by C D Beaudin
“You won’t be by yourself.”
Awyn stills as Aradon tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“I’m not going to leave you. I need you more than you need me.”
“What do you mean?”
Aradon looks out onto the plains, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “It’s a dangerous secret I’ve carried my whole life.” He takes a deep breath as if preparing himself. “A long time ago, my family went into hiding.”
“Why?” Awyn frowns.
“Because we are the descendants of Idies, the first and last King of Nomarah.”
Awyn’s eyes widen with disbelief, her mouth dropping. This Red Warrior, who has gone through so much, only to hide the biggest secret in the last three ages. “Y-you are the heir of Nomarah. Their king.” Her brow furrows. “But Idies had no children.”
“He did. His brothers must not have known—it was a quick affair, he had no wife. And it was at the beginning of the war, so the kingdoms were occupied. The army had become broken, and the countryside was already in chaos. His children—they were young—and their mother obviously didn’t think they could assume the throne, as the country became a land of robbers and exiles.”
Awyn laughs to herself. He’s the King of Nomarah. Then she realizes what he means by needing her. “You need my army when I become queen, don’t you?”
“Is that a problem?” He raises an eyebrow, a slight smile on his face.
Awyn smiles. “Don’t worry, if you help me get my kingdom back, I’ll help you restore yours.” Awyn notices Aradon still has a look of worry. “What’s wrong?”
“Kaniel knows I’m the heir, he was friends with my family. But he doesn’t know I’m a Red Warrior. You must promise not to tell anyone of this, it could put my kingdom—and yours—in jeopardy.”
“Don’t worry. I understand keeping dangerous secrets.”
Awyn watches a flame as large as a house dance in the middle of the town, and natives dance around it, with elves joining them under the star-filled sky. Tables are pulled out all around the city center, with men and women drinking and laughing, the smell of ale and mead is strong, almost nauseating.
Aradon sits beside the drunk Eldowyn and Keshu, who laugh and cackle loudly, cheering, for no apparent reason, their drinks overflowing with bubbles and foam. Kaniel is across from the sober Aradon, drinking a tankard of ale.
“I never thought I’d see a drunk elf,” Kaniel comments, trying to liven up the solemn Aradon.
“He has a right to drink. Brother killing brother, anyone would experience pain,” the Red Warrior says.
Kaniel sighs, lifting his mug to his lips. “This is true.” The Delcah glances over at Aradon, and Awyn sees the spiteful flame in the warrior’s eyes. Kaniel puts down his drink. “Aradon, your ancestors not knowing your family was alive is not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” Aradon slams his mug on the table. “By the time we gathered enough Red Warriors to fight back, Nomarah was already in chaos. There was no chance of control.”
Kaniel and Aradon lapse into silence.
But the whole valley is filled with laughter, shouts of happiness, and drunkenness. Kera dances with other girls around the fire, twirling colorful scarves around, their skirts flowing with rhythm as their feet move to the sound of the drums, pipes, and a lute. Awyn sits at a table by herself just across from them, drinking for the first time in her life, feeling her past slip away, seeming like just a small spot on her life.
“Hello.” Kera sits down across from her. Awyn takes another sip of her cider, needing some help to talk to her. “I’m not expecting you to forgive me. I was rude and cruel to your state of mind. I had just lost the love of my life, and I felt like nothing mattered, and your problems weren’t as big as my own. I’m truly sorry.”
Awyn puts down her mug. “Well, I know a thing or two about losing someone you love.” She sighs, looking Kera in the eye. “And he wasn’t the love of your life. That kind of love lasts.”
Kera acknowledges her with a grim nod. “I’m dancing to forget.” She gets up abruptly and goes back off to dance.
“I also know what it is to want to hurt someone,” Awyn says to herself. “So badly they end their own life to escape.” Her lips tighten. I’m coming for you, Uncle.
A few days later, Awyn, Aradon, and Kaniel load up their horses with supplies they will need for their journey to Hadore.
“Do you have a sword, Princess?” Gwanawa asks as Awyn puts a folded blanket into her saddle bag.
“No, elder.”
