The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  The cries of anguish the first man he had ever killed still echoed in his mind. Please don’t. The masked invader had been nothing but a boy—a few years his senior, yes, but still a boy—and he had died crying, clutching at his exposed stomach, unable to accept that his was the end for him. Taking a life had been easy for him—too easy. And that was what frightened him the most. But whatever he felt now, he had no time to process it. For now, his only goal was to save Nijakim.

  It had pained Arin greatly to leave his home behind, but no matter how many foes he felled, more had come. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought that their home would come under siege by invaders. A friend after friend fell by their blades—Elder Kelmunir amongst them. He had always though true battle a glorious thing to behold, but the carnage he had witnessed was anything but. If not for Nijakim, he would have gladly sacrificed his life defending his home. There would be a time to mourn the fallen, but this wasn’t it. He had to stay strong—for now.

  Struggling to hold back the tears he knew were coming, Arin tried his best to remember Master Nazek’s words—how there was no room for doubt in battle. He felt his focus slip for a moment, and that was all it took for his footing to fail on the slippery vegetation beneath his feet. He lost his grip on Nijakim who gasped in pain as he hit the ground. The wound to his side had opened yet again, and fresh blood painted his already-soaked shirt crimson. The man looked so terribly weak, pale. He needed to find them a place to hide in; there was no chance of outrunning the men tracking them, not in this strange land.

  The light rain was slowly turning into a downpour as Arin laid there on the soft forest bed, his friend gasping for air next to him. He stared at the open sky through the treetops around him, glimpsing the Three Peaks far in the distance. Had they truly come so far from his home already? Hearing footsteps approaching, he frantically looked for cover—somewhere they could hide. He saw it then, the thick roots of a nearby tree. Could he fit them both there?

  Arin pressed his friend through the roots, covering them both with the fallen leaves laying nearby. He could do nothing but pray they were hidden well enough for their pursuers to miss them. Ten heartbeats later, he saw a group of five strangers—the same invaders who had attacked their village—run past. Luckily, Arin’s gambit seemed to have worked. Still, if they had experienced trackers with them, they would surely realize his deception soon enough.

  Arin laid there for what seemed like an eternity. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the horrors of the previous mind came rushing back. He begun weeping uncontrollably, finally realizing the gravity of the situation they were in. His home was gone. Elder Kelmunir was gone. Anything and everything he had ever known had been burned down to the ground. He heard the tree branch behind him snap almost too late.

  A masked man came from seemingly nowhere, sword drawn. In a moment of sheer panic, Arin realized that his blade was still out of reach, and there was no chance of drawing it in time. The stranger’s long, deadly blade came crashing down at him while he was still on his knees, and Arin realized in horror that he was about to die.

  The blade cut through the air, soundless. Arin grabbed it between his two palms fraction of a second before it turned his pristine face into a bloody mush. If the man hadn’t worn a mask, his face would have no doubt turned white in fear. Arin kicked the man’s blade out of his arms, sending it flying towards the bushes to his left. He charged the man silently, grinding his teeth. The man tried to yell, but Arin hit him in the throat just in time. He drew his own blade while the invader clawed at his throat, gasping for air. Arin’s blade swept through the air, piercing the assailant’s heart silently. The man sighed heavily and fell to the ground, lifeless.

  “Can you stand up?” Arin whispered to Nijakim, who laid wordlessly on the muddy undergrowth.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid we have no choice but to press on. Once they realize they have lost our tracks, they will no doubt head back.”

  Nijakim nodded weakly, biting his lip. Arin lifted him back up. They hobbled onwards after hiding their pursuer’s lifeless corpse away from sight.

  Several hours later, Arin finally found them shelter that he judged safe enough for them to rest—a natural cave with barely enough room for them both. The air here was not as chilly as it was atop the Three Peaks, but they were both wet and tired—not to mention Nijakim’s wound, which still bled.

