Silent Requiem (Tales of Ashkar Book 3)

by Kayl Karadjian

  Just me. No one for my curse to claim. I can hardly bear the ones I’ve already lost. Would my mirror shatter if I lost another, or would I be forced to look at myself and hate what I saw?

  The air grew silent again as the two made their way from Graeme’s tower toward the eastern exit of the kingdom. The streets were emptier than Incindir would have liked, the strikes of his boots on cobblestone echoing and notifying all of their presence.

  If it had been easy for the likes of Serraemas and his group to stalk them before, Incindir could only fathom what an easy task it was for anyone—or anything—to follow them now. But he had yet to see any familiar faces since the battle near the Everliving Grove.

  Considering Serraemas’s fate, he doubted ever seeing the icy elementalist again. Sora would be sure to come after him again. It was just a matter of when and how.

  But at the moment it was not the Skyward Hands who Incindir was concerned about. No living person, no matter how powerful, could withstand a Fourth Flame between the eyes.

  “What can we do against the one who chases us?” Halcyon asked, and Incindir wondered if mindreading was one of the boy’s abilities. “If I use more of my power, we will lose even more time. I cannot spare to do so.”

  “I think I have a plan,” Incindir replied. “It’s going to be risky, but we have no other options.”

  “A dragon could not kill her,” Halcyon said. “What hope do you have?”

  “Thanks,” Incindir said.

  “I did not mean it like that,” Halcyon said.

  “I’m not going to kill her,” Incindir explained. “If I can prepare an attack to incapacitate her, we can snatch the orb from her and make our escape. I’ll just need some time to summon the energy required.”

  “She won’t let you,” Halcyon said.

  “I know, which is why I need you to be bait,” Incindir said.

  Halcyon furrowed his brows. “Bait?”

  “You can sense her orb, and she can sense you,” Incindir continued. “But she can’t sense me. She’ll come to you while I remain hidden. When the time comes, I’ll ambush her with every bit of frost I’ve got. Then we grab the orb and make our escape.”

  “But she will continue to pursue us,” Halcyon said.

  “We’ll just have to stay one step ahead of her,” Incindir replied.

  “Very well,” Halcyon said. “Should you fail, we are all doomed.”

  Incindir took a deep breath. “I know.”

  _ _ _

  Erendil, carrying as much firewood as he could hold in his arms, neared the cabin in the forest by the stream. Birds chirped overhead, and in the distance Erendil noted the setting sun, its rays of light pouring between the cracks of sky not covered by tree branches beginning to dim.

  The coming dusk reminded him of many nights past before the release of Akaba, where he would spend the night gathered around the fire with Serraemas and Raxxil, his mind not on the darkness within but rather the world outside and what it held.

  But it was not Serraemas nor Raxxil preparing supper near the spot where Erendil would stack all the wood that he brought for the fire, but rather a stranger who he barely knew. And it was to Erendil’s growing fears that Akaba’s presence also grew.

  As Erendil recovered from his fatal-but-not-fatal wound, so too did Akaba recover. And then what? Erendil would continue his miserable existence once again in combat with his elemental?

  He would have been lying to himself if he claimed it not to be a strange feeling. Jorne, or rather Dyraunt, expected this man to aid Erendil when Sora nor any other who Erendil held close to him could not?

  “Hello,” Erendil said quietly as he placed the stack of wood on top of the fire pit. He reached for the flint and tinder, and started on the fire right away.

  Kalic was neither quiet and sharp like Serraemas, nor loud and boastful like Raxxil. It actually irked Erendil, aside from the odd dialect of course. It was as if Kalic was not at all from Ashkar, his demeanor far from anything normal to Erendil. Even Arwynn, strange as her relation to Raxxil was, had been the one person that Erendil felt he could connect with.

  He wondered how they all fared, and if he could ever summon the courage to ever see them again. Inside, he heard the faintest cackle from Akaba. It was one of the rare moments that Erendil felt sheer rage.