Gwanawa smiles, missing a few teeth, and holds out a beautifully carved sword with sapphires encrusted into the silver handle.
“Oh, it’s so beautiful.” Awyn picks it up, removing the sapphire sheath, to reveal a shimmering silver blade. “Thank you.” She smiles, cinching it to her belt.
“Do you need an extra man?” Eldowyn asks Awyn, who mounts her white horse. “I offer my sword.”
“I would be grateful to have you with us.” She smiles.
A guard brings an extra horse, and the four of them prepare to leave. Awyn turns, taking in the crowd that has gathered to send them off. If I am not to return here, I have failed. She looks to the mountain. But this shall not be the last time I look upon these people. I know it.
They gallop off through the valley, along the river, ready to win back her kingdom.
Chapter Seven
The gate at Rezakai is a daunting sight for Kepp. The thick, black metal forged at the bottom of the ocean creates an impenetrable surface from inside or outside the valley of Kahzacore. The black mountains, or Kuzakai, in the old tongue, surround the evil inside. No man dares to try climbing over them, for they are said to hide an evil of their own.
Inside the valley, on the other side of Rezakai, the Sanarx dwell—creatures of pure evil. They come from the Darklands, the last of their kind, imprisoned when the War of Ardon was won in the First Age. Along with Dalorin, a huge dragon resides there, chained to the base of a mountain. His red scales are said to be as hot as fire, only the Last Lieutenant able to bear his heat.
The water that flows is black, with a bitter taste. The patrons of the valley always have to drink with an unquenchable thirst, and a lust for man’s poison. The food is hard and tasteless. The Dalorin starve, having no souls to take as they always hunger to replace the ones they’ve lost. The tower of Marduth rises within the walls of the Kuzakai mountains, the home of the Keeper of the Sanarx, and the Last Lieutenant, Karak.
Revera walks to the gate, her henchman Calzack hobbling behind her, and Kepp along with them. Her long, red satin dress flows behind her as she walks on the black desert ground, the gate as tall as a cliff looming over her. “Behold, the dark gate of the Sanarx.” She holds out her arms, chanting a very old elf spell, the words muttered are incomprehensible to Kepp. With a loud creaking, the gates open, revealing a black mist. Revera disappears as she walks into the fog, Kepp and Calzack following. When the black fog clears, Kepp’s mouth drops as he sees for the first-time what horrors really live within Kahzacore.
Black water flows through the valley, and piles of wood, metal, and food are scattered everywhere. There are creatures, some call Tarken, whom can only be described as the living dead, with their figures mangled and discolored, metal armor still on their bodies, perhaps from the First Age, seeming to have melted into their skin. The sky itself isn’t blue, but a harsh gray, almost black, with a heavy layer of smoke blocking out any speck of light.
The three of them follow a narrow path through the valley to the Dark Tower. Kepp looks up as rain starts pouring down on them. He snarls in disgust as one of the many Tarken looks at him, a hungry look in the creature’s eyes.
“You mustn’t show them disgust. Some of them were once men, some were elves, some were dwarves, and some were even the long-lost goblins of the north,” Revera says. “Though, don’t take a chance and approach them. Most of the time no one can tell whether they are Sanarx or other cre
atures, but the Sanarx are naturally bigger, and…cleaner-looking than these…things.” She waves her hand in her own disgust at one of the disfigured.
No doubt a former man as Kepp sees a hint of fear in his pupils, and dark sorrow in the man’s black eyes.
When they get to the base of the tower, Revera walks through the opening as a Sanarx holds open a large metal door. Inside, a long flight of stairs winds up the round tower, no windows along the walls. As they head up, Calzack cowers along the wall, the narrow steps have no railing, and his hobbling makes him fall often. Kepp looks at his squished face, his large left eye closed in fear.
At the top of the tall staircase, Revera opens a black door, and a circular room on the other side holds a table, a black throne, and a large balcony. It’s not unlike the one at Nethess, with a black marble floor.
