Maladrid - [Tales Of Dominhydor: Book One]

CHAPTER ONE

He is dreaming tonight.

Maladrid, a young man brimming with the verve fantastic, is dreaming a new life tonight. His body has fallen numb to the world that surrounds him, but the night’s sweet reverie has opened his grateful mind unto a new world. With a renaissance of hope inspiring, he feels the kiss of the dream wind, hears the purr of the urging ocean, and revels in the prospects of the evening’s offerings. With his head upon the pillow and his body upon the bed, Maladrid, asleep and yet finally awake, sets sail to face the future through the portentous waters of the Syr Sea.

“If there is adventure to be met, I will be the one to meet it face to face,” he declared against the slap of the wind.

He raised the sail of his small ship and watched it balloon in the anger of the sea’s breath. The vessel pushed against the gale as the waves splashed high and threw salty water into his eyes, and as the sea pounded his boat with its watery fists, Maladrid heard his foundation begin to split. The boat became heavy as water spilled over the sides and poured through cracks in the frame, and the Syr tossed him carelessly until finally forcing him down to the sopping planks. His stomach turned with the waves, but his face remained one of fierce resolve as he struggled to hold onto the bucking boat. He flipped over onto his back and closed his eyes; the sun broke past the clouds, and when it flooded his cheeks, the warmth stirred him to smile. The simple and sudden sun burnt away his sickness, and his fear became nothing more than tiny liquid beads on his forehead. But the sun also touched the pegs and bolts of the deck, and when his fingers grazed the scalding iron bits, he yelped and though he tried to jump to his feet, the intense motion of the waves held him down. The helm spun wildly out of control, and Maladrid scrambled to reach it, but the water that flooded over the sides of the ship knocked his feet out from under him. The encroaching sea carried him across the deck and slammed him into the mast, but with defiant resolve ablaze, Maladrid ground his teeth, dug his nails into the drenched wood, and pulled himself up to challenge the rebellious waters.

“You are no match for me, little one,” hissed the sea. “I tear the mountains. I kiss the skies. I am the destruction and the rebirth. Make no mistake, Maladrid: I will be your destroyer.”

The water surged around his shins and tugged at him incessantly, but with his feet steadfast, he grinned at his victory over the water’s strength, and to prove his own, he began pushing through the sloshing ocean that had formed upon the deck. But when he was no more than three feet from the madly spinning helm, the sopping planks beneath him gave way. Maladrid’s leg plunged down through the warped wood and became trapped between two of the jagged floorboards, and no matter how he pulled or twisted himself, he only succeeded in slicing his leg from ankle to knee. He stretched to reach the helm with his fingers splayed and wriggling, and though he was only inches away, centimeters perhaps, his proximity did him little good. But as he stared at the wheel and marveled at how the ceaseless spinning caused the wood to lose its solidity, he became mesmerized by the whirring and the strange tune hidden beneath the drone. The soft song enraptured his mind and took hold of his voice, causing him to hum along, and though he knew he had to break free of the melodious spell, his wounded leg throbbed with the rhythm of the music and he found himself too enthralled by it to move. But then Maladrid realized that the music was not some strange manufacture of his mind; in fact, it was coming from the cliffs that lay before him. His body began shifting back and forth of its own volition, swaying to the swell of the music and the haunting voice of the cliffs.

“Do not wander, here or yonder,” the voice sang, “unless you have some time to ponder.”

He became lulled into the center of the singing until he felt so at one with it that he could see the music dipping and swirling around him. Above and below, the musical notes skipped past his eyes and ears and chuckled melodiously. They shimmered in pastel hues as they danced past and encircled his body, but when he reached out to touch them, they giggled and bounced away with a sparkling trail left behind.

Suddenly the ship jerked, the wheel stopped spinning, and as the ship plowed itself into sandy shores, the boards around Maladrid’s leg snapped completely; he was launched over the port side and landed on the beach like a sack of rocks. Darkness briefly took him, but the burning salt water in his wounds quickly brought him around again.

“Neglectful boy!” bellowed the sea. “Man your ship; if you are a man, that is. You are far from home and have passed borders that your people very rarely dare to cross.”

“Where am I?” he asked dozily.

“Foolish boy! You are in Ladyndal: the westmost land in Dominhydor. Perhaps I was wrong to assume that you had some device inside your head in which knowledge is stored and processed.”

“A brain?”

“If it’s a brain, then it’s a brain. And if it is, use it.”

With that, the sea flipped a wave at Maladrid and crashed away from the shore. Maladrid looked his devastated ship up and down in desperation, but the collision with land had utterly destroyed the vessel. Water poured from gaping holes on the port side, the mainmast was broken beyond repair, and the tattered sail flipped defeated in the wind. For what seemed like hours, he sat silently and stared out across the calm water that had recently been so violent and thought that perhaps the storm was meant for him alone. It had been far too confined within its destruction to be just some passing tempest. As he pondered, the sun started to fade and dusk rose with colors that streaked the sky. But as comforting as the colors of dusk were, they were not enough to quell Maladrid’s rising fear. He felt doomed in his isolation and because the land was completely new to him, he was extremely disoriented by every unrecognizable detail. He had no reason to move on and no reason to turn back, and, in truth, he had no conceivable way of doing either. Alone in the strange wilderness, he felt like some pebble to be kicked around by a cruel wind, pulled and tossed without choice in the matter. His hair was still damp from the sea and when he shook away the excess water, his disheveled sandy locks dangled over his cobalt eyes. He bowed his head, and as a tear slowly rolled down his cheek, cool air kissed his skin and set chills throughout his body. But as the wind whistled around him, it carried another song from the cliffs that put his heart at rest.

“Sleep yourself up to us.

The new day will bring you to us.

Find us in your sleep.

We will bring the night so deep.”

The music swelled in its dulcet beauty, and as he gazed upon the rocky masses towering above him and singing him into relaxation, he saw the clouds sailing high and white above them. They flew like billowy birds through the dusky sky and reminded Maladrid of stories he’d heard about the Colc: large ivory creatures that changed their shapes as they sailed the firmament looking like snakes or ships or even simple clouds. One never knew for sure whether they were looking at some creation of nature or the Colc just pretending to be one.

By the time the music finally faded, Maladrid felt quite at ease, although every muscle was sore and every inch of flesh ached. He ran his fingernails over his scalp and sighed at the painful pleasure, and when he stretched his arms and back, he let out a growling yawn that would have made a lion sheepish. He walked despondently back to his boat, propped his foot on a plank of wood that had bowed out from the port side, and pushed himself up and over the ledge, and when he tumbled onto the deck, he found it still pooled with sloshing water. His clothes were strewn about the berth, torn to shreds, and as he searched through his battered belongings, he found them all oddly foreign. It was then that he thought back on the harbor of his homeland and found its name and image absent from his memory, but wherever it was, he was sure that it was warm and soft, and that it cradled him in times of darkness. He retrieved his satchel and canteen from the wreckage and hurled himself back onto the soggy shore, but when he withdrew his map, he found it ruined and the world upon it destroyed. He sat mystified, squinting at the sopping bits of canvas that continued to disintegrate as he moved it through his fingers until he ultimately threw it aside in frustration. He took a swig from his canteen, and the crisp, fresh water of home tasted glorious as it ran down his throat and washed away the salt of the Syr.

What was left of the sun had fled from the sky, and soon the land was dark and whispering. Strange songs danced from the sea and from the cliffs above as Maladrid stared up at the army of fiery stars in the inky sky. The sudden night sat heavy upon him and forced him down into the sand, and once his eyelids drooped and his cheek melted into the beach, sleep came like a thankful gust that coursed his body and swept him away to safe and familiar places.

When day first struck, it shone as a mere splinter of light across Maladrid’s face. The stripe of heat stirred him but did not open his stubborn eyes, and as if in disapproval, large rays of sunlight burst across his body and completely disconnected him from sleep. He groaned and buried his face in his arm to shield his eyes from the light, but he just couldn’t conquer the sun. Dried sand clung to his face and eyelashes, but when he brushed it away, the back of his hand grazed against a surprising texture. He gasped in amazement at the verdant plain of downy grass that surrounded him and thought himself still dreaming. But when he walked toward the sound of the sea and reached the edge of the earth, he looked down upon the beach where he’d fallen asleep and knew that it was no dream. He saw his broken boat, he saw the ocean kicking around it, and he saw scraps of his map still fluttering across the shore. Somehow he’d climbed the cliffs during the night, but he had no recollection of the climb and no concept of how he could have achieved it. Bewildered, he stood and stared at his dilapidated vessel, wondering how such a marvel of progression had befallen him.

“I hope this isn’t a pattern in this place,” Maladrid said. “I don’t wish to awaken in the clouds come tomorrow morning.”

Maladrid gazed into the stretching distance and saw nothing but terrifying unfamiliarity. He sat down on the edge of the cliff and sipped from his canteen as he watched the dreadful sea crash against his battered ship. His leg seared as he wetted his fingers and wiped away the excess blood that had caked upon his calf, but as bolts of pain shot up his leg, he knew that he would not last long without treatment. He had to keep going; he had to find help.

When Maladrid began to walk, he proceeded in a disoriented fashion, but since he had no idea in which direction to head, he saw no other way to go about his travels. He had no experience in such matters: he was no soldier; he was no tracker. He had never even passed the borders of his small world and was more than a little intimidated by the happenstance of his arrival in Ladyndal. But as he progressed over the field of green, he caught the strange tune again: the luring, sweeping music that took hold of his body and drew him forward as if in thrall. He smiled as the colors billowed around him in melodic cadence, but he fell back from the musical hues in fear when they began shifting into a structure and acquired a shape similar to Maladrid’s own. There were no facial features to the creature composed of twisting colors, but the convergence of shades in its skin that occurred at the peaks in the music was enough to draw Maladrid’s eye, and though it wore no raiment, a crown of shimmering, rainbow-colored stars sat majestically upon its head.

“Who are you?” Maladrid asked in both fear and wonder.

“Dyngyli,” it sang in reply.

“What do you want?”

“Why do think that I want something?”

“Why else would you be here?” Maladrid replied.

The creature laughed melodically and the color within its belly bounced with each lovely chuckle.

“Welcome to Ladyndal, soldier. You’d best to get used to such appearances. You’ll see far stranger things than I,” it said, and abruptly vanished.

The vibrant being had left no trace of its presence or to where it had fled, and though he’d been slightly unnerved by the creature, he had enjoyed the company, brief though it was. He’d enjoyed speaking aloud to someone besides himself, but once again, he stood alone in Ladyndal, and his solitude made him shiver for the things to come.

Unfortunately for Maladrid, the sudden and mysterious journey to the top of the cliffs had separated him from the few supplies he’d salvaged from his ship. His satchel only contained three slices of bread and his canteen was only about half full. He had no weapon, something he feared he would need, and without a map, he had no idea where he was heading and no clue of how to get there. But somehow he managed to maintain his composure in spite of his fear. The weather was mild and the cool wind that rushed his face every few minutes calmed him as it whipped through his humble garments. They were his only garments as well, but though the gray tunic and baggy olive pants were adequate at present, he constantly feared another tempest.

