by C D Beaudin
But they break apart abruptly, looking into each other’s eyes.
“You could risk losing your soul if you look at me too long,” he says, almost a whisper.
She continues to stare into his eyes. “Then call me a risk taker.” She brings her lips back to his. This time, Karak pushes her away gently.
“This is going to confuse things. I was not meant for such…human behaviors.”
Revera smiles gently, though, his constant upheaval of emotions irritates her. “What were you meant for?”
“Mass destruction.”
Revera’s eyebrows crinkle, confused at his change of heart.
“I have to fulfill my promises,” Karak says quietly.
“I thought you wanted to be free?”
“I do, but he still speaks to me. I can hear his voice. He controls me. He won’t let go until every last bit of his darkness has cast from my body, and what’s left of my soul is freed. But until that day comes, I will do his bidding.”
Revera sighs. She walks away from him. As she’s about to exit from the room, she turns back to Karak. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
He nods.
“But if you try to kill her again without consulting me, I will burn you alive,” she says in a playfully threatening tone as she walks through the doorway.
Karak chuckles.
“But if you know Revera wants to kill me, why try to do it yourself?” Awyn asks, ten feet away from the Blue One.
“Because I love him,” Olaria states. “And he asked me to.”
Awyn scoffs. “You are fooled by love. It is the deadliest weapon of all.”
Olaria glares at her. “What do you know about it?”
“I loved a man once. And he betrayed me.” Awyn walks toward her.
“Then we have more in common.” Olaria looks at her as if they were the same.
Awyn shakes her head. “Not going to work this time.” She sticks Eldowyn’s immortal-killing blade through Olaria’s stomach.
Olaria’s eyes widen as she probably realizes she’s going to die. “You…bastard...” Olaria stumbles back.
Awyn takes out the blade, the blood of the elf disappearing, falling to the ground like silver sand. “Turns out we have even more in common.” Awyn walks down the steps, away from the dying Olaria. She can hear her grunts, and moans of pain, but she ignores them as she makes her way down the empty aisle and throws open the doors.
Dead elves are everywhere, and a very tired Red Warrior and Eldowyn stand in the middle of them, looking at her.
“Did you kill her?” Aradon asks.
Awyn walks up to them, and shoves Eldowyn’s sword to his chest. He grabs it, looking surprised at the gesture. “Yes,” she says as she walks past.
They follow her, down the winding steps, through the city, and over the bridge, into another opening in the cave’s face. The darkness of the tunnel is illuminated with the dim light of torches. The large tunnel looks exactly like the one they came from.
Only with demons of a different kind.
She understands now. Raea wanted me to know this. That’s why she put my life in danger. She wanted me to know that inner demons…should stay inside.
They try to put their distance between them and the chaos of the leaderless Arleaand. They walk in silence, and when they seem to be far enough, they drop their belongings, sitting beside each other against the cave wall.
“Why didn’t you just walk out the back door? It would have been a lot quicker getting to the temple,” Eldowyn says.
Awyn’s lips tighten and she doesn’t tell them of her conversation with Raea, but merely says, “Raea told me to go through that door. She spoke to me.”
Eldowyn, satisfied with the answer, closes his eyes, and relaxes. Aradon looks at the ceiling.
“The Bowman, dethroner of kings,” he mutters. Awyn and Eldowyn look at him, and he returns their stare. “Awyn, dethroner of sorceresses,” he adds.
“Sorceress,” Awyn says. She glances at Aradon. “Dethroner of a sorceress.” Aradon rolls his eyes, and Awyn looks at the blank wall. “Do you remember your first kill?” she asks, to no one in particular. “I remember the blood. The way it seeped from the skin and soaked the clothes. I remember his eyes. The way they widened, and he shook in fear.” She looks at the Red Warrior. “Do you remember?”
Aradon looks down at the ground, closing his eyes briefly as if he’s dredging up a past memory. “Yeah.” He sighs. “But it wasn’t memorable.” He pulls the cloak over himself and sinks down to the ground, his back to them.
