Kindred: (Into The Darklands)

by K. M. Raya

  “Is this what you came here to talk to me about? Because if so, you’re wasting my time and yours, but more importantly—mine.” I can feel his body tense next to me as the bite in my voice rolls over him. “You’re right…that’s not what I came here to say at all.” He grumbles under his breath for a moment and I almost find myself enjoying his frustration. “Sera, I’m sorry...nothing I can say will ever change the things I’ve done, but I wanted you to know that everything I’ve ever done was with your safety and best interest in mind. Anya’s too.” I open my mouth to argue but he holds up a hand to silence me. “No, let me get this out.” I close my mouth and glance at him skeptically. “Do you remember when we were children and I would follow your tutor, Grissom around like a puppy?” he asks with a wistful smile on his face.

  I nod my head, yes. I do remember this. Wesley always had a thirst for knowledge unlike any other child I’d ever met. He followed old Grissom around just begging for the same lessons I received. As a stable hand, he was not allowed to learn from a scholar, much less read and write. But it never stopped Wesley from trying.

  “I never told you, but when we were fifteen, King Seth agreed to let me study.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There’s just no way my father would have condoned such a thing. I always knew he was meant for something other than servants work, but with no family and no titles of his own, such dreams should have been well out of his grasp. Wesley had been owned outright by the royal family since he and Anya were infants. They were provided rooms, clothing and food, but could never advance in station. Not ever.

  Seeing my confusion, Wesley explains. “Your father agreed to let me study, but only with Moran instead of old Grissom.” He shudders visibly and I fight one myself just thinking of the vile man. My mind briefly returns to the nightmare I’d had only a short while ago. My stomach rolls at the thought of that necromancer—that...blasphemer going anywhere near my Wesley.

  “Of course, I agreed, even though I knew you and Anya wouldn’t be happy about it but Sera…I couldn’t remain a servant forever and you know as well as I that I never would have made it as a soldier. I wasn’t a fighter then; I would have been killed.” He casts his eyes down in shame and I feel the need to reach out and comfort him, but I refrain. His deep voice is gruff with emotion. “I was stuck—well and truly.” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “I was stuck, and he offered me a way out.” His eyes plead for me to understand, and in a small way I do.

  “I agreed to your fathers’ terms and studied with Moran. I thought he’d teach me maths, history and how to read and write…but instead he taught me other things—dark things.” His voice is heavy with guilt and regret and his eyes are haunted and far away. “What did he have you do, Wesley?” I whisper, almost not even wanting to know the truth anymore.

  He brings his shadowed eyes to mine, staring into my soul like he’s begging me to understand. The longer I look, I suddenly notice something that doesn’t seem quite right. A blackness swirls in the whites of his eyes, hovering there like a cloud of smoke, swirling around the brown I’m so familiar with. “It’s not what he had me do, exactly. More like what he had me witness. I was too young to be of any real assistance, but Moran made me watch it all.”

  “What did you see?”

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he reaches out and grasps my hand in his shaking one. I’m blindsided by the fear rolling off him. For how massive and powerful a man he looks on the outside, Wesley is truly afraid of what he’s about to reveal to me. Something haunts him. “He started to bring me to the dungeons with him late at night. We would select one prisoner each night and blindfold them, leading them into lower chambers where the walls are thickest.”

  A pit is forming in my stomach as he continues. “The dungeons were filled with humans and mages alike—even a few elves.” My heart drops into my stomach. “The things he did…I can’t even really describe it but from what I gathered; Moran tried night after night to…extract something from the prisoners.” He cringes at his own words and I feel like vomiting. “Whatever he did made them all scream—I’ll never forget the screams,” he chokes out and buries his head in his hands.

  My mind can’t catch up. Images of three hooded figures flood my memories. The undulating smoke...the screams...that red lock of hair…

  “Moran made me watch, every single night. The king told me that if I refused, or if I decided to tell anyone about it then they would take Anya from me…”

  I look to Wesley and try to understand the impossible position he’d been thrust into. “What happened during the siege—why did you stay in the castle? You could have fled with us.”

