by Colt, K. J.
“I couldn’t find it before this,” Arythan said, studying his changed hands. “What makes y’ think I can find it now?”
“I will help you.”
“Why? Why would anyone want to ‘elp me?”
“’Tis the price of friendship, Durmorth.” Eraekryst watched him remove his hat and run a hand through his lengthening hair. “I am heartened that you came unarmed.”
Arythan looked up at him. “I’m sorry for ‘ow I’ve treated y’.”
“Few have the capacity to frustrate me as much as you do,” Eraekryst said, “and I intend that as a compliment.”
“Thanks, I think.”
The Ilangien suddenly stood and stared in the direction of the encampment. “Yellow,” he murmured, his attention on the unseen.
“What?”
“I can see the color, and I can feel the danger as it advances, but I know not what it is. The vision is merely yellow.” He turned to the mage’s questioning face. “We should go.”
Something about the tone of Eraekryst’s voice urged Arythan to his feet. He picked up the Ilangien’s sword.
“I fear it will do little good, Durmorth,” he said, already hurrying away. He broke the line of trees to see several figures in yellow uniforms on horseback, just outside the ring of wagons. Beyond them there were others clad in the same hue, at a distance, surrounding the encampment. Lyssana and Rosie stood before the riders, flanked by a fair number of the Dragon’s men.
“Yellow,” Arythan breathed, winded from his run. “But ‘oo are they, an’ what do they want?” He seemed eager to join the scene.
Eraekryst held out an arm as restraint. “They are here for us.”
“’Ow do y’—”
The Ilangien stopped him with a wary glance. They turned back to see the riders dismount and approach the Dragon’s leaders. Rosie had her hands on her hips, her stance one of defiance. Lyssana stood straight and rigid beside her, her expression just as grim. The other members of the Crimson Dragon were transfixed upon the discourse between their leaders and the riders; their hands waited on the hilts of the swords yet sheathed at their sides.
Rosie took a step forward, gesticulating as she often did in the ring. Only now, her motions were short and fast, betraying her growing anger. Lyssana placed a hand on her shoulder, but Rosie shrugged her away. Of the yellow-clad riders, there was no movement at all.
There was a sound from beside him, and Eraekryst turned just as Arythan bolted forward. “Durmorth, no!” He reached for the mage, who was already too far to pull back by physical means. He clenched his hand, and Arythan dropped to the ground.
Eraekryst hurried to his side. Though he could not open his mouth to speak, the rage in Arythan’s eyes said more than enough. “Let me intercede,” the Ilangien insisted. “Trust in me.”
He stood and left the rigid mage, walking quickly to where Lyssana and Rosie held their ground. All he need do was command the intruders to leave. One thought was all it would take. Just one word: leave. Everyone turned toward him when he was but a few yards away.
“Stay out of this, Erik!” Rosie shouted at him. “Go back with—”
She never finished. The rider had struck so quickly that no one had anticipated his action. There was a sound as the sword partly severed her head from her shoulders, and her body fell to the ground.
Eraekryst froze, his eyes wide in disbelief. Lyssana shrieked, and the members of the Dragon attacked the riders. Metal, flesh, and blood collided in slaughter, and the intruders in yellow swarmed upon the encampment like hornets. The Ilangien was too late to dispel the chaos, and he was too late to realize the advance of a yellow assailant upon him.
There was a flash of white light as his assailant flicked his whip, and it coiled itself around Eraekryst’s arm. The pain of the contact took his breath away, and all his energy left him like a fire extinguished with a bucket of water. His legs buckled beneath him, and he met the ground. Try as he might to pry the luminous strand from his arm, it only burned more, blistering his flesh. He could not generate a clear thought, could not heal himself or reach the Ilán at all. All traces of his magic were gone.
He looked up to see the wagons ablaze, bodies lifeless and bloody. The helpless screamed as they were chased down and murdered. He saw Lyssana on her knees, her head wrenched back by the hair as one of the enemy shouted at her. A shadow raced for her—Arythan, no longer under Eraekryst’s hold—charged with sword unsheathed.
Lyssana’s throat was cut before the mage could reach her. Her attacker went up in flames as the mage ran for him, sword poised. It was his final action before he was struck by another, dragged to the ground with the same magic-nullifying whip used upon the Ilangien.
