Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  “I thought you were a fever dream,” he muttered his voice hoarse and ragged.

  Illera smiled at him. “Lucky for you I’m not. That was a bad break.”

  Lark looked down the length of his body.

  “It itches like mad.”

  “That’s because it’s healing. You need another day or maybe two at least before it is better.”

  “Two days, Lady you are a miracle worker.”

  “Not yet,” she whispered back at him, “not yet, but I hope to be by tonight, if all the gods and spirits of this world are willing, I will be by this night.”

  They heard the commotion long before it arrived at their prison. The screams and bellows awakened Min from his fetal position. He tried to stretch but had little success in the cramped quarters. The noise drew nearer, and the flap was whipped aside. A dozen Shul, in full battle armor and armed with their spears blocked the entrance to the tent. Their faces were painted with yellow stripes and red circles, and full collars of red and yellow feathers circled their thick necks.

  Growling, one reached in and hefted Lark over his shoulder. Another picked Illera up by her arms and carried her, feet dangling inches above the ground. A third elicited a yelp from Min as he dragged him by one shoulder. They paraded through the Shul camp as the males chanted, screamed and called names. Some of the males rushed from the openings of their huts to spit upon them or slap Lark and Min. Illera took note of the females and half-grown young pleading with the males and attempting to hold them back from these humiliating taunts.

  The flames that burned without source heated the air around them. A huge construction of stone and timber soared to the height of the largest hut. Targ perched on top, barbarically arrayed in red and yellow enameled chainmail armor and liberally decorated with feathers. The crest on the top of his skull flamed a fluorescent red, engorged and swollen to twice its normal intimidating size. With lips pulled back in a rictus of fury and pleasure, he snarled down at the captives. The warriors holding the prisoners threw them at the foot of the throne structure.

  Illera worried for a moment about Lark’s injured leg as he struggled to stand. Then she got a good look at his face, which had been hidden by the darkness. One eye was swollen completely shut and his lips puffed on one side. A slash went from the corner of his mouth to the right temple. Despite her fumbling ministrations of last night, the flesh looked angry and infected. He balanced on his good leg and tried not to put any pressure on the bandaged leg.

  Min remained crumbled at the foot of the structure, staring up at her with terrified eyes, unsure of whether to rise or remain where he was. She gestured for him to rise and take his position behind her, as a proper squire should. She herself rose from the mud at the foot of the throne with all the dignity of her heritage and the hope in her heart. She stared straight up at the towering menace of the ruler of the Shul.

  Bowing low she rose. “Great Targ, I thank you for this audience with you in front of your people.”

  She gestured with her arms turning to encompass all the men, women and children of Shul pressed around them in a large circle. As she turned, she noticed a flicker of blue off to one side of the flame that soared up and up into the sky on her right. She completed the turn and faced Targ again. The murmurs of the women and men ran around the circle. Targ’s glowing eyes were bugging out.

  “How dare you as a prisoner and a woman have the face to speak to me first. You will be silent until I speak.”

  “Your majesty, how can I be silent when I come with an offer of peace between our two lands.”

  “Silence, I commanded silence.”

  One of the feather-adorned warriors stepped forward and bowed his face to the earth.

  “Mighty one, let us listen to this insignificant creature’s words that we may have some amusement in the long winter nights as we discuss the foolishness of its proposal.”

  Targ considered the words at some length, then nodded his ugly visage. “Very well, tell me your proposal of peace.”

  Illera stepped a pace forward. “Thank you mighty Targ. My father sent me with a gift for you, two ewes and a ram. These are excellent animals and will soon produce more of their kind.”

  “Targ cares not for sheep except to eat them,” the monarch interrupted.