  I’d searched for him frantically after finally getting Anya to the stables. Running back into the burning structure had been one of the most frightening things I’ve ever done but I never found him and soon the walls were crumbling around me.

  “I tried to get out. I ran to follow but was intercepted by Sephrian and several mages he had with him. They caught me in a mage net and I woke up hours later in the dungeons with Moran next to me.”

  I don’t understand why Sephrian would keep a necromancer and his apprentice alive, after all, mancers are the reason the Kindred were banished in the first place. Necromancy goes against magic in all its forms. When I voice this to Wesley, his eyes darken once more.

  “They kept me down there for almost three years where I sat in darkness with the other prisoners. Moran was with me for most of it, but they started taking him away every other night and he wouldn’t tell me why. All I know is whenever he came back, he looked sicker—like was falling apart. Before Sephrian came to get me instead, I thought I would waste away in those cages.” His eyes are far away once again. “One morning—at least I think it was morning, Sephrian himself came to my cell. He brought me to Moran’s old chambers below the castle and told me that he needed my help. As you can imagine I was confused, angry and scared for my life.”

  “Sephrian’s gone mad with power, Sera—but not magic. What he does isn’t magic, it’s an abomination,” he spits. “He kills humans for the power their deaths fuel him with. He’s used them up and the kingdom will die if he isn’t stopped.”

  “You knew what Moran was, Wesley. You knew what the mancers did to my father, but you still followed him. Why, if what he does is such an abomination, did you let yourself fall into it?”

  He clenches his jaw and his eyes harden. “It’s not as easy and simple as all that. It wasn’t a choice!” Some of the others shift in their sleep as his voice raises in anger, but nobody wakes. “It wasn’t a choice. It was either defy my king and lose my sister, or join them. I made a decision and I stand by it today. I have nothing to regret. I did what I had to do.” His voice wavers, as if even he doesn’t believe it. Personally, I’d have let myself be killed before falling under the mancers spell.

  “Things only got worse from there. I’ve always been a fast learner and somehow Sephrian knew this. The things he asked me to do were barbaric and went against everything his rebellion against your father claimed to stand for, but he did it regardless.” He shakes his head, russet strands falling over the sides of his face. “He hid me like a secret while the Kindred who followed him that day worshiped him like a god. They don’t see it yet, but eventually they will. When every human is gone, where do you think he’ll turn to next?”

  The pieces are coming together slowly. My heart races as I take in this new information. If Sephrian has taken on a necromancer’s powers, there’s no telling what he’ll do with it. Two warring magics will mean chaos. Life and death battling for dominance is enough to corrupt any sound mind. Now that he’s made a play for the Darklands, I know it’s just the beginning. Sephrian won’t stop until he’s conquered the realm and everyone in it. My tyrant of a father may be long gone, but in his place is a monster.

  “I was able to watch him closely and watch those around him. His relationship with his brothers is dissolving. The more power Sephrian consumes, the farthe
r his brothers are driven from his side. Magnus repeatedly attempted to assassinate Sephrian while Soran took the side of whoever was stronger—usually Sephrian. But someone else was there, through it all—waiting in the shadows.”

  A cold chill washes over me. “The shadow assassin.” Wesley nods solemnly. “He’s the one that gave you your mark?” I assume as my eyes flit to that raised white scar on his neck. I hate looking at it—such a reminder of his betrayal...but now so much more. Wesley has suffered so much, and my heart breaks for him.

  “He did. He burned it into my flesh using only his fingernail.” I cringe, closing my eyes against the unwanted vision.

  “Who is it, Wesley? You must know—”

  He shakes his head. “I really don’t know. It rarely speaks, but when it does, the voice is garbled and distorted—like speaking underwater. It never shows it’s face but it definitely isn’t a human.”

