Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  “Her foster-brother tell me she not know. She thought she was giving us her life.”

  “I only hope I can give it back.”

  Taya lowered her eyes. “Like you gave it back to me.”

  “You once told me I shouldn’t have; it got us caught.”

  Taya raised her eyes and looked at him, this man with round eyes, who wore no beard or braids, who had never eaten the heart of a vanquished warrior, and yet who, somehow, in his own way, could still impress her, more then Uaua or Ooor ever could. It felt strange. A year ago she would have scorned a man with no calluses on his hands. Gingerly, she touched the tattoos on her cheeks.

  She spoke quietly. “I glad it did, I glad it got us caught. We learn from these hardships, I think. Sometimes awful things can bring the most wonderful ones.”

  “You know, I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

  Taya looked away from him. She gazed out the window. The red and orange fireflies danced and swirled in the evening. Taya thought she could discern, floating uncertainly amid them, a single, dim golden fleck, glowing hesitantly. She returned her eyes to Roen.

  “You know,” she whispered hesitantly, “we terribly mismatched.”

  “A Healer and a Forestfellow?”

  “A painter and a warrior?”

  “You’re right.” Roen nodded. “I think this is an awful idea. But as you know....”

  Taya lowered her eyes. Her voice trembled slightly. “. . . sometimes awful things can bring the most wonderful ones.” She raised her eyes and looked at him. “I don’t know, Roen Painter. I still learning some things.”

  He only smiled at her. Hesitantly, Taya returned the smile. It felt good. Outside, the fireflies glowed.

  * * * * *

  Weeks later, Joren sat uneasily in his new throne.

  The seat was comfortable enough, all soft angles shaped to fit his body, the marble carved so smooth it felt silken. But still Joren shifted as he sat. He felt out of place. He hung his hands limply over the armrests and gazed wearily around him.

  The Citadel’s old main hall had been refurbished into his royal court. Tall windows had been knocked into the walls, to drive out the cold and darkness. Pastel tapestries hung where walls still stood, concealing the dank, rough stone. A thick carpet covered the floor, and baskets of flowers and ivy sat on cherry tables, to drive out the smell of must. Who would have thought this was where, only several weeks ago, he had killed the guards of his old prince?

  The front hall was not the only room Joren was changing. At his command, the entire Citadel was being remodeled. He had ordered the gargoyles replaced with marble statues of angels and unicorns. The old paved courtyard was being turned into a garden, which Joren planned to fill with grass and peacocks and fountains. Inside the building, inner walls had been knocked down, turning the old labyrinth of narrow corridors into wide, windowed halls. The lowermost rooms, haunted with unpleasant memories, Joren had ordered filled with mortar. The Citadel was becoming a new place. Joren didn’t even call it the Citadel anymore. He simply called it the Palace. The Island’s Palace.

  He ruled the whole Island, of course—Sinther had conquered it all. But Joren did not rule as king of Stonemark. He did not want to rule conquered lands. He wanted a union, a union of the Island’s five countries, whose new palace would be where he sat. He called it a new, brave land where war would never more rage. He had been working hard to promote his vision, appointing ministers of all races, creating a new flag with five stars, one for each of the old realms. He decreed intermarriage legal in all lands. He invited the homeless Esirens and Forestfolk, whose lands had been destroyed, to come till Stonemark’s fields. No more separate races, he said. No more Stonish Empire. One land.

  His efforts had all failed.

  The people hated him. The Esirens still called him Butcher Joren. The Forestfolk blamed him for the destruction of their home. The Healers called him Lale’s pet. They all saw him as a despot, and who could blame them? They would always remember his misdeeds. He was Lale’s heir. To them, he was another Sinther. He was a Stoneson, and as long as he reigned, they would see him as conqueror. Joren knew he would have to do more to realize the union he envisioned. He thought he knew how.

  A knock at the hall’s doors disrupted his thoughts. Joren smiled grimly. The moment he dreaded had come. He rose to his feet and signaled his guards to open the wide doors. As the doors creaked open, Joren found himself clenching his fists.