  He leapt in Kalic’s direction, reaching from behind and grabbing hold of his sheathed sword. Erendil pulled with such ferocity that he stumbled backward when the sword came out faster than he expected. He then gripped the hilt with both hands, turned it so that the tip was facing him, and thrust it toward his own chest—

  A plated hand caught Erendil’s grip before the blade could sink into his flesh, and even with all his might and will the sword did not move another inch.

  Erendil let loose a furious howl before letting go and falling onto his rear without even bothering to catch himself. The pain coursed through his body starting from the tip of his tail, but he paid it no mind. His attention was instead focused on the blade that he had just tried to end his own life with.

  Or rather, the half a blade.

  “Doth thou have a death sentence?” Kalic asked, but what surprised Erendil even more was that neither his words nor his expression conveyed that of disappointment.

  For the first time, Erendil saw empathy in another’s eyes. He looked away in shame, unable to come up with any words. Kalic chose not to press it further, instead sheathing his weapon and resuming the work that he had been doing.

  Erendil remained where he was for a few moments, partly staring at Kalic’s sheathed sword and partly wondering what had compelled him to attempt such an act on himself.

  It wasn’t the first time that the thought crossed his mind, but it was the first time that he had acted upon it. He rubbed the area on his chest where he had been struck, his normally mottled skin even rougher from scar tissue that had somehow healed.

  At every turn Akaba denied him his desire. What a sad thought that his life wasn’t even his own to take. Could there be anyone more pathetic than him?

  “Life would be simple could one end thine own life,” Kalic said as he finished skinning the last rabbit and went to start the fire himself. Erendil sunk deeper in shame when he realized that Kalic wasn’t even going to deride him for not finishing his task.

  “Despair is a crushing force, one more powerful than the heaviest of hammers,” he continued as fire sparked before them. As the fire spread to consume the wood, a feeling of warmth touched Erendil’s skin that grew more and more by the second.

  “I’m not sure if I can even call it that anymore,” Erendil said.

  A wry smile drew over Kalic’s face, something that was uncommon so far for the solemn-faced man. The corners of his eyes wrinkled, showing off the few cracks that he had.

  “My knowledge of Towrths is limited, but I do not think that thou is much older than thirty ages,” Kalic said as he speared one of the rabbits and held it close to the fire. With his other hand he grabbed a sharpened stick and speared another, then handed it to Erendil.

  “What are you trying to say?” Erendil asked.

  “The depths of thine suffering now pales to that of a full lifetime,” Kalic answered. “But it matters not. What matters now is mastery, and to do that thou mustn’t reject the pain. Tell me of your elemental and what it seeks.”

  “How are you supposed to help me?” Erendil asked, and he was surprised at how harsh he sounded. “If your weapon is broken that means you’ve lost your elementalism.”

  “That is true,” Kalic admitted, his eyes glittering with reminiscence, “but it’s not an elementalist who can give the help that thou requires, and for that matter, anyone but thyself.”

  “I don’t recall ever being this confused, and for being around Serraemas for more than ten years I am surprised, to say the least,” Erendil said.

  “Do not fret, Erendil, for it will take time to understand what mastery requires of thou,” Kalic said in between bites. �
��On the morrow we shall begin thine training, but it is ultimately up to thou to gain control.”

  “What are you saying?” Erendil asked. Even with the roasted meat in his hand he could not find the appetite to eat. “Do you have the power to stop Akaba or not?”

  “In all my years I have learned many things,” Kalic said, adding to Erendil’s confusion further. “One of the things that I have learned is that power does not come from the blade or the arrow. It is not found in the most durable of armor, or in the sharpest of pens. Power is born from will, and that is how I will help thou. Rest, Erendil, and on the morrow I will show thou the truth in my words.”

  Chapter 22

  283rd Dawn of the 5010th Age of Lion

  As Arwynn and the others rode further into the Western Reaches, they left behind the salty air and cool breezes for dryness and heat. Arwynn was glad to see Adderton just ahead, for her waterskin had already run dry.