  Something about the assassin keeps puzzling me. It recognized me as I sat over my mother's body. The way its gloved hands had caressed my cheek not once but twice has me curious. Why it hadn’t killed me then and there is the mystery.

  “The strangest thing about the shadow was the way even Sephrian deferred to it—almost as if he was afraid...” Wesley muses with a frown.

  I’m overwhelmed and terrified as we sit in silence for a few long moments. Turning to Wesley, I run my eyes over his tired face, seeing him in a new light for the first time since all of this began. Gone is my anger at his betrayal, and it its place is sadness for the years he’d spent under Sephrian’s thumb. Reaching out, I can’t seem to stop myself when my hand caresses his cheek—letting my fingers lightly sift through the thick hairs of his brown beard. His breath hitches at the unexpected contact and his eyes rise to meet mine with flames dancing in their shine.

  “I do forgive you, Wes,” I whisper, staring into those brown depths with tears glimmering in mine. “I want you to know that despite what you were forced to do...I understand why you did it.” His nostrils flare and his eyes flit between mine—back and forth rapidly, as if he can’t quite understand what I’m saying. I smile softly and run my thumb along his cheek before raking my fingers up and through the long strands of his wavy hair.

  He reaches up, wrapping a big hand around my wrist and caressing my chilled skin. “I’ve missed you so much, Sera.” His voice is choked with emotion and filled with so much longing that it makes my heart squeeze painfully. “I thought I’d lost you…” he looks downwards for a moment, collecting himself. “I thought I failed you and Anya—I wished for death every day, not wanting to live in a world where you don’t exist.”

  “Don't say that—” I start, but his hand squeezes tighter.

  “You never knew what you meant to me,” he says as his voice deepens, making me shiver. “You were a princess and I was a servant, and so I was content with just being next to you, but I always loved you, you have to know that. Since we were children, I loved you so gods damned much. The day Sephrian took over was the worst day of my life.”

  My heart soars. In the back of my mind I think I’ve always known. We were just children and knew nothing of love, but I think in a way I’ve always known the way he felt for me—if only a little bit. But back then, the notion was so out of reach for a princess and servant that it was laughable. Father would have had him killed had he expressed even a hint of interest in that way. Now more than ever, I let my eyes rove over the man in front of me. This world has changed him into someone I don’t recognize on the surface. He’s shed his boyish innocence and replaced it with a man who is world weary and hard. He’s lived through things that a lesser man wouldn't have survived. And somehow, he’s managed to make his way back to me.

  The world seems to disappear around us. His face lowers to mine, but just before my lips touch his, the sound of falling rocks breaks our spell. We both rear back, drawing our weapons only to find the source of the noise coming from one of Derrund’s giants as he rolls over in his restless sleep. The ground stops shaking as the giant gets settled, but the mood is broken now. I glance at Wesley as I sheath my sword, and the two of us smirk and Wesley shakes his head in exasperation.

  He leans over and places a soft kiss on my cheek. “Get some sleep, love, we have a long journey still.”

  Sera

  The troupe follows behind us, shaking the ground as we walk—scaring animals and clearing their way through the trees with ease. I cringe every time a branch snaps, lamenting the damage their presence is doing to my forest.

  Derrund and his giants still make me nervous given the sheer size of them, but after seeing the way the troupe came to our aid out on the beach reassures me that they’re here to help. I can recall a little of my studies as a child when Grissom tried to teach me all about the Kindred and the various races that I was unfamiliar with. Giants are among the ancient ones, grown and birthed from the soil itself and set free to wander new lands—conquering and settling as they traveled. That’s what the stories say, anyways, but as far as I’m aware, the giants settled in a harsh and rocky land called Paragon about one thousand years ago. Derrund is one of the original gigantic kings and established a reputation throughout history for being a merciless warrior.