The next morning, their feet are sore from walking. Again, no sound leaves their lips, except for the quiet breathing and thump of boots on the stone floor. Awyn can smell the fresh air. Her eyes widen as a cold breeze brushes her bare arms.
“We’re almost out of here!” she shouts, starting to run. She comes to a slope in the cave, made of rocks and rubble. The burbling water of a stream, and the whisper of the wind reaches her ears. She inhales the fresh, wet smell of grass and what must be last night’s rain.
She digs into the rocks, Aradon and Eldowyn right behind her as they toss stones to the ground around them. The promise of the outside world motivates her through the cuts and bruises that the fallen rubble is giving her. As she loosens a small boulder, the rest falls down.
Freedom.
After a moment, her eyes adjust to the light, and the sight of rolling hills of green grass, and tall trees in the distance. She closes her eyes, and the wind blows across her skin, and into the cave behind. Aradon and Eldowyn stand beside her, both looking equally glad to see the outside world again.
The temple on the hill above them shines brightly in the sun. Awyn runs down the steep hill to get to the grass. She makes her way up the hill, stepping onto the walkway. The doors in front of her loom, but there is something different about them.
They’re closed.
“Since when do they close the temple?” Awyn says as Aradon and Eldowyn run up beside her.
“Maybe the king realized it isn’t right to let a temple be vandalized,” the elf says rather harshly.
Aradon walks up to the large, heavy doors. “Well, we have to get inside one way or another.” He pushes the doors, and with ease, they swing open.
A job it would usually take ten or more men to do.
They walk into the temple, past the kneelers, and up to the thrones. The temple is dark, except for the red, blue, and yellow light streaming in from the stained-glass windows. Aradon walks over to the middle throne, the black surface standing out in the otherwise light room. He places his hand on the cold surface, trailing along the curved head. He looks at the seat, it is much less worn than the other four.
“Idies,” he whispers.
“I see you are troubled by seeing your grandfather’s throne vacant and cold.” They turn in surprise as a figure emerges from the shadows.
“Dreema,” Awyn says breathlessly. “You disappeared.”
“Yes, as I often do.” The wizard turns to Aradon. “Do you have thoughts on your grandfather’s throne? Or am I wrong, and you are as cold as your reputation perceives you?”
Aradon shifts uncomfortably. “He wasn’t my grandfather,” he says, sounding slightly mumbled and disgruntled.
“But you’ve called him that since you were a young boy.”
Aradon looks away.
Dreema’s eyes pierce Aradon, but then shift to Awyn. “Neodyn has refused to aid you. Well, I always knew he would. He does what he thinks is best for his people, even if that destroys other’s lives or worlds.”
“Yeah, I, uh, I thought as much.” Awyn nods, joining Aradon in his discomfort.
“Then I suggest we visit a different kingdom.”
“Rohidia?” Awyn asks.
Dreema glances at Aradon, and Awyn sees in his eyes that Aradon knows where he means.
“No. No, we can’t. I can’t,” Aradon mutters. “I can’t! She can’t see me like this. I’d rather
die!” Aradon starts to yell. Suddenly his whole gait—whole being—seems to change. He hunches over and starts to shake violently. Awyn’s eyes widen, and Eldowyn puts a hand on his friend’s back, but pulls away when he sees Aradon’s red eyes.
“The Besged Dia,” Dreema says calmly, in contrast to the flustered Awyn and Eldowyn. “A great surge of unwanted power is passing through.”
“Is-is that why his eyes are red?” Awyn gulps nervously, a bead of sweat dripping down her forehead. Eldowyn looks at the wizard, also with a questioning look. In front of them, Aradon rips at his hair, his knuckles white. He grunts and moans in obvious pain. His veins pop, trailing along his arms, neck, and face.
“Yes. The Besged Dia usually happens after spilled blood, or when a memory or person causes great anxiety. Besged energy amplifies everything. A cold heart becomes colder, and even memories have more effect on the mind. It’s hard to balance mind, body, and spirit, especially for Besgeds. So, every so often—perhaps once or twice in one’s life—the Dia will rise and expel some of the power to make it easier for the power to inhabit the human, and for the human to live with the power.”
