she slams the chunks onto their legs, so they can’t come after her, breaking the wizard’s staff in the process. It won’t hold him down for long, the staff will rebuild itself in a few minutes. But it’s enough time to get done what she came here to do.

  Taking a deep breath, she raises her chin slightly. “Next time, don’t be proud until after you defeat me, all right?” Turning toward the center, she stands in the middle of the pillars, face to the sky. Lifting her hands, she calls upon the four elements, the power of the Spirits, and the power within her own self. Her magic may be raw now, but she can still call upon older powers to help her in her quest. She doesn’t need her full strength of magic. She’s devoured enough souls to be able to resurrect every dead being on this island. But she’s going to limit herself to several thousand.

  The sky cracks with lightning, thunder booming as the clouds blacken, the wind howls and starts to swarm around the pillars. Flames dance up her arms, spreading out of her palms and into a blaze above her head, sending the fire to blend in with the wind, a tornado of flame. Closing her eyes, she searches the Isle, finding the ocean. Carrying the water across the length of the island, it hurls itself onto the pillars, enveloping them in water. Waterfalls cascade with invisible, endless springs that
pour onto the stone circle, soaking her feet and dress. Rain begins to fall. It never falls on the Isle. She starts to scream, pain flooding her, but she hasn’t gone this far just to give up.

  “Tulve delan Tel laves. Tulve anthia Tel ignithe. Tulve malthe Tel selmonai. Res tulve ardos Tel telkokaise!” With water I cleanse. With fire I ignite. With air I summon. And with earth I conquer! Revera brings her hands to her sides, fists clenched, summoning all her inner strength, the strength she stole. Pushing her hands out again, she sends a bolt of massive, bright lightning into the Veil, ricocheting it to all the pillars. She pivots, watching as the bolt bounces from one pillar to the next. Dreema and Nelka are terrified, but out of the way.

  “What did she just do?” Nelka yells.

  “She’s trying to resurrect the souls!”

  “She can do that?”

  Dreema looks at her, eyes fearful. “Apparently.”

  Revera is weak, her fatigue immense, and her power nearly spent. Breathing heavily, she stumbles as she turns back toward the Veil.

  But all her hard work pays off when she watches as the first undead soldier steps out of the Veil. It reminds her of when she brought back Harden. She knew he would fail in killing Aradon, but that was never her intention. An already broken man coming face-to-face with his first kill? It just drove him further over the edge. The edge he fought so hard to stay on and never fall off. You were the one who failed, Aradon. She’d smile at her success, but as the numerous undead filter through the Veil, she feels her eyes roll in the back of her head as she falls, sleep starting to take her under on the hard ground.

  If the wizard killed her, he’d be saving the living. But he won’t.

  Revera knows he won’t.

  She’s seen it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Drums beat. The Master’s Hall is once again crowded with Red Warriors, all waiting for their new Master to be anointed. In order for Aradon to be crowned king, a priest or the Master must crown him.

  However, there is no priest, but Eomare did say who he wanted to be Master. At least that’s what Aradon told Sidah when he asked him if he’d like the job, and Sidah had agreed.

  With no priest to anoint him, the Scarlets must conduct a ceremony to make the ascension valid. And after Sidah’s made Master, he’ll crown Aradon king.

  The aisle is lined with Scarlets, the women wrapped in red and crowned with rubies. This wasn’t a ceremony the Creed commanded, this was one created by a Master long ago. Provocative. Aradon will abolish this when he’s king. Maybe he’ll burn the Creed too?

  Looking out from a side door, he stands with Sidah, whose nerves appear to be steel. His eyes are focused—he portrays no fear or joy. Duty. This is his duty. This is how he’s going to live and die. With all the work it took to get him where he is, this is the moment Sidah’s given what he deserves. Aradon is happy for him. He actually likes Sidah. He’s tolerable, he used to be a friend.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asks as Sidah adjusts his red ceremonial cloak of the Master.

  “This isn’t comfortable.”

  “Not what I asked.”

  Sidah glares. “Every Red Warrior in the Hall would be ready to become Master. You’re ready. So yes.”

  “That’s good.” Aradon shuts the door, waiting for a Scarlet to come and get them. “And you’ll hold up our deal, right?”

  “I’m made Master, I crown you king.” He smirks. “I’m sure Idies’ crown is collecting dust in the basement.”

  “I don’t care about the crown.” Aradon fiddles with the Everstar pin. “Do you know the story behind this pin?”

  Sidah glances at it. “No.”

  “My father told me that Idies’ youngest brother—the first king of Mera—gave it to him. Some say he was dying, others say it was a gift when Idies received Nomarah.”

  “I thought the Everstar was a Meran symbol? It’s on their flag.”

  “It is. But it’s on ours too.” Aradon looks up at the black flag, the silver hand print carved with a black Everstar in the palm’s center. “It’s not a Meran symbol. Nor a Nomarian one. It’s Ardon’s. The Everstar is the birthplace of the Spirits. It came before Ardon and it will come after it. I will die, but my kingdom will live long after me.” He turns to Sidah. “I want Nomarah to be a kingdom worth a long life.”