Revera, Kepp, and Calzack walk into the room, her heels clicking against the floor. Streaks of gray swirling within the black surface, along the walls and ceiling, let off an unnatural light, though, they show no visible glowing, which puzzles Kepp. But he has also learned that nothing is the way it seems when it comes to magic.
In the middle of the room they stand, and Kepp marvels at the view outside. Kahzacore, for miles and miles, fires blazing every few yards, and a starving, angry, freezing evil crowd around them. The black fog clouds the base of the mountains, but the black peaks blend in with the dark sky of day. The Sanarx and Tarken chant around the fires, drums rhythmically pounding. Kepp jumps as a loud, roar-like screeching fills the sky, vibrating the tower, making Calzack stumble. Kepp catches him before he falls over.
“That’s just Gotham.”
Kepp turns his head as a shadowy figure emerges from the shadows. His skin is not fair, but white, the sign of pure immortality, and his black, short, thick silky hair matches the light beard around his jaw. Piercing blue eyes seem like they can stare into souls. His toned figure is clothed in a black long-sleeved shirt, tighter than most, and pants, with boots as black as the rest of his figure.
“He doesn’t like strangers. And lets me know when I need to grab my sword.” His accent is different to theirs, probably because he wasn’t born in Mortal. His voice is…clearer.
Revera smiles.
The man seems to recognize this, as he’s no longer tense, lowering his sword. “Ah, I was wondering when you would show up.”
“Lovely to see you too, Karak.”
He smiles, shaking his head as he sheaths his sword, walking toward them. “You know I need to only see that smile and I know it’s you.” He twirls a strand of her hair around his finger. “Besides, who could forget those blue eyes?”
“Now, it’s yours we must be aware of. Some say you can take a life by staring into their soul.” She smirks, and Kepp raises an eyebrow, with Calzack just standing there, a fly on the wall, trembling slightly at the presence Kepp can tell frightens him.
“Well, stories are highly exaggerated.” He looks into her eyes coyly. “But I wouldn’t want to find out.”
Revera chuckles. “As much fun as this is, I did not come here to badinage, I need to know if you are willing to let me borrow your army.”
Karak scoffs, turning away from them. “So blunt. Look, as much as I would love to be free from these…creatures. I can’t let you use them for such a petty use as keeping control of a puny kingdom such as Mera. They were created for much greater things.” He walks over to the table, pouring a red liquid into a silver goblet, which Kepp can’t figure out if it’s wine or blood. “You are going to need a better proposal. This is my army, after all.”
Revera raises an eyebrow, cunningly. “Is it?”
Karak scoffs once again in disbelief, placing the goblet down on the table.
“May I remind you of your own imprisonment, one you have lived through before the War of Ardon,” she says, a familiar mischievous flicker in Revera’s eye. “But don’t worry. You men all need reasons to do things. You won’t go unpaid. I will release you of your personal chains.”
Karak’s face drops, and his eyes hold treacherous doubt. “No one can free me.”
Revera throws her head back as she laughs, her white teeth shining. “Oh, you make me laugh, Karak. Do you really underestimate my power?”
He closes his eyes. “I don’t believe you, only the Light Spirit herself can free me, Master told me all those years ago. He turned me into a living ghost, forever to walk this earth, no freedom, and always having to do his work.” He walks toward them, a deathly look in his eyes. “I want to escape. I want to leave this coffin I’m living in. I may be immortal, but I am not alive.”
Kepp feels pity looking at this man in front of him, who looks at the sorceress in true suffering.
Revera glances back at Kepp, as though she’s annoyed at the realization that he still has feelings, and he’s reacting toward this dead man. Now impatient, she looks back at Karak. “Fine. I can’t release you, but I know someone who can.”
His eyes widen, hope returning. “You don’t mean...?”
“Yes. I don’t know where to find her, but I know how to draw her out. I have a plan and you, Kepp, will help me execute it.” A smile forms on her face as she looks at Karak, her expression as sly as ever. “It will only be a matter of when.”
Aradon comes back from finding wood, snapping the kindling and feeding it to the flames. The night is darker in the valley, with the rushing river beside them. And the mountains around them glow with the flicker of the fire.
