by C D Beaudin
He nods, leaving her to herself. In the cold of the afternoon, he hears the first sounds of war as deserters run from the beating of Kahzacorian marching. They flee, but they will find no refuge in the plains of No Man’s Land.
First the cavalry, then the infantry. Decorated in flags, the Kawa in bright tribal patterns and paints, the Resistance now numbers thousands. Mounted on her steed, Brega looks at the distant wave of black and gray, knowing that this is their final stand. This is when the choice to live or die holds weight.
She’s going to live. At least for now.
The memories of those who died at Rohea linger with her, and with her soldiers. She can tell, she doesn’t need magic to know what a heavy weight it is. They died, and those who live must bear the guilt that they survived. Now, they get their chance at death. A chance to avenge the dead and the living. Which one they’ll choose, however, Brega has yet to discover.
Let our screams linger in the wind and our blood stain the winter, for our stand shall never be forgotten.
She’d speak it aloud. Give a speech to her soldiers and hope the other countries listened. But she won’t say the words and will speak no motivation. Everyone on this battlefield knows it’s the end. Their part in the war is over, no matter the outcome.
Brega eyes the incredible force that is Kahzacore.
It is the end.
Brother, guide my hand. Father, guide my feet. Mother, guide my heart.
With the ruins of Erendeth behind them, they ride into war.
Chapter Thirty
Blood. Bone. Murder. Aradon’s breathing is slow and steady as he slashes his way through resurrected souls and Kahzacorians alike. Lust. Power. Time is no longer relevant. All that exists is him and his victims. They have no faces, and he feels no fear. He has become the worst version of himself.
And it feels really good.
He has surpassed Slayer, he has forgotten the Bowman.
He is Aradon, not a king, nor a man, not even a Besged.
He’s death.
His sword connecting with flesh and bone, he only sees who he needs to kill, not caring about the carnage he leaves behind. The snow under his footing is stained red, his own body the same. But through the metallic smell burning his nostrils, he feels comfort. He knows in this moment that it doesn’t matter if he becomes king. He’ll be fine without a crown because he doesn’t deserve the throne, nor does he want it.
A heavy breath behind him and he turns, swinging his sword through the Sanarx’s steel armor, another slash through the beast’s neck and it falls, just another limp body in the carnage of war. Closing his eyes, he turns his face to the ground, fists clenched so tight he can feel his blood. Taking a deep breath, he refocuses.
For so long, he fought this addiction. It feels good to relapse.
An arrow pierces his hand, and he groans; his sword flying from his grasp. Turning, a Tarken archer aims another black arrow at him. Clear and focused, there is no anger in him, only purpose. Grabbing a stray spear, he throws it, the head piercing through the Tarken’s eye. A dagger cuts through his shoulder, sending a cry from his lips and his feet staggering. He’s being attacked from all sides, surrounded by Tarken and Sanarx alike, and what looks like the undead.
No weapons in the circle, he grits his teeth as he enters the Besged state, power flowing through him. Standing, he can’t even feel his footsteps or the bones he cracks with his bare hands. He tears limb from limb, breaks bone, and crushes skulls. He feels blood pour over him, but it only cleanses him, and clarifies who he is.
Lunging at a Sanarx, he grabs the beast’s weapon and stabs it into the creature’s head, twisting it, and the monster stops moving. Standing, the Besged power ceases as he looks around him, breathing heavily, looking at the score of soldiers he just demolished.
This is who he is. Maybe not all of him wants it. Perhaps he’s ruining his chances of ever being king. But this feels too good to give up. He’d rather die than stop killing. Freedom was once the most important thing to him. And he just realized that murder is freedom.
“Aradon.”
Flashes of memory. Killing Harden, his blood on his hands and looking at the watching crowd of cadets and Red Warriors, the fear in their eyes. There was fear in him too. But also clarity. He knew he’d have to become the man he is today to raise his kingdom from the dirt.
Turning, he looks upon the blond he killed all those years ago, and again only months earlier. Now, he’s been resurrected for the second time. His eyes narrow. “Harden.”