For hours, Maladrid marched without the slightest change in his surroundings or anyone crossing his path. Never having to submit to rationing before, Maladrid quickly polished off his bread, but as the sun climbed the sky and his heat and exhaustion increased, Maladrid found himself with less than a quarter of his canteen remaining, and he really started to worry. His belly growled with such demanding ferocity that, at first, he thought the sound had come from a wild beast. But as dusk eased down upon him, Maladrid squinted toward the distance and saw what looked to be the blurry outline of an orchard. He began to salivate madly as he sped toward it, praying that it wasn’t just a hallucination, but when he neared, he saw the sparkle of the sun upon the purple fruit yielded by the trees and joyfully screamed at the serendipity. He grasped and pulled at one of the fruits, but the stem did not snap free. He tugged again, but still it remained attached to the branch, so he rubbed his hands together, licked his lips, and wrapped his fingers around the fruit one more time. Leaning back, he pulled with all of his strength, and when he heard the sound of the stem breaking, he tumbled backwards with the fruit in hand. He opened his mouth wide in watery anticipation, but as soon as his teeth touched the purple skin, Maladrid heard a small voice.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He looked around wildly, searching for the statement’s source, but seeing no one around, he decided that it was simply his hunger causing him to hear things, shrugged his shoulders, and started to bite again.

“Stop that immediately!”

Maladrid swung around and peered in every possible direction. He even looked under his feet, but there was nothing to be found; at least, nothing that could have spoken. Sighing, slightly upset that he was hallucinating voices, he breathed twice on the apple and rubbed it on his shirt.

“What are you doing? You just knocked over the table!”

His jaw dropped as a small vermicular creature poked out of a hole in the purple fruit and slid two transparent eyelids over each glassy orb as it blinked slowly. Its long thick body was covered with white matted hair that spiked across its back as it inched forward onto Maladrid’s open palm, but the wiry bristles tickled Maladrid’s hand and caused him to flinch and drop the fruit.

“Now look what you’ve done,” the creature said. “You’ve completely destroyed my home!”

“I’m sorry. I was just looking for something to eat,” Maladrid explained calmly.

“That makes absolutely no sense. Why would you try to eat my home?”

“Well, I didn’t know it was your home.”

“What did the boy say?” a different wormy creature asked as it inched out of another fruit.

“Doesn’t matter what he said, but what he tried to do,” yet another replied, popping into the conversation.

Before Maladrid knew it, the entire orchard was abuzz with annelids, furiously and simultaneously questioning him as to his stupidity.

“Do you eat Mosecora homes?”

“No, but—”

“Hohmara homes?”

“Well, of course not, no, but—”

“You certainly wouldn’t eat Shadaran homes, would you?”

“No, but I—”

“Exactly. So why would you eat my home?” the first creature asked in frustration.

Maladrid had become quite flustered by the muddled conversation, and he still hadn’t eaten. But being a stranger in Ladyndal, he didn’t want to upset its denizens, so he set the creature down on a high branch and retrieved its bruised house.

“I really didn’t mean to cause you any trouble,” Maladrid started. “It’s just that I’ve been traveling for so long. I suppose my hunger got the best of me.”

“It’s understandable. Just, please, put me back where I belong,” it replied.

Maladrid matched up the broken stem of the fruit to the broken stem on the branch, and much to his surprise, when they touched, they fused together flawlessly. The vermicular creature inched down the tree swiftly and squeezed through the hole in its house.

“What a mess! What a mess indeed! Oh, surely that can’t be replaced! Oh! This was a wedding present!” it shouted in outrage.

“Excuse me, but what is beyond this orchard?” Maladrid asked cautiously.

The creature popped its head out of the hole and smiled condescendingly.

“You really aren’t very smart, are you?” it asked, and Maladrid shrugged his shoulders and kicked his feet through the grass in embarrassment.

“Well, I assume that you’re the owner of the ship making residence on the shores of Dominhydor, so you could always hop back aboard and go back to where you came from,” the creature said stiffly.

“I hear the Balenta Glen is quite lovely to visit, but it’s probably too tough a journey for someone like you,” another remarked.

“Beyond the Glen, I do not wholly know,” the first worm said. “The orchard is my home, and I’ve grown tired of your presence in it. You can go to Lochydor for all I care.”

“That’s far too dangerous for a simple creature like him,” one commented.

“I could make the journey if I wanted,” Maladrid murmured.

“No, you couldn’t. You’re just a child.”

“No, I’m not. Besides, age does not dictate courage or ability.”

“You’re dreaming and, most likely, a fool. Creatures like us don’t belong outside of our homelands. The world is too big for those as small as us,” the first replied.

“Do you even know where I come from?”

“No, and I don’t much care,” it replied. “Oh dear, I have so much cleaning to do.”

And with that, the creatures disappeared into their houses and left Maladrid alone once again. The purple skin of the orchard’s generated community bounced the fading sunlight into oblivion, and when he turned away and peered into the distance, Maladrid saw a glimmer of hope in the form of the Balenta Glen. The sight of it was enticing enough, but the sound emanating from it was even more so. A song drifted on the air from the Glen, and though it was different from the one the colorful being at the cliffs had used to lure him, it was just as entrancing. He felt it sweep around him and pull at his arms and legs with each pounding beat, and torrents of music raged through his ears and burrowed into his brain. As he marched toward the Glen, it felt to Maladrid as though a rope had been attached to each knee and the music played the puppeteer that bade him follow an invisible path of uncertainty. But as he continued to walk, Maladrid noticed that the soft short grass was increasing in height and growing coarser with each step. Before long, the grass had reached his knees, then his waist; eventually, the grass was as tall as he was, and Maladrid was truly walking blind. There was nothing to see but spiny stalks of grass everywhere, and though unnerved by the development, he was not daunted enough to turn back. Thirst, hunger, and pure curiosity drove him on, but part of him knew that, in time, he would wish he had turned. He stretched his arms out in front of him to push the stalks aside, and when he had a clear path again, he began his cautious hike. Caution did little to prevent injury, however. A bristly stalk slipped in front of Maladrid’s arm and slapped him across the cheek, and in complete shock, he dropped both arms to clutch his throbbing face. Consequently, two armfuls of coarse grass struck the bare parts of his face and backs of his hands. He knew that his face was marked with shallow gashes because of the wind’s mocking course over his face, and his hands were covered in weeping lacerations. He clenched his fingers into fists until he started to tremble and his knuckles turned white; as the dark blood trickled over his pale skin he shook in shock and pain.

“Like a red river in the snow,” he whispered as he beheld his frightening hands dripping with blood.

Maladrid shut his eyes, and when color painted the darkness, he saw a snow-enveloped river in his mind; in the middle of the river, there was a strange blockage causing the water flowing over and around it to turn red. With his eyes closed, he tried to peer at the obstruction to see what it was, but when he squinted, his eyes opened slightly and holes of light broke through the trees and the river in his mind. He sighed sadly as he opened his eyes, but despite the throbbing pain throughout his body, the hope of rest and nourishment lying beyond the stalks pressed him on. He pushed through the high barbed grass until, finally, the stalks started to diminish and he could at last see distant scenery between the shoots. It was still a good length away, but he saw the great trees in the distance, beautiful and shining with golden leaves and silver bellflowers. With all remaining strength, he pushed himself through to the end of the spiny field and collapsed onto the soft pasture before him. He clutched at the grass in desperation and ripped out large handfuls as his chest expanded and contracted against the earth.

“Give up!” the cruel wind screeched as it rushed past his ears.

Maladrid was exhausted. He was starving and his throat burned from dehydration. He was bruised and battered from head to toe, and to add insult to injury, the wind was mocking him. Face down on the ground, his fists began to tremble and his chin began to quiver. His entire body shook with rage as he lifted his head slowly toward the sky, and he gnashed his teeth as he pushed himself up from the ground with his body tense and shuddering. He stood rigidly and stared into the clouds as he tried to nail down the exact location of the wind, but the clever breeze became still and the ceased to blow as he stood motionless with his eyes circling the pasture. Suddenly, there was a rustle in the grass, and Maladrid dove toward it, falling emphatically on a patch of seemingly empty green.

“Now I have you!” he cried with the wind trapped under his hands. “Now we’ll see who gives up!”

When Maladrid began drawing his cupped hands together, he felt the cold sting of the wind’s fierce tongue slicing his palms, but he found it more exhilarating than painful, and with a brutal scream he declared, “I have you! This is the end now!”

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CHAPTER TWO

“What are you doing?”

The surprising voice caused Maladrid to flinch and when he released his grip on the wind, it disappeared into the field of prickly stalks.

“Dammit!” he shouted.

He threw his fists to the ground and beat at the soil violently, but he eventually relaxed, and the grass before him bent as he panted heavily. For a minute, he lay there in silence, and his head wilted woozily as he stared at the intricate, dizzying patterns of grass. But farther down the pasture, there stood something far more interesting. He saw her toes first, followed by her legs, waist, chest, and finally, his eyes found her glorious face. He could tell that the female Hohmara standing before him was slightly older than he, but the glow of youth radiated in every movement of her body and each tiny smile that graced her lips. By her stance and expression, he knew that she was powerful, but her eyes were tender and their sparkle comforting. She was draped in a glittering bronze robe that hung shapeless and fluttered in the casual breeze, but beneath it, her slender body was clad in bronze armor. The hem of her skirt reached the ground, but when the wind danced around her, it lifted it and revealed her bare sculpted calves. Long sleeves flared from the dress and covered her bony hands, and the neckline plunged to the middle of her chest where glistening beads of sweat sat like majestic jewels on the fair skin above her breastplate. Maladrid found it hard to rip his eyes away from the vivacious red hair pouring down her body in wild knotted locks and her eyes shining like emerald icicles, sparkling and fierce amidst the ringlet flames. Inch by inch, her sandaled feet tunneled through the grass as she began to approach him with her smoldering eyes penetrating his and full pink lips pouted. She extended her arms to him with her slender hands blanketed by the bronze sleeves, but when he reached out to her, he plunged his hands inside her sleeves to meet her flesh, and she suddenly jerked back at his presumption.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked sharply.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t want to pull on your robe.”

Using her sleeve-covered hands she grabbed Maladrid by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet, and with an eyebrow crooked and a smirk cutting up the side of her cheek, she asked, “So you want to feel my hands, do you?”

She pushed up her sleeves and stretched out her emaciated fingers as she took a giant step forward that left her and Maladrid face to face. He could not anticipate what would happen next any more than he could see her arms fly out to the sides and come crashing into his head with an intense grip. When her nails dug into his skin, he could feel little else but pain. Then, there was nothing but cold darkness. But when he peered off into the void, he saw a single glimmering speck. It shone ivory in the black distance and eased leisurely down from above, and as he ran toward it, the miniscule fragment of pure white winked at him from afar, but no matter how much he ran, he never seemed to get any closer. But more bits of white followed. In abundance, they began sailing down through the darkness until the void was no longer endless black with a spattering of white. The specks had accumulated and become deep ivory drifts with tiny dots of black peppered throughout them. But suddenly, and faster than anything he’d ever seen, a river surged from the distance and cut a jagged blue waterway through the pallor. Maladrid watched it course past him and out of his sight as it dipped and split through the lofty drifts of ivory. The specks continued to ease down and settled on his hair and clothes, but he didn’t feel the coldness or dampness of them until he realized that it indeed was snowing.

The chill hit him with sudden force, and his feet and hands stung from the biting cold as they began to turn a chalky pink. As Maladrid followed the snowy river downstream, he saw it dammed by an alien blockage, and the water rushing over and around it was a pinkish hue by its influence. Suddenly and with a flash of light, everything was gone and it was dark again. Massive clouds of gray and black began to swirl over Maladrid’s head, and as the sky billowed violently, it roared, “I am everlasting! I see you on the brightest of mornings and the darkest of nights! I am the master of all and you must obey until you can see me no more!”

Black consumed the gray and gray broke free of the black, but in the midst of the battle of haze raging overhead, there shone a beam of sunlight. It shattered through the clouds, piece by piece, until a keyhole of pure white light radiated in the firmament. He stood silent as he stared at the churning sky and watched the clouds violently smash into and mix with each other, but as much as the mist swirled around the keyhole, it never broke the illuminated shape. The keyhole seemed so bright and inviting that Maladrid felt as if, could he stretch his fingers out a few inches more, he could touch it.

