by C D Beaudin
The sun never shines through the thin leaves. Rain never falls, leaving the ground dry. And there are rocks, sharper than a king's sword. The river that once flowed through the forest has dried up. Some say the empty trenches store the blood of those who have died in the woods, but no one's ever come out to say for sure, and those that have, don't say anything anymore.
Awyn feels the dry ground as she steps off the bridge. Between her toes, the reddish-gray grass tickles sharply, as if it’s cutting her. Yearning for a last look at her city, she turns toward the bridge. A score of men are on the other side, fully armed, but hesitating, in fear of the forest. With one last look at the city, she turns back to the Dark Woods.
The world moves slowly again. Her hearing buzzes, and her vision becomes hallucinogenic. Shadows. Shadows moving everywhere, as she enters the forest. The sky becomes gray. The light seems unnatural and haunting. She stumbles on a rock, falling against a tree. A dripping sound fills her head and she notices a tingly feeling. Looking up, a trail of red blood seeps down the trunk. She shrieks, backing away from it. Awyn looks down at her arms, they’re covered in blood, but not her own. Everything becomes clear to her now.
She’s in a living nightmare.
Skittishly, she walks through the forest, clutching her hands, her eyes darting everywhere. Every rustle, every whisper, Awyn jumps, and shrieks, sending her into a cold sweat. A shadow passes on the ground, touching her ankle. She yells out, stumbling and falling to her knees, clutching her arms as she rocks. Her crying seeming like screams of sheer terror. Awyn’s tears fall on the grass, and the drops seem to burn holes in the reddish grass blades under her feet.
I can't do this. This forest will eat me alive. I’m not strong enough. And my back. Oh, my back! The pain is indescribable. My whole-body aches, and my head is weary. The light is fading. Even through the trees I can see night begins to fall. I can't survive the Dark Woods at night, I'm already tormented throughout the day.
I should have let those soldiers kill me.
Awyn is filled with regrets. She’s tormented by them. If she had just let Tamon kill her…
“At least that way, my death would have been quick,” she whispers as she clutches herself tighter, feeling the cold of the coming night. I can't do this alone. Everywhere I look, there seems to be an evil creeping. Every sound, every touch, I scream out in terror. She rocks, her head just inches from the ground, and her eyes closed.
Awyn stays like this for what seems like forever. There is no way she is getting through this. Death seems like a sweet release. Though, here, death is painful and long. Awyn opens her eyes, knowing that if she wants to survive, she has to keep moving. Though, the feeling of want is dim.
I need to do this. If not for myself, then for my kingdom. I can't let them live under the wicked rule of Lord Tamon any longer.
She stands up, feeling the pain in her back, but pushes through it.
I won't be able to walk for much longer; my back is too painful. I need to find somewhere to sleep for the night.
Through the forest she walks, trying to stay calm at the sight of shadows or the sound of whispering. When she approaches the river, to her relief she finds no blood, just an empty ditch. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. Thank the stars, the stories are wrong about something. Another deep breath and she starts to carefully scale the steep ditch.
Her fingers dig into the earth wall, stopping her from slipping down. She cringes at the feel of the dirt. She hasn't touched it for years, but the feeling is...more pulpous—wetter than she remembers. Awyn pulls her hand out, and to her absolute horror, realizes the stories weren't completely wrong. Her hand is soaked in blood. Her eyes widen, and she stumbles backward, tumbling onto the ditch floor. She groans, her skin stained with blood. Digging her fingers back into the dirt, she resumes her climb.
Keep going. You need to keep going.
Her mission pains her, only wanting to run into a corner and scream into her hands until she can't talk. But with her fingers digging into the blood-soaked dirt, she climbs the other side of the ditch. She’s trying not to gag at the terrible smell of the blood the stories say belong to the elves that were massacred in this forest.
A haunting call of an owl echoes through the forest. The night sky peers through the gray canopy making the leaves seem black in the darkness. No moonshine bursts through the trees, creating a darkness unlike any Awyn has ever experienced. There is little light. She’s almost blinded by the darkness. Even when she was locked up in the lowest cell of the prison under the castle of Kevah, she had some light.
