Revenge Song

by C. K. Rieke

  Roren paused to look back behind and found the six had gone to running towards the base of the dune, towards them. He quickly turned back and ran at Lilaci’s back. “They’re quick,” he yelled up to her. “Faster than I thought they’d be. Then again, I’ve only seen them come in a night for raids.”

  “We’re going to need to get to the range before them with time to spare,” she replied. “There may be a cave or crevasse. Or at bare minimum some high ground we could stage an attack from. Not out here in the open to be easily surrounded.”

  “They have any weaknesses you know of? Any inside information? Weak at the knees . . . So forth?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Hmmm,” he muttered. “I guess their heads are only filled with one thing— murder.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said, glancing back as they ran. “They are forced into their ways, there’s no denying that, but there are still individuals in there. Once they’re out of Sorock, they like to have fun, compete in challenges and even sing occasionally. They just don’t remember the feeling I’m experiencing now.”

  “What’s that? Being hunted? Yeah, I guess it’s been awhile for you.”

  “No, not that,” she said. “Freedom.”

  “Does freedom also mean being hunted for you?” he asked.

  “I can’t refute that— at least— not until we have Kera back and kill the gods.”

  “Oh, is that all its going to take? Death too,” he said. “Death is another way out.”

  Her pace quickened then. “I’m not going to die until I’ve at least taken her from that rat Fewn.”

  They reached the bottom of the dune and began to run across the sands, weaving in and out of the high dunes to their left and right. The faintest of raindrops began to kiss the desert sands, hissing as they kissed its heat.

  Roren pointed his chin towards the sky and opened his mouth, his white teeth glistening in the sun, and he stuck his tongue out to catch as many of the droplets as he could. They couldn’t see the pack following behind them, as the high dunes surely hid them. But Lilaci knew in the daylight in the desert, there’d be no way the Scaethers couldn’t just follow their tracks. The mountains were their only chance. The Scaethers were trained exceptionally well in the tracking in the desert, but they knew less about tracking in mountains and cities— that wasn’t their skill set. Lilaci had been trained in hunting in the cities and towns, and knew more of mountains than them as well, but not much.

  “There they are,” Roren said, his breath labored. “Not far off now.”

  They’d been running at a full sprint for the better part of twenty minutes, and they slowed as the sands at their feet turned to dirt and rock. They had to watch their footing then as their leather soled boots could slip off a wet rock, and they could lose their footing as they ran up the mellow incline. The cool rains soiled the dirt to a darker shade and the rocks grew bright as the dust rolled off them. Tall, sparse grass cracked its way through slits in the rock face that both of them grabbed at as they ran, for something to put in their stomachs, and give them a semblance of strength for a potential fight.

  They at last hit tall rock, and they both paused. Roren put his hands down to his knees and breathed in and out heavily, sweat was pouring down his face. Shaded from the sun, Lilaci worked to regain her proper breathing, and she peered out back behind them. She didn’t see any sign of the Scaethers, and the light rains helped a bit in covering their tracks, but not much. They’d need a monsoon or sandstorm to do that, and Lilaci knew she wasn’t going to be that lucky, and there was no use praying for it.

  “Up?” Roren asked.

  “Up,” she said with a nod.

  Pouring rain battered both their hoods as they sat against the cold stone. The sounds of rushing water were so loud, it almost drowned out the thunder as lightning streaked through the air. Lilaci noticed that Roren was shivering slightly as he huddled into a ball, holding his knees against his chest. She couldn’t deny that she herself was cold, but midway up the mountain the storm had rushed in, and they had found the best shelter they could.

  They’d found another overhang just around the bend of a massive boulder to their right, but it was a cave of sorts, and if the Scaethers had been following them and found them— they’d be left with a wall at their backs and no chance of escape. Here they had a narrow passage between two jutting rocks in front of them, and a small space to squeeze through behind them if they needed to run. Here, at least, if the Scaethers found them, they couldn’t attack more than two at a time, as the passageway would be hardly wide enough for Roren to walk straight through, at least one of his shoulders would skim the rock. Lilaci gripped the hilt of her sword, it’s wet handle squeaked as she twisted her grip. There would be no sleep that night, and no fire to warm their wet, cold hands.