  “Hang in there. I’ll find us food and water in the morning, but for now, we should rest,” Arin whispered, frowning as he saw his friend shaking from the cold, despite the thick layer of vegetation he had laid on top of him. He couldn’t risk lighting a fire. If their pursuers were still looking, a fire would give them away immediately.

  “Just hang on,” Arin repeated, crawling next to Nijakim, embracing him tightly. He hoped the warmth from his body would be enough to get him through the night.

  ***

  Arin woke up to a start. The radiance of the morning sun threatened to all but blind him; it was as if the forest around him was afire. The birds in the nearby trees sang their own joyful ballads, making him forget for a second what had transpired the previous day. He shook his friend’s shoulder gently, his heart pounding from the fear of finding his only friend dead.

  Nijakim groaned weakly next to him—he still lived!

  Arin stood up, ignoring the pain that felt like a thousand needles piercing through his skin. Only yesterday, masked men had tried to make him bleed—kill him, even. He stretched, getting ready for another long and gruesome day. A boding sense of despair threatened to cloud his mind; where could they go now that their only home was lost to them? The pale face of his friend made him forget his melancholy. He might not know where the road lead next, but for the moment, he could help his friend live to see another day.

  The teachings of his master-in-arms still fresh in his mind, Arin inspected his surrounding with undisturbed focus, ignoring the sensation of weakness and hunger in his body. Sun was already high up the sky—they had slept through the night. The crevasse they had hid in was small—too small for a large predatory animal, so they were most likely not under any immediate threat. He smelled the air, only sensing their unwashed bodies and the freshness of the forest around them. Arin inspected the ground, seeing not only his footprints, but also the footprints of rabbits. That meant there was food nearby. He calmed himself listening to the sounds of the forest. He could hear a faint sound of rushing water—a river? Arin nodded to himself. He could do this. No matter what happened, together they would persevere.

  The first task of the day was to gather food and water so that they might survive the challenges ahead of them. The breathing of his friend looked stable—he was not in immediate danger. He knew he had to clean the wound, or it would risk infection. Arin hated it, but he had no choice: he would have to leave his friend, so he could get them what they needed to survive.

  It took him a little over an hour to find the source of the rushing sound of water. He had to venture deeper into the forest than he felt comfortable. What would he do if he lost his way, or worse, if something happened to Nijakim while he was gone? He would never forgive himself.

  Arin walked down to the stream of water, carefully lifting some it to his cracked lips. The water tasted good, neutral. It did not seem spoiled. The excitement of finally being able to end his thirst filled him with a sudden unset of joy. Arin laughed manically, jumping into the river, washing his wounds while sating his thirst. For the first time since the attack on his temple, he rejoiced in the feeling of simply being alive.

  Arin stared at the ragged figure reflected from the surface of the water with a blank face. Was this man truly him? His blonde hair and bright-blue eyes looked as lively as ever, as did his boyish, smooth skin—what little could be seen beneath the thick beard of his. But what he felt inside could not be any different. He felt like a broken shell; everything he had had been taken away from him in the blink of an eye. How could a man, let alone a boy barely in his a
dulthood, handle such change, such horror? Arin shook his doubts and fears away, filling the flask he had on his hip. Think later, you fool. Now is time to act, not mourn those who can’t be helped, Arin thought to himself.

  With his thirst sated, Arin set out to find sustenance. While he had no practical experience of hunting—there were no forests atop the Three Peaks, only lone trees—Arin had trained himself with the help of Nijakim, who had read books on the subject. It was a necessity if you were to venture into the world as a Sword of the order. A revelation hit him then: He was finally out in the world—a day he had both dreaded and yearned for since he was but a child. The sky-reaching peaks of the mountain of Kun’unir towered over the rest of the forest. To think, only yesterday he had walked the streets of his home, high up there….

  The sun was about to set by the time Arin had managed to find anything worth eating. It was not much, but still better than nothing: two rabbits and handful of strange berries he had not laid his eyes on before. His heart was pounding by the time he found his way back to Nijakim. He had dreaded leaving him alone for so long but could not forgive himself if he returned empty handed.

  “Here, brother. Drink.”