A series of contrasting colors flashed before Maladrid’s eyes, and when his vision returned to normal, he was staring at the pasture below him. He saw the stalks of prickly grass behind him and the Glen glimmering far away, but most of all, he saw the Hohmara girl gaping at him in petrified astonishment.

“What happened?” Maladrid asked. “Who are you?”

The girl looked at him with her eyes blank and wide and her arms still floating rigidly in the air beside his head. With her hands clenched into fists, she lowered her arms slowly to her sides and the shimmering sleeves covered them completely.

“My name is Yven,” she replied softly. “What’s yours?”

Maladrid could feel an inexplicable rage bubbling up in his throat and clawing at his tongue as if ready to explode with torrents of furious confusion. He opened his mouth, prepared to demand that the girl answer his every question, but all that came out was, “Maladrid. My name is Maladrid.”

While he waited for a response, he looked at her. He looked at her like he had never looked at anything before. He took notice of every insignificant particle that made up Yven and suddenly each and every one became significant, and as he examined her in enamored awe, he saw a brief smile creep across her face.

“You’re hurt,” she said as she knelt down and began to examine his wounded leg.

“It’s not too bad,” he replied, even though he was starting to get lightheaded from the pain.

She pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and laid her covered hand on his forehead.

“You have a fever. How long have you had this injury?”

“I don’t know. It was from the sea, from the ship. A couple of days, I suppose,” he said woozily.

Save for her piercing eyes, her face became blurry in his sight; they remained well-defined and fixed as the rest of the world melted away, and though he lost his senses and his vision, her emerald eyes never faded. When Maladrid awoke and his eyes cleared, he focused on Yven, who was dabbing a bit of damp cloth across his forehead. He noticed that his leg felt unusually cool, and then realized that she had dressed it with cloth and a strange salve that oozed between the bindings. The stuff glistened green in the daylight, but when Yven noticed him reaching out to touch it, she snapped, “Don’t.”

“Excuse the harsh reply, but I’ll touch whatever I please.”

“Fine,” she said as she threw the washcloth aside. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just saving your life.”

He surrendered to her order, inched closer to her, and met her in the lock of a glance.

“Why are you helping me? Who are you?”

“I’ve already told you: my name is Yven, and you should be ashamed of speaking to me in such a manner. I am the queen of Donir and sovereign of the Hohmara.”

Maladrid bowed his head and apologized.

“I could see instantly that you were greater than I. But now I see unequivocally that you are a Queen. There is so much honor in your eyes.”

“I hope that’s not the only place where it exists.”

“Your Majesty, why are you helping me?”

She looked as though she wanted to answer but was unable to find the words. She opened her mouth to reply but then abruptly closed it and turned away to dampen the cloth again, but when Maladrid laid his hand upon her shoulder, she turned back to his pale but emotive face.

“Yven, what’s happening to me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I do know that I’ve never seen a vision like that before. And now I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what I’ve seen. I doubt you will either.”

“But I don’t even understand what I’ve seen. I don’t understand any of this,” he whimpered. “And most of all, I don’t understand why you entrance me so.”

A slight blush rose to Yven’s cheeks as she lowered her head to hide her smile.

“Royalty,” she replied. “We have a way of drawing one’s eye.”

“Well, there’s one answer. What about the others?”

Yven placed a sleeve-covered hand on his shoulder, and then helped him to his feet.

“Come with me, Maladrid. We will find the answers together.”

* * * *

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CHAPTER THREE

Though entranced as well, Maladrid was somewhat unnerved by being in Yven’s company; not only because of her supreme station or warrior status, but because of the strange power in her hands that had brought such foreboding sights to his mind. During the vision, he’d felt as though his body were broken into pieces that scattered in the breeze, and as they started off together toward the Balenta Glen, he still felt slightly disconnected. But each time Yven turned to glance back at him, a bit of his entirety returned; perhaps it was because he knew she had chosen him to join her, or because in her company, he finally had the beginning of a purpose. But he believed most of all that his true aggregation occurred in the realization that each time her eyes settled upon him, he felt that she truly wanted him there.

Fortunately for Maladrid, Yven was far more equipped for a journey than he. Although her food was scarce, she still had some varied fruits and meat and plenty of water, and she gladly shared all that she had with him. With appetites appeased and thirsts quenched, Maladrid and Yven began their march toward the glistening Glen. Through the walk, Maladrid began to notice all of the things his starvation had overpowered: her weapons, for instance. A bow and modestly stocked quiver were slung across her back and a few varying-sized daggers were sheathed in her belt, but it was obvious which weapon she favored above all others. She carried it proudly yet gently, and when she drew it, the blade sung a dulcet warrior’s song. Its silver blade and bronze hilt shone brighter than any Maladrid had ever seen prior, and the name by which the queen called it seemed bolder than that of any other weapon he’d heard of. She called it “Vetna the Olfir.”

Yven eventually noticed Maladrid eyeing her and the blade in equal curiosity, and timidly trying to speak aloud the questions that had been gnawing at his mind since they’d met, but before he could ask them, she said, “In time, I will tell you all you wish to know, Maladrid: of me, of this sword, and of this mission that you’ve allied yourself with. But it is a daunting tale and one I could not even conceive of telling without a bit of relaxation first.”

When the moon began to rise that night, they were less than half a day’s travel to the Glen, and though the gold and silver trees winked at them like a beacon beckoning them forward, Yven decided that they should rest a while. She gave him water and though he’d never had the treat called Cenna before, once he tasted it, he instantly became enamored of the powered cake and the sweet nugget of the da-ni plant in the center. As he ate, his senses were deliciously flooded by the intoxicating taste and fragrance of the da-ni, and for the first time in what seemed like years, he felt completely at ease. Aside from a fresh, piney taste, the da-ni possessed attributes of alleviation; Maladrid’s face, which had been aching from the lashes of the spiny grass, as well as his lacerated leg became gloriously numb to their previous pain, but with the relief came also a relaxation that sat heavily on his eyelids. Hopeful for Yven to unravel her story to him, Maladrid fought the urge to sleep, but his exhaustion was too powerful a force to combat, and when he nestled himself into a grassy bed, he was swept away into a colorful sleep. In his mind, the Balenta trees of the Glen stood mere feet away; their leaves twinkled in the moonlight and the soft sailing breeze granted them a lovely new life. He heard the bellflowers ringing as they danced against the leaves, and though they sounded softly at first, their song increased to a startling cacophony that was too loud and too vivid to exist in mere reverie. Maladrid forced his eyes open to a fuzzy world of odd shapes and colors, and when his vision cleared, he beheld Yven spinning back and forth with her bronze robe glittering in the moonlight. He watched bewildered as he saw her sword flash in the dark and disappear into an indistinct shadowy sheath; when it withdrew, it was covered in a dark viscous fluid that oozed down the blade. Just then, Maladrid was grabbed from behind by long sticky fingers that wrapped around his neck and pulled at his hair. He could feel the body behind him and the hot foul breath on his skin, but when he started to struggle, he felt the sharp point of a dagger against his back and froze in fear. A blaze of fire sprang to life in the darkness and ignited the fray, and Maladrid trembled as he saw the massive beast with the torch creeping hungrily toward him. The Achnor’s thick black tongue darted out of its mouth and ravenously smacked its lips as it marched rigidly forward, and its white eyes blazed with the wild reflection of the torch’s flames. Suddenly, the fingers grasping Maladrid’s neck released and when he turned, he saw Yven withdrawing her sword from the Achnor’s skull, and when it collapsed to the ground, she picked up its dagger and tossed it to Maladrid. He was hesitant to catch it because wielding a weapon welcomed all onslaughts as if he were capable of combating them. But the Achnor showed no fear of him, weapon or not, so with the dagger in hand, he stood with liquid fear pouring down his face but his jaw clenched in confident recalcitrance. Maladrid and Yven stood back to back and brandished their weapons as a circle of Achnora closed around them. Though some of the beasts were balanced on two legs with swords in hand, most of the Achnora were crouched on the ground with daggers clutched in their prehensile tails. Their long ashy faces were tense with ferocity as they hissed and gnashed their small sharp teeth, and as they crept forward, the sparse gray hair on their backs spiked and their empty eyes glowed in the fiery dark. The Achnor with the torch towered over its kin and over Maladrid as well, and as it glared at him, it growled and its lips curled over its bloodstained teeth. After an apprehensive shudder, Maladrid dove forward, and when he plunged his dagger into the Achnor’s chest, it dropped the torch and growled as it sank to the ground. The flames from the fallen torch quickly began consuming the grass, and with it, the massive Achnor’s skin; the red and orange fire became deep black as it raged over its body and started devouring the flesh. While Maladrid snatched up the torch and began thrusting it into the charging Achnora, causing them to burn alive in the black flame, Yven mercilessly plowed through the foul-smelling hordes, and as the many bodies fell to line her path, she cried out, “I am Yven, daughter of Lonho, sovereign of Dominhydor!”

Maladrid tore a route through the Achnora, but at the end of the line awaited the giant beast engorged in black flame; it was poised to pounce even with the sable fire eating away at its flesh, and as it rushed across him, the skin hardened into black crust that crumbled away to reveal the bone beneath. The beast howled ferociously when a long onyx flame shot out like a serpent tongue from the fiery mass; it wrapped around Maladrid’s blade, and the hilt became so hot that it scalded his palm with a disgusting sizzle. He threw the dagger to the ground and clutched his searing hand; his crimson skin bubbled and burst with sickening crackles and pops, and all the while, the blazing Achnor continued to advance. But when it finally leaped at his throat as an ebony inferno, it abruptly fell limp in midair and collapsed dead at Maladrid’s feet. The fire had been mysteriously doused and smoke rose from its sizzling body, and distended from its back was a white arrow in the midst of the steam. Maladrid looked around puzzled while Yven weaved through the fallen Achnora and insured their fatality with final slices and stabs.

“Thank you,” Maladrid sighed.

“For what?”

“Shooting that beast. If you hadn’t, I would’ve been dead for sure.”

“I didn’t shoot anything, Maladrid,” Yven said as she inspected the Achnor’s smoldering carcass and the ivory arrow protruding from it. “No, this isn’t one of my arrows. This is of Bynt make.”

“Bynt?” Maladrid asked.

“Bynts have been around since before the Hohmara, but they weren’t always as they are today. They were once Achnora, but in contrast to these brutes, they had pure hearts and uncorrupted souls: something they considered a curse against normalcy. Although most of their kin and allies worshipped the Dark Lady, they found no joy in doing evil, but because they were Achnora, no one on the side of good would welcome them in. And so, despite their predestined alliance with darkness, they prayed to Yaliwe for some relief from the Achnoran appearance that prohibited them a peaceful life. Yaliwe heard their pleas and bid them take refuge in the Glen, and She granted them immortality on the condition that they use it to protect the forest’s grace and grandeur. They gladly agreed, and their skin turned from gray to white; they became tall and slender, and She called them ‘Bynts.’ Their story is well known and respected, but they hardly emerge from the Glen. For our sake, I’m glad they did today though.”

“What about your story?” he asked curiously, and a slight blush rose to Yven’s cheeks.

“My story isn’t nearly as joyful,” she replied.

“Most aren’t.”

“Very well,” she said as she led him away from the battleground. “But let me see your hand first.”

Maladrid gingerly opened his fist; his palm was covered with white blisters and split skin. Yven enclosed her hands in her sleeves as she examined his still-searing skin, and when she poured water over the wound, smoke rose from the burns.

