by C D Beaudin
Hopefully this isn’t too obvious. “Red Warriors! Cadets! Gather here.”
They are quick to follow his instructions. “Men, we face an enemy that doesn’t want to kill us. They want to burn us, torture us, destroy our will. And they will enjoy every minute of it. That dragon has been an enemy of Nomarah since the First Age. Do we let him live? The man riding it destroyed half the world. Are we to let him live? And those that follow him, will we show them mercy?”
He scans the crowd, and in this moment, he forgets why he’s doing this and imagines himself as king. “We are soldiers of Nomarah. We may be broken, but we are still a people with pride. We may have lost our honor, but we still have our swords. But that isn’t all we need to fight. We need to be one. Unified. Strong. Shall we let our brothers in need fall when we can save them? Is that who we are?” Aradon looks over at Idies. The king’s slight smile is approving. Aradon exhales. Just another few days and he won’t have to be king. Or make speeches. He can be free.
Truly free.
Even though it’s not the kind of freedom he wants.
He lifts his sword in the air, but he ignores the lie he’s spitting. “If we are to burn, then we shall burn as one. If we are to fall, we shall fall as one. And we will die as one. One country. One nation. One people. Under the sky of fire we will fight, and if it shall be our day, then under the sky of fire we shall die!”
The Red Warriors touch their fist to their chests. A sign of respect, but do they mean it?
Aradon only wishes he meant every word.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Fire!” Sidah yells from behind a broken stone wall, the warriors shooting arrows at the dragon above.
Aradon draws his bronze bow, sharpening his vision to fire the arrows at the Last Lieutenant who rides the great beast’s back, but he’s no elf, and he misses. Ducking as another volley of arrows releases, he steps out from the cover of the wall and dashes across the courtyard, vaulting up to the makeshift fortress wall and shoots several arrows without stopping. He sees them hit the dragon, Gotham letting out a roar. Only bronze arrows will pierce dragon scales. Though, he hasn’t told Sidah that yet.
“Aradon, look out!” a voice shouts a warning behind him just as fire rains down.
Jumping from the wall, he hits the ground hard, fire lapping his clothes, but he quickly rolls against the cold earth. The flames extinguished, he gets to his feet. Looking for the voice, he sees Hagard and his brothers furiously fighting someone who must be part of the Knights. Running over to him, he’s thrown forward as something sharp enters near his shoulder blade, tumbling violently into the slushy snow. Standing, he barely gets turned around before another piercing fills his shoulder. Looking down, his hand clutches the knife. Pulling it out, he looks at the person who threw it and sees a brown-skinned, gray-eyed elf glaring back at him.
She charges at him, wasting no time on elven acrobatics and throws another dagger.
Ducking, he grabs her arm as she nears him and with a firm grip, smashes her against the ground like a rag doll. She grunts but pulls his arm down and twists onto his stomach to bring him down to the ground. She stabs a knife into his hand, right through his flesh, through the snow and into the hard ground below. He lets out a pained yell.
Again, she stabs through his wrist and into the stiff earth.
Aradon cries out, and grabs at her, but she quickly stabs his other hand and smashes it against the ground, another knife stuck in the ground. He feels himself weaken. He tries to escape them, but his struggling only abates him more.
She grips his chin. “Kepp’s told me many things about you, Besged. Lucky where I’m from there’s plenty of weapons that can kill your kind.” She takes out another knife. “Besged Blades. Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Stop talking. Get on with it and kill me.”
She smiles. “As you wish.” She lifts a knife to stab him, but a hand catches her and drags her to her feet.
“No, Nakelle.”
Aradon recognizes the accent, and after a moment recognizes the face too. “Trad. Little late, huh?”
“Sorry.” Breel looks down at the elf in his firm grasp. “I was dueling with some Red Warriors, had to make it look real.”
“Make what look real, Breel?” Nakelle spits.
“I told them everything.”
“Did you tell them who they’re really fighting?”
Aradon’s eyes narrow. “What?”