  Illera nodded, staring into his furious eyes. “But the main problem with your people is that they are hungry. You obtain your needs by raiding and killing because your land is rocky and little grain grows here. The land cannot support cattle, but sheep or goats could do very well in these hills with the amount of grass and other fodder available. I could bring you a great deal of gold, but of what good is gold. It is heavy. You cannot eat it. You cannot wear it or ride it. But, with sheep and goats, you can feed and clothe your people. I am willing to give you herds and shepherds to train your young ones in their care, women to train your women to spin and weave. And with these animals, you can trade with the lowlands for grain or any other necessities you may need to make your lives better and…”

  Targ’s fist smashed down on the throne structure with such force that the very ground beneath their feet trembled and she wondered if it were going to topple to the ground.

  “Shul have always lived by raiding. We are not farmers. We are warriors, and we live by fighting. Gold for your ransom, only gold for your ransom.”

  Illera took a deep breath. “But think, your Majesty, the women, and children would benefit so much…”

  Targ smashed his fist down again.

  “No! Gold, only gold!” he roared.

  An ogress pushed forward to stand before the throne. She clasped Illera’s hand in her own.

  “Targ, you know me. I am your woman, the first woman in your harem. I carried your heir. Listen to this princess. What she says, all the women agree with. We need…”

  “Silence. Since when do women of the Shul tell their men what to do? We are

  Shul and we live by the sword. We have always lived by the sword and as long as I have the throne, we always will.”

  A small black form winged out of the clouds, landing on Illera’s shoulder with a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk. Illera felt her heart clench. Raven, Raven, was worse, and she was stuck here and could not help him.

  One of the men stepped forward as Targ’s wife moved back into the pack. He was smaller than most and moved with a limp. The crest on his head was small and withered, the same color as his face.

  “The princess of Madean speaks sense. What use to us is gold? We need food and a steady supply to assure that we continue and that we can thrive…”

  “Silence,” screamed Targ as he smashed his fist on the throne again making it and everyone else jump.

  “Do you challenge for the rulership of the Shul, Glup? It is your right.” Targ’s head turned to check the whole assembly of his people. “It is the right of any Shul to challenge. How about it? Do you think you can beat me in unarmed combat Glup?”

  The burning eyes seared down at the unfortunate ogre. He shuffled his feet and shook his head, sliding back into the crowd and trying to lose himself.

  Targ’s head rose, and he peered over the crowd. “How about it? Does any creature challenge my leadership?”

  Illera looked at Frak who was trying to efface himself to the side of the pile of stone and timber. The grounds were so silent she could hear only the hiss of the great fire.

  “I challenge,” a quiet voice spoke from the rear.

  A vicious snarl twisted Targ’s face into a mask of hatred. A corridor opened behind Illera, Lark, and Min, the ogres pushing aside into each other and crowding together in huddles of darkness. Turning they beheld the challenger. Darkness stood at the end. A dark-haired man in gleaming dark armor leading a giant dark horse. Illera’s heart lifted then sank at the sight. Targ roared with anger.

  “Do you, a puny human dare to challenge me in my own home?” he snarled, incredulous with anger.

  “You offered the challenge to anyone Targ.” Raven had
a confident smile on his lips.

  With three leaps, Targ was down from his throne, sword discarded next to the fire. A boy scampered to take Abbadon who kicked and snapped at him. The boy retreated. The Shul pushed back and formed a ring around the combatants, pulling Illera, Lark, and Min into their circle. Frak stepped forward.

  “The rules, so you will know, puny human, are combat to the death, unarmed and without assistance by anyone. Should any interfere, they will be slaughtered without mercy, as well as the one they go to aid. Begin.”

  He stepped back into the circle of bodies, contriving to be next to Illera. She reached out and grasped his massive forearm with both of her hands. Maggie chirped from her shoulder and Lark placed one arm around her shoulders. His face was tight and white.

  Raven discarded his sword, knife and the shield he carried on his back. Illera’s viscera tightened. Raven was half the size and bulk of the massive ogre, probably not yet recovered from his wounds. Targ’s crest was erect and pulsing with a heartbeat; its scarlet color eye hurting bright. Murmurs from the crowd came to her ears, groans and whimpers of fear from the women, mutters of disgust from some of the men and loud encouragements for their leader from others.