  The man who walked through the doorway looked nothing like the boy Joren once had met. They were the same age, Joren knew, but there the resemblance ended. Joren had always been withdrawn, pensive. This man stood defiantly, fire in his eyes. Auburn stubble covered his cheeks, and his shock of hair was unkempt. He hates me more than all, Joren reflected.

  The man spoke. “A cruel trick of fortune, that we should meet again.”

  “Cruel, Talin? I suppose it might be. But then, perhaps it is fate’s way of relieving old grievances.”

  “You know, I often dreamed of this moment. In my dreams I open your throat and laugh as the blood washes my hands, like it washed his hands so long ago.”

  “You can still realize your dream,” Joren said. “You wear a sword. I am unarmed.”

  Talin stepped forward. “You saved her. Why?”

  “Because I....” Joren shut his eyes. “Because she taught me something, I think. Something about... love, perhaps? And for that I love her.”

  “You can never love her like I do.”

  Joren opened his mouth, then shut it. Finally he spoke. “Perhaps you are right, I....” Again words failed him. How could he possibly say what he felt? How he had wanted her to hate him, wanted her to spit at and curse him, but she only told him she loved him, after all he had done? How at that moment he wanted to die?

  “I want to see her,” Talin said.

  Joren nodded briskly, shaking himself free of his thoughts. “Come.”

  The two men turned, crossed the carpeted hall, and passed through a doorway. They walked down a corridor, its windows set with colored glass, its walls bedecked with marigolds and hyacinths and bright yellow daffodils. They stopped at the end of the corridor, before a simple door festooned with sheaves of wheat.

  “She is still asleep,” Joren said. “She has been sleeping for several weeks now. We feed her honeyed milk and crushed fruit, and we heal her with magic, and we think she will wake soon. She often mumbles your name. Perhaps your voice will wake her. Go in. She is inside.”

  As Talin opened the door, Joren saw that the man’s hand shook. This is her true love, Joren realized, and suddenly, strangely, he envied him. He leaned against the wall as Talin closed the door behind him, and waited.

  He waited for a long time, smelling the flowers and thinking of Aeolia, so small and weak in her bed, her doll Stuffings in her arms again. Finally Talin emerged from the room. His eyes were moist.

  “Let me take her with me,” Talin said.

  “She needs our Healers.”

  “I can nurse her back to health. She needs to be home.”

  “But this is her home.”

  “This, her home?”

  Joren sighed. “You see, I... have done much wrong in my life. I am unfit to rule this island. And so I give the throne to she who has truly earned it, she who had toppled the tyranny. I give it to my sister.”

  “You are naming her empress....”

  “She is suited to rule this fledgling union, more than anyone. She has lived in Stonemark, the Beastlands, and Esire. You have both the blood of Healers and Forestfolk. Your children, with something of every race in them, will unite the Island and her old kingdoms.”

  “Our children....” Talin echoed, and tears sparkled in his eyes. It was a moment before he spoke again. “And what of you?”

  Joren smiled—a wide, peaceful smile. “I have bought a ship, a fast vessel of three masts and a hundred feet of deck, and in her bowels rest a thousand stones of food and sweet summer wine. I am lea
ving into the green ocean, never to return, to see what I will find.” He took a deep, satisfied breath, already smelling the salt air in his nostrils. “But now then, I am keeping you from your wife’s side.”

  Joren turned to leave, but Talin grabbed his arm.

  “You’re not leaving soon, are you? You will stay till she wakes?”

  Joren smiled. “Of course.”

  He turned and walked down the corridor at a quick pace; his ship was waiting in the harbor, anchor ready to rise and sails ready to unfurl. He knew he would never see her again, but that was okay; they were both too changed to be what once they were. The most important thing he had done. He had kept his promise. He had brought his sister home.

  * * * * *

  “...you and everyone,” she mumbled. “I love... you....”