Eraekryst’s own attacker bent over him to retrieve his prize. He stared at the Ilangien from behind his metal masque—a monster whose bright eyes were eager to devour. “What are you?” the man demanded. “What sort of magic—”
The point of a blade emerged from his chest and disappeared as the man fell forward atop the Ilangien. Eraekryst could feel the warmth of blood as it spilled upon him, and then the weight of the body lifted as another stranger appeared above him. This massive figure was not in yellow but in black, and when he reached down for the Ilangien, there was no weapon in his hand. He took hold of Eraekryst’s free hand and pulled him to his knees.
The dark figure extracted the whip from the dead man’s hands and tugged to loosen the Ilangien’s binding. When it fell away, Eraekryst’s strength and power flooded back through him, and he was quick to his feet. Forgetting his rescuer, he searched the bloody landscape and found another dark figure—a woman’s—at Arythan’s side. No one else stirred, no one else made a sound. The encampment was claimed only by the dead—troupe and yellow invaders alike. Like vultures, the four in black gathered around the mage; the twenty-some other armed men remained scattered, awaiting instruction.
Without a word Eraekryst worked his way to his friend’s side. Arythan had already been freed of the luminous whip, but still he did not stir. He moved to touch the mage’s arm, but stopped when he saw his eyes, the haunted stare of one in utter disbelief and horror. They were eyes filled with grief and pain—eyes that had seen this all before.
It had been only a meadow moments before—a tranquil meadow with the initial rattle of cicadas and their audience of flowers perched atop long but sturdy stems. A cheery fire was built, and it laughed, snapped, and popped with the company of the Crimson Dragon. Ned’s lute wove breezes together with strands of melodies, and Miranda’s sweet voice encouraged the climbing sun. Rosie and Lyssana shared smiles like secrets, and even Dain the sword-swallower had settled in the grass in the shade to quietly clean his blades. This was how Arythan had left them, seemingly moments ago, when he had gone to find Eraekryst.
Now the air was acrid with smoke, stained by odors of burning flesh and wood. They were all dead. He knew it without searching the bloodied grass, without listening for a familiar voice. He could see it in Lyssana’s empty stare. Her body lay not far from him, still and no longer a part of his world.
This is how it was, Arythan thought, when thoughts finally came to him. He could not wrest his eyes from hers. This was how it happened before, though I had not been there to see it. Every one of them had died. Her eyes could have been any one of theirs—the thieves of the Prophet’s clan after Belorn’s soldiers had come through. When Arythan had finally returned to the site of the massacre in the desert, their bodies had long since been devoured by the vultures.
“Y’ told us to go,” he had said to his deceased surrogate father, the Prophet. “Y’ told us to go!” The scream went unheard by the dead, and that made him angry. And it had made him angry that the Prophet had allowed him and his thief-brothers to walk into a trap.
A different sort of prophet had spared him the fate of the Crimson Dragon, but what made this massacre infinitely worse was the fact that they had died for him. The life of a medori thief in exchange for an entire trou
pe of performers….
“Durmorth.”
Arythan blinked, surfacing from the depths of his horror. He became aware of a fierce and growing throbbing in his ankle, but the limb might well have belonged to someone else. He trembled as the cold, dead words left his lips. “Why did y’ stop me?”
There was brief silence before the Ilangien spoke. “You were not to number among them.”
Still the mage did not regard him. “’Ow do y’ know?”
“Because you did not.”
Arythan wiped the water from his eyes with his sleeve and glared at Eraekryst. “This isn’t justice!” he seethed, his voice choked with bitterness.
“It is not, Medoriate Crow,” said a hulking man in black attire and a black masque. “But there is a greater justice awaiting the dead at Jedinom’s hands. That you are spared, you must be grateful for his mercy—even if you do not understand your fate.”
Arythan’s burning eyes turned upon this stranger, searing through the sweat that ran down his brow from fever and from fury. A million vulgar thoughts unfit to be uttered streamed through his mind, but the only words to leave his mouth were: “’Oo are y’?”
