Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  “We will ride to edges of the kingdom,” Aeolia said, “and from there retreat back to Woodwall, burning everything in our path.”

  The army nodded, grimly determined.

  “If we are too weak to attack Grayrock,” she said, “we are strong enough to defend Woodwall. We’ve collected enough food for moons of siege. But the Stonesons will find no food in the burned countryside. Hungry and cold, they won’t be able to maintain the siege long. We’ll outlast them! As long as we’ll be at siege, they’ll be at siege!”

  The army cheered, waving their torches above their heads.

  “For Aeolia!” one cried, and his comrades echoed his call. “For Aeolia! For Aeolia!”

  Aeolia shook her head. “No. For Esire.” She drew Firefang and pointed it skyward. “Split, now!”

  The army divided into four groups, five hundred riders in each.

  Aeolia passed her blade over the groups, commanding each in turn. “You burn the border with the Forest; you, the border with the Beastlands; and you, the border with Stonemark.” She let her blade pause over the last group. “And you will join me northeast, to the border with Heland, where Lale himself rides.”

  She slammed Firefang back into its scabbard.

  “Strengthen your hearts, my friends,” she said, “and we will triumph. Now ride.”

  She dug her heels into Acorn’s flanks. The horse neighed, bucked, and burst into a gallop, clopping into the countryside. Ketya galloped behind, her blue-gold banner billowing. Aeolia leaned forward in her saddle, the wind biting her face. The winter fields heaved up and down as she galloped, like a storming sea. Five hundred riders galloped behind her in a thunder.

  Aeolia narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips, forbidding horror to overcome her. This task had to be done, she told herself. She who had been slave could not let Sinther enslave her kingdom. True, she thought—Esire would suffer to defeat Sinther, as she had suffered to defeat her old master. Her skin still bore those scars, and no doubt Esire would show its wounds for years to come. But the gold would triumph over the gray, and Aeolia might yet redeem the havoc she had incurred.

  Six days they rode, through the snowy fields.

  Aeolia led her army at a vicious pace, riding at their lead cold and inspiring as a ship’s figurehead. Sores bloomed over her thighs and bottom, her muscles cramped, her entire body ached. Acorn grew weary, her ears drooped, her orbs glazed, her nostrils flared and wheezed. At nights Aeolia’s men dropped down exhausted, instantly falling asleep, while Aeolia lay awake, gazing into the cold sky, imagining Lale gazing at the same stars. By dawns they rode again, Aeolia driving her army on ruthlessly, knowing that every hour that passed Lale grew closer.

  Finally, on the seventh morning of the grueling journey, they reached the border with Heland.

  Aeolia reared Acorn to a stop, and her army halted behind her. A cold wind moaned, rustled the dead grass, roiled the cloudy sky. Aeolia wheeled her horse around so she faced her men. They gazed at her, eyes fatigued but determined.

  She said simply, “We begin.”

  She removed from her belt a flint, and pulled from her saddle a torch. Trying to keep her fingers steady, she lit the flame. The army followed her lead, and in the cold dimness hundreds of torches flickered to life. The army lowered their flames to the ground, and the dead grass reluctantly kindled.

  They turned and left, cantering back southwest, back to Woodwall, a wall of fire burning behind them. Carrying their torches, little dots of light, they moved like a swarm of fireflies. They reached their first village an hour later.

  Silent and grim as ghosts, they cantered into the village. Icy tears in her eyes, Aeolia led her men to the granaries. Ignoring the peasants, she set flame to the grain. Her tears now hot and flowing, she ordered the livestock slaughtered, the wool set to flame, the barns burned down. The peasants’ feeble defenses were soon quelled. Tongues of flame licked the sky. Aeolia and her army cantered out of the village, where they set fire to the surrounding fields and forests, and finally dumped dead animals into the stream to poison the water.

  “Spirit,” Ketya muttered, her face ashen. “We’re doing Lale’s work for him.”

  Aeolia shook her head. “Lale would have used this land. We’re simply destroying it.”

  The flames crackled, painting the sky red, a bloody pall for their first village.