  Lilaci looked up at the sky, full of dark, ominous clouds like black cotton. Lightning shot through the air above, causing a boom as the thunder roared all around, nearly shaking the small rocks at her feet. Sitting next to one another against the stone, Roren scooted over slightly, just enough that his shoulder rested next to Lilaci’s. She gave him a strange eye.

  “You’re not freezing, too?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but she admitted to herself that being used to the dry heat of the desert made this situation completely miserable. She almost wished the Scaethers would come, so her body would naturally warm herself in the fight, and when they were all dead, she could at least attempt to make a fire. Instead, she watched and waited in the darkness. Listening for anything that might give away their approach— the snapping of a twig, the crumbling of small stones down the cliff, the cawing of birds above— but nothing came. Roren eventually dozed off, snoring slightly with a wheezing sound coming from the back of his nostrils. But she remained awake throughout the whole night, waiting, but nothing came, except the constant rain, and cold.

  Chapter Six

  In the gray fog, the rains had turned to a light patter upon that already slick rock. The black clouds had moved on, and the light of the sun was beginning to hint at its return. The fog grew lighter, and Lilaci looked over at Roren’s head as it rested on her shoulder, as he continued his snoring. She nudged it slightly.

  “Huh?” he said as his head shot up, and he focused on the end of the funnel of rock before them. Not seeing anyone there, he reached up and rubbed his eyes, then looked at Lilaci. “You don’t look well. Did you sleep?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “We’d best move on soon. Get off these cliffs.” She stood then, with her sword in hand still, and she lifted her hands high above, arching her back and stretching out her weary limbs.

  Roren reached over and grabbed his watersack, full of fresh rainwater. He pushed the cork in with a squeaking sound. “I’m ready.”

  To move off the mountain, to its backside, they had to climb up for two hours, and the rock became higher to climb at parts, but luckily it had grown less slick even with the fog hanging low. They eventually reached a spot that was so tall, Roren had to lift her up by the bottom of her feet, and then she helped him up by grabbing his hand after. Then, looking over the other side of the rock they found themselves looking down at the desert floor below.

  “That’s it,” Lilaci said. “The Gorx Desert.” She looked down to see a region of desert not filled with high dunes or endless sands, but a desert filled with small rocky outcrops and dead or dying plants. It was not completely covered in sand but there was dry dirt and small rocks on the ground.

  “I can’t see the mountain yet,” he said, squinting his eyes to look out for the Dune of the Last Dragon.

  “Like I said, it’s still hundreds of miles out,” she said. “With any luck though, we’ll find Kera well before we get to that place.”

  “Kera,” he said in a soft voice. “May good fortune be on your side until we find you.”

  Lilaci looked over at him with a stern demeanor. “I hope you’re right about this. You’re sure we shou
ld be heading this way? It’s not too late to turn back.”

  “The spirits have spoken to you. Yes, I’m sure of it. If you say you saw the mountain, then that was their will— to show us the way.”

  “Then let’s go,” she said, and leapt down off the rock, towards the new desert lands below.

  “. . . At least I hope the spirits were right,” he said in a soft whisper to himself as he jumped down after her.

  Like it was a sign of things to come, it seemed the moment their feet touched the hard sands at the bottom of the mountain, the fog cleared, the clouds washed away, and the heat and light of the sun fell hard upon them. It felt great at first, drying Lilaci and Roren’s sopping wet clothes, but it quickly returned to the dry, constant heat of the sands of the Arr. It felt familiar to her.

  She stopped and looked back up to the mountain behind them, not seeing any trace of the pack of Scaethers they’d spotted on the other side.