It's so dark. Awyn rubs her arms, shivering. Her dress does nothing to shelter her from the icy air. And so cold. Stopping, she feels a jab of pain in her back. Putting her hand on her wound, she tentatively probes the flesh. The blood. I've lost a lot of blood. She looks up—she thinks it’s up—at what she assumes is the trees. Her vision wavers. Too much blood.
Passing out, she hits the ground hard, limp as wet grass.
Awyn groans, waking up, her eyelids fluttering open. The roof startles her, her eyebrows crinkling with confusion. Slowly, she sits up, looking down at the blanket covering her, the bandages around her arms, and the bed she's in.
The smell of bread wafts through the hut. Her eyes dart around the room, looking at everything. Bunches of drying flowers and herbs, and jars of brown and green liquid remedies sit everywhere. Books of science and magic alike are stacked on chairs and tables. The hut is quite messy, with one bed and a thin mattress, the thick, woolen blanket on her legs.
She stirs on the bed. Quickly Awyn checks her back, and to her surprise, her hand feels a lump over the wound. A poultice has been placed over the stab wound. She inhales the welcome fragrance of bread and burning wood. The warmth of the crackling flames reaches her, and she slowly turns her head to the stone and mortar fireplace, a shriek escaping her lips when she sees a man.
He sits in his chair with his long, brown pipe in his hand, smoking what smells like redleaf weed, watching the fire flicker in the fireplace. Her eyes feel wide, and she can't bring herself to blink. He’s a gray-skinned man, with long, straight black hair. He slowly looks away from the hungry flames of the fire and up at her.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I am Kaniel.” His black eyes stare into Awyn's, seeming to hold a thousand secrets, the light flickering from the fire reflecting in his eyes.
“Y-you have gray skin.” Awyn gulps. She’s never seen a man like him before.
When he speaks, his voice sounds as if it comes from the very earth. “I am a Delcah. We are gray-skinned folk.”
“A Delcah. I-I've heard about your kind, and the wisdom they hold, but I've never seen one before.” Awyn's fear turns to curiosity as she gets a better look at this stranger. He's tall, and kind-looking, with tired features. His face is riddled with the wisdom of the ages. “Where am I? Did you clean my wounds?”
“You are in my home. And I did place the poultice and clean your cuts. But alas, that is not why I saved you.” He takes in another deep draw of smoke.
“Why did you save me?” Awyn grips the blanket tightly, suddenly tense and nervous. The man could say anything. He may be a servant of Tamon.
“I saved you because you are supposed to be sitting on the throne of Mera, not your uncle.”
Awyn freezes with what she’s sure is a dumbfounded expression on her face.
A small smile grows on Kaniel’s lips. “You didn't think anyone outside the kingdom could possibly remember? Or perhaps even care? Well, I know more than you expect, so do a lot of people. Even now, the legends of the Kawa are coming true.”
“The Kawa? That tribe in Nomarah?”
“No Man's Land. Yes. The Kawa are a special people, with a gift for foresight. They foresaw the fall of Mera long ago, along with the disappearance of the elves, and all the perilous events that happened eighteen years ago.”
“What happened eighteen years ago?” Awyn asks, unsu
re what the Delcah has in store for her. Kaniel puffs again on his pipe and looks back into the fire.
Something about his mannerisms tells Awyn he isn’t about to reveal the whole truth. She can only hope it will unfold over time. But that doesn’t curb her need to know what happened to her kingdom. Sighing, she fiddles with her ripped sleeve and glances over at Kaniel, who stares into the fire. He’s unreadable, his black eyes emotionless. She can’t even tell if he’s young or old, only that he’s wise. Perhaps she was meant to meet him, or he was meant to guide her. But at the moment she’s having a hard time believing in fate.
Or hope, for that matter.
Kaniel lifts the kettle, pouring it into the cups that rest on the table. The sweet aroma of the apple reed tea wafts over as the red liquid swirls around the white cup. “Would you like some honey?” he offers.
“This will do, thank you.” Awyn takes a sip, the strong flavor filling her mouth.
“It will help with the pain,” the Delcah states calmly.