  She looked around at the others riding beside her. Raxxil appeared weary, and Darius seemed to have been replaced by someone else. Gone was his signature smirk and not a single jest had escaped his mouth for the last hour, which must have been a record.

  But as bad as the men looked, Samantha appeared even worse. She was pale, paler than Arwynn had ever seen her. The stifling heat must have been getting to her, which was strange because Samantha had lived near the deserts of Onturi, and Arwynn could only imagine how much worse the heat was there.

  “I would offer you some water, but I ran out some time ago,” Arwynn shouted above the galloping of hooves. When Samantha did not answer or acknowledge Arwynn, she thought that her words had been drowned out.

  “Samantha,” Arwynn called out. “Are you—?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Arwynn,” Samantha shouted back, a bead of sweat rolling down her face. She hadn’t bothered to face Arwynn, but from the looks of it she probably couldn’t have even if she wanted to. Samantha’s attention was focused straight ahead, her torso hunched forward as if she would faint at any moment.

  From the looks of things, it would have been better if Samantha didn’t answer. Arwynn watched the other woman for a few more moments, then faced forward again.

  They had arrived in Adderton. Vast stretches of dry land turned narrowed into a road that passed through the middle of the town, with sets of buildings on either side. Like the port to the west, Adderton seemed to be accommodating a lot less people than it could have been.

  The few figures she saw vanished into buildings as soon as the four riders entered the town. Raxxil placed a hand to his forehead and looked around, then signaled at everyone else.

  “Tavern’s over there,” he said. “We need drinks and some food, but most of all, we need some hats.” He then looked over at Darius. “Maybe I’ll get one like yours.”

  Arwynn expected a retort from Darius, or at the very least a scoff, but the self-professed bounty hunter only trudged toward the tavern in silence with his head down.

  Raxxil stared at Darius with raised brows until the latter pushed through the swinging doors and vanished. Raxxil then looked at Samantha, then Arwynn. “What’s gotten into him?”

  Samantha went after Darius, also in silence, leaving Raxxil even more perplexed. Arwynn watched as the red-headed woman also disappeared into the tavern. There was something odd about the way that Samantha carried herself, just like how she rode.

  “I think we should take some time to rest here,” Arwynn said to Raxxil, who shrugged off the suggestion.

  “We don’t have the luxury,” he said as he started his way toward the tavern, Arwynn quick to follow suit.

  “We need rest,” Arwynn pressed as they walked through the swinging doors, the heat of the sun finally off her neck and back. “Especially you. Take a look in a mirror, Raxxil. I’ve never seen you with such dark circles under your eyes.”

  Without bothering to answer, Raxxil sat to Darius’s right atop a stool at the counter in front of the bar. Arwynn took her seat at the bounty hunter’s left, and looked over to the tavern keeper behind the bar, who was frozen in fear with one hand holding a glass and the other a cloth.

  “Th-Th-Thumbcutter!” blasted the tavern keeper with eyes mixed with fear and fury as he smashed a bottle atop the counter and held the sharp, shattered end at Darius with trembling defiance.

  Darius made no movement at all in retaliation, his sunken shoulders and drooped head staring down at the countertop.

  “Put that away and get us a drink before I burn this whole place down with you,” Raxxil growled.

  The tavern keeper glanced to Darius’s left, then his right at Arwynn, and finally closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he reopened his eyes he took a step back, threw away the glass, and reached for a bottle without fully turning his back to them. Arwynn guessed it was just in case they shot him in the back.

  “How many glasses?” he asked.

  “Four,” Raxxil said.

  “Three,” Samantha corrected, who was not actually sitting next to them at the counter but rather at a table near the walls. Her voice was weak and she looked like she would pass out any moment. “I’ll have… some water.”

  “Just don’t kill me, please,” pleaded the tavern keeper as he poured them all their drinks. “Drinks are free, just don’t—“

  “We get it,” interrupted Raxxil.