  He looked so weak now, much more so than earlier in the day. Yet, he did drink—and thirstily at that.

  It took Arin another hour to start a fire. He did not dare eat the rabbit raw, reminded by a memory of his youth, back when he had made the mistake of eating something not properly cooked. He could not afford to get sick, not this time. The people chasing him would be far gone now, and lighting small fire was not likely to draw any attention to them. He had not heard even a whisper from the masked them who pursued them.

  “You must eat to regain your strength.” Arin carefully cut a piece of the animal’s thigh, his own stomach churning at the smell of freshly cooked meat. “Open your mouth.”

  Nijakim took the piece in his mouth, slowly working through the tough sinews and tender meat with his teeth. He swallowed.

  “Good. Now rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  ***

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Nijakim replied. His legs trembled with the effort, but he was standing on his own. Arin moved himself away, still close enough for to reach in time should he fall. He took a step, followed by a few more. “Yes, I believe I can do it,” he grinned. Nijakim looked at the strange forest around him with wonder. “I never expected anything quite like… this. It is a wonder, truly. Who knew there could be so much… color.”

  The forest around them was swarming with life. Compared to their lives atop the Three Peaks, it was as if they had entered another world. Back there, the land had been scarce on vegetation, and their hunters and foragers had to venture much lower down the Peaks. Here, everything was so… vivid.

  “If we can survive the next few days, I’m sure we will find sights more wondrous than this. Come now, we must move.”

  “But which way?” Nijakim said, clearly anxious.

  Arin knew the true meaning behind his words. Sure, they could travel across this strange, foreign land, but what was the point? Their life had been turned upside down; their lives ruined, their home—destroyed. And the worst part was that they didn’t know why. It was at that moment that Arin remembered Elder Kelmunir’s words. He had mentioned the kingdom of Eyria only moments before Arin had stormed out the house, hadn’t he? The thought made Arin’s stomach churn; why did his final words to the man had to be so full of anger?

  “South. I think we should travel south.”

  “Why?” Nijakim asked, furrowing his brow.

  Arin shrugged. “Why not?” He wasn’t ready to tell the true reason to Nijakim. Arin wrapped his fingers around the only memento of his heritage—the pendant hanging from his neck. “I want to know more about the men who attacked us. The kingdom of Eyria lies to the south, doesn’t it?”

  Nijakim’s eyes widened in realization, his mouth hungered as if he had momentarily forgotten the terrible pain he was in. “The Grand Library of Eyria?”

  Arin suppressed a smile. “Indeed.”

  “I would love nothing more.”

  After rebinding Nijakim’s wounds with a piece of cloth he ripped from his robe, they ventured onwards. As time passed, the forest around them grew denser; they saw nothing but wildlife—and no trace of civilization. Arin dreaded he was leading them astray, for there was no road to follow, and their only guidance was the position of the sun in the open sky. Arin knew his friend’s wound was serious; without a healer, the wound would fester. The man already sweated and panted with even the slightest exertion.

  Several hours later, they finally stumbled upon a forest path—a path men had walked. He hoped and prayed this wasn’t the same way the men pursuing them had rushed towards. But then again, what choice did they have? And should they meet strangers, what would they think of two wounded men like them. Would they stay and help, or would they run away screaming?

  “Look. Over there! Do you see it, Arin?”

  Arin squinted, looking at whatever it was that Nijakim was pointing at. And there it was, smoke raising behind the treetops in the distance. “I see it. A campfire?”

  “Let’s go find out,” Nijakim said, sounding both cautious but curious, too.

  The two brothers walked towards the pillar of smoke rising in the distance. The forest around them had grown scarce, the trees almost without leaves. There was ash in the air. Had a fire ravaged this land recently?

  Nijakim grabbed Arin’s arm in alarm. “Look,” he whispered. The burned forest turned into a meadow of sorts, and Arin could see a group of men arguing about something, the language they used foreign to his ears. They had a woman and a child with them. They spoke in a language uncommon to Arin.

  “They are heavily armed,” Nijakim whispered.