  That night Aeolia lay awake, supine, counting the fireflies that swirled like sparks from a flame. When she had reached six score, something rustled beside her, and her hand leapt to the poniard she wore strapped round her thigh. But it was only Ketya, the moonlight limning her form, who had crept up shivering to Aeolia’s side, and now stood with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

  “What is it?” Aeolia asked, tensing. “Stonish outriders? Rebel peasants?”

  Ketya did not answer but only stood trembling, and Aeolia glimpsed moonlight flash off a tear on her cheek.

  “I miss my mother,” the girl whispered.

  Aeolia felt a twinge in her heart.

  Ketya said, “When I’d have nightmares she’d sit beside me and stroke my hair till I slept, and... I’m frightened now. And I know, I know you’re not much older than me, but... do you think... maybe you can....”

  Aeolia patted the ground beside her, and Ketya lay down and nestled up in her blanket. Aeolia ran her fingers through Ketya’s hair, till at last the girl slept, snoring softly. Aeolia stared at her, the secret of her foster-brother heavy on her soul. She shut her eyes. She wished Talin were with her, stroking her own hair so she too could feel safe. But no; it was her turn to be strong now. She returned her eyes to the fireflies and knew she would not sleep that night.

  * * * * *

  Many villages followed.

  For days Aeolia burned, galloping across the land, ravaging all northeastern Esire. Her soul burned with it, scorching away all pity and emotion. She rode grim and silent, and even Ketya no longer dared approach her. She was a queen of destruction, an agent of ruin. The Firefly Queen, the queen of fire. In years to come, she knew, her name would be uttered with contempt, as the girl who ruined the world. The fire seemed to sear her tears dry, and soon her bravest soldiers quaked when she turned her grim gaze upon them. She feared the monster she was becoming, feared what Talin would find when she returned. But still she burned. Weeks passed, and all Esire rose in flames.

  Aeolia was galloping back to Woodwall, but a day away, when Lale caught up with her.

  Her army’s horns blared their warning in long, mournful wails. Distant enemy drums answered in deep, thundering booms. Aeolia strained her eyes but saw nothing. Acorn nickered nervously and skittered sideways. Patting the horse’s head, Aeolia hunched forward and squinted.

  Then she saw them, and her breath died. Rumbling out of the distant smoke, they swarmed like ants. The scorched earth was swallowed beneath them, covered by a gray blanket. Aeolia felt the blood leave her face.

  “So many,” she whispered.

  She wheeled Acorn around. “Come!” she called to her men. “More is left to burn.”

  They spurred their skittish mounts and galloped through the countryside into the next village. As they set it aflame, the gray swarm swept closer, like a shadow falling. By the fifth village torched, Aeolia could make out individual soldiers in the gray patch. She wondered which was Lale.

  Soon Woodwall came into view, a white dot beneath the vermilion sky. Beside a forest of hemlock and pine, Aeolia called her men to a halt.

  “I leave you here,” she said. “My girl and I return to Woodwall. You stay behind and hide in these trees. When the Stonesons besiege Woodwall, your task will be to prevent their supplies from arriving.”

  Her men bowed. Aeolia wheeled Acorn around and trotted away without another word.

  At first she found the silence unsettling. Used to the thunder of five hundred coursers, she found it odd hearing only the hoofbeats of her filly and Ketya’s pony. She could hear wind moan through the trees and the dist
ant crackle of fire. Soon, however, a rumble began to grow, so loud it drowned all other sounds. The Stonish host was close, swarming over the burning land. Their drums pounded loud as thunder, and their horns wailed like wind.

  Aeolia and Ketya galloped. Their horses were weary; the beasts’ ears lay flat against their heads, their hoofs clumsily kicked rocks and grass and snow. Setting the last few farms aflame, the girls fled toward Woodwall, a tidal wave of darkness rising behind them from the fire.

  The city’s wooden walls, built with Big Browns and studded with iron, brimmed with grim, pale soldiers. When Aeolia and Ketya rode through the gates, they found an army in the courtyard. The soldiers stared at Aeolia sullenly and did not bow. Aeolia was too weary to care. She reared Acorn to a halt.