  The tavern keeper then backed away to a corner so that he might be forgotten, leaving the travelers in silence under tense air. All eyes were on Darius, and his did not move from his drink. He was like a statue, his eyes narrow and unblinking.

  “So, are you just going to leave us in the dark?” Raxxil asked as he took a big gulp, slammed the glass down, and gestured at the tavern keeper. “What did he call you? Thumbcutter?”

  Darius gripped his glass with two trembling hands. His mouth quivered, and his nose wrinkled. His eyes were shut, a single tear making its way down his left cheek.

  “Darius…” Arwynn began, but closed her mouth when she couldn’t find the right words. She leaned back to face Raxxil, the latter giving her a what-the-heck-is-going-on look.

  “We’ve all done something that we’re not proud of,” Arwynn said. She swished around the contents of her glass, then brought it up to her lips and took a sip. She waited for Darius to say something, but he didn’t.

  “Darius,” she continued as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tell us what happened here.”

  The bounty hunter lifted up his glass and gulped down the shot in one go, then waved the empty glass in the air. He took a deep breath as he placed the glass back down and sat back.

  “I’ve had many names throughout my life,” he said as he rubbed his rough knuckles anxiously. “Blond Devil. The Phantom. Thumbcutter. I was dubbed these names by the blood I spilled. But I was not any of these things from the beginning. At the beginning, I was just a fair-haired boy.”

  _ _ _

  The fair-haired boy squinted at a figure on horseback drawing near. The hot sun was bearing down, as it did every day in the middle of nowhere. Craggy canyons stretched on for miles in all directions, turning into rolling hills even further. Beyond that, he didn’t know what there was other than bad men.

  And so the fair-haired boy, wearing dirty trousers and a hat with a blade of grass poking out of his lips, waited for the approaching figure. There hadn’t been a whole lot do that day. Clean up the shack a bit. Play with some rocks after that. So far it had been a normal day.

  The fair-haired boy squinted at the sun for just a moment. For a second he swore that he saw not one sun but two of them dangling in the sky, with hair like his and moving mouths that made no sound. It was something that arose from the corner of his peripherals every so often, but each time he looked up for a better look he only found one blinding sun staring back with no mouth nor hair like his. Just an orange circle.

  And so he refocused his attention to the rider coming toward him. The first thing he noticed when the figure neared was the crimson-stained shirt, conc
entrated where the bullet had penetrated his father’s torso. The rider dismounted in a rush, staggering and nearly falling over.

  The fair-haired boy rushed over. “What—?”

  “There’s no time,” said the bearded man, his face cracked and full of scars. He dove into the shack, scrambling for their hidden cache of fireshooters.

  It was then that the fair-haired boy heard the sound. Hooves striking ground echoed in the air, followed by the presence of a dozen or so riders coming the same way that his father had, striking up dust trails in their wake.

  The fair-haired boy felt metal being slipped into his hand. He looked down, finding a loaded fireshooter in his hand. He then looked up to his father, as grim a face as ever.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

  “I ain’t afraid, Father,” replied the fair-haired boy, and he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder hard.

  “Don’t call me that, either,” the man said as he released his painful hold, then took a step forward and aimed his weapon at the oncoming riders. “Remember what I taught you. Those bottles might have just been a waste of bullets, but now’s not the time to miss.”

  The fair-haired boy took a step forward just like his father, then brought up the fireshooter in front of him with both hands. He closed one eye, the other focusing on aiming. He steadied his breaths, and squeezed. Then he squeezed again, and a third time, and a fourth, and so on until the chamber of his weapon was empty.

  And when the bangs stopped and the smoke cleared, only two figures remained standing. The horses, now rider less, broke off every which way until their galloping could no longer be heard.

  A big smile washed over the fair-haired boy, and he beamed up to his father, who did not waste a moment to check if any of the riders still breathed. Some of them did, but only until a sharp knife finished the job that the fireshooters hadn’t.

  His father then removed the riders’ boots, cutting off the thumbs of each unmoving body. His father wiped the bloody metal on his already bloodied shirt, then made his way back over to the fair-haired boy.