In truth, he did not care who the man and his dark cohorts were. He only heard part of the answer as growing nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Cerborath’s royal syndicate. A convenient rescue. Whatever they wanted, he would have no part.
“Medoriate Crow, are you injured?” the man asked.
The bile rose in Arythan’s throat, and he felt all warmth drop from his face. He rolled to his side and vomited, but the action earned him little relief. “Don’ touch me,” he gasped when the man knelt down beside him. His ankle pulsed and pounded, but all he could see were Lyssana’s empty eyes. He caught his breath and drew his sleeve across his mouth. I should see it—all of it. Everything that I am responsible for.
This driving, irrational thought sent him scrambling, trying to stand. The pain was an annoyance and would not deter him from his objective.
“Durmorth!”
He heard Eraekryst’s warning; he did not care. Shivering and sweating, he managed to teeter solidly on one sound leg…then crumpled to the ground when his fever and his injury overwhelmed him. The Ilangien was suddenly kneeling beside him, disapproval and concern darkening his brilliant eyes. “What is your aim?” His voice had darkened as well.
Arythan stared at his blurry visage, unaware that the tears had returned. “Just leave me!” he snapped.
“I do not understand you,” Eraekryst said, but Arythan had no intention of clarifying. He was following a logic that only made sense to him, and so he crawled his way to the nearest body shrouded in yellow. No one tried to stop him as he craned over the vanquished enemy. Breathing harshly, he extended a shaky hand toward the figure’s masque. Arythan tore it away as one might an urgent message or a wrongfully concealed secret.
Beneath the masque was a man. Just a man. Lifeless eyes, still as stone. There was no truth to be read from the corpse, no indication of purpose, no disfigured monster with a lust for blood. This was just a man, and he and his kind had destroyed everything.
Arythan’s eyes stagnated upon that ordinary, Human face. You killed all of them. You took it all away. All of it! His fury trickled through his veins, the result of a crack in the dam.
Somewhere in the distance, a deep voice spoke of him. “He is clearly unwell. We must take him back with us. It will be safer….”
The dam burst, and Arythan clutched at the yellow tunic. “’Oo were they! Why’d they do this!” His hoarse voice was rusty metal, though the blade was still sharp. Blue flame whirled around his arm, down to the hand that gripped the dead man’s attire.
“Warriors of the Sword, Medoriate.” The deep voice drew nearer as it spoke. “They are religious zealots who stain Jedinom’s name. They destroy any medori who do not serve him.”
“They were performers!” Arythan cried.
“But they harbored you and your companion. In the eyes of the Warriors, they were just as guilty.”
The flames left Arythan’s arm and engulfed the body. The mage moved back and watched the blaze, his own heart burning with hatred. “Nigqor-a-Jedinom. Oqrantos take y’r bloody ‘Uman god,” he spat. He did not see the syndicate man scowl at his curse; he would not have cared anyway. It was all a sick waste.
“Medoriate, it is best we deliver you and your companion to safety. At the castle we can tend to your injuries.”
“No,” Arythan said.
There was a pause. “There is nothing for you here, Medoriate. We ask that you—”
“I said ‘no’,” came the louder response.
In the following silence, Eraekryst came to meet him. Before he could even speak a word, Arythan whispered, “I won’t go with them. I know they ‘ad an ‘and in it.”
“’Tis a suspicion in my mind as well, but of proof there is none. ’Tis true, though, that there is nothing here but the dead, Durmorth,” Eraekryst said gently. “You have no cause to stay. Come with me, and we will investigate this matter through our own methods.”
“An’ leave them to rot?” Arythan asked. He shook his head. “I won’t. I’ll bury every bloody one o’ them. Go without me.”
“You will not relent, then.”
Suddenly Arythan looked up at him, realizing what Eraekryst would do. It was too late, however, and only the too-familiar apology reached his ears as darkness enveloped him.
When Arythan awoke again, it was night. The glow of the campfire sat between him and the mysterious syndicate in black, though he imagined he counted five of their shadowy figures in a circle. They kept their voices low, and if they knew he was awake, they paid him no heed.
Arythan found there was a blanket atop him as well as beneath him—probably Eraekryst’s doing. His ankle, while it still throbbed something awful, had been tended to—wrapped firmly and set atop a bag of provisions. Of the Ilangien, there was no sign.