  “You think we lost them?” he asked, scanning the mountain himself.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Honestly it depends on who they’re looking for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if they’re looking for Kera, they might have moved on to go find her, but . . .”

  “If—” he interjected, “—if they’re looking for you . . .”

  “They won’t give up until they’ve found me.”

  “Found us,” he said.

  “Yes, us.”

  “You think they would try to kill us or capture us?” he asked.

  “I’d wager the gods would want me alive, if possible,” she said. “You . . .” She laughed slightly. “They’d probably just kill you. Nothing personal.”

  “None taken. Let’s just not let it get to that. Shall we go on, just to be safe though.” Roren started out at a steady pace, straight out into the dead desert. Lilaci continued to scan the mountain behind her. She thought she spotted a patch of falling pebbles but didn’t see any sign of life. It could’ve easily been an animal scurrying along the rocks, but she told herself to remain alert and vigilant, just to be safe.

  Chapter Seven

  Hundreds of miles to the south, in a city that stretches from one side of the horizon to the other, populated by hundreds of thousands, if not millions, the bustling city of Voru sits upon the lushes Great Oasis of Noruz. Its buildings and small homes are mostly made of clay homes with thatched roofing and wood posts that stick out at the sides of the tops of the homes. The buildings of bakeries, traders, and any other kind of merchant’s service are mostly made of light-colored rocks seamed together with the same clay. Light strands of rising smoke come from most of them at night, if not all.

  At the center of the seemingly never-ending city is the Palace of Erodoran— a great six-sided pyramid as tall as the heavens. Upon its upper tiers are walls of sparkling glass, a rare material in the Arr. Its golden-colored walls shine brightly upon the city, making it difficult to look upon under the midday sun. Upon its six sides are it's most beautiful, yet ominous features. A tall, golden statue looks out from each of its sides. Each statue stands ten times the size of a man, looking down on the city as a sign not so much of protection and vigilance, but it feels more to the people of Voru as a sign on oppression. They know the story that after the gods defeated the dragons, all of the running water ceased throughout the lands, driving even the most desert-made souls into the three cities of the Arr; Voru atop the Noruz Oasis, the city of Scindír atop the Oasis of Azgobinadan to the east, and Godan atop the Great Oasis of Zōn to the south. These three cities are now the life blood of the Arr.

  Inside the highest floor of the Palace of Erodoran, Queen Lezeral Serinaas sits on her throne of flowing gold, curving and stretching to sharp spikes at its high back. White jewels line the golden veins as they twist and flow upwards. Queen Lezeral’s curled, brown hair reaches elegantly down her tan-skinned shoulders and neck. She’s wearing a long white silk dress that reaches far below her ankles and rolls down the red-carpeted steps at her feet. Her normal dim, cold dark eyes dart around the room nervously. The throne next to her, once occupied by her deceased husband, King Gofgenden Serinaas, sits empty. The now Queen’s Guard stand in a semi-circle around her at her back, subtly shifting their feet in preparation for what’s to come.

  With a low-pitched creek the great doors before her open slowly in the square room with side glass sides, out of each side the back of each god reflects its golden hue in the brightly lit room. Once opened, in walks a man tall and of pale complexion, with a widow's peak that reached nearly to his nose. His shoulders bared strong and wide under the thin red cloak, and he approached in a fine, white shirt, buttoned from the neck down with tan pants and black leather boots. His black hair fell to the small of his back, and his eyes were a hard gray, and he bore two crisscrossing scars across his nose. He approached the queen, who sat still, and he dropped to a knee at the center of the room to her.

  “My Queen,” he said.

  “Commander Veranor,” the queen said in a strong voice. “I appreciate your haste in my request for your attendance.”

  “Anything, it’s my honor.”

  It was unspoken, but there was a distinct uneasiness between the two, as the last time they’d been in the throne room together, the Witch Queen Gorlen had cast a spell of poison upon the king, for his incompetence with losing Lilaci. The king suffocated right there in front of the two as they watched helplessly.