The man’s eyes flicker down his blood-covered figure. “You’re not a man. You’re a killer, a murderer.” He grips his short sword. “A monster.”
The worst thing he’d ever done…
Walking through the darkened town, it was the first moment he’d felt guilt for what he’d done. Behind him, a fire he’d started, one that would burn the village and bodies he’d left strewn across the ground. The town of Bel would burn, erased from history and not a single one of its residents alive.
Looking at his hands, his brow had creased at the tight feeling in his chest. Confusion and guilt. Regret. It had sent panic into him. Looking at the sword in his hand, he’d dropped it, a foolish move—he’d learned never to leave a trail as a cadet—but he was never caught. There was no one to catch him.
As he rode off that night, he remembered the hundreds of screams of the women and children. The cries of the men. Those who were wounded but still breathing, he burned alive.
That earned him the title Harden now gives him.
But there is no more guilt.
Aradon grins. “Then call me a monster.” He charges at him. In a swift motion he brings Harden to the ground, grabbing at his neck. When he grips him, he looks the man in the eyes. “It seems my first kill has come back to haunt me. Again.”
He smiles, tilting his head. “No hard feelings of course.” He smashes Harden’s head onto the ground and feels the body go limp. “Even those who are dead can die.”
A pain of memory fills his head.
A dark room. Those dark Ai eyes. Her professional expression that only wanted her greed met.
The Lotus.
Her voice fills his head. Even those who are dead can die.
Standing, he huffs to himself. Aradon grips the handle, knuckles white. One day, he’ll track her down. Then, he’ll stab his sword through her heart. Looking around the battlefield, there’s no one he recognizes. Bodies are strewn everywhere, and soldiers fight for their lives. He’s ashamed actually. He may not feel remorse, but he’s bothered by how much he loves this. Loves death. Who can be so twisted and tainted inside?
Aradon didn’t lie before. He doesn’t want to be a monster.
He just is.
A roaring screech fills his ears. When he looks up, flames light the sky. All at once the Kahzacorians and undead retreat, the Resistance watching them leave in confusion. Aradon wants to chase after them, but he remains where he stands. Watching as the giant dragon above disappears into the clouds, he realizes that they aren’t retreating—they’re regrouping, planning for a strategic attack.
Aradon lifts his chin. Then so will we.
“Bring the wounded to the city ruins!”
He hears the familiar voice of Brega, watching as she and another soldier carry a limp body, painted in the colors of the Kawa. There are no more countries. Every man and woman are one nation, fighting for their survival. It’s almost beautiful.
Aradon rolls his eyes and shifts when something grasps his ankle. Looking down, he sees a wounded man in Rohidian armor, blood smeared across his cut breastplate. Fighting the urge to end the soldier, Aradon knows there’s too many witnesses. Gripping the man, he hoists him over his shoulders and carries him toward Idies’ city.
Fatigue and exhaustion. Ethiah drains her powers as she tirelessly heals the numerous soldiers cut down by Kahzacorian blades. Sweat clings to her brow and she has yet to wash off the blood of those she killed, but there are too many
soldiers who need her healing.
“Ethiah, there’s five more coming in,” Eldowyn says as he ushers in soldiers carrying in another litter with a groaning, wounded man lying atop it.
She doesn’t have time to tend to him yet. Focusing back on the woman before her, she lets the light inside her burn in her hands, a cold sensation as she illuminates the deep gash on the Eronian soldier’s arm. As far as she knows, only the Eronian army allows women to fight, but she wouldn’t be surprised if the other kingdoms made exceptions in this final stand.
Some might question how they know it’s the last battle. But it’s simple. They simply cannot hold on any longer. This is when they choose what their fate is going to be. The end of the war can mean life or death. Another simple thing.
The skin around the gash binds together in a bright red, swollen bruise, but the woman will be fine, and Ethiah quickly cleanses her hands before moving on to another patient. The man Eldowyn brought in is mangled, his arm missing and face white with pain. Deep cuts have pierced his armor, his leg black with blood. She thought she could handle this better, after what she’s been through. But she’s quickly realizing that battle is the time when death truly rapes the land. And she does it as gruesomely as possible.