  The fight started slowly, with circling and feints. Targ lunged, and Raven skipped nimbly aside. They circled again, around and around like a cat stalking a mouse. Raven moved closer, cautiously, slowly. Like a striking python of the jungles, Targ snapped towards him, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him high off the ground, squeezing the air from his lungs, the life from his body. Raven ducked his head, and a shudder ran through his body. He slipped bonelessly to the ground and his knees, scrambling through Targ’s widespread legs. Springing to his feet, he brought his arms under Targ’s armpits and around the back of his massive neck, locking his hands together at the nape of the ogre’s bulging crest. Targ roared and flung himself from side to side to loosen the grip of the man. Raven clung with stubborn strength, locking his legs around the King’s midriff to keep from being unseated. Targ hurled himself onto his back, using his legs to grind Raven into the dirt. His face hard with concentration, Illera could see Raven compress the base of Targ’s crest even more. The scarlet color became distinctly purplish with blue shadows in the hollows. Targ roared and howled, leaping to his feet with Raven still clamped to his back. The ogre jumped and twisted, flailing his arms wildly to throw the man from his back. He bucked and bent, rolled and twirled, but Raven clung like a hated bur. The entire comb of the crest was dark and blue. Targ’s eyes were crazy with pain. The sweat poured from Raven’s face with the effort of maintaining his position astride the giant.

  “Quat,” the Shul screamed, “take the sword and run him through.”

  One of the warriors in the feathered collar jumped and said, “Mighty one, the challenge?”

  “Quiet you fool. This is a human, and no human can rule the Shul. The rules do not apply. Run this flea through.” Targ bellowed.

  The warrior strode forward hesitantly. Frak stepped forward as well.

  The Windsinger called in a loud, clear voice; “The rules apply. Challenge was offered and accepted according to the traditions of our forefathers, and so all the rules apply.”

  “NOW!” screamed Targ, dancing and bending in the middle of the circle.

  The warrior advanced. Another stepped in to stop him. Around her, Illera saw the Shul taking sides, some for allowing the fight to continue, others wanting to support their king and kill Raven. Arguments rose, drowning out the sounds of King and rider. Fearing an armed melee where all would be killed, Illera stepped to the side, moving quickly to the tower of flame. The small blue fire still hovered to one side. Holding her breath, she plunged her hand into the fire and felt it spread its euphoria and well being through her body. It covered her in its blue essence. She turned, glowing and glided into the middle of the circle where Quat was trying to stab Raven while Targ pranced and jerked around and Frak interposed his body between the two fighters and the armed warrior. Illera willed herself above the heads of the arguing crowds.

  “Attend me!” she commanded in a ringing voice.

  Flickering on the edges of her mind like so many bright fireflies, she could feel the minds of the Shul, fearful, amazed, dismayed, awed. All turned upward to gaze at her. Targ even stopped his wild fling to stare.

  “This is over. Now. Raven, let Targ go.”

  Raven released his grip and slipped to the ground. Targ’s crest deflated in seconds and lay flaccid and brown over his skull and obscuring one eye.

  Illera lifted her hand and a dark cloud formed, narrowing down from the looming mountain.

  “I control the flying mouse.” She waved her hand, and the column of creatures changed course to circle around the outside of the camp. Cries of fear floated up to her.

  “I offer you a better life, a better life for your wives and your children. I offer you acceptance and trade, medicine and industry. I offer you, the Shul, not Targ. Targ has lost his fight and his life by breaking your own rules. Kill him now.”

  The moment paused, hung in the balance of past and future. Illera called the bats just a little bit closer. One of the Shul leapt from the crowd and ran Targ through, piercing the heart. The leader of the ogres slumped to his knees and fell into the dust without a sound.