Good thing, he thought, because I have some words for him. He knew his rage had made him difficult, but to knock him out and tote him along like a sack of flour…it only spurred his anger. He was capable of decisions too, and he had decided to stay with the dead. Now he was in the company of strangers he did not trust, on his way to a castle he had no desire to revisit.
His thoughts turned back to the Crimson Dragon and the faces he remembered. Rosie, Lyssana, Dain, Miranda… He imagined the singer’s beautiful smile, her golden hair. She had started to like him, started to care for him. And he had been ready to accept that life.
Maybe that was the problem. I was happy. Arythan closed his eyes and swallowed the despair that made his eyes water. It was over, and no matter how much he longed for the past, he could never relive it. Through his eyelids he could see a pale light, and he traded his anger for emptiness.
“I could not heal it,” Eraekryst’s voice found him. “With the knife still bound to you, I dare not try.”
“I’m alright with the pain,” Arythan answered, opening his eyes to find his friend sitting near him. “Where were y’?”
Eraekryst turned his gaze skyward, regarding the stars. “I saw to your request—that the dead were tended to properly.”
“Y’ went back?” Arythan asked, incredulous.
“Nay, but I saw them…flames scathing the sky as their spirits were set free. They are safe now, Durmorth. ’Tis strange how you mortals find solace in disposing of your dead. Your attachment to the physical remains long after the spirit has gone.”
“’S all we ‘ave,” Arythan said, following Eraekryst’s gaze to the heavens. “That an’ memories.” He studied the Ilangien. “Don’ y’ bury y’r dead?”
“We go the Flame. There is no physical form left, and should one of us die in some other fashion, we bring the Flame to the dead.” Eraekryst bent his head, his expression sorrowful. “I had every intention of stopping our enemy. I would have seized the mind of their leader and instructed him to retreat. I…do not know why I hesitated, a
nd my moment of weakness was my folly. I was too late. I am sorry, Durmorth.”
Was there anything we could have done? Arythan wondered. Though he hated to admit it, even his furious charge into the fray would have accomplished little. Undoubtedly he would have numbered among the Dragon’s dead had Eraekryst not initially restrained him. “Y’ still saved my life, for what ’tis worth,” Arythan said quietly. “Thanks.”
Eraekryst looked at him, the slightest hint of a smile upon his face.
Arythan reddened and stared at his elevated ankle. “But y’ need to stop knocking me out. I don’ even know where we bloody are.”
The smile broadened.
The riders wore a protective silence as they did their cloaks. Three of the black riders were at the helm of the procession; the remaining two flanked Arythan and Eraekryst. Feeling more like a prisoner than an escorted guest, Arythan was reluctant to say anything. Eraekryst, on the other hand, was happy to chat away as readily as he breathed; he had no difficulty ignoring the syndicate that surrounded them.
There were times when Arythan, in turn, ignored him, for now, without the confines of the wagon, he could see the open landscape and the untamed wilderness that was Cerborath. Dark and dour evergreens stood in secluded parties, as if to hide watchful eyes beneath their shadowy boughs. Black and rigid rocky outcrops were no friendlier, though their age earned them the right to guard their silence. The mountains—some of them still and always capped in veiled and snowy peaks—were like distant gods who had seen more than the comings and goings of flesh-clad creatures—mortal trespassers in their timeless and frosty Eden. Where the mountains vanished into the sky, the murky lakes hid their depths in impenetrable shades of indigo and midnight blue. The only softness to this remote setting were the fragile, ephemeral spring blossoms that spattered the grasses with color—flowers too blissfully ignorant to know they would soon be gone with the passing of the short warm season.
The riders had left the Northern Link behind them, forsaking the well-traveled road for one less defined. Villages were sparse sightings until the group penetrated further into Cerborath’s chilly heart. Then even the towns were as dark and rigid as the trees and the rocks, a testament to the stubborn inhabitants who fought to survive in the unsympathetic grip of the frigid north. At the center of this foreign world was Crag’s Crown, the black castle that was imbedded in the pinnacle of the highest cliff like a thorn. It was a vulture, perched there to watch the carcass of a land that it claimed its own.