The man screams so much, and Ethiah barely manages to save him. Finishing up, she rushes out of the tent and vomits. She holds back loose strands of hair that escaped her braid, gripping her chest as her heart feels like it could jump out of her throat. Her stomach a churning sea, she throws up again, the stress and pressure of the last two days built up and now exploding. Only two days, and already this much carnage, this much massacre. The Kahzacorians fled hours ago, before night fell. She hasn’t been able to save all the men, barely any. Her tally so far has been eighty-seven. Eighty-seven out of hundreds.
She should be saving more lives. But she fought too. She’s so tired, and she’s the only elf here that can heal physical wounds. Why is she wasting time getting sick?
Picking herself up, she rushes back into the designated infirmary tent. Looking at the amount of men inside, she glances back outside, where numerous litters are waiting to be brought in.
This isn’t working.
Taking a breath, she walks into the night, lit by the stars, moon, and torches. “Gather the wounded into this yard, start cleaning and putting snow on their wounds.”
A few confused looks and her panic turns to authority. “Wet a cloth and wash off the blood, then cover it with snow. An elfling could do it!” she yells, and the soldiers start rushing.
Taking a moment to breathe, she runs a hand through her messed hair. Walking into the tent, she quickly washes her arms and hands, running the cloth over her face. The water is cold, but it wakes her up. She needs to sleep, but she won’t be able to until the men are healed. No one knows how long the Kahzacorians will rest—it could be a day, or only another hour. They just need as many soldiers as possible on their feet.
It isn’t long before she loses herself in her work, healing soldiers one after another, jumping from one corner of the crowded yard to the next. She ducks into tents and travels outside the designated zone for those who couldn’t make it very far. It’s a good distraction, dealing with others’ pain instead of her own.
Ethiah doesn’t look up at Brega’s presence.
“You should eat, drink some water. Sleep.”
“I have no time to sleep. We need as many soldiers standing—”
“We also need our medic standing.”
Ethiah binds a white bandage around a woman’s hand. She hasn’t been using her power for the more minor injuries. Standing, she wipes the sweat from her brow, heated even in the cold night. “The battle will still rage without me. But we don’t stand a chance without soldiers, we’re already outnumbered, and with the Sanarx, it’s two to one.”
“We won’t have soldiers if you burn yourself out.”
Ethiah looks at her. The burns on her face don’t seem to be healing very well. Exhaling, she gestures to an empty bedroll. “Sit, I need to look at your burns.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re fine when I say you’re fine.” She points to the ground. “Sit.”
Brega sighs, sitting, clearly uncomfortable when Ethiah touches her burns.
“There’s pain?”
“Yes.”
She nods. “All right. I can take away the pain.” The skin under her hands shines, waving with light. Once she takes her palms away, Brega breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thank you.” The queen looks at her. “Besides being exhausted, how are you?”
“I don’t have time to feel anything right now.”
“I take it you saw Aradon?”
Ethiah freezes. Healing has been a good distraction from many things.
“How did you know—”
Brega scoffs. “I’m sheltered, not blind.” She winces, as she is nearly blind in one eye. “You care about him, I can see that, I saw it at Hillstone.”
She glances over Ethiah’s shoulder, and Ethiah follows her gaze to a distant fire. Near it, is the Red Warrior—cleansed of the blood from earlier—but he still looks covered in death.
She looks at Brega. “He made his choice.”
“What choice did he have?”
“To be or not to be a killer.”
Brega shakes her head. “That isn’t realistic in these times, Ethiah. This is war, people are going to die.” She sighs. “He’s an addict, Ethiah. Battle is just another bottle to drown himself in.”
Ethiah nods but doesn’t agree. While he may have the ability to change, there is something else at work here that Brega simply won’t be able to understand.
She huffs. Even so…he might not want to change. But that doesn’t erase the fact that he’s in trouble for reasons greater than his lust.