“I’m afraid there’s not much that I can do. Only the Pools of the Yaermaca could heal such an injury, but a pipe of da-ni could ease the pain.”

She opened her satchel and withdrew two Cenna cakes and a small bronze pipe that was coated in a thick gloss. She broke open the cakes, pulled out the nuggets of da-ni, and packed them into the pipe. She pulled a firstic from her satchel and cracked it, and as the cylinder sizzled and sparked into flame, she held it to the da-ni and inhaled deeply. Her expelled smoke billowed around Maladrid’s face like a comforting blanket and as he breathed it in, he felt the wonderful anesthetizing begin. He mimicked her actions with the pipe, and he sighed as the smoke coursed through his body and tingled in his limbs. They passed it back and forth in complete silence, except for the occasional crackling sound made by the flame rolling over the da-ni; after the pipe was finished, Maladrid’s hand was gloriously numb to the pain and he and Yven shared the empty cakes.

She smiled as she sipped from her canteen, and with her emerald eyes fixed on him with glazy intensity, she drew Vetna and held it flat in both hands. Maladrid inched forward with his eyes wide and ears perked, but she lowered her head and heaved a sorrowful sigh.

“Please, Yven,” Maladrid whispered. “Tell me.”

Yven gently laid Vetna down in front of her as if holding it during her tale would cause her too much pain. And though her face was somber and marked with obvious grief, she cleared her throat, focused her eyes on Maladrid, and softly began to speak.

“It was months ago that my father was slain in Rosdin, and yet, the memory and pain of it is still fresh in my heart. Lonho, king of Donir, is gone, and this princess prematurely turned queen is all that remains of him. I loved my father dearly; the gifts that he bestowed upon me as I grew were not only greatly appreciated but also revered. I was so grateful for him, but not because he found me worthy enough to be his successor; I was grateful enough just being his daughter.

“Lonho’s father was King Holmar, wielder of the Ax of Fire: a weapon given to him by a Daian on the eve of his crowning. An austere man, Holmar expected no less than for every subject to obey his every order, and though his severe nature made him a strong leader to his people, it also made him a rather cold and distant man; too cold and distant for his wife, Cantyle. For many years there was contentment under Holmar’s regime, but treachery eventually found its way to Donir, his castle, and even his bed. One night, Queen Cantyle was discovered in secret congress with a Rani named Paerca: a sorcerer with powerful magicks of a predominantly dark variety. For years before and after my father’s birth, Cantyle and Paerca had been meeting in secret to weave spells and make love and laugh at Holmar’s foolish ignorance. When he finally found them together, he was livid and used his Axe of Fire to behead her, but Paerca vanished before the king could get his hands on him. The queen’s head was placed upon a spike outside the gates of Donir to remind the Hohmara of the penalty for betrayal, but because of Holmar’s shame, he never told his son Lonho of his mother’s infidelity. He ordered silence from those who did know, and since the young prince was forbidden to leave Donir, he never saw the bloody warning just beyond the gates.

“Holmar tirelessly sought out the Rani who had soiled his union with the queen,” Yven continued, “but whenever his army was sure they’d tracked him down, he promptly vanished into a cloud of blue smoke. Holmar became obsessed with the finding and eventual torturing of Paerca, and over a decade later, he finally caught him by chance and imprisoned him in the dungeon of Donir. However, obsession and sorrow had severely aged and weakened Holmar, and mere hours after locking away his dead wife’s lover, he died with his true vengeance unfulfilled. Prince Lonho became king, but he was still unaware of the relationship between his mother and Paerca, and when it came time for him to do a review of the prisoners, he granted the seemingly remorseful and rehabilitated Rani a full pardon. When someone finally defied Holmar’s order of secrecy regarding the adultery and revealed to Lonho the reason for Paerca’s imprisonment, he was pained by his mother’s treachery and vowed to find and kill the Rani who had ruined his family. Unfortunately for my father, as soon as Paerca was released, he slipped into obscurity and was never seen again.

“But young though he was, Lonho was a good king, and he led men into battle with such passion that all who would be free of the Dark Lady’s minions were inspired to follow him. For years, he kept the Shadaran at bay and slaughtered every one of their allies who traveled anywhere near Hohmara lands. By the age of seventeen, he decided that his people, kingdom, and crown were secure, and set his mind to starting a family. Vetna, the young daughter of the High Guard of Palyn, had been raised with the hope of someday being queen of Donir, and was forbidden by her father Conte to be courted by anyone but Lonho. She spent many lonely years waiting patiently for an introduction to the man she believed would be her husband, while her father continued to instruct her on how to be a king’s loyal servant as well as his loving wife; she was to be beautiful, fruitful, obedient, and that was all. When word of Lonho’s desire to wed spread through the Outer Circle, Vetna was finally brought to court. At first glance, Lonho was enraptured by Vetna’s exceptional beauty: her body was small and slender, her eyes strikingly emerald, and her hair was like honey curling beside her milky face. Only a month after they met, they were wed and Vetna, finally queen, reveled in the hope of a happy life. I was born less than a year later, and the joy of the royal family seemed to branch throughout Donir, the Outer Circle, and Beyond.

“My father was everything to me because he was everything I would become, but my mother was the one true comfort in my life; after hours of study and training, she would cover me with the thick, downy blankets of my bed, tuck me into a cocoon of warmth, and in a voice lovelier than a nightingale, she sang to me the tales of Dominhydor and its beginnings and of all creatures wondrous and vile. Young as I was, however, I could sense my mother’s sadness; although I couldn’t discern reasons for her sorrow, I felt it. Yet she still smiled and I felt no need to dwell on what might be mere passing storms. But the beginning of the end was on the horizon, and though perhaps we all sensed it, we never truly saw it coming.

“When I was still young, my father embarked upon a special mission that sent him to each and every land in his keeping; he even traveled to Fircyn, the cavalry city under the foundation of the Lyraeran city of Rosdin. For nearly half a year, he was gone from Donir, but not one day passed that my mother and I didn’t gaze out from the castle in the hope that we’d see him riding valiantly back into the kingdom. When he finally returned, he commanded the construction of a tall ivory tower adjoining the castle. During his visits to the Hohmara cities, Lonho discovered several crystals buried beneath the earth, but they were far more extraordinary than they appeared; when he laid his hands upon them, he could see the cities they were harvested from and watch over his people from afar, and in turn, his family could watch over him when he was away from home. As the tower was joined to the royal treasury, only my parents and I had access to it, and since the door was built out of Yaermini, the most resilient element in Dominhydor, there was no worry of anyone breaking in. The tower consisted of only a long winding staircase and one room at the apex that contained a table upon which the crystals representing the eight Hohmara cities stood.

“After the tower was erected, my mother’s sorrow started being more apparent. Usually, she covered it fairly well, but when she laughed I could feel the pain behind it and the desperate longing for an unattainable life. Her childhood was spent under heavy restriction, and once married, she thought she’d at last be free, but in time, she found that her husband was just as restraining as her father had been. Lonho forbade her from leaving the city for fear she’d be taken by enemies of Donir. It broke his heart to see her suffer, but his desire to keep her safe surpassed any pain her sadness caused him. Vetna began taking refuge in the tower, and eventually, she secluded herself there completely; she spent no more nights with Lonho, and she sang no more songs to me. She became like a specter of the tower, pale and slight, and for hours, she would stand frozen on the balcony with her hungry eyes gazing out on the Beyond. My father was troubled by her isolation, but he let her alone as he believed was her unspoken wish, and, seeing as she intended on bearing him no more children, Lonho began preparing me even more fervently for battle and to wear the crown of Donir. Day after day I practiced swordplay in the courtyard and though I became extremely deft with a blade, I was taught as well that all weapons were to be used as if they were deadly limbs of my own body. As I trained, Vetna would look down on me in contempt from the tower with her body rigid and her eyes burning. Perhaps she was resentful and jealous that I, her young daughter, should be praised for bravery and journey to strange new lands when she was forbidden to even pass through the gates. She no longer looked like the beautiful woman who had nurtured me so and sung me into dreaming with dulcet lullabies; instead, she appeared a frail bird imprisoned by those who forbade her flight. I yearned to embrace her, to hold her and comfort her as she had done for me when I was just a child. I wanted to comfort her as she had comforted me with sweet songs that will flow through me eternally like blood. But despite all of my training, I had not learned to muster the courage required to face her; I was too afraid that her despair couldn’t be quelled, especially by her daughter who had surpassed her in the king’s heart.

“Eventually, I was skilled enough to join my father in battle and prove myself as a soldier of Donir. We fought an army of Achnora that had flooded into Tirdyn like a gray river, and with my father at my side, I drove through them with honor to Yaliwe in every ferocious stroke of my sword. We were victorious, and I was hailed among my people as a worthy heir to my father’s crown, but it was a battle just a few months ago that truly sealed my fate as the future queen. Lonho received word of a Shadaran army heading for Rosdin, and despite it being a Lyraeran city, he could not risk the enemy finding the Hohmara city beneath it, so he gathered the best warriors and set out toward the east to wage war on the invaders. I, now a true soldier of Donir, proudly joined him on the journey, but as we rode out of the kingdom, I turned back to see Vetna standing on the balcony of the tower with her head bowed, and I could tell she was weeping. As we passed through the gates, I beheld a great shadow creep overhead, surge through the city, and swallow both the tower and the queen of Donir whole. I told myself that it was only my mind playing tricks on me. I was too stubborn to admit what was happening to her, and I was too proud of my station to turn away from such an important quest. Now, I know that if I had turned back, she might have been saved; at least for a while.”

“What happened to her?” Maladrid asked.

“When we reached Fircyn, there was a message waiting: Vetna had fallen ill, and Lonho and I had to return immediately. The Shadaran in Rosdin had learned of our journey to challenge them and so halted their own, but my father didn’t trust that they’d abandoned the fight completely. He decided to stay in Fircyn; after such a long journey, he wasn’t about to depart without a fight, but I was ordered to return home, and no matter how much I begged for him to let me stay, I had to obey. Over the months it took me to cross Dominhydor, I received no word from Donir or Fircyn, and I sadly expected to find my mother dead upon my homecoming, but what I found upon my return was far worse than anything I could’ve imagined. No one was standing watch at the gates of Donir, and upon entering, I beheld empty streets and dark silent houses. With my sword readied, I walked cautiously through the gray desolation that had once been the beautiful city of my birth; I called out for anyone to come forward, be them friend or foe, but no one emerged. But when I neared the tower and saw my mother standing on the balcony with her back to Donir, I sprinted through the castle, up the tower stairs, and burst into the room that housed the crystals, overjoyed that she was still alive. However, Vetna did not acknowledge my presence. She was huddled over the table with her hands wrapped around the crystal of Fircyn, and I could see the sweat pouring off of her as her body trembled violently.

“‘What’s wrong, Mother? What do you see? Is it the king? Is he in danger?’ I asked, but she said nothing. ‘Mother, what do you see? What of Lonho?’

“When she raised her head to me, not even the slightest shadow of Vetna remained. Her skin was hard and black as pitch and as her mouth twisted into a horrible grimace, her eyes flashed an unnatural shade of yellow.

“‘Where is my mother? Where is Vetna?’ I shouted as I drew my blade, but she simply turned back to the crystal and closed her eyes.

“‘Tell me now!’ I demanded, and hissed as she clenched the crystal of Fircyn even tighter.

“‘Give me peace to feed,’ she growled.

“‘What did you do with my mother?’

“‘Her blood is inside me; it is bubbling with the flames of Ol and fusing with mine,’ the demon replied, with saliva running down its blackened chin.