  Her lips stilled, now soft. Everything, soft, silky like swaddling clothes, apple blossoms caressing her skin, babies’ breath smoothing her hair. She felt warm, delicate, protected, like a chick in fluffy feathers. Light fell on her eyelids and she moaned. She tried to stir but was too weak, could only wiggle her fingers. She felt other fingers tighten around hers in reaction, and the touch was warm and gentle. Her lids fluttered open. In the feathery light she saw a figure like an angel smiling down upon her, holding her hand. The sunlight formed a halo around his head.

  “Talin...,” she said, groggy from sleep.

  “Lia.” He squeezed her hand.

  “You are here.... How can this be? I thought I’d never see you again.”

  He smiled. “You don’t have enough guards, Your Majesty, to keep me away.”

  Aeolia blinked at him. “But I’m no longer queen. Reyn overthrew me.”

  Talin only smiled. What a silly thing to say, Aeolia thought. She wanted to tell him all she had suffered, how she had scorched her soul with her kingdom, how Lale had caged her, how she had relinquished escape. She wanted it so badly she ached, but she could bring none of it to her lips.

  “I’ve been a bad wife,” she said instead.

  Talin’s eyes softened. He slowly shook his head.

  “I left you, Talin. I’m sorry.”

  He stroked her hair. “Don’t be.”

  She looked beside her. Stuffings, her old doll, lay there in bed, tattered as always, but soft and clean. Finally, it had buttons for eyes. Aeolia looked back to Talin.

  “Will everything be good now?” she asked him.

  “Everything will be good,” he whispered, so quiet she barely heard.

  “I was so scared, Talin. I was so scared.”

  “I know,” his lips uttered silently. He folded her in his arms and rocked her gently, as if she were a child.

  “Hold me forever,” Aeolia mumbled into his embrace. “Never let me go again.”

  Afterword

  Dear reader,

  Thank you for sharing this story with me. I hope that it entertained, excited, and maybe even moved you. I hope you feel that it was worth the money and time you spent on it.

  If you do, please tell your friends—talk about Firefly Island on facebook, your blog, Amazon, or just over your backyard fence. And if you're looking for another book to read, you can try my fantasy novel Flaming Dove; it's also available in the Kindle store.

  Feel free to email me your thoughts. My email is Daniel@DanielArenson.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

  I'm glad we spent this time together, and I hope to meet you again between the pages of another book.

  Daniel

  About the Author

  Daniel Arenson sold his first short story in 1998. Since then, dozens of his stories and poems have appeared in various magazines, among them Flesh & Blood, Chizine, and Orson Scott Card's Strong Verse.

  In addition to Firefly Island, Daniel is the author of the fantasy novel Flaming Dove .

  Visit Daniel's website at DanielArenson.com.

  You may email Daniel at Daniel@DanielArenson.com.

  Flaming Dove

  by

  Daniel Arenson

  If you enjoyed Firefly Island, you'll enjoy Daniel Arenson's dark fantasy novel Flaming Dove.

  Outcast from Hell. Banished from Heaven. Lost on Earth.

  The battle of Armageddon was finally fought... and ended with no clear victor. Upon the mountain, the armies of Hell and Heaven beat each other into a bloody, uneasy standstill, leaving the Earth in ruins. Armageddon should have ended with Heaven winning, ushering in an era of peace. That's what the prophecies said. Instead, the two armies—one of angels, one of demons—hunker down in the scorched planet, lick their wounds, and gear up for a prolonged war with no end in sight.

  In this chaos of warring armies and ruined landscapes, Laila doesn't want to take sides. Her mother was an angel, her father a demon; she is outcast from both camps. And yet both armies need her, for with her mixed blood, Laila can become the ultimate spy... or ultimate soldier. As the armies of Heaven and Hell pursue her, Laila's only war is within her heart—a struggle between her demonic and heavenly blood.

  Here's a preview from Flaming Dove:

  I am Laila, of the night. I have walked through godlight and through darkness. I have fought demons and I have slain angels. I am Laila, of the shadows. I have hidden and run, and I have stood up and striven. I am Laila, of tears and blood, of sins and of piety. I am Laila, outcast from Hell, banished from Heaven. I am alone, in darkness. I am Laila, of light and of fire. I am fallen. I rise again.

