Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

“It’s all right your Highness; Lark is just full of nerves. I’ve heard other men talk about this before they go into battle.” Raven turned Abbadon back towards her.

  Illera smiled at him. “Thank you, my friend. The way Lark wants to organize things you’d think he was my troop leader instead of you.”

  Raven laughed aloud. “Lark has always been the leader ever since we were young. He just does what comes naturally, and he’s good at it. I think it annoyed him that you picked me instead of him. I don’t have as much experience at telling people what to do.”

  “I know.” Illera slid down Commitment’s side. “That’s why I selected you. I don’t want to argue about my orders every time I give one.”

  Raven followed her to the tent they had erected for her.

  “And what are your orders, your Highness?”

  Seating herself in a folding chair, Illera shook her head. The commotion of the camp had caused a return to the dizziness of the morning.

  “I think you should station some men behind the one hill, good men, familiar with weapons and fighting. Some of the younger untrained men should be with them as well. Anyone who is good with the bow should be on the hilltops. They can shoot from there down into Korul’s army and try to avoid our men, whom they are using as shields, as you said. When the lines are mixed, the archers can join the fighters below. I want the men behind the hill held in reserve and if it appears that Korul is pushing our men back, then bring them in behind Korul’s army and sandwich him between two of our forces.”

  “Do you really think we have enough men to allow for that?”

  “How can I say? I don’t know, probably not, but I can’t think of anything else to do. Ride in and strike and ride out again quickly. Try not to engage in hand to hand combat. His men are well trained, and ours aren’t. Try to make it a running battle.”

  “I’ll try your Highness; I’ll try.”

  “Raven, I’m heartily sick of this Highness business. Can’t you call me Illera still?”

  Raven smiled and shook his head. “No, I can’t. You are a queen, and I’m just the son of a wicked King and brother to the heir apparent. It wouldn’t be good for morale. Good night, your Highness.”

  Sighing, Illera watched him go, wondering if he would be alive to argue with her tomorrow night. One of the attendants brought her a plate of food that she picked at until it had gone cold. She left it and went to her cot, determined to rest. Uneasy, her mind kept her tossing and turning, and calling out to the world until the early hours of the morning when she finally dozed off.

  The quiet of the predawn hours was broken by the sounds of the camp being struck. Groggy and dizzy Illera was awakened by a sharp beak thrust into her tender parts.

  “Aw Maggie,” she mumbled, “I just got to sleep.”

  The attendant was there with warm washing water, and another brought her clothes and armor. Sighing Illera rose, preparing for the day she never wanted to see. She forced breakfast down her throat and strode from the tent to face her troops. One of the attendants helped her mount, and she turned Commitment to face her army, mounted and ready to fight.

  She took a deep breath and called in her loudest voice, “You all know what you are fighting for. My prayer is that each and every one of you returns whole to your lands from this battle. But know, should the worst happen, that you are saving Madean for your children and your wives and for the future. You are keeping our country from the tyranny of Korul. I salute you all.”

  She wheeled her stallion around and set off at a slow canter to the sound of their cheering. Abbadon and Appolon surged forward to ride on either side of her, while Ashera and her two brothers followed behind. As they approached the twin hills, Illera reined Commitment to the left and up to the top of the hill. From there she could see far down the road. It was clear. No troops traveled down its dusty surface. She closed her eyes and called, bringing her talents to the battle.

  The dust began to rise in the distance. Illera watched her troops split apart, a smaller portion disappearing behind the opposite hill and a group of riders behind her own. Archers rode up to the top, and some joined her on the crest of her hill. They dismounted and hid their horses behind the mound. Illera sat her horse and watched the procession wending its way down the road. Faint cries of pain and terror reached her ears from the men brutally thrust along at the front and leading sides of the column. She looked south. Raven had his men arrayed across the road, blocking any progress past the meadow.

  The creak of leather and scent of dust and fear came to her, stretching her already tight nerves to the breaking point. Korul slowed his advance, shielding behind the captured men of Madean. His army ground to a halt between the hills and stretching far back along the road.