She takes another sip. Her dry throat softens as the warm, spicy tea trickles down her throat. She licks her lips. “Mm, thank you.”
“Of course.” Kaniel puts the kettle on a cloth, sitting down beside Awyn, the chair creaking under him. Dust covers the books on top of the rough wooden surface of the table, along with jars that jostle with them on the table to presumably save room.
“Mm.” Awyn licks her lips again. “This is really good. And I can feel the pain soften.” She puts the cup down on the table. “So, I really want to know why you helped me. Why didn’t you leave me to be devoured by Dalorin?”
Smoke curls from Kaniel’s lips as he sucks on the pipe again. Awyn amends her request. “I want to know what happened eighteen years ago.”
Kaniel looks at her. “The fall of your family nine years ago wasn't the only terrible event that happened to our world of Mortal. When your uncle joined forces with the sorceress Revera, darkness fell onto the land of Asgoreth.”
“Asgoreth. The kingdom to the north. Yes, it was a great kingdom once, long ago.” She eyes up the Delcah. “But the Kingdom of Asgoreth was lost long before nine years ago.” Her uncle had only become Revera’s ally nine years ago, when her family fell.
“It's true, the sorceress Revera had made it into a desert land, exiling or killing its people, the once great kings falling to their knees before her, only to have their heads cut off. She drove out the elves from Radian, creating them into terrible monsters of darkness, and turning their once beautiful forest into the terrifying Dark Woods, where nothing resides except despair. The disappearance of the elves and the fall of Asgoreth was the result of Revera leaving your father's court eighteen years ago.”
“But why would she leave?” Awyn takes another sip of the tea, feeling relief wash through her as the pain subsides.
“She was in love with Daron. He didn't reciprocate. He had loved your mother, Queen Adara. She was furious, promising she’d not rest until everything he held dear was destroyed. Of course, this included his dear friend Baldwin, the King of Asgoreth, and his alliance with the elves of Radian Forest. Nine years later, she foresaw in the Eye of Aiocille that your uncle, Lord Tamon, loved your mother. She sought him out, encouraging him to pursue your mother. When she declined him, he was outraged. Revera convinced him to kill the king, so Adara would finally notice him. When she didn't, Revera killed her, wanting Lord Tamon on her side. She wanted to kill you, but as you probably know by now, your uncle couldn't do it. So they locked you up.” Kaniel takes another quick puff of his pipe.
Awyn stares into her tea, trying to sort through this information. “So, Revera is the real villain of this story?” Awyn whispers, breathlessly.
Kaniel nods slightly. “It would seem so. But don't be fooled, your uncle still has a part in this, and you need to reclaim your throne.”
Chapter Two
Aradon watches the giant fire in the courtyard monstrously flickering. Around it the residents of Olway bustle, shoveling hay, and hauling water. Men drunkenly walk through the stone courtyard—away from the music and laughter coming from within the Laughing Lady.
He leans against the rough stone of a house wall in the shadows, waiting for Hagard to arrive. His black hood is pulled over his wet, dark brown hair. He should blend in with the shadows perfectly, the cloak concealing his clothes and face—totally invisible to the world—exactly how he likes it. Being a Red Warrior, keeping his identity hidden is a necessity, with the sorceress in the north always watching—everything, and everyone. She knows things, things about the smallest of folk. Things that could tear entire kingdoms down. It’s all part of her plan to destroy everything good in this world.
Horse hooves click against the stone and Aradon looks across the courtyard, watching as the dwarf heavily drops down, tying up the chocolate colored horse. He walks inside the Laughing Lady tavern, the light from inside shining briefly before he closes the wooden door.
Stealthily, Aradon moves through the shadows, toward the door. Inside, the tavern is alive with revelry and music, two men in a corner, one playing the lute, the other the pipe, create a happy, energetic atmosphere. Cackling and boisterous laughter come from drunk men, and women parade around them, sitting on their laps or pouring ale. At the bar, a row of men sit drinking, mead dripping from their ragged, thick beards and mustaches.
He catches a glimpse of the stealthy dwarf, the action extremely rare for his kind. Through the crowd Aradon walks, server girls bumping into him, their dresses low cut and their hair piled high. The tavern is filled with harlots and criminals, but one can expect that in Nomarah.