“I circled with my sword tracing the Shadara’s neck until it removed its hands from the crystal and faced me with its ravenous grin mocking.

“‘Why are you looking into the crystal of Fircyn?’

“‘I am watching my people defeat the enemy,’ it wheezed.

“‘Your people are the enemy.’

“‘Even you will come to the shadow in time. There are none who can stand against it; not even your king.’

“‘What of the king? What have you done to my father?’

“‘I have done nothing, but he will fall as you will fall. There is no hope for you, little Princess. Your people have abandoned you; they’ve left you to die, and they, too, will die in turn.’

“‘That is your desire: for the Hohmara to die?’

“‘Darkness is my only desire.’

“‘Then you shall have it,’ I growled as I lunged forward and plunged my sword into its stomach.

“When I withdrew, the mixture of Vetna and the Shadara’s blood had become a thick silver liquid that clung to the sword and furiously enveloped the steel. The distorted version of my mother laughed as the metallic fluid oozed out of its stomach, and when I dropped my sword into a puddle of blood, it covered the blade in a lustrous silver casing.

“‘Perhaps you are not as strong as I thought,’ it hissed with its crooked teeth grinding.

“I dove toward the beast with my hands to its throat, and when I pushed it back onto the table, its face suddenly froze in a gasp and its body fell limp. When I backed off, I saw the crystal of Fircyn distended from its chest, and as the blood gushed from the gaping wound, the Shadara’s skin lightened with each silver surge. The rictal grin and dark twisted flesh disappeared, and slowly, the rosy glow of Vetna’s skin and pale verdancy of her eyes returned. She was my mother again, but although her body and features were restored, her spirit was not, and there was nothing I could do but weep. I lifted her body from the crystal and tumbled backward with her in my arms, and when I hit the floor with a thud and her flaccid body collapsed on top of me, the table of crystals followed our fall. I pulled her away before it slammed down on top of her slack body, but the crystals were all destroyed, and the floor of the temple glittered with the shards that stuck into my flesh. I sat up and cradled her in my arms, and as I rocked her back and forth and ran my fingers through her honey hair, I sang softly between sobs.

“‘Now is the time to sleep, my love.

In Hana I will find you,

The hurt is far behind you.

Close your eyes forever.

Wake up in Hana to your peaceful sleep.

“‘Come be the day

I hold you once more forever.

Have no fear,

In Hana you will have no fear.

Dwell happily in Hana forever.’

“When I finally laid my mother down and walked out onto the balcony, I saw a throng of Achnora below me roaring and waving their weapons menacingly. Their army was not massive, but against only me, they would surely be victorious. Although they couldn’t get to me by way of the castle because of the Yaermini door protecting me, they could certainly scale the side of the tower; it would take time, but eventually, they would reach me and tear me limb from limb. But then, I heard a series of yelps and screeches followed by clanging steel, and when I gazed out again upon Donir, I saw the Hohmara, my father’s loyal subjects, streaming out of hiding and attacking the Achnora. They had not abandoned the city after all, and I could tell by the numbers that the Outer Circle had come to Donir’s aid as well. They flew from their houses and hidden burrows with weaponry blazing, and though I ran down to join them as quickly as I could, by the time I reached the courtyard, the last of the Achnora were being dispatched.

“The Hohmara rejoiced in their victory, but their true joy was overshadowed by the loss of their queen, so before we set to rebuilding the towns that had been damaged by the Shadaran’s invasion, we set our mind on laying Vetna to rest. We planned a respectable funeral for her, but unfortunately, she did not last until the interment. The beast that had overtaken her had devoured her from the inside, and because of it, she rotted to almost nothing within hours.”

Yven halted briefly as she wrung her hands around Vetna’s hilt and her face became stiff with painful memories.

“The sword was changed after becoming encased in the blood,” she said. “Or perhaps I just wield it differently because I know how the blood got there. I killed her.”

“You didn’t kill her, Yven; the Shadara did.”

“It ravaged her, yes, but I’m the one who ended her life. To tell the truth, I’m not even sure if her soul is in Hana.”

“I’m sure it is,” Maladrid said as he touched her arm in consolation, but when she looked up at him thankfully and smiled, he withdrew humbly. “And your father?” he continued quickly. “What happened to him?”

“A few months after what was left of my mother was in the ground, a solemn procession came into Donir. Just when we all thought the shadow had fled, the few survivors of the army that had been fighting in Fircyn laid my father before me, but his body was so mutilated that I hardly recognized him. They told me that he’d gone mad at Fircyn and that he kept vanishing from the camp for hours at a time, rambling on about Vetna and shadows. Then, one night when he disappeared from the camp, he stayed gone, and for four days, no one in Fircyn or Rosdin could find him. When he was finally discovered deep in the forest of Rosdin, he was near death with his body ripped apart and flesh barely hanging on, and he was babbling about shadows trying to jump down his throat. The army constructed a stretcher for him and tended to his wounds as best they could, but, as they supposed, the king died shortly after they started back to Donir, and they carried him on the stretcher the entire way home. After Lonho was laid beside Vetna in the ground, I locked myself in the tower for many days, plagued by visions of my mangled parents, and unable to see a life for me without them.

“But my life had to continue, and I had to embrace it. After all, I was now queen, but for me, there was no rejoicing in the ascension. The day of my crowning was bittersweet, and the dark cloudy weather mimicked my mood. The trumpets did not sound, and there were no grand feasts or celebrations. The crown of Donir was heavy on my head, and I could not bear to wear it for long, and though the kingdom was grieved by the loss of their king, they were overjoyed that I was alive to claim the throne.

“‘Hail, Queen Yven, sovereign of the Hohmara, ruler of Donir, watcher of the Outer Circle and Beyond!’ my people cried.

“To dampen the day further, Tornyn, the royal messenger, arrived to deliver somber news from the Eastern Freelands.

“‘The Achnora are fashioning even more buildings in and around the mountain at Nave’s Bend, and we’ve deduced that they have tunnels as means of travel that run even deeper than Fircyn. But we’ve found no sign of an entrance.’

“‘My mother, or the beast my mother became, mentioned the name “Shacore.” Have you heard anything about the establishment of a leader in the Bend?’

“‘I’m afraid we’ve no clue of what is behind the new evil in Lochydor, but the Shadaran continue to grow in strength and number, milady. Whoever is controlling them will soon have an army nearly as large as your own.’

“Folcir, who was my father’s royal advisor and captain of the guard, was now by my side as friend and counselor.

“‘Milady, the army must be dispatched to fight this darkness. We must finish what Lonho started.’

“‘It would be nearly impossible for our army to come out of this battle victorious, Folcir,’ I said. ‘Even with complete aid from the Outer Circle, we couldn’t win. It would take weeks to march around the Syr Sea, and we’ve no ships left mighty enough to carry an army across it.’

“‘What of the Tylira? They could carry you and your men swiftly around the Syr,’ Folcir suggested.

“‘All of the Tylira have fled Donir except for my friend, Dordin, and he could carry a handful of soldiers but not an entire army.’

“‘Milady, we must do something,’ he pleaded.

“‘No, Folcir. I must do something, and I must do it alone.’

“‘My Queen, no. You said yourself that no army could quell this shadow. I will not have you martyred,’ he said sharply.

“‘I am no army, Folcir. I am one woman aided only by my wit and my strength.’

“I removed the crown of Donir from my brow and set it aside, and as my fingers lingered on the blessed bronze, I whispered gravely, ‘I have not yet earned the right to accept such a noble gift. Keep it safe for when I return.’

“‘No, milady. I’m the captain of the guard. My place is beside you on this quest.’

“‘As captain of the guard, I need you here to protect my people,’ I said as I drew Vetna and it shone as a spear of foreboding light. ‘You’re right, Folcir, it must be finished. And I will finish it.’

“So it was the day after my crowning that I found my childhood friend and loyal steed, Dordin, who had safely carried me many times beyond the gates of Donir.”

“He’s a Tylira?” Maladrid asked.

“Yes. The Tylira are a truly majestic race, and my friend Dordin is the most regal of all; although I suppose I’m a bit biased. The largest and one of the fastest races in Dominhydor, they are identical in their coloring and markings. Their thick fur is completely black with the exception of their bellies, paws, and the bridges of their noses; those are starkly white. Ivory whiskers protrude handsomely from their proud feline faces, and ferocious fangs, larger than your head, fill their mammoth mouths. But they are gentle creatures once befriended, and Dordin is the most heroic and noble of them all.”

“But you’re biased,” Maladrid chuckled.

“I wish you could’ve met him, Maladrid.”

“Where is he? Didn’t he accompany you when you left Donir?”

“After I left Donir, the Achnora seemed to be drawn to me, and I knew that wherever I went, they would follow. I feared not for my own life but for the life of my friend, so I gave Dordin leave to go. He didn’t want to leave, but I ordered him away nevertheless, and though he followed me for many miles, I would not give in. When he finally turned and went his own way, it pained me greatly to see him go, but then I saw you, Maladrid, shining like a white star of Yaliwe in the shadowy distance, and I knew that I was destined to meet you,” she said with warm sincerity, and Maladrid blushed.

“That’s the end, I suppose,” Yven said and sheathed Vetna forcibly.

“No, it is only the beginning,” he replied with his hand clenched as the da-ni’s soothing spell wore away and the pain began to rise again, but still, he smiled as he looked upon her. “Yven, I admit that I am in awe of you. You are brave beyond words.”

She pulled him close with cloaked hands, and he felt her warm breath on his face.

“Maladrid, I am not a queen here. I wear no crown, I rule no kingdom, and I will have no sovereignty until this battle is over and I am victorious.”

“You may say so, but you are still a queen, crown or not. It’s apparent in every move you make. You mustn’t dismiss it; I admire it so in you.”

She grinned and nodded as she looked off into the distance with the Balenta Glen glistening in her eyes.

“I should send you far away from me, Maladrid; such proximity to me is perilous. I should send you away, but I can’t force myself to command it. You have Yaliwe’s light within you, and I can not turn away from such brilliance.”

“I’m not worthy of such a quest, milady. I’m not a warrior or gifted with magicks. I can not attack or protect.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don’t have the experience.”

“So, if you’ve never tried, how do you know that you’re incapable? How do you know that you don’t have a natural talent? Maladrid, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’m in over my head. Plus, I’m somewhat lonely. I know it sounds strange that I would ask you to accompany me, especially since you’ve not been properly trained to escort a queen, but I see something special in you, something blessed and otherworldly. So I’m asking you now: will you join me?”

“If it would please you,” he replied with a nod. “I am your humble servant and I owe you more than my life.”

“Come,” she said with a timid grin. “The Glen awaits. Take one of the Achnora’s swords; we are off to dangerous places.”

“Is the Glen so perilous?”

“Not especially, and neither is our next destination, but there are sure to be dangers along the way.”

“I will follow you into the shadow of Nave’s Bend, Yven, and anywhere else you allow me to follow. I will fight by your side, be it a battle to victory or death.”

“And for that, Maladrid, I owe you more than my life.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER FOUR

Maladrid took a sword from one of the fallen Achnora, but the blade he chose was different from the rest scattered about. The sword was in fact two blades, one silver and one black, twisted together, but as impressive as it was, it was still nothing compared to Vetna. As they traveled toward the sparkling Glen ahead, Yven took advantage of the company and bubbled with her ideas and intentions as to their route.

“The Dolihol is a safe place to rest and gather troops. I admit that I’m eager to drive toward Nave’s Bend as quickly as possible, but we might benefit from a slight delay to regroup. Once we’ve passed through the Glen, we will head north toward the land of the Dalitants.”