  Illera began to hum, singing low in her throat as the armies paused at the cusp of battle, staring, assessing each other. A flashing beam of light sparked from Raven’s standard and the bowmen drew their weapons. A flight of arrows rained down inside the protective ring to fall upon Korul’s men. Screams of anger and a few of pain broke the tense, silent waiting. With a roar, Korul’s men brutally pushed the Madean prisoners aside, trampling those who did not move fast enough. His knights sallied forth, javelins poised to strike Raven’s army. The mounted Madeans swayed aside letting the Franians pass through their middle without engaging them and reforming behind them. Korul’s army was split into two sections. Half of Raven’s men faced the Mounted Franians and half the heavy weapons and footmen. The troops hiding behind the opposite hill crept behind the foreign troops and waited for the signal. Korul yelled, and his men drove into action, swinging swords, morningstars and all manner of weapons. The Madeans engaged in their clumsy way, trying to stop the force of the armed and experienced men.

  Raven and his army were pushed back towards the waiting Franian soldiery. They fought fiercely, Lark and his brother accounting for half the downed enemy, but their troops were young and green, and they were no match for the seasoned fighters. Illera closed her eyes and began to sing. She felt her forces gathering. A gravelly voice joined itself to hers, and the wind began to rise, whipping sand and debris into the eyes of the Franians. From the north, a pair of dragons flew into view. One was very large and the other very small. They hovered over the cluster, heads wagging back and forth as if counting. A rain of fiery spit fell upon the catapults of Frain and among all their wagons. They burst into flame, scattering the soldiers guarding them. The oxen bawled and tried to bolt, but the dragons picked them off, carrying them away to nests to be consumed later. Three griffins flew in from the south, gliding on still wings through the wild whirling wind and wilder fighting. Illera watched carefully, and where the Franians appeared to be winning, she directed the great birds to attack. Stooping with extended claws, they lifted Franian knights from their horses, soaring high on straining wings then dropped them to plummet back to earth and seize another. The horses spooked and shied, bolting in uncontrollable fright. Snarling from the edges of the conflict told Illera that the lions and dire wolves were hard at work, selecting the Franians for their victims. The battle below had deteriorated into a vicious free for all. Thunder and lightning rippled through the morning; the sky grew dark as midnight. Sharp forks of lightning speared earthward, spitting Korul’s men. The reek of burning human flesh rose up to her. Illera shook her head, knowing it was not of her doing, yet grateful for the assistance. Thick gloom enveloped the road between the hills.

  The Madeans rode madly to and fro, slashing at the invaders. Small cyclones of wind obscured the battle, then revealed it again. The meadow was chaos. The hidden troops joined the other fighters, pinning Korul’s men between them. The battle began to turn slowly in Madean’s favor. Illera felt a tiny spark of hope kindle in her breast. The fighters mixed together now, and the dust and dark made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe. Raven’s standard waved directly ahead, while Lark’s plunged deep into the melee furthest north. Ashera was invisible in the murk, but it did seem as if they wer
e winning.

  A horse thundered up the path behind her. Illera turned, straining her eyes to see who was approaching. On the back of a large gray mount, his face drawn back in a rictus of rage, Korul loomed out of the dark. With two hands, he swung a double-bladed ax around his head. He screamed incomprehensible obscenities as he charged at her.

  Belatedly, Illera put the spurs to Commitment, and he plunged down the hill in front of her, Korul only a stride behind. The white stallion stretched his neck and raced for the wild milling of the battle, with Korul gaining slowly. High overhead Maggie screamed as Illera tried to call one of the griffins. Their minds were full of bloodlust now and hard to control. She tried as the war-horse galloped over the rough ground, leaping over bodies and wounded, swerving around combatants. Korul pursued with a relentless focus. A miniature tornado of wind dashed between them, causing Korul’s horse to shie. A piece of midnight lurched out of the surrounding darkness and confusion. His shoulder drove into the chest of Korul’s mount, knocking it sideways and off stride. Turning, Illera saw the battle ax whistle over Raven’s head as Abbadon leapt aside. Korul hurled the weapon, striking Raven on the shoulder, knocking him from Abbadon’s back. Korul bounced from the gray’s back and approached with his sword drawn. Another gray horse reared out of the mist and a sword sliced wickedly at Korul’s neck. Illera saw the thin red line it left in its wake.