  “Be brave, my friends!” she called. “Remember they are at siege with us. We will overcome.”

  The army stared sullenly. They no longer love me, Aeolia realized. Well, I should not be surprised; it is their homeland I have destroyed. She kneed her horse and trotted through the bleak city. Ketya followed on her pony. They soon reached the palace and dismounted.

  “Where is that stable boy?” Aeolia muttered.

  “I’ll take the horses to the stable,” Ketya said quietly. “You go on.”

  “I thought you were afraid of horses.”

  Ketya shrugged. “They don’t seem so scary anymore.”

  Feeling unbearably dirty, longing for a scalding bath, Aeolia crossed the courtyard and entered the palace. The main hall was empty. Had Talin not come to greet her? she wondered. Perhaps he had not yet heard of her return. She considered searching for him, but decided against it. She would not bear him seeing her as she was, covered with ash and shame.

  She paced down empty corridors to the bathing chamber. It, too, was empty, with not a servant to be seen. Good, Aeolia thought; she wanted to be alone. She tossed her blackened armor onto the floor, laid her crown on a stool, and peeled off her dirty, sweaty clothes. She prepared the bath herself and climbed into the hot water. She let out a whimper and closed her eyes.

  “Spirit, what have I done....” she whispered.

  A reply came from the door. “You’ve destroyed my kingdom.”

  Aeolia snapped her eyes open. Reyn stood at the door, two burly guards at his sides. A heavy, jeweled crown sat on his head.

  “Get out of here,” Aeolia hissed.

  Reyn lifted her dainty crown from the stool, his thumb caressing the golden firefly perched atop its silver wires. He dropped the crown to the floor. It clanged.

  “No matter how much gold you toss them,” Reyn said, “the people will go hungry if you burn their food.”

  He stepped on her crown, crumpling it beneath his heel.

  “We cannot fight each other,” Aeolia whispered. “Look what happened to Heland.”

  Reyn tossed her a towel. It sank into the bath’s water.

  “Wrap up and come with me,” Reyn said. “Your king commands it.”

  “Get out of here!” Aeolia shouted, tears budding in her eyes. “Leave me, you mean old man!”

  The guards took a pace forward. Reyn stopped them with his hand.

  “You will come,” he said, “or your husband will pay for your insolence.”

  Aeolia shook her head slowly. Not Talin....

  “All right,” she said submissively, “I’ll come.”

  Wrapping the soaked towel around her, she stepped out of the bath. The guards grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the room. They dragged her through the palace corridors, letting the servants stare at their bedraggled, dripping queen.

  “What will you do to me?” she asked as they pulled her toward her room.

  “You will be handed over to Lale as a surrender gift,” Reyn said.

  Aeolia shut her eyes. “Don’t do this. We can’t surrender, not now. Not after....”

  Reyn glared at her. “I wanted to surrender long ago. It’s not my fault you ravaged the countryside in vain.”

  “We can beat them, Reyn,” Aeolia gushed out with sudden passion. “We can win this war.”

  “At what price?” Reyn snapped. “Enough have died at your hands. Sinther has promised to spare the city, should we let his army in peacefully.”

  They reached Aeolia’s room. The guards opened the door and shoved her inside. She fell to the floor, and the door slammed shut behind her.

  Aeolia tried pushing herself up, but her elbows wobbled weakly. Suddenly Ketya’s arms were around her, helping her to her feet.

  “Lia...,” Ketya wept, hugging her and crying. “Isn’t it horrible?”

  Ketya still wore her ashy clothes, and her tears etched white streaks down her blackened face. Aeolia patted her head silently, staring dry-eyed over the young girl’s shoulder. On her canopy bed lay a burgundy gown studded with rubies and garnets.

  “They said I should help you put it on,” Ketya said. “I wanted the honey-colored dress, but they said Lale sent this one especially, and....” Tears swept her words away.

  “Best we do as they say,” Aeolia said mildly.