“Would you like a drink, handsome?” A red-haired girl who bites her lip, stands in front of Aradon, her pink dress fluffed out and revealing.
“I'm all right, thanks.” Aradon pushes past her, leaving her behind to seduce some other man.
In the corner table he sits down, and the dwarf looks up at him from his tankard of mead. A large burp comes from him, his mustache soaked with man's poison.
“Hagard,” he says, taking extra precautions to keep his voice low.
“Ah, me laddie! Yer made it on time. I was beginnin' to tink ye wasn't comin'.” His thick and curiously mixed accent turns to laughter as he stands up to hug Aradon. He leans in to him even though Aradon is soaked with the rain of the night. With no hug from Aradon, Hagard releases him, plopping back down into his seat.
“Supposing you aren't too drunk to remember, do you have any information for me?” He makes sure no one can hear, even though the dwarf makes no such effort.
Hagard chugs his drink, and it dribbles onto his beard. With a thud he sits his mug down, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Aye, I suppose. Rumors are comin' from Mera. Da princess has escaped.”
Aradon sits straighter, surprised at this news. He leans in closer to Hagard, knowing now they are speaking of dangerous things. “The princess? King Daron's daughter?” His mind is riddled with disbelief, and he’s no doubt showing it along with a troubling hint of fear on his face.
“Aye. Says she ran inta de Dark Woods. Presumed dead, she is. It's not as if she's a coming back from dat dark place.”
All Aradon can think about is the legend. As Hagard drinks till his eyes cross, Aradon starts mumbling his thoughts, “It's happening. It's started.” Aradon breathlessly looks up as Hagard burps.
“I'm not quite sure what ye talkin' about now, but I do know dat de sorceress will not be happy wit dat Lord, eh, Tamon.” Hagard cackles as he lets out another burp. “I mean, how does one young lassie manage to escape de clutches of a full-grown man, eh? Well, da people were in a bit of a flurry, you'd imagine. At first, dey know not who she was, but dey drew da conclusion da princess was alive, all dese years. Boy, did dey whip demselves for dat one, I tell ya.” Hagard takes another chug of his mead. “Dough, I don’t tink dey will do anyting ‘bout it. Dey aren’t exactly in de position to rise up.”
“Mm, right,” Aradon says, only half-listening to the dwar
f.
“But, ye know, I tink she may have been wounded. Someone told me of a trail of blood when she ran trou da streets. Me tinks Tamon tried ta kill her. Oh ho, da sorceress is not gonna be impressed wit dis one, I tell ya. Not impressed at all.”
Another young girl walks up to the table, wearing a blue dress, with her blonde hair done up, and thick, red lip paint on. “Hey, boys. Anyone want somethin' to eat?” Her voice is asking, wanting, in a risqué, suggestive way. Now she places her hand on her hip, wanting the attention. It's why she was hired.
“I'll take a plate of goose wings! Make em' extra spicy!” Hagard thunders. The girl smiles and walks away, disappearing into the crowded tavern.
“Hagard, you do realize that the princess must survive if the people of Mera can ever be free?”
“Aye, I tend not to dwell on de seriousness of da world...” He takes another swig of his honey ale, the foam falling onto his black leather-scale vest. A goofy grin appears on his yellow teeth. “When I’m in me cups.”
Aradon sighs. “Well, you won't be conscious soon.” He puts a sack of coins on the table, knowing Hagard will be too drunk to remember to pay, and leaves the tavern.
Through the shadows he weaves toward his black horse tied up at the entrance of the town. Mounting up, he urges the horse on, galloping on the road away from Olway, the heat of the giant fire of the town behind him as he ventures atop the plains in the valley.
The wind whips his hood behind him, drying his wet hair. The rain, now stopped, leaves the plains smelling fresh. Aradon urges his horse on faster. The road to Kaniel's is long and dangerous, the plains and mountains of Nomarah filled with criminals and exiles. Though, the roads are less dangerous when one has the mark of the Red Warrior branded on their left shoulder. It keeps many at a distance, and many kingdoms fear it.