  Chapter One

  Something is out there, his thoughts whispered. Something lurking in the night. Standing on the fort’s dank walls, Nathaniel scanned the darkness. He saw only rain and waves, but still the thought lingered. There is evil beyond these walls.

  It was past midnight, and clouds hid the stars, grumbling and spewing sheets of rain, crackling with lightning. The waves roared, raising showers of foam, pummeling the ancient Crusader fort as if trying to topple it. It was that kind of storm, Nathaniel thought as the winds lashed him. A storm that could tear down the world.

  Nathaniel tightened his grip on his spear, the rain pelting his bronze helm. An unholy storm, he thought, and an unholy night.

  A glint caught his good eye, coming from the flurrying sand of the beach below. Nathaniel raised his spear, gazing into the darkness, heart leaping. He shifted his shoulder blades as if he still had angel wings to unfurl. He had lost those wings years ago, along with his left eye, to demon claws. And you know what happens to wingless angels, he thought, scanning the beach. They get stuck with guard duty on stormy nights when even God wouldn’t step outdoors.

  Where was the glint? Nathaniel could see nothing, only crashing waves and endless darkness. He must have imagined it. He cursed himself for his quickened heartbeat, for the whiteness of his knuckles around his spear. He had killed more demons than he could count, had even faced an archdemon once and lived to boast of it; it was damn foolishness that a mere storm should faze him, even if it was the worst storm he had seen on this world. And yet... and yet there was something about this night, something of a malice beyond waves and wind, beyond Hell itself, perhaps.

  Lightning flashed and there—a glint in the skies. Nathaniel thought he glimpsed great bat wings spread in flight before the light vanished, but... that was impossible. No demon could fly over this beach without triggering all their alarms.

  Nathaniel cursed the shiver that ran through his bones, these bones broken too often in battle, now creaky and aching. The waves battered the fort’s wall, spraying him with water and foam, and Nathaniel cursed again and spat. He’d had too much rye last night, that was all; he was seeing things.

  Something creaked behind him.

  Nathaniel spun around, spear lashing.

  A cry pierced the night.

  His spear banged against metal.

  “Sir!” came a voice ahead.

  “Who’s there?” Nathaniel demanded, gripping his spear.

  “Please, sir! It’s me.” Eyes glowed in the darkness.

  “Name and ran
k,” Nathaniel shouted.

  “Yaram, sir! Corporal from platoon four, sir.”

  Nathaniel groped for the lamp at his feet. It lay on its side; he must have kicked it over. He raised the tin lamp, casting its flickering glow against the young, pink-faced angel who stood before him. A dent pushed into Yaram’s breastplate where Nathaniel’s spear had found it, and the angel’s eyes were narrowed with pain and terror.

  “God damn it.” Nathaniel spat. “Corporal, never creep up on an officer like that; my spear could have hit your face just as easily.”

  “Sorry, sir, but... I pulled guard duty tonight. I was in the eastern tower, and sir, I saw something.”

  “And abandoned your post?” Nathaniel clenched his jaw. He should have the angel beaten for this.

  “Micah, my partner, guards there now, sir,” Yaram said, voice shaking. Thunder boomed. “I came to find you. We saw a shade in the night, like a demon, but....”

  Nathaniel cursed under his breath. The rain pounded his helmet and ran down his face. “But it wasn’t a demon, was it?” he muttered. So he had not imagined it; there was something out there, neither demon nor angel, a creature that had crept past their alarms, that now flew above them as if unfazed by the garrison of angels below.

  There was only one creature of such power, of such brazenness, Nathaniel knew. The winds howled and more waves sprayed them, salty against his lips. The lamplight flickered, its shadows dancing.

  “Sir?” Yaram said, pale. “You don’t suppose it could have been her? That she has returned?”

  Nathaniel raised his spear and pointed it at the younger angel. “Watch your tongue, corporal, or I’ll cut it from your mouth. Don’t speak of that half-breed here. She fled years ago, you know that.”

  Yaram swallowed and nodded, rubbing the dent in his armor. No doubt, an ugly bruise was spreading beneath that dent. “Yes, sir.”