They reached the Balenta Glen when the moon was still high, but they stopped outside its borders as if paralyzed by its beauty. The pale brown Balenta trees were covered with a shimmering dust that also coated the Glen floor, and each treetop was filled with small fat leaves that radiated with a healthy golden glow. Exquisite bellflowers sparkling in silver and hanging upside down with their stamens dangling below the petals like pendulums were clustered on each Balenta. The trees twinkled like stars of Hana, and even though it was nighttime when Maladrid and Yven penetrated the Glen, the world was illuminated by the brilliance of the foliage, and when the gold and silver mingled with the bronze of Yven’s robe, she glowed likewise. Even Maladrid in his drab clothing appeared to glisten. When their legs could carry them no further, they collapsed in exhaustion into a nest of fallen bellflowers and soft golden leaves. Maladrid guzzled down his share of the water and exhaled loudly as the cool liquid ran down his throat and into his stomach; the Cenna was extremely fragrant with da-ni, and the sweet sticky taste filled him with comfort as he savored each bite. As they finished eating and drinking, a leisurely breeze swept over them and incited dancing amidst the foliage. It whizzed around the glittering trunks and rustled through the leaves and lingered only in the bellflowers, causing them to ring in soft harmony. The petals tinkled together like a crystal orchestra, and the pendulous stamens resounded deep in the hollow bells. Then, from above them, there came soft voices that accompanied the music like a Hanalian choir.

“Bells! Bells!

Ring loud and ring true!

Come in peace, for we are peaceful

And all that peace can be.

Leave no mark upon the floor,

Leave no stain upon the door,

Only footprints forever more,

Bells! Bells!

Hana be praised!

Ring the bells for Yaliwe!

Sing, ‘Yaliwe be praised!’”

Yven closed her eyes and the pleasing breeze whipped her hair against her peaceful face, and Maladrid watched in awed silence as her red locks twirled, her robe billowed, and she fell into a contented slumber. Only when he was sure she was sleeping did he allow his eyelids to fall as well and permit sleep to take him, but a slight rustle stirred him, and it was so faint that he almost dismissed it. But when he opened his eyes, he saw thin white creatures creeping headfirst down the trees that surrounded him. The creatures were bald with large cupped ears that swiveled at the slightest noise, and their pale blue eyes glittered. Maladrid stared at the strange creatures, slack-jawed and too stunned to move or rouse Yven, and though he was frightened of the advancing creatures, they mystified him as well. Their ivory bodies were bare except for small skirts, splendidly woven with the gold leaves of the Balenta trees, and they also wore bellflower necklaces that jingled softly. Once they had descended the trunks and were upon the forest floor, the creatures stood and they cautiously but gracefully approached Maladrid and Yven, and just as Maladrid got up the courage to reach for his sword, one of the creatures set a large basket filled with several bladders of water, salted meats, and a large supply of da-ni and fruits in his lap. Others clustered around Yven and began brushing her wild locks with a branch, and when she opened her eyes, she gasped at the Glen spotted with the fabulous creatures.

“Are you the Bynts? Those who were saved by Yaliwe?” she asked.

They smiled in unison and put their long forefingers to their lips in a gentle request for her silence. Yven’s initial reaction was to be offended by their gesture, but their serene sincerity squelched the instinct. They offered their soft ivory hands, full of sweet berries and da-ni, to the strangers and continued to ease their senses. While some of them washed the journey away from Maladrid’s face, others covered his wounded hand with Balenta leaves and coated the dressing with thick sap that, when dried, formed a milky cast around his palm. And when Maladrid and Yven were cleansed and satiated, the dulcet music of the Glen rose again.

“In the shadow we were

Come Hana or Ol

To be black and bent forever.

Yaliwe, save your children

From this path so crooked

Or let us be wicked forever.

Yaliwe rose saying,

‘Go to the Glen

To the Bells! To the Bells!

That is where the new Bynt dwells!

For beautiful souls

Do not endure dark deeds

Be in Hana, never in Ol!’”

One of the Bynts stood out from the cluster of ivory. Dressed in a silver robe and wearing a thin crown of golden wire, he spoke in a voice as harmonious as the song of his brethren.

“They are glad for your coming, and so am I. My name is Laia, Lord of the Glen.”

“I’m Maladrid, and this is Yven,” Maladrid said, and Yven extended her covered hand, which Laia took and held tenderly between his palms.

“You have the sycte,” Laia said with a knowing smile, and Yven nodded. “Come. There is much to discuss.”

As they walked slowly through the Glen, the leaves fell around them and blanketed the ground.

“The gold is fading, I’m afraid,” said Laia. “The silver too. In my long lifetime, I’ve never seen the leaves fall so abundantly. The shadow is growing, and we can do nothing but wait.”

“Have you heard any news from Lochydor?” Yven asked.

“I’ve heard of the Shadaran numbers and that they are hardly seen during the light of day. In fact, our Mosecora scouts have said that the devils are hardly seen in the Bend as well. They are the most powerful asset that Shacore has, and I fear they are planning some terrible devastation. As for the Achnora, we’ve heard that while many are sent out to dispatch Yaliwe’s warriors, there are still a great deal back at the Bend fashioning weapons of shadow and flame, and the Anjila are always circling overhead, searching for the next chance to slay in the name of their Dark Lord. I pray that you aren’t headed in that direction.”

“Not yet. Before I even think of going to Lochydor, I have to visit Fircyn to acquire the rest of the Hohmara armada,” Yven replied.

Laia abruptly darted his gaze away, but the sudden tension in his body was evident.

“Laia, what is it? What do you know?”

“Nothing for sure,” he whispered. “But I have seen Rosdin in my mind, and it seems like the Lyraera are ill-equipped. If the battle reaches Rosdin, it will surely fall.”

“Fircyn, Laia. What about Fircyn?’

“I regret to say that I cannot see it, nor a soul stirring within.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nothing is sure, Yven. The powers of evil are strong, probably even stronger than we think, and the Shadaran are the most powerful of all. They are elusive, but when they show themselves, they also show an amazing hunger for obliteration. They are capable of inhabiting bodies and setting them to rot from the inside out, and their swords are made of deadly shadow: extremely potent. My heart weeps for the future of my people and for the good Children of Dominhydor.”

“I’m aware of the Shadaran’s powers, Laia,” Yven said sadly with her head lowered.

“I’m sorry, I forgot. I was saddened to hear of your mother and father. I talked with Lonho on many occasions. He was very fond of passing through the Glen and listening to the bellflowers and the songs of my kin when there were more joyful things to sing about.”

“The Shadaran are powerful, but I’ve heard of someone more so: a leader,” Yven said.

“I do see a formidable spirit in the dark called Shacore, but I cannot see what kind of beast it may be.”

“Join us, Laia. An army of Bynts would be fierce against the foes at the Bend,” Maladrid urged.

“We can’t. The Glen is in jeopardy, and we are its only hope of survival. Without our protection, it will fade, and so shall we.”

“But you are immortal!” Yven protested.

“The borders of the Glen are the limits of our immortality. We are the first and last of our kind; if we leave, we risk extinction. Instead, I’ll alert a group of the Bartosca in the Eastern Freelands to await your arrival upon exiting the Forest of the Yaermaca,” he replied.

“How do you expect us to get through the Forest, especially considering the maddening mist that surrounds it?” Yven asked.

“The Yaerla know of you and your quest. They have always been Hohmara allies, and if they allowed your father entrance, why would they deny it to you? I assure you: they will cordially welcome you into the most beautiful place in Dominhydor,” Laia replied.

“More beautiful than the Balenta Glen? I can’t imagine that,” Maladrid said.

“Well, you may make that judgment when you see it, but the hour is late and you must rest for the journey ahead. You may not see us in the morning, but we will leave you with supplies for the trip. And as always, we will pray to Yaliwe for your safe victory against the Dark Lady’s minions. Now sleep, brave ones. The dawn brings dire thoughts of the future and relinquishes all hope of looking back.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER FIVE

While Yven slept soundly under the Balenta tree, Maladrid’s mind remained painfully awake. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of light that existed solely in his mind, and he could feel the wind as if it were a living being, twisting its long arms around him, pulling his hair and pinching his cheeks until he could bear it no longer. However, when he opened his eyes the wind promptly ceased, and he was encased in the balmy stillness of the forest night. He rose quietly from his leafy bed as not to wake Yven and began to walk east through the Glen, and though he had so recently been captivated by the trees, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, bent solely on discovering the source of a strange voice that had begun to echo from the dark distance. The call surged into his ears and dripped confusion into his brain as it clouded him and caused him to walk aimlessly out of the Glen. He paced across the plain with his eyes set ahead and became so lost in the strange trance that he paid no notice to the bizarre scenery surrounding him: the plants and trees grew at an enormous rate, reaching into the clouds within minutes, but seconds after, the bark started to peel and the trees started disintegrating, falling sloppily to the ground inside a minute. Even less comforting than the short-lived flora, however, were the roots that sprouted from the earth and wound around his legs. They crept up his thighs and to his waist, and when they reached his chest, he finally became frighteningly aware of their ascent and tried to tear himself free. They pulled him down to the ground and sewed his body to the earth, and though he tried to scream, the roots covered his face and muffled his cries. Suddenly, Maladrid heard a screeching sound echo across the plain, and just as he thought he was done for, the constriction released, and he felt suddenly weightless. Strong wind blasted against his face and through his hair, and when he finally forced his eyes open, he saw the world beneath him rushing by at an incredible speed. The surprising height flooded him with nausea and when he saw his feet dangling in the air, he thankfully lost his senses again and fell into unconsciousness.

The next thing he felt was his feet upon earth as he was lowered onto the ground, and when he dazedly looked up to the sky, he saw amorphous ivory creatures with enormous wings soaring away from him. He still heard the calling voice on the wind as he stood shakily and surveyed the strange surroundings, and though the unfamiliarity of his environment didn’t disturb him, he knew that he was not where he was supposed to be. Yven was nowhere to be seen, and that thought made his heart tremble with fear. But the beckoning voice continued, and Maladrid’s mind quickly turned back to the call of the wind and its long breezy arms that were extended as if poised for embrace. He spread his own arms and began to run full-speed toward the great misty hug, and as he ran, the wind’s voice urged him seductively.

”Closer now, Maladrid. You’re almost here. Come closer, Maladrid.”

Finally, Maladrid leaped forward, but no embrace by comforting arms caught him. Instead, he felt himself tumbling down farther and farther until he felt the terrible slam of his body against a cold rock bottom.

The pit was dark and austere, and from the bottom, he heard the wind laughing at his gullibility. Being tricked was bad enough, but to have strayed so far that Yven wouldn’t be able to hear his cries was the most foolish thing Maladrid had ever done. He looked around the pit for some sort of natural ladder, but the walls were smoothly polished and impossible to climb, and though the floor was littered with berries, he could not force himself to be thankful for the sustenance; he was far too distraught about his imprudence. He tucked his knees into his chest and held his body tight as he rocked back and forth in the cold dark, moaning for his fate. When he heard a scuffling sound from the shadows of the pit, he jumped to his feet and nervously drew his blade.

“Please put that away, good sir. I have no wish to harm you,” whimpered a tiny voice.

From the darkness waddled a male Dalitant. His body was no bigger than a watermelon, but it appeared slightly larger because of his thick brown fur and the two hairy lumps on each side of his back that ran from his shoulders to his rump. His eyes were tiny black dots, half hidden by the shaggy fluff of his face, and because his furry ears hung almost to the floor, he occasionally tripped on them with his small black paws. His belly fur swept across the ground as he walked, causing tiny clods of dirt to cling to the hair, and the tip of his long black snout was dusty from sniffing at the pit’s floor. Maladrid crouched down, scooped up several berries, and cautiously offered a handful to the Dalitant as a sign of peace.