  Ketya nodded and blotted her tears. Still sniffing, she lifted the silk gown, careful not to dirty it with ash, and helped Aeolia dress. It was an elaborate gown, and both girls worked for long moments doing its laces and straps. When it was finally on, Aeolia looked into the mirror and blushed. The neckline was embarrassingly revealing, the silk flimsy, and the embroidery florid.

  “Well, how do I look?”

  “You look...,” Ketya said, “you look....”

  “Like a courtesan,” Aeolia finished for her.

  Ketya nodded, laughing and crying.

  “I guess this is Lale’s taste,” Aeolia said quietly.

  The door opened behind them, and Aeolia spun around. She froze. Talin stood at the doorway.

  “They let me come see you,” he said.

  Aeolia stared at him numbly, unable to move. As she stood frozen he paced forward and embraced her. She whimpered like a child and clutched him, clinging to him. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she could not breathe for pain.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Strong as Stone

  Taya woke up thinking she was dead. She remembered the knife opening her neck, remembered the spark of life extinguishing. And now she lay in a coffin. She felt its walls push against her. The ceiling was low, and she could not sit up. It was tar black and ice cold.

  Someone was breathing beside her. Taya’s heart leapt into her mouth.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  The breathing turned into a thankful gasp.

  “You’re awake at last!” a man’s voice said in Northtalk.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Taya demanded shakily, in her fright still speaking Woodword.

  “It’s okay, don’t be afraid. I’m a friend. My name is Roen.”

  Taya switched to Northtalk, straining to pronounce the foreign words. “How you here? This is my coffin.”

  “This isn’t a coffin. It’s just a long box.”

  “I am buried in box? This is shared grave?”

  “You’re not dead.”

  “But I remember dying.”

  “You did die, but now you are alive. I brought you back from the dead.”

  “Only Healer Firechild can do that!”

  “Yes … it seems I’m him.”

  Taya understood. “So Lale caught us both. He wants give us to his father as gifts.”

  “Yes, Lale is taking us to Grayrock.”

  “How long I be asleeping?”

  “It’s hard to tell. I counted they brought us food fifteen times, so maybe that many days.”

  Taya winced. “So we almost there.”

  “Yes.”

  “I frightened.”

  “So am I.”

  “I very cold and hungry,” she said. “I sorry, so are you, I know.”

  “It’s easier, being cold and hungry together.”

  “Yes, yes! At least we have each other. I was frighte
ned more when alone.”

  “I saw you then,” he said. “You didn’t look frightened. You walked proud and straight.”

  “Lale said he pull my toes off if I tilt bucket. That why I walked straight.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. It must have been horrible.”

  Taya thought of those days, when fear and pain were her constant companions. She said, “I never lost hope, though. Even now I have hope. My friend, you see, she will save us. Aeolia will save us!”

  Roen gasped. “You know Aeolia? The Esiren Firechild?”

  “Yes! You know her too?”

  “She freed my father from prison, once. It seems so long ago.”

  “She will free us too.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “You no sound so sure,” she said.

  “Well, it’s just that... Sinther lives miles underground, in a fortress more heavily guarded than any other on the Island. I don’t know how Aeolia can save us there.”

  “She will. I believe in her.”

  Before Roen could reply, a rattling sound came from above.

  “What that is?” Taya asked.

  “They’re putting food into an upper compartment of the box. There’s another door for us to open. We have to wait until their door closes.”

  Taya smiled wanly. “They ascared I turn into hoppergrass and escape.”

  “Yes. Here, their door has closed. I’ll get the food.”

  Taya felt Roen shift, and she heard another hatch open in the low ceiling. After a series of scraping sounds, the hatch rattled shut.

  “Here, give me your hand,” Roen said.

  Taya groped in the darkness and found his hand. He put in her palm a bread roll. Taya ate it in small bites. It was stale and grainy.

  “Drink this,” Roen said and pushed toward her a small dish. Taya lifted it and drank the brackish water. She drank half and gave the rest to Roen. She was still thirsty.

  “That all?” she asked.

  “Yes. My magic can ease some of the hunger, though.”

  “You living like this fifteen days?”

  “It wasn’t so bad. I thought about you a lot. Sometimes when you slept I would talk to you.”

  Taya smiled. “And now I can talk back.”