  “Good. Frak Windsinger is now your new king.”

  “But the man won the challenge.”

  “Can a man understand the Shul? No, he cannot. But a wise king can lead his people to a good and productive life. Frak is a wise man.”

  Murmurs of assent drifted up. Illera willed herself closer to the ground, stopping when she was slightly above head height. All the faces focused on her.

  “I will send animals, more sheep, and goats to you. So will the king of Frain. We will also send people to teach you, to help you to know the usefulness of the animals. We will send grains that will grow on these high mountains. You will never be hungry again. I will send healers to help your sick and injured. Together we can make our world a better place than it was for our parents and grandparents. We will give this as a gift for your children and grandchildren. Will you accept?”

  A loud cheer shook the assembly and reverberated back from the mountains.

  “Long live Princess Illera. Long live King Frak. Long live the Shul!” a thousand voices yelled.

  Illera permitted herself to settle almost to the ground and gathering Lark and Raven with a look glided across the ground to Targ’s former tent. Once inside she exchanged the light with Lark, telling Raven to be ready to care for them. They passed the light back and forth several times until it was too dim to see. The last thing she remembered was Raven lowering her to the smelly floor of the tent.

  There was a wild uproar going on outside. Although her eyes were closed and her body flaccid, she could hear the cacophony of celebration, singing, fighting and general din on the other side of the thin leather walls. However, it was a closer sound that woke her; the furtive movements of someone close to her. She opened her eyes and stared cross-eyed into a pair of hot orange ones just inches from her face. Their owner reared back and thumped to the floor beside the low cot on which she was lying. Illera raised herself on one elbow and looked down at the ogre.

  He laughed, a gravelly rumbling welling up from the bottom of his chest.

  “Why does it seem you always surprise me?” He chuckled, rising awkwardly to his feet and looming over her.

  Illera swung her feet over the edge of the cot and gazed up at him, still a little dizzy.

  “Frak?”

  “What? Don’t you recognize the changes you wrought?”

  Frak’s crest was larger, faint fingers of orange creeping from the edge of his skull to fan out through its increased mass.

  “You look different,” she commented.

  Frak snorted. “Of course I look different. You proclaimed me King of the Shul. Will I, won’t I the change has begun, and my body is determined to be King no matter what my
mind says.”

  Illera shook her head. “I’m sorry Frak, I must be still in thrall to the Darkliete, but I don’t understand you.”

  Frak paced back and forth his voice fading and increasing with his steps.

  “Shul wear a sign of their position in the tribe, the crest. I am sure you noticed Targ’s. It was the biggest and most flamboyant of all the living Shul. As a, a scholar, I guess you would call me I was exempt from the status games that others played. I worked with and for the King and my position was secure for everyone knows Windsingers never become Kings. But the rest of the rabble, bah, they are forever quarreling and arguing, jockeying for position with our ranks and as they go up or down in importance the crest swells or declines. Now here I am, a Windsinger and you proclaim me King. Half the camp is overjoyed, and the other half is ready to challenge.”

  Shaking her head, Illera replied, “I’m sorry. I should have discussed it with you, but at the time, it seemed the right thing to do. Besides what is so wrong with a King that actually has a brain instead of just muscle.”

  Frak laughed. “Nothing in theory, but whether the camp will support it or not remains to be seen.”

  Min dashed into the tent, elbows akimbo as he skidded into Frak.

  With flying arms and legs he rushed outside calling, “She’s awake my Lord.”

  With another about-face, he ducked inside again and moved to one side of the tent flap. Raven strode in, stalking in long-legged strides to her bedside.

  “Are you all right your Highness? You haven’t had much sleep, but I couldn’t prevent the King of Shul from checking on you. It is his own tent now.”

  Frak grunted in the background as Illera laughed.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to try to keep Frak away from me. And thank you for coming to my rescue, although I don’t think you should have jeopardized your health that way. You can barely be recovered from your injury.”