“Come out,” Maladrid said softly as he returned his blade to the sheath. “Don’t be frightened.”

The Dalitant took a few steps toward Maladrid and sniffed at his hand. He sat upon his hairy haunches, grabbed the berries, and swiftly stuffed them into his mouth. He chewed very quickly and after swallowing, he sighed and wiped the juice from his chin.

“Just the thing,” the Dalitant said as he set himself down upon all fours and shook the dirt from his fur; when the cloud of dust cleared, he waddled to Maladrid and offered him his paw.

“My name is Forbor, good sir, and I’m extremely happy to see you. I’m happy to see anyone; it’s been so long.”

“I’m Maladrid, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Forbor. My friend and I were headed in the direction of your homeland,” Maladrid replied as he lightly shook Forbor’s paw.

“Really? Who is your friend?”

“The queen of the Hohmara.”

“You’re traveling with Yven of Donir? And you’re saying that she is on her way to the Dolihol? That cannot be. The truce has been broken.”

“I don’t know anything about that, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now that I’m stuck down here. I’ll probably never even see her again. It’s all over.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true. I don’t even know where I am or how I got here. I just remember being called forward out of the Balenta Glen and then flying, somehow, through the sky.”

“Then this is only just beginning,” Forbor replied. “You are in the Northern Freelands, and if you traveled here from the Balenta Glen with no memory but a bit of flying, you must have had divine intervention. Have you the power of transference?”

“What? No.”

“Then a Colc must have aided you; or a Daian. Either way, it’s a blessing.”

“Being stuck in a pit is a blessing? Well, at least I’m not alone. Although I wish we could’ve met in a less inconvenient environment, Forbor.”

“Oh it’s not so bad. Just try to stay positive.”

He did a little dance and hopped from paw to paw with his ears flapping. They quickly got twisted around his legs, however, and caused him to stumble and fall face down onto the ground. Maladrid giggled as Forbor got his bearings and shook the dirt from his fur.

“Actually, I’m miserable,” he sighed dejectedly. “I’ve been stuck down here for so long.”

“How did you get stuck down here? Did you hear the same voice I did?”

“I doubt it. What beckoned me and my clan forward was a message from the Daian Yvinhe: the Goddess of the Green. The Mosecora delivered a message to the Dolihol and bid us vacate the land.

“‘There is danger coming,’ the message warned. ‘Flee your lowlands and highlands. Travel by day and hide yourselves at night, for the shadow seeks to devour your souls. They know the Dolihol has no defenses and no warrior allies nearby. They will come for you.’

“Naturally, the message concerned us, and though many immediately began making preparations to leave, there were those who refused to abandon the Dolihol. They were right to doubt, of course, for where could we go? So some stayed behind while the rest of us divided into clans and started the journey toward Balochena.”

“Why Balochena?” Maladrid queried.

“It’s neutral and nestled between the Balenta Glen and the Forest of the Yaermaca. The Bynts and Yaerla are our allies and we thought that having them on either side would be helpful if we got pulled into a scrap with the Achnora,” Forbor replied and turned his eyes to the ground. “But we did not make it to Balochena; at least, the party I traveled with didn’t make it there.”

“What happened?”

“The Anjila ambushed us. The sky was filled with the white stone beasts, and their giant wings blocked out the sun. They screeched as they darted and dove with their black hair whipping in the wind, and one by one, they swooped down and plucked my brothers and sisters from the earth. We outnumbered them, but it only took a few minutes for the Anjila to devastate our numbers. Perhaps Dalitants simply weren’t built for battle,” Forbor said sadly.

Maladrid patted the Dalitant’s head and said, “But you’re all right, Forbor. You survived.”

“Yes, I survived. I watched the Anjila tear out the throats and scratch out the eyes of my kin. I saw them fall from the Anjila’s talons and slam into the ground beside me with such force that they were nothing but pulpy bone in the dirt. So I fled. Like a coward, I fled and I survived. I ran for so long that eventually, weariness and hunger overtook me, and I blacked out. When I awoke, I was down here. But,” he continued after a pause, “that’s not the worst of it. When the Anjila attacked, they had already had blood on their teeth and tufts of fur stuck to their talons. They’d already fed; that’s why the murder of my clan was for sport rather than sustenance. They’d already gorged themselves on those that chose to stay behind in the Dolihol.”

“How awful.”

Forbor buried his face in his paws as he wept, “I’ve thought about it all the time I’ve been trapped here. I’ve played it over and over in my mind, but I’ve never spoken it aloud. The pain of the words resounds. But peace is won with sacrifice, I suppose. I know I should believe it, but it’s so hard when I think of all of the kin I’ve lost. Come to think of it, there’s probably more that have been killed since I’ve been trapped. Maybe I should just resign myself to stay down here. Maybe it’s better.”

“I can’t stay down here though. I have to get out,” Maladrid said.

“There is no way out. I have tried absolutely everything,” Forbor heaved sadly.

Maladrid pawed at the walls, but there was nothing to grab onto. He shouted for help to no avail and Forbor shook his head sadly.

“I think I’ll take a nap,” he yawned. “These sad memories have exhausted me.”

He stretched his legs and back and Maladrid’s eyes suddenly widened in awe as the lumps on the Dalitant’s back unfolded into large fuzzy wings.

“Forbor!” Maladrid exclaimed.

The Dalitant had nestled down and started drifting into sleep, but he shot awake with a snort.

“What-who-what?” he stuttered sleepily.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had wings?”

“I don’t know. I thought it was common knowledge.”

“Well, have you tried flying out?”

“Of course I’ve tried flying out,” he said as he shook away the prospect of sleep. “But I can’t get high enough. I get halfway up and then come sailing back down.”

Maladrid promptly scooped the Dalitant up into his arms, and though Forbor cried out in shock, Maladrid said calmly, “Don’t worry. Just start flapping your wings as soon as I let go.”

With that, Maladrid tossed the Dalitant upwards and he madly began beating his wings, and when the breeze caught him, Forbor was quickly lifted up and out of the pit. Once back upon earth, he scurried back to the hole and hung his head over the edge.

“Maladrid! You’re a genius!”

“Now, find me some sort of rope so I can climb out.”

Forbor located a vine that he tied around a nearby stump, and when he lowered it down the pit wall, Maladrid was able to pull himself to freedom.

“Maladrid,” Forbor whispered timidly, “would you mind very much if I tagged along, at least for a while? I really don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“Of course; I could use some company myself. When we find Yven, we’ll figure out what to do and how to get you home.”

“I doubt very much that there’s a home to return to,” Forbor replied morosely.

As they walked through the quiet of the Northern Freelands, they found themselves silent as well. An eerie calm swept over them and turned their tongues to stone, but Forbor continued to prance in his animated way while Maladrid’s eyes constantly crossed the countryside. They walked for several hours with no sign of Yven or the Balenta Glen, and when he noticed the sun’s slow descent, they both grew very anxious. To combat his fear through the journey, Forbor began to hum; it started softly at first, but soon, his tune was filled with the words of an ancient song of Dominhydor.

“One brings the baby to the newborn sun.

Two come and go to the sounding drum.

Three in the trees in a leafy thrum.

Four more chores till the land is done.

Five now alive in the crowning moon.

Six brings the others that appear too soon.

Seven hangs like darkness above the noon.

Eight little children sing the proper tune.

Nine on the line when the ash is drawn.

Ten bow again to the coming dawn.

Follow the blessing throughout the lawn

Of Yaliwe’s earth and the numbers upon.”

Although Forbor sang to calm his nerves, Maladrid was not put at ease by his friend’s melodious words. With the fading of day and their still unrecognizable surroundings, Maladrid began to truly fear that he would never find Yven. A sudden rumble of thunder caused him to jump, but the clear sky and lack of rain led him to believe the sound was merely in his head. A few minutes later, he heard the thunder again. In fact, he not only heard it; he felt it roll across the ground. He knelt down and laid his hands upon the earth, and though the tremors vibrated subtly at first the shuddering grew stronger and the rumbling louder.

“Can you feel that?” Maladrid asked. “Can you hear it?”

“I don’t need to. I can see it,” Forbor replied and huddled himself behind Maladrid’s leg.

The land was clouded with rapid billows of dust, and within, they saw hazy shadows swiftly approaching. Maladrid grabbed Forbor and clutched him close as he bolted away, but the earth shook violently, and the thunderous roll of footfalls sounded like the land behind them was collapsing into itself. Although Maladrid ran as fast as possible, the stampede soon swept up and surrounded Maladrid and Forbor with large equine bodies of brown and silver. Their broad hoofs pounded the dirt and caused a maelstrom of pebbles to spray against Maladrid’s body as he tried to dart between the beasts.

“It’s the Wa-D’tila!” Forbor screamed. “They’re going to kill us!”

The Wa-D’tila snorted and whinnied as they galloped past, paying Maladrid and Forbor no notice. They seemed to be everywhere and their herd endless, but when a shifting gust of wind blew a patch of dust aside, it revealed a cluster of spiny trees. Maladrid dashed toward them, but when the beckoning branches seemed within his grasp, he was sideswiped by a Wa-D’tila and thrown to the ground; Forbor was knocked out of his arms. Maladrid looked around dazedly as the hooves fell only inches away from his face, but the Wa-D’tila seemed to race past him in slow motion, and he became entranced by the leisurely stampede his blurry eyes beheld. What he beheld next, he initially thought to be a hallucination, but the swiftly advancing figure was real and sweetly familiar as it dove and darted between the Wa-D’tila and scooped up Maladrid. The face was angelic in its ferocity, and the fiery hair that curled around it lusciously burned in Maladrid’s eyes.

“Yven,” he murmured. “I couldn’t find you.”

She hoisted him up into one of the trees, and as he clung to the branches, he whispered,

“Forbor: a Dalitant. He’s out there.”

Yven’s eyes searched the area, and then, suddenly, she launched herself from the tree and dove into the stampede. Her legs wrapped firmly around a Wa-D’tila and she laid her body down on its back with her mouth close to its twitching ear. The rushing wind beat against her face as she whispered to the steed, and when she tugged gently on its ivory mane, the Wa-D’tila turned sharply and began running against the flow of the stampede. Those of its kin split to avoid a crash, and Yven soon saw the Dalitant lying comatose in the dust. She inched down the Wa-D’tila’s side, and when they passed Forbor, she snatched him up and directed the steed toward the trees. When the branches were overhead, she leaped off of the Wa-D’tila’s back, and with Forbor tucked securely under her arm, she grabbed onto a branch and pulled herself up into the tree. Maladrid’s eyes were half open, but he was still intently focused on her. The branches shook madly as the last lines of Wa-D’tila passed the trees, and when the earth had finally settled, Yven and Maladrid found themselves caught in a shared gaze.

“Are you alright?” Yven asked.

“I’ll be fine. What about him?”

“Unconscious, but he doesn’t appear to have any serious injuries.”

As the dust cleared and the last of the Wa-D’tila disappeared into the horizon, Yven and Maladrid inched out of the trees. The queen passed the Dalitant into Maladrid’s arms, and as he ran his hand across Forbor’s wily fur, he stirred and snorted back into consciousness.

“What happened?”

“Yven saved our lives,” Maladrid replied and looked at Yven as if she was far beyond royalty and even mortality.

He knelt at her feet and bowed his head to the earth. When she laid her shrouded hands upon his head and moved them down to his cheek, he lifted his chin and met her eyes.

“Thank you, milady. If not for you—well, I don’t want to think of what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come along.”

“You’re welcome, Maladrid. And,” she said as she bent down and patted Forbor’s head, “it is a pleasure to meet you, young Prince.”