  “I saw,” Arin answered, voice lowered down to a whisper. “Do you think we should make ourselves known?”

  “If they prove hostile, can you beat them? I doubt it. We are too exhausted. I can’t assist you in my current state, and you know I’m not skilled in arms. I… doubt I could take the life of another man that easily, I’m sorry, Arin.”

  His friend’s words were wise. These strange men hardly seemed like fighters, but Nijakim was right—they shouldn’t risk a confrontation. The language they spoke seemed like gibberish to him, but the way they moved their bodies and the intensity they spoke with clearly made it seem like an argument. It was clear that a wheel of the carriage they were using to transport a cargo of sorts had broken down. Merchants, perhaps? The heavy-looking stranger seemed to accuse a man with pox-scarred face of something. Three other men stood nearby, looking uncomfortable. Arin frowned when he saw one of the three men stare at the woman with hungry yet dull eyes. Why was she with them, and with a child, no less? The boy seemed scarcely more than nine, and the woman seemed very protective of him. A mother, perhaps?

  “Should we sneak around them?” Nijakim asked.

  “Good idea.”

  Arin hesitated when he saw one of the three men stare at the woman again. It was obvious he was aching for an excuse—any excuse. He felt his temper rising; should he really leave this woman and child with these men? Could he? Still, he had no reason to suppose the men treated her badly; she might as well be a wife of one of them. But still, something inside of him made him stay. “Let’s stay here a while longer. I have a bad feeling about this.

  Nijakim raised an eyebrow at that, but he nodded approvingly.

  Their argument seemed to go on for forever until finally, the man with pox-scarred cheeks threw his hands up in resignation and started repairing their broken carriage. Not much later, he kicked the vehicle with anger, pointing at his companions. They unloaded the cargo and removed the harnesses of their horses. Arin then saw the pox-scarred man pointing at the woman and the child, and the man who had stared at her with those dangerous eyes chuckled. It was clear the men had no intention of taking the woman and the child
with them—not when they had all that cargo to carry. Arin clenched his teeth in a wave of deep, unsettling anger. He knew what would soon follow, and it made his blood boil. “I must help her.”

  Nijakim frowned. “I understand what you’re feeling right now, Arin, but we risk much. I can’t fight if things take a turn to the worse. How will we avenge our brothers if we both die here? How else will we build an army and find justice for the fallen?”

  Arin was shocked at Nijakim’s hard words, but he understood the reason behind them. Whatever the elders had decided of Nijakim’s fate to be, he loved his people, still. It was this love that had made him speak the truth of their teachings. “Just wait here. I’ll be right back. And don’t worry, I’ll try to avoid confrontation if possible.”

  Just like that, Arin walked into the meadow, hand secured right by the hilt of his sidesword. The men saw this strange man approaching them and fell silent. Arin chuckled, thinking how he must appear to them—a man covered in mud and old, dried blood. It was almost as if he was Daemoni.

  “Ilrijam are veranos? Varens qui!” he barked at Arin, pointing at the sword hanging from his hip.

  Arin ignored the man’s strange tongue and walked right next to the woman and the child. He pointed at them, and then shook his head. That should be clear enough, I think, Arin thought.

  The men looked at each other and laughed. Arin saw the men were armed, but only lightly. Four of them held spears with hesitant grips—only the man with a pox-scarred face stood firm. He alone had a sword. These men might be armed, but they were not trained warriors such as him. Arin had no desire to let them strike first, so he chose to attack instead. It was not honorable, maybe, but he had no desire to be overpowered by sheer number. A preemptive strike was his weapon, here.

  Swift as lightning, Arin threw a dagger he had concealed in the inner linen of his robe. The dagger met the pox-scarred man’s forehead straight on, digging deep into his skull. The man fell to the ground without so much as a single gasp. Just like that, the most dangerous one of them was neutralized. It was a tactic Master Nazek had taught him time and time again. By dispatched the most skilled fighter amongst them, he spread fear through their ranks. These men would be docile, scared—controllable.