A Rohidian soldier runs up to Brega, whispering something in her ear. When her eyes widen, Ethiah knows the scouts saw the Kahzacorians collecting themselves, readying for active battle once again.
Brega turns to her. “I need to go rally the leaders, can you move the wounded farther into the ruins?”
“What will it matter if they have no protection?”
Brega exhales. “They will.” She looks back at Aradon. “It’s time to poke the beast.”
Ethiah shakes her head but doesn’t bother trying to convince Brega it’s a bad idea. She just knows she doesn’t want to be there when she asks him to put his army on the line. Or him on defense.
She quickly finishes ordering the soldiers to bring the wounded deeper into the city. As an extra precaution, she told them to use any spare wood or metal to create a wall. The patients are behind what used to be the elevated palace courtyard, and remains of a wall, so they can just add onto it. Others are moving the tents behind it as well, the plains clearing very quickly, bringing only the necessities. Moving a tent prop, she lays it in a pile that will become reinforcements for the wall.
Behind her, she watches as the kingdoms work together, one nation, one people, fighting for the survival of their world. She’s gotten so used to the clamor, she could fall asleep to it, but her elf eyes catch a sight on the flatlands that makes her stress wring her lungs. Rushing toward it, she watches as Aradon gathers the Red Warriors. Panic jolts her when they start giving their horses away to infantry. Fear floods her veins as Aradon takes out his sword, Sidah beside him, and Brega with them.
“Why do you ask this of us?” Sidah asks.
“You’re the most skilled regiment we have. We need you to protect the wounded. Our soldiers are trained to fight, not to skillfully defend. That’s what our generals are for, but they’ve already insisted on fighting.” Brega lifts her chin, her eyes moving with the Red Warriors as they pass off their horses. “By the looks of it you don’t disagree.”
“We will defend as long as we can,” Sidah assures.
Ethiah swallows. No. She never thought Aradon or Sidah would agree. They’re trained to fight as any soldier. She’s more
worried about him now. His whole regiment wants to kill him, and if he gets caught between the Kahzacorians and the mountain behind the ruins, then he’ll have to enter the Besged state. And she knows what he doesn’t.
Her eyes briefly meet Aradon’s as she runs through the moving soldiers, searching for the dead Nomarian king. She finds the dwarf Hagard first, gripping his wrist to turn him around. “Have you seen Idies?”
Hagard shrugs. “Not since de battle started.”
She leaves him without another word, frantically looking for the Besged. It isn’t until she rushes to the edge of the camp that she finds him staring out at the plains. Swallowing, she stops running, approaching him slowly. “Idies?”
He doesn’t look at her. “It’s different than how I left it.” He turns to her. “And nothing seems to have changed.”
She doesn’t have time for this. “Idies, you have to stay with Aradon for the rest of the battle.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s going to die if you don’t.”
His brow furrows. “How do you know this?”
“I felt it the other night, before the battle started. A power surge. And I caught glimpses of him fighting. He’s more violent than he’s ever been, even when he was Slayer.”
“It’s who he is, Ethiah. I don’t know him, and I can see that.”
“I know it’s a part of him, Idies. I know he doesn’t want to change or stop killing. But it’s only worsened so quickly because it’s amplified by a bigger problem. He’s going to get himself killed.”
Idies crosses his arms. “This is war, elf. People die.”
“He’s going to die a man if you don’t help him.”
Idies looks at her, worry and shock in his eyes. “He’s—”
“Yes. His final fight is almost upon him.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The horrors of war pour down in the harsh rainfall, but it does nothing to wash Kepp of the blood he now wears. Closer to the city ruins than most probably think he is, he silently sneaks through the rubble, eyes on the makeshift fortress above. It had taken some convincing of Karak—no, Crozacar. The whole situation still confuses him. Crozacar didn’t want to ride Gotham, apparently that’s the only thing the Dark Lord won’t do. But Kepp didn’t want to ride him again either, nor did he want to be around Breel and Kell, so Crozacar eventually agreed. How he’d ever gotten him to, will probably remain a mystery, but Kepp’s just glad he did.