Breel’s eyes are frantic. “I only found out after I returned from Hillstone.” He’s pleading for his life now, and when Aradon escapes these daggers he isn’t sure if it’ll do Breel any good. “Aradon, please. You have to believe me.”
Aradon looks from him to Nakelle. “He wants you to fight against Revera.”
Nakelle’s eyes are slits. She glares at Breel, and in the next moment escapes his grasp, flipping him onto his back, slamming him hard against the ground. He groans, and she proceeds to take out another blade.
“I fight who I choose to fight.” She lifts her dagger to stab him but this time an arrow tears through her arm, knocking the knife right out of her hand. She cries out, tumbling forward onto Breel. She rips the arrow out of her arm and looks back at someone.
Karak.
But he isn’t the Karak Aradon knows and hates.
“Elf,” he starts. “Who is that?”
Nakelle groans, clutching her arm, blood seeping through her fingers, and sweat visible even in the gray of the day. “Crozacar.”
Aradon closes his eyes. This just got so much worse.
He yells into the ground, livid at the mess they’re in. Clenching his fists, he grits his teeth as he uses all his strength to lift his hands and wrists from the ground, straining so the blades don’t rip right through more of his skin. He feels his Besged state rushing through him, and the pain disappears. Standing, he pulls the knives from his arms, aware of the blood but not feeling pain. His vision narrows on Karak. Or Crozacar.
He doesn’t feel himself walk over to him, but he does feel the presence of another Besged as Idies steps in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Aradon’s voice sounds far off but loud.
“He’s mine,” Idies says.
Crozacar smiles. “Funny. That’s just what I was about to say to the Ether.”
“What kind of idiot would let you in his body?” Idies insults.
Crozacar runs a hand through his hair. “I do like my new skin. Karak’s screaming in my head but I’ve learned to tune him out.”
“Well, he got what he deserved,” Aradon says.
Idies looks back at him, and Aradon realizes the warriors not firing at Gotham are staring at them. For how long—he doesn’t know.
He lets himself slip out of the Besged state, but feels the pain hit him like a wild stallion. He staggers and groans, holding out his arms that are killing him, like he’s begging for mercy. Maybe he is? What he’s done is unacceptable, but he doesn’t want to stop. He hurried this battle on, he may have just killed all of his friends. The Knights didn’t attack for a reason. Kepp was their signal. And he just rushed the Dark Lord into action.
Through the corner of his eye, he sees Saine walk out from behind Idies, and a last-ditch attempt spills from his mouth. “Crozacar, you may be powerful, but you’re in someone else’s body, your Knights have abandoned you, and you’re fighting three Besgeds. Your odds are as good as mine are at keeping out of the Darkness when I die. And I have a feeling you know what I mean better than most, so it’s your choice. But choose wisely. Because I’m not scared of fighting even you.”
Idies raises his chin. “I killed you once, Crozacar. I can kill you again.”
Crozacar smirks Karak’s grin. “I’m not giving my breath up this time.”
“Then prepare to have it ripped from your lungs.” Idies swings his sword but Crozacar easily counters it, fast and swift. Idies seems to be rushing with his swordsmanship. Aradon isn’t surprised, he’s been dead for a long time. Karak�
��s body is still in its prime, whatever that means for an immortal. It’s not long before Idies loses his footing and Crozacar takes advantage of it by kicking him to the ground.
Aradon leaps into action and blocks Crozacar from killing his ancestor. The ringing as their swords escape their pressure stings Aradon’s ears. He coughs, doubling over, spitting out blood. He’s only a little aware as Saine fights for him, Eldowyn’s hand gripping his and dragging him out of the fray while Hagard does the same with Idies.