  The whole race has remained out of touch with the rest of the realm in the time since the last great war. Large portions of Paragon were annihilated during a single battle against their own kind. Before my father’s and even my great grandfather's time, Derrund once had a rival for the throne of Paragon. His name was Larothe, if I remember correctly. The name remains infamous and so is the war he’d started. Larothe had been Derrund’s second in command for thousands of years until his lust for power became too great. A challenge for the throne had been laid down and Derrund reluctantly accepted—as was his duty as king. War bloomed across the Short Sea between those who remained loyal to their king and those who defected. According to Grissom, Derrund had almost been defeated in the last great battle. Larothe gained the upper hand when his armies had all but destroyed Derrund’s troupe. If it hadn’t been for the sudden and inexplicable aid of the elves in those last moments, Larothe might have conquered Paragon. His hunger for more would have spread like a sickness until it devoured every land in his path. The elves had arrived in mass and helped the troupe regain their kingdom and defeat Larothe for good.

  My mind wanders back to Thallan’s words when he told us that Derrund owed him a favor. I am quickly coming to realize that the favor owed is not necessarily to Thallan in particular, but rather the elvish race in general.

  ~~~

  I smell it before I see it—the smoke in the air accompanied by the coppery tang of blood. It wafts into my nose and makes me want to retch.

  Through the trees I can barely see the billowy blackness rising in the distance. The others must notice it too because all at once the traveling party surges forward. Derrund and his troupe stomp over the rough terrain, leveling trees and leaving craters in their wake. As we make it into the clearing, I look up only to find the trees burned and scorched—smoke still rising from the simmering embers that once stood as homes. There’s well over fifty trees reduced to nothing more than ash and embers. The Veil is burning, and I wasn’t here to defend it. Bodies litter the ground, but thankfully most are still alive—wounded, but alive. Most are propped against trees or wandering aimlessly, frantic to help the survivors.

  My eyes find Savina, crouched in the dirt—skin scorched but healing rapidly like most elves do. My friend’s long silver hair is a tangled mess over her face and caked with blood and ash. I don’t see her sister Zima anywhere nearby; she must not have been there during the attack because otherwise she’d be here with Savina.

  “Sav!” I cry out—falling to my knees next to her. “What happened?” My friend looks up with a mixture or relief and lingering pain.

  She grits her teeth. “There was a drac—” she breathes through the pain. Her voice is rough, as if she’d been screaming. “It came out of nowhere, faster than I’ve e
ver seen. It swept through just before sunrise and we had no time to prepare.”

  Frowning, I run my eyes over her wounds, searching for anything that might look fatal, but so far, she looks like she’ll recover fine. “What about the others—our drac’s?” My gaze swivels around, searching the area and the skies for any sign of them.

  Savina shakes her head. “They took off after the one who attacked. They’ve been gone now for half a day with no word.” Her eyes look lost. “I don’t understand, Sera…I thought the drac’s were with us?”

  Up until the attack by the sea, I’d thought the same—though if my memory serves me, I can barely recall seeing a drac in the sky during the siege all those years ago. I’d not seen it to say for sure, but now we know Sephrian had at least one or two. Derrund had taken one down a few days before and the memory of it will stay with me for a long time. A part of me thinks I should have felt sadness at seeing such a mighty beast fall, but all I felt was confusion and betrayal.

  “I don’t know for sure, but the enemy isn’t what they seem. Savina, I need you to watch the skies. Alert me if the drac’s return, can you do that?” She shakes her head—eyes determined.

  I get back to my feet to survey the damage. I see Anya in the distance, tending to the wounded while Wesley seems to be aiding her. He stands behind his sister, taking direction and handing her what she needs. He’s trying so hard to be useful to her and it warms my heart to watch. Thallan approaches with a promise of death in his slanted, narrowed eyes. His pale skin is covered in blood and soot and his breath comes out ragged and labored. It takes a lot to rattle an elvish soldier, but the callousness of this attack has clearly struck Thallan. I reach out, lacing my arms around his body and he accepts without hesitation and pulls me in tightly, burying his face in my hair at the top of my head. Having his arms around me is a comfort I’ll never take for granted again.