  “What do you wish of me?” Veranor asked.

  “You’ve been summoned here today not by me,” she said. “but at the behest of the gods.”

  Veranor’s normally calm demeanor was quickly replaced by a worrisome look in his eyes, and he cleared his throat as he stood back up. “Anything for the Six.”

  The queen stood slowly, and as she did this the Queen’s Guard behind her all dropped to a knee and lowered their heads. Veranor followed suit as the queen walked over to the circular silver pedestal, covered in white stones, at the side of the room. She hesitated slightly before placing her palm delicately on top of it. The pedestal began to hum with a low vibration, and the queen stepped back from it as she watched the stones turn from a bright white to a blood-colored red. The humming grew louder as the light of the room faded to a pitch black, and the red stone illuminated the queen, Veranor and the guards the same blood red hue. With a bright red flash like lightning, all were forced to shield their eyes, but once opened they saw them. The Six. All six of the gods were standing in the center of the room, not in a red light, but as if they were standing underneath the golden sun. Veranor and the others then looked upon them, as they stood majestically and strong, they were nearly blinding in the darkness.

  There stood King of the Gods Dânoz at the center. He was easily five heads taller than Veranor with the same pale skin Veranor had, but with long, flowing gray hair down his back. A silver crown sat upon his head with sparkling diamonds and red gems. Under his golden robes was a muscular, strong frame much larger than any normal man.

  “Great God Dânoz,” the queen said. “We welcome you to your city.” She curtsied, bowing her head low.

  He stared at her but did not reply. His face was stern, and crow’s feet wrinkled out from his old, blue eyes.

  The other five gods held ominous looks on their faces, looking harshly at the queen, yet Gorlen stared heavily at Veranor.

  “Do not attempt to be anything other than ashamed,” Eyr said suddenly to the queen. She stood to Dânoz’s side. Her blue eyes with silver flecks peered at the queen under her golden helm with eagle’s wings spread out wide. She wore a silk white top slim at the neck with her strong shoulders naked in the silver glow. She wore a black leather belt with a white skirt that fell halfway to her knees with the finest tan boots they’d ever seen. Eyr was a true warrior, as it was told she was the one who dealt the final blow to the last dragon Kôrran. “Your husband is already dead for your incompetence, and you’re about to join him.”

  A smile crept across Dânoz�
��s face.

  “My infinite apologies,” the queen cried. “I promise you we will have the Dragon’s Breath here shortly. I’ve already routed many to seek her out and bring her to you.”

  “This isn’t about time,” said Vigolos, shortest and most bereft of the gods. “It’s about resolution. Where is the girl? Where is Lilaci?” His beady eyes fell on Veranor then, and Veranor stared fearfully into them. He looked at the long scar along Vigolos’ face that disappeared under his thick, smooth beard that fell to his belt. “What have you to say, commander? Maybe it should be you in the next world, and not the king? What have you to say for yourself?” All eyes fell on Veranor.

  “Something’s happened,” he said. “I had a strong spell cast on Lilaci which has been in place and unbroken for years. The magic of the mages is strong. Something has interfered with their link, they tell me. I fear it is the girl, she carries some wicked magic inside of her.”

  “So, go kill Lilaci and bring us the girl,” Fayell, the most beautiful of all women said, her long auburn hair flowed down her neck and shoulders, cascading down her silver silk dress. Her appearance seemed to distract from her thirst for blood. “We care not for anything you have to say, man. Excuses do not bode well for you. We only want the girl ripped apart limb by limb and scattered to the corners of these lands.”

  “I will send out another,” Veranor said, his voice slightly trembling.

  “No, you will go,” Arymos said, his voice low and gruff. He stood tall in his black leather armor with copper buckles. His bald head showed a vein coursing blood in the center of his forehead. He seemed to be holding back a fury he wished to unleash on everyone in the room.