Aradon’s vision clouds, his veins feel swollen and his heart beats too fast, the pumping loud in his ears. He feels the rushing of his blood, and the painful wheeze of his lungs as they draw in air. Gasping for breath, his power runs too fast through his veins, not settling. It sends too many emotions clouding his mind and he starts shaking. Fear. Anger. Doubt. Guilt. So much guilt. This is a different Aradon from the one on the battlefield, the one who was painted in blood and loved it. The one who didn’t see an enemy but a chopping block. This Aradon is someone he’s never known. He’s vulnerable, and he’s terrified.
Because he knows who he is.
And it horrifies him.
His eyes widen when he sees Crozacar stand on top of the wall, his sword in the air. “No.” Talking hurts, walking hurts, his breath is painful, but he hobbles toward him.
A hand grips his wrist.
“He’s—” A jolt of energy sends him to the ground. Two silver eyes look down at him. They beg him to focus on them and only them. Implore him to forget the battle and forget himself. Just focus on the calm of the sparkling gray, a pond under moonlight.
They plead.
And he relents.
He hears the wall break. The sour, muddy smell of the Tarken. The thunderous footsteps of the Sanarx. His friends run past him, but those silver eyes don’t leave him, even in the chaos. They’re steady and constant.
And in battle, he falls asleep into the memory of the real reason he’s a monstrosity.
Water had been poured onto his head, drenching him, lurching him awake. His head had hung forward, hair drooping in wet cords over his face. He’d coughed, flexing his fingers. Becoming acutely aware that he had no weapon at his side, and he was suspended by chains. He’d opened his eyes, quickly adjusting to the dim torchlight. The room was a rock box, designed to keep people like him inside.
Rolling his neck back, he’d let it hang, looking at the ceiling. Even when the door opened, and he could hear footsteps, he’d stayed still. He’d let himself breathe, knowing he only needed to wait for the perfect moment to bust out of the chains that bound him.
But the sound of a whip made him look forward.
The woman had glared at him with piercing but sheltered eyes. He couldn’t read anything in them. They were single-lidded, indicating her Ai origin, a land in the west of Mortal. Her hair was midnight-ocean black, straighter than the Plains of Iandore are flat. She’d walked up to him but not close enough that he could stretch his neck and rip out her throat.
“Aradon, son of Hared. Heir to Idies’ Nomarian throne. Besged. Red Warrior. Potential Master.” Her accent had definitely been Ai.
“Have you been talking to Kaniel?”
Amusement had flickered over her face but was gone quickly. “I couldn’t find him.”
She knows who Kaniel is? She knows who I am? “Who are you, then?”
Her chin had risen slightly, such a casual gesture it could have been a blink. “I am the Lotus.”
He’d raised a brow. “The Lotus? Did you take that name right out of a storybook?”
She’d smiled tightly, a dishonest expression. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want is to get out of these chains. You know I’m a Besged, so why don’t you unlock these before I break out and snap your neck?”
The Lotus had nodded, calmly and quietly walking closer to him as she picked a blade from her pocket. It was so small Aradon could have laughed, but when she’d gently pierced it into his bicep he’d yelled out, the pain intense. It was the first time he’d ever experienced a knife like that.
“What is that?” he’d said as she took it out and wiped it off on her pant leg.
“A Besged Blade.” She was so calm, he was close to spitting in her face. “It lets me control your kind.”
“I’m the last one.”
“Yes.” She’d stepped in closer, inches from his face, but never once did she touch him. “Doesn’t that make you special?”
He’d been silent, and that seemed to amuse her once again.
“Aradon, I want us to have a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Oh yeah? What would that mean for me?”
“You like killing, yes?”
“Sure.”
“Then we should get along fine. As long as you don’t mind being in those chains when you aren’t out on my assignments.”
He’d glowered. “Why would I do anything for you?”
The Lotus had smiled and pressed the Besged Blade into his chest this time, making him scream out.
He should’ve just let her kill him. He should have refused. The pain would have been bad, but it would have been over eventually.
Now he was stuck being three different people.