Awyn’s close by with a blanket over her legs, eating a handful of blueberries with Eldowyn sitting beside her, staring into the fire. Kaniel also looks mesmerized by the flames as he smokes his pipe, the smell of his redleaf weed wafting through the air.
Aradon throws more wood onto the fire, and leans against a rock, sitting a little away from the group in the shadows, hoping his cloak conceals him.
“Neodyn will greet us with open arms, I’m sure of it,” Awyn says, fiddling with a berry between her fingers.
Kaniel looks at her, doubt in his eyes. “Will he even remember you?” he asks. “You were both young.”
“I’m sure Neodyn will remember me. And if he doesn't, I can always tell him who I am. He must believe me.”
“But he’s trying to avoid a war. He won’t take in strangers lightly, especially if they claim such extreme matters.”
Awyn sits in silence, along with Aradon, who looks up into the inky night sky, closing his eyes, thinking of times long ago. They seem to not even be his memories anymore—now they belong to the stars.
“Aradon! Supper!” His mother had called from the cottage, the smell of stew wafting from the open door she stood in. Aradon had been grooming his horse and dropped the brush into the tin water bucket, leaving the small, three-stalled wooden stable. His parents’ horses neighed as he ran up the small hill toward the quaint cottage in the forest, which had been his home for twelve years—at that point—his whole life.
Inside he’d dashed to his chair across from his mother, who served the stew to him, and his father, sitting at the head of the square table. His dog Rusty had lain on the floor at the other end, his pink tongue hanging out, his back paw scratching his fawn-colored ear.
“Okay! Beef stew tonight!” she chimed. “I added some carrots and onions from the garden in there too. I know how much you boys love your vegetables.” The twinkle in her eye had suggested otherwise.
Aradon had looked at his father, who’d smiled at his mother, and when she turned her back, he’d stuck his tongue out in joking disgust. Aradon had giggled at this, as she sat down.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” Aradon had grinned, and taken a spoonful, tasting the savory mix of braised onion, carrots, and beef.
Across from him, his mother looked at his father, who had nodded his head in confirmation. The broth from the spoon had trickled into his graying, short brown beard.
“Well then.” She’d tucked a piece of her golden hair behind her ear, taki
ng a bite of the stew, licking the broth off her pink lips. “It’s good to know that my hard work is appreciated.” She’d taken another bite.
“So, Aradon, is Thunder doing any better?” his father had asked of him. He was only twelve at the time and had been caring for his father’s sick horse.
“Yeah, he seems to be doing better. His colic is still mighty bad, but those herbs Kaniel gave him seem to be working.”
“That’s good.” His mother had squeezed his dad’s hand. They’d all been worrying about his horse’s welfare.
After supper, she’d cleared the table, and walked over to a tin basin on the counter, placing the dishes in the hot water. The curtains flowed as the wind came through the square window above the counter, the open glass pane creaking.
Across the room, Aradon had helped his father sit in his rocking chair. He hadn’t been able to walk on his left foot since he’d fallen from his horse.
“Thank you, son,” he’d said as he sat. “Now, go get your lute.”
Aradon had run into the only other room of the wooden house where the oak cabinet his father made, the fireplace, and two beds rested. Kneeling beside his bed, he’d pulled out his lute, carefully taking the blanket off it to reveal its smooth surface.
Back in the main room, he sat across from his father on his own chair. The fire crackling in the evening light, had created a dim, glowing atmosphere.
“What shall you play tonight, son?” his father had asked, always excited to hear him play. “I was hoping for the Hill Song.”
“You hope for that every night, Hared,” his mother had said as she came over to hear Aradon play, leaning against her husband’s broad shoulder.
“It is a very good song, Gala,” he’d said cheerfully, grasping his wife’s arm softly.
“Hill Song it is.” Aradon had looked down at his lute. He’d placed his fingers on the frets and started to strum the strings, creating a soft, but happy sound, with the own special twang the lute brings. He used to sing the words, but his throat had been sore, and his mother had forbade him from singing. He’d looked up as his father started to hum along with the lute, his pitch perfect. And his mother had joined him.