He circles the Red Warrior and places a hand on his head. “In the Besged state, eyes turn white. In the Besged Dia, they turn a horrific blood red.”
“I understand, but…who is ‘she’?” Eldowyn asks. “I can’t see her. I can’t find her name.” He looks intensely at Aradon, like he’s trying to read him.
“That is not for me to say.”
Awyn looks back at Aradon, who seems calmer, his hair over his eyes, scratch marks on his face. Then he stumbles back, his arms flexed, with veins popping on his neck and forehead. Whatever Dreema did must have helped him.
“Wha-what happened?” he mutters tiredly.
Awyn grabs his arm softly, steadying him.
“The Besged Dia,” Dreema says.
Aradon breathes harshly. “The Besged Di—I haven’t experienced that in years.” He turns his attention to Dreema and walks steadily now to the wizard. “We should go there. The chief will accept me back, even if I made a mess of the village last time I was there.”
Dreema smiles, nodding in approval. “Well then, off we go.” The two of them start walking toward a door.
Awyn asks Dreema, “Where are we going?”
“The Tanea.”
Chapter Thirteen
Awyn hugs herself, freezing. The plains around them are dotted with a light layer of snow, the dying grass peeking up from the white powder. Cloudy, gray skies loom over the travelers, casting a shadow upon the land. And the snow falls silently and softly, laying down a cold white blanket. The fluff from above falls on Awyn’s nose, tickling her cold skin.
“I do not understand,” she says as she shivers. “Why is it snowing so early in fall?”
Behind her, Dreema answers, “Revera can alter the weather. She must want to hurry the war between her and Hadore.”
Awyn thinks of Neodyn, how he could die in the war brewing. But then she remembers his unwillingness to help her and the terrible things he said and becomes less sympathetic.
The snow is beautiful, but the fact magic made it happen makes it less enjoyable.
No wind beats against their chests, nor whips through their hair. The sky is still shedding off the snow, which seems like the only thing moving except for the travelers, like a perfect painting. Awyn is reminded of Lauralee, the holiday in which the Five Kingdoms celebrate the coming of snow and the first winter.
Legend says a young girl named Lauralee—strange name. But it was hundreds of years ago before the war in the First Age and the land split, so no one pays much attention to it. Anyway, Lauralee had white hair, white eyes, and white skin, and she set out one day to search for a turkey for supper. When she found one, she killed it with her bow and arrow. When she was on her way home, she saw two little boys on the side of the road, dressed in rags and dirt on their small faces. She looked at the turkey she’d killed for her and her mother, who had a warm home and food.
So instead, Lauralee plucked the turkey, cooked it, and gave it the two boys, who hadn’t eaten in days. On the road, Sericia the Light Spirit came to her, and thanked her for her kindness. In reward, she made a season in honor of Lauralee, making it as white as her hair, skin, and eyes. Winter.
The footprints on the ground disappear as new snow falls, covering their tracks. Awyn wraps her cloak tighter around her, the hood over her head. She was lucky enough to grab it when she left her room this morning. They all were.
Eldowyn walks tall unlike the others, who hunch for warmth, but the obvious chattering of his teeth betrays his warm stature. Dreema’s eyes are pinched, the cold nipping at them too.
“We need to wait out this cold.” Awyn shudders, seeing her breath. “It may not be a blizzard, but it’s getting hard to move.” She notices more resistance in her steps, her legs almost aching.
“I agree with Her Highness,” Eldowyn chatters. “W-we-we need to find shel-shelter.”
Aradon stops, pulling back his hood, and looks out onto the freezing plains. “There,” he points at a cave in the far hills, maybe a few miles away. “We can wait the snow out. But I can’t do anything about the cold.” He turns north, and the group follows him, desperate to get out of the biting, bitter temperatures.
Awyn sits as the fire crackles and snaps in the shallow cave. The depth would measure only ten feet, so it’s more an alcove. The gray walls glow orange from the fire, and sparks fly in the air, landing on the dry ground, warm from the fire, but cold from the weather.