Aradon, the brave warrior and heir to a noble throne. Aradon, the bloodthirsty murderer who feels nothing when he kills and knows that he never wants to stop. And lastly, the man who wants to be someone else. The man who doesn’t want to be the warrior-heir or the murderer. And while he’d never admit it, a part of that Aradon, the one who wishes to be free, wants to be back in the Lotus’ chains.
Because in those days—the Black Years—he knew who he was. He was a sword. He wasn’t the hand that controlled it.
He was a mindless weapon.
And he’s learned that having a mind can be more of a curse than most think it is.
Freedom. Captivity. Killing. The crown. These are who he is.
He isn’t a youth anymore, but he still has no idea which one he needs to be. The Red Warriors said to be the Killer. The Lotus said to be the Captive. The Tanea said to be the Crown, and Kaniel said to be the Killer again, and he gave in to it. He became the worst part of himself. And even if they all contrast one another, even if he knows he can only be one of them… That doesn’t change the fact that he wants to be every Aradon that’s ever walked the earth.
But even now, he has only one wish, only one need—to die a Besged. He’s never wanted it so badly. He hasn’t ever thought about it, he didn’t know he’d have to. The Besged Cross is a bedtime story, and part of him always thought it would remain as such. But he’s learned many things over the past several years. And if gods are real, then they can die.
Besgeds were considered gods among men.
So why should their death be human?
“Awyn. You cannot even consider this. You will destroy everything.”
She looks at Dreema. “I have nothing left to care about if I unleash destruction.”
“Your friends? Your family?”
She clutches herself. “You’ve been gone a long time, Dreema.”
“I know. And I regret leaving you. But I had to. I had to find another way.”
“You knew this was my destiny?”
“Yes.” She looks at two of the tallest pillars. Between them is a rectangle of black air. The veil. She feels it inside herself. Luring.
“Why does it call to me?”
“It wants your blood. Fate has declared you die here.”
She glances back at him. “Then who am I to step on the toes of fate?”
Dreema shakes his head. “Awyn.” His voice is desperate, matching the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry you find yourself alone in death as you were in life. I apologize for what this world did to you. But if you let yourself die here, you will become the villain you wish to stop.”
Awyn, shaking, turns back to him. “I remember hating Revera more than I remember my father’s smile. The memory of be
ing locked up is stronger than I can recall a never-ending field. Memories of sleeping on wood stay with me more than the softness of a pillow. Stone for bread. Blood for water. Fighting. Surviving. When I just wanted to live. I forgot what life was like a long time ago. I was robbed of it.” She exhales. “I never chose war. But I fought it. I didn’t choose life. But I survived it. And now you’re telling me, that when I finally have a chance at freedom…that it can’t be mine?”
Dreema looks away from her eyes. “I will not have you die. Nor turn into a monster.”
Awyn shakes her head, and approaches him, a hand on his shoulder. With gentle fingers, she turns his head to look at her. “I will never be the Awyn you once knew. But if I stay, I fear I will turn into something a lot worse than Revera.” Tears fall. “So much pain. Grief. I don’t recognize who I am, but I don’t want to hate myself. So, please. Let me leave before Awyn is completely destroyed.”
Dreema clutches his staff—his safety and surety. Awyn doesn’t have either of those.
“Awyn. Do you understand what you’d be doing? No one has died while on the Isle. Your blood may open the Other World, but that doesn’t mean it’ll open for you.”
“But it could?”
He’s silent at that but speaks again. “You will never know peace until your Being is whole again. And that part of you in the Darkness? You’ll never get her back.”
“So there will be no difference whether I stay or go?”
He nods.
Awyn shakes her head. “You underestimate me, Dreema. Because unlike you, I don’t care.” She turns to the veil.
“You will destroy the good in Awyn if you die now.”
She looks back at him, eyes narrowed. “You don’t understand. When I was saying I didn’t want to destroy myself, I wasn’t talking about the good. There’s no good left in me, Dreema. I’m not fighting this war for the world. If they want to live so badly, they can defeat Revera on their own.” Anger. Anger at those who fought with her instead of saved her. “I’m done.”