  “Is that your speech?”

  “Who said I’m making a speech?”

  “You’re, Aradon. You make speeches.” He shrugs. “Only, this time, don’t make it over a cadet’s dead body.”

  Harden. Aradon nods. “Will do.”

  Trumpets flare, and Sidah leaves the room, ready for his ascension. Through the open door Aradon watches as the Scarlets draw arrows in their bows, hitting targets every time Sidah passes one of the warriors. The back wall is lined with them, the arrows decorated with rubies. This wealth is not theirs, they stole it. Another teaching that is absent from the Creed.

  Sidah’s sword at his side, he steps onto the dais, not sitting on the Master’s chair quite yet. He hasn’t beaded his hair like Eomare did, but he had lined his face with red paint, lines on his forehead, chin, and cheekbones. Aradon’s impressed Sidah made it, becoming a powerful general.

  No speech. A Scarlet ignites an arrow, drawing it across her bow and sending the flaming missile out the front doors, into a firepit lined with oil that erupts into flames. The Red Warriors cheer, and Sidah, finally, takes his place on the Master’s chair.

  Aradon smiles to himself, proud of Sidah. He deserves this.

  His smile fades.

  But he’ll never deserve being king.

  Now, Sidah speaks.

  “My brothers, my cadets. While tonight we honor the life and death of our lost Master, we celebrate the coming of a new one. I will serve you with honor. And bravery. And I will serve you as others have served you.” The traditional Master Ascension speech. But as Aradon expected, Sidah strays from tradition. “But tonight I am not the only one who will promise this or will lead you. He will not promise to protect you, because he knows better than most that you don’t need it. However, he will swear to lead you as I am, but in a much greater way. Brothers, cadets. Please turn your eyes to the great dragon, for King Idies has sent his chosen heir—the king of his bloodline—to lead us into the war against the sorceress Revera.”

  Thank you, Sidah. Now Aradon doesn’t have to lead with that when they hate him already.

  “Red Warriors, I present to you, Aradon, son of Hared, your king.” Sidah steps aside, away from his chair as Aradon exits the small room and onto the stage, swallowing his uncertainty. There is no room for regret or doubt now. He’s doing this, and there’s no going back.

  Everyone is silent. And it doesn’t take Aradon long to see the silence is anger.

  “Who’s not happy about this arrangement?” Aradon asks the room, much to their surprise, including Sidah’s.

  They talk among themselves, some raising their voices. Even the Scarlets whisper, their black-lined eyes on him like hawks.

  Aradon exhales shortly. “Because anyone who doesn’t agree will be disbanded from the Red Warriors.”

  Shouts and unrest.

  “I don’t care if you don’t like me, even hate me. We can deal with that after we fight the war. So, if you don’t want to fight with me leading you, then leave and lose what you’ve spent your life working toward. Your cloak will be ripped from you, your brand removed with a blade.

  “If you don’t want me to be king, say so after Revera is dead. I will accept it and you will keep your honor. I will relinquish my throne and my crown to Master Sidah. I will leave Nomarah and never cross her borders again. If you choose to exile me from No Man’s Land, and you see me in the wilderness, I invite you to try to take my head, because I will not force my leadership upon you.” Aradon swallows.

  “Blood is not what makes a king. The people are. I am what you say I am, and if I’m a king, give me a crown. If I’m a criminal, burn me. But don’t you dare desert the la
nd that is your home. If you leave now, you leave knowing that it will be your honor that we burn. Because this is war. It isn’t an execution. Or a coronation of a king. This is a unification of a regiment that once protected these lands. We can do so once again, and we will if I’m crowned.”

  He lifts his chin. “Then, after the sorceress and Last Lieutenant are dead—and only after—will I accept the punishment you judge me worthy of.” Aradon glances at Sidah, turning back to the crowd to search for Saine, Orion, Tahn, and John. He finds them.

  Perhaps they think he’s pleading with them? But he isn’t. He’s promising what he says is truth. And it is. He will accept what comes. But only after the fight is over. “I can’t force you to fight. But I can warn you of what will happen if you don’t. Revera won’t take pity on anyone, nor mercy. You can grovel, but she will still kill you. And by then...you’ll be glad of it.”

  Aradon is almost surprised to see them all listening to him. Intently, wholeheartedly, only a few with anger still painted red on their faces. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sidah nod slightly. That approval actually means something to Aradon. He was his friend before Aradon betrayed the Red Warriors and his own self.

  It’s strange—while they may be murderous and downright evil—the Red Warriors are his family. Some his friends. He never felt that connection with anyone until Hagard and Eldowyn. Family can mean a lot of things. Blood is only blood, it doesn’t make you who you are. But friends? That’s something that can shape you into the person you are. He may have thought he’d found a way for redemption through Awyn, but he’d gained friends in the dwarf and elf. And friends don’t have to stick together. But they choose to.

  Aradon looks at the crowd. “I’m your villain. But I’m not your monster.”

  “Who is then?”