Eldowyn sleeps silently, and across from him, Dreema snores in his sleep. She looks into the growing blizzard outside. The snow hurls to earth, seeming to want to tear into the ground. The wind howls monstrously, a ghost in now what is a dark night.
Aradon leans against the wall of the cave, carving a piece of wood, watching as the scraps of bark silently fall to the ground. The point on the stick sharpens, and when he goes to test the tip, a drop of blood falls to the stone floor.
“You must be more careful. Bleeding is a sign of weakness,” Awyn says plainly.
Aradon looks up at her. “Did Revera tell you that?”
A small scoff comes from her lips, and she turns to him. “Revera said a lot of things, but I learned this from someone else.”
“Please! Stop!” Awyn had put her hands up, pleading with Haywen to stop beating her. The slap of the whip through the air, and the sting of its bite had sent another painful yell from her. “Please!” She’d sobbed. “Please, no!”
Another whip and a trail of thick, red blood had run down her arm. She’d crawled under the desk, hiding from the monster. Looking at her arms, she’d been covered in scratches, cuts, lashes, and dirt.
Blood.
“So much blood,” she’d mumbled quietly, barely thirteen and fighting to survive.
Haywen had stood there, wiping the blood off the whip. He’d glanced under the table at her cowering there. “Bleeding is a sign of weakness, Princess,” he’d taunted. He’d tossed the whip to the ground and walked over to Awyn. Grabbing her arm, he’d pulled her from under the desk, and she’d screamed, clutching onto one of the desk legs.
“No!” The word had been sharp and shrill, pain-riddled and wrought with fear. “Let go of me!” she’d cried out.
He yanked her back, sending her flying through the air, hitting the door. Hard. Haywen had picked up her limp body, laying her roughly on the bed.
A slap brought Awyn back into full consciousness. Her eyelids had fluttered open, and Haywen stood over her, looking down. He’d held a small knife to her lips.
“Remember, Princess. Weakness can kill you,” he’d said in mock consideration, an evil smile growing on his face. “I wish I could stay longer. I know how much you love my company.” He’d tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “But alas. Duty calls.” Then he’d planted a harsh kiss on her forehead.
When he left, Awyn had crumpled on her bed, hiding her t
ears in her pillow.
She’d sniffed, pushing up her ripped sleeve, only for it to fall to her elbow again. Awyn had painfully walked to the desk, grabbing the needle. She’d torn out a loose thread from her dress and weaved it through.
Her teeth had clenched as she put the needle through her raw, bloody skin. The pain was bad, but she’d welcomed it. A few stitches in and she’d pulled, squeezing her eyes shut at the pain. She tied the suture off, ripping the extra thread with her teeth, putting the line in the drawer.
Within the drawer a mirror had resided, and Awyn grabbed it, holding it up to see herself. There had been a cut just under her eye. She’d run her finger over the rough edge, smearing the blood.
“Bleeding is a sign of weakness,” she’d muttered to herself.
“Rokal!” Karak yells as he walks toward the dancing Tarken, the huge fire blazing. “Rokal!” At the sound of the lieutenant’s voice, all the Tarken and Sanarx present, rush to stand in line, stick-straight and chins up in respect for their leader. Karak eyes them, scanning for the dwarf.
“Where is Rokal?” he roars as more devils line up, creating a straight square around him.
“Here, sir!”
Karak turns as a small figure squeezes through two large Sanarx. Karak walks over to him, looking down on the red-haired, dirty dwarf. He clasps his hands behind his back. “Rokal, what do you have for me today?”
“Aye, I got a perty one, sir. I’m sure you’ll find her very acceptable.” He scratches under his black eye patch, sniffling. As the only alive one here, Rokal is Karak’s messenger and spy.
“Good. Do you have a name?”
The dwarf smiles, his toothy grin missing a few stained pearly-whites. “Brega.”
Up in the Black Tower, a man walks into the room. He shuts the door behind him. Prone on the bed, Brega is tied up, and defenseless.
The man walks over to her. “Hello, I am Karak.” He smiles, taking out her gag.