  Korul spun around, his face showing surprise as Ashera dropped from her horse and confronted him. A cruel grin spread across his face. His weapon struck like a snake, aiming for her face. Her sword shrugged it aside and embedded itself in Korul’s heart.

  “Why prolong this. I just want you dead, dead, dead,” Ashera spat at him as she stabbed again and again.

  The King of Frain slumped to the ground, his face a rictus of horror.

  She raised the sword high overhead and hacked through Korul’s neck, severing his head from the body. Taking a pike, discarded on the ground, she impaled it and held it aloft, the horrified expression on Korul’s face outermost.

  With a grin she ran through the battle shouting, ”Lay down your weapons, Korul is dead. Lay down your weapons, Korul is dead.”

  Illera hurried to Raven, slipping from her mount. Blood soaked his armor, dripping from a deep gash on his shoulder. She explored the wound with trembling fingers. It was clean but bleeding. She used her healing skills to staunch the flow of blood, then bound it in moss from her saddlebags.

  The storm lessened, lightning ceased, and the clouds began to shred and blow away in the still violent winds. Illera stayed by Raven waiting for him to wake. Others of her people came to her, and she treated their injuries. Korul’s men retreated to a position against one of the hills, pikes outthrust, waiting for a leader to take charge. When Illera had treated all of her own men, and Raven was still unconscious, she moved to the front of the Franian lines.

  “Your king is dead,” she told the frightened men. “He is dead and his bastard son, Lark, will be your new king.”

  Turning to her own people, she asked, “Where is Lark? Was he wounded in the battle?”

  Sir North stepped forward. “No one knows, your majesty. Lark was with us through most of the battle, but vanished after Princess Ashera slew King Korul. He is not injured, nor is he slain. Just vanished.”

  “What do you mean just vanished? A knight can’t just vanish in the course of a battle. He must be among the slain?”

  “I’m so sorry, your Highness.” Sir North indicated the battlefield. “But I have searched the wounded, and the dead and Sir Lark is not among them.”

  “Get me, Dorian.”

  Before she could catch her breath or further puzzle about Lark’s absence, Dorian rushed up panting.

  “Prince Dorian, I beg a favor.”

  A wide grin split his huge face. “Of course, Queen Illera. You know any assistance I can be to you would be a boon to me.”

  “Lark has vanished, and I must search. Would you act as my agent over the captured remains of Korul’s army? I need them to be disarmed and treated for their wounds.”

  “I would treat them all to an icy hell,” snarled Dorian, his handsome face twisting into a mask of hatred.

  Illera snapped, “No! I wanted them treated with decency.”

  “After the crimes, they’ve committed?” Dorian hissed back.

  “These men committed nothing but loyalty to their sovereign. They need proper treatment and food. I want friends here, not enemies.”

  “The Carnuvon always slaughter the wounded and captured of the enemy. That way you know your back is safe!” Dorian stamped about a circle.

  Illera threw up her hands and strode away. Meeting Ashera waving her bloody pike through the air gave Illera an idea.

  “Ashera, were there any unusual fighters in this battle, you know creatures that should not have been here?”

  Ashera’s smile grew smaller as she thought back over the past battle.

  “Yes,” she mused, “but maybe not. It might have been just a very big, ugly Franian, but I thought I might have seen a Shul skulking around the outsides of the battle lines. I might be wrong though.”

  Illera nodded her head. “No, I don’t think you’re wrong. It make perfect sense now. Ashera, would you take over the control of the army while Raven is indisposed. I need someone to watch over the Franians.”

  A smile of great beauty spread over Ashera’s face, illuminating it with a great radiance.

  “You want a woman to be in control of your army?”

  “Of course? I had thought to ask your brother, but I think you are better qualified.”

  Ashera laughed out loud, drowning out the cries of the wounded and the loud voices of the victors.

  Illera smiled with her. “You do know how I would wish the prisoners treated?”

  Nodding, Ashera replied, “Cure what wounds as can be cured, make sure everyone is well fed and bedded down and take care of everybody.”

  The giantess rolled her eyes skyward as Illera laughed.

  “Then be my vice-commander of the army until I return.”

  “Where are you going my Lady, I mean Illera?”

  “I’m going to get Lark back.”

  Chapter 11

  Illera paused once, at Raven’s tent. In unconscious abandon, he lay still encased in his rent and bloody armor. Heavy shadows darkened his face, and she frowned at the sight of him lying there so helpless. Checking the wound, she knelt by his pallet; hands held flat above the bandages binding his shoulder. She closed her eyes and willed the flesh to heal, meshing her energy and life force with his. She poured her strength into him until she felt dizzy and just spared herself from toppling over with a hand on his belly. It came away sticky with drying blood.

  Rising, she looked again at his face. It was pale, but the dark shadows had retreated. Unconsciously, she wiped her hand down one thigh, staining her armor with his blood. Sighing, she turned to go, pausing at the tent to look back once more.

  “Heal well my friend. If circumstances were different I should stay and care for you, but Lark needs me, and I can’t see you wanting me to abandon him. Heal well.”

  Maggie fluttered out of the descending twilight. Illera clutched her precious friend to her breast. With an indignant squawk, Maggie struggled loose and perched on her shoulder. She stroked the bobbing head. Taking the bird on her hand, she turned towards Raven’s tent.

  “Maggie, stay with Raven. Take care of him for me.”

  The magpie shook her head and ruffled her feathers.

  “Please Maggie,” Illera pleaded. “I need to concentrate all my wits on finding Lark. If I don’t, who knows what will happen in Madean? I need you to watch Raven for me. If, if something bad happens, you come and get me, and I will try to get back as quickly as possible. Okay?”

  Grumbling, Maggie fluttered from her hand and landed at the entrance of the tent, walking with exaggerated steps into the darkness within. Illera turned and stumbled back to her tent. There was unease in he
r entrails at the thought of undertaking this journey bereft of all she had won, stripped of even her lifelong avian companion.

  One of her attendants bustled around outside her quarters, fussing with the fire and the evening meal. Commitment whinnied from the picket lines a few steps away.

  The boy looked at her and blanched. “Your Highness! You are injured. I’ll run to the physician immediately.”

  “Min, wait. This isn’t my blood. I need you here. I want travel rations for my horse and myself for several days. I need them right now.”

  “Surely your Highness doesn’t need to ride back to the castle in the middle of the night. In the morning the path will be clearer.”

  “I’m not going to the castle, Min. I have to find Sir Lark.”

  “I will run around the camp, Lady. I can go very fast, and I will find him for you.”

  Illera smiled at the boy, all long-boned, gangly adolescent eagerness. “Sir Lark has been taken by the Shul. It’s there that I have to go, so just prepare the rations please.”

  She turned to the picket lines, refusing to take notice of the boy’s appalled look. Saddling and bridling Commitment, she pulled him behind her to the tent. Min handed her tightly wrapped packages, which she stowed in her saddlebags.

  “Highness, let me go with you,” the boy begged.

  Illera smiled at him. “You tempt me Min, but no, my own life is enough to risk on this foolish venture.”

  “Please, Highness. Give me a chance to prove myself.”

  Pausing, Illera consulted her inner compass. It was true her heart leapt when she heard she did not need to go alone, but what of the sense of failure that was dragging at her at the thought of this journey. The idea of Min lightened the despair and gave her the first slight glimmers of hope. She turned and looked at him, all angles, arms, and legs with nothing that quite fit together yet. His dark mop of curly hair and shining, hopeful dark eyes gleaming in the firelight accenting the parted lips full of the hope of glory and daring adventure.