“Prince?” Maladrid sputtered.

“Of course. Prince Forbor of the Mar clan, correct?” she asked.

“Yes, milady. I am he.”

“All of that time in the hole, and it never occurred to you to mention that you were a prince?”

“I spent weeks in that pit, Maladrid, and I didn’t think I’d ever get out. My sovereignty didn’t seem so important anymore.”

“Come, the sun is falling behind the hills. We must keep moving toward shelter for the night,” Yven declared.

The inky sky was cluttered with stars, and the moon was so full and bright that it seemed like day in disguise. As they walked, Maladrid told Yven about the urging voice that had made him stray.

“Maladrid, when you left the Balenta Glen, you entered Balochena: a very unpredictable place. Sometimes even the Northern Freelands are affected by the powers of that land. They say Balochena was created by the two Daian called Portitol and Forafir. They were exiled from Mancyte in the early days of Dominhydor for unforgivable transgressions. They were sentenced to live forever in Dominhydor and never return to Mancyte, and as Yaliwe’s Children began to spring forth around them, Portitol and Forafir grew angrier and more resentful. They created Balochena to ensnare travelers and throw them off their courses. Songs would lull the soldiers in and traps were set to snare them. Those who entered would be lost forever, and for many years, the land was not trafficked by anyone save the Daian.

“But when the demon Forla came into power and Dominhydor waged its war upon him, the Hohmara set forth through the land toward Lochydor. They had heard the stories of Balochena but were not afraid. They penetrated Forafir and Portitol’s sanctuary, and despite the Daian’s magicks, the Hohmara overran them. The Daian were not killed, of course, but they did retreat to the Island of Lorynhal. That too, is a very dangerous place, Maladrid.

“Although they have vacated Balochena, many of their magicks remain. It is not as harrowing as it used to be because the remnants of the power there have thinned and extended. That is why you were affected in the Glen as well as in the Northern Freelands. The magicks of Balochena no longer lead men to their deaths, but they can still lead them astray.”

“Did your father tell you that story?” Maladrid asked.

She nodded and added sadly, “And my mother in song.”

“Perhaps we should’ve stayed by the trees,” Forbor stated. “I don’t see any shelter for miles.”

“Ah, but there is. Just over this hill,” Yven replied.

The ground was sloped upwards so vertically that the tired trio struggled just to get halfway up. It took close to an hour, but they finally reached the peak, and when they laid their eyes upon the land, their joy was overwhelming. An immense range of mountains stood proudly before them with the centermost rock being so tall that its crest reached well beyond the clouds. There was a gaping hole at the base of the mountain, but there were many smaller holes as well, scattered over the stony visage. Even as sore as their legs were, Maladrid, Yven, and Forbor ran down the hill with their arms open and voices loud with elation, but when he neared, Maladrid saw something strange that tore the smile from his face. It briefly appeared that each of the small holes was filled with a green eye that burned like emerald flame.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“What?”

He looked to the face of the mountain again, but the holes were empty.

“Nothing,” he replied as he rubbed his head.

When the trio came to the foot of the mountain, they peered into the large opening and saw a path that led deep inside. Forbor skipped into the cave first, but then, he swiftly backed out while shuddering.

“It certainly is dark in there,” he said as he nervously wrung his paws.

Yven removed a firstic from her satchel and cracked it, and when she entered the cavern with her gleaming sword and glowing firstic withdrawn, an orb of light illuminated the coarse walls all around her. Maladrid and Forbor reluctantly followed her but froze when they came upon three twisted tunnels that branched out before them.

“Three tunnels and three of us,” Maladrid observed. “Shall we split up?”

“No way!” Forbor shouted. “I’m not going into one of those deathtraps alone. I wouldn’t even be able to carry a firstic.”

“No one is going anywhere alone, Forbor. We’ll investigate each tunnel and then choose whichever seems the least dangerous,” Yven replied.

“That doesn’t grant us much certainty,” Maladrid said.

“What other choice do we have? If you have another plan, Maladrid, by all means, tell us,” Yven replied, but Maladrid shrugged in defeat.

Yven took the lead with Vetna preceding as Maladrid cracked a firstic and drew his own blade. They entered the leftmost tunnel first. Its abrupt turns disoriented them, but when the firelight exposed the brilliant hue of the tunnel, they looked upon it in mystified awe. The craggy walls were comprised of purple stone that twinkled majestically in the dancing light of the firstic. The wind rushed through and whistled past Maladrid and Yven’s ears as Forbor tried to keep up without trampling his own. They walked for several minutes around the sudden twists and bends, and just as Yven was about to suggest turning back to investigate the other tunnels, a series of squeaking noises echoed through the cave. The trio stopped in their tracks as the squeaking grew louder and was echoed by a scuttling sound.

“We should get out of here,” Forbor said anxiously.

“Just wait,” Yven replied calmly.

When the noises became a near-deafening din and monstrous shadows appeared on the illuminated walls, the fellowship froze in terror.

“Press yourselves against the wall!” Yven bellowed.

Maladrid slammed his back against the purple stone with Forbor clutched tightly in his arms and Yven flattened herself beside him. The cacophonous squeaks and squeals echoed madly and the shadows grew larger and larger until the wall was dark with ominous shapes. Maladrid closed his eyes as the jagged rock dug into his back; his hands began to sweat as he held onto Forbor’s fur, but when he opened his eyes and the beasts streamed toward him, his body relaxed and he heaved a sigh of relief followed by a chuckle. Yven laughed and wiggled her toes as the tiny stone Morcs flooded over them and tickled her feet with their furry bellies. The small brown rodents blanketed the walls as they ran across and around Maladrid and Yven’s bodies as easily as they swarmed over the floor, but one Morc that was climbing over Yven’s head lost his footing and landed in her hair. When the last of them had passed, she removed the Morc, who had begun to fashion a nest in her curls, and set it down on the tunnel floor to scamper after its fleeing family. When its long pink tail had disappeared around the bend, Maladrid set Forbor down and rubbed his sore back.

“Where did they come from?”

“Perhaps we should turn back now,” Forbor suggested.

“No, I feel a breeze. There’s something down there,” Yven said.

“There always is,” the Dalitant murmured.

The end of the tunnel was not yet in sight, but Maladrid was not concerned. His eyes were fixed upon the violet walls that were so glossy he could see his reflection, although altered by the protruding stones. He ran his hand across the wall, but along his fingers’ path, his hand dipped into a rather large hole. It was empty, but when he withdrew, a green light shone forth from the opening and a pupil appeared; it focused on him, dilated, and then vanished, causing Maladrid to jump back with a yelp.

“Are you all right?” the queen asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

“The opening is just ahead,” she said as she draped a consoling arm around his shoulders.

The warmth of her flesh calmed his nerves and eased him into a secure place he’d never before known. As their eyes met, he felt the space between them ablaze and wondered if she felt the same.

She hurried around the jagged wall, but a sudden emptiness halted her, and a tiny stone from the tunnel’s unexpected edge was launched into the vast abyssal darkness below. The plunge was miles long, and as Maladrid and Forbor joined her side, their eyes began to tear from the stinging wind that crawled up and over the cliff. The stone Morcs had been able to climb the nearly completely vertical face of the cliff, but for Yven and Maladrid, the task of descending was beyond possibility.

“Let’s try the next tunnel,” Yven sighed dejectedly.

As they trudged back, Maladrid and Yven were quiet, but Forbor was bursting with conversation. The fact that he’d truly escaped the pit had finally sunk in, and confronted with the fear of the cavernous mountain, he verbally appreciated the trivial things like the feeling of someone scratching him behind the ear or the simple act of speaking: something he’d been denied during his time alone in the pit. He spoke of his home in the Mar-Dolihol, of his clan there, and of his longing to fight as his ancestors did to defend the land that had been ravaged by shadow.

“I admit that we Dalitants are not usually known for our battle skills, but we are not weaklings. The ancients speak of the time when Dalitants fought in wars beside the other Children of Dominhydor. How proud they must be to have those memories. I have never seen true battle, nor my father before me. We do not fight any more; we run and hide. I ask you, what is the honor in that?”

“War is not always honorable, Forbor,” Yven replied. “Neither is death. You admit that your battle skills of late are waned, and it is neither smart nor honorable to enter battle unprepared.”

“Forgive me, milady, but you were raised to fight from infancy, as is custom for those of blessed blood. Since the Dalitants stopped participating in war, I had to learn in secret, and therefore had to teach my soldiers in secret. You could never understand how that feels.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?”

“The truce between our kinds is broken, Yven. I do not have to pay you homage. But,” he continued with a softer tone, “that does not mean that I don’t respect you. Most of the world treats my kind like we’re bumbling idiots, but you have treated me like a prince, and for that, I thank you. Also for that, I would grant you the aid of my army, had they not been slaughtered by the Anjila.”

“Thank you for the thought, Forbor,” she whispered as she scratched behind his ear. “As far as I’m concerned, you are very honorable. For every one of your clan that was slain, an Anjil will die upon my sword before my time is through.”

The center tunnel was straighter than the first, but it was far less beautiful. The walls were gray and craggy, and although Yven and Forbor seemed to take no notice, Maladrid immediately caught sight of the many holes scattered through the tunnel. They were momentarily filled with verdant light, and the pupils contracted and then enlarged as they focused intensely upon him.

“We’re being watched,” he whispered. “Yven, let’s find a different shelter. This mountain knows our every move.”

“There is no other shelter nearby; The Isilmaerte is our only option. Besides, it would take at least a week to travel around it, and we can’t afford to waste that much time.”

A tiny stone fell from the tunnel ceiling and hit Maladrid’s head, and when he looked up, dust cascaded into his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he replied and looked to the ceiling again; just in time, in fact.

A colossal boulder had been dislodged from the ceiling above Yven’s head, but Maladrid quickly threw his body against hers and knocked her out of the way just as the massive rock crashed down and broke through the floor of the tunnel. The force of its impact split the foundation beneath Maladrid’s feet and, when it started to crumble, he struggled to pull himself away from it. Yven reached out to him and he reached back, inches away from salvation, but when the tunnel floor tumbled down into the abyss, it dragged Maladrid with it. When his scream eventually died out, Forbor and Yven hung their heads over the hole, desperately searching for some sign of his survival, but they saw nothing but perpetual darkness.

“He’s gone,” the Dalitant whimpered with tears rolling down his cheeks.

“No,” Yven said as she frantically peered into the chasm below. “He can’t be.”

She cried out his name, but her own echo was the only reply. The infinite darkness had devoured him, and Yven, with sorrow streaming, whispered a prayer for his soul. She eventually forced herself to stand, turned away from the hole, and shakily began to walk out of the tunnel.

“Where are you going?”

“To try the last passage. This one is obviously too unstable,” she replied mechanically.

“Yven, you can’t be serious. Maladrid is gone. What if this next tunnel takes you as well? I’ll be all alone.”

“Are you suggesting that we abandon the mission and our companion? Maladrid may have fallen, but we can’t be sure of his condition. What if he’s just lying somewhere, seriously injured? He could be waiting for us. He could be waiting for me. I won’t abandon him.”

“Yven, you’re mad if you think he survived that fall.”

“So it seems you have a choice to make, Forbor: follow me into the madness or take flight toward death. But consider this: in my care, I promise you will remain safe; I doubt the wilderness and the demons that haunt it will make you such a vow. If you do choose to flee, I want you to remember for the rest of your short life that had you fallen, Maladrid would not have abandoned you.”

“You’re right. You may be mad, but you’re still right,” Forbor sighed.

They exited the passage and directly entered the last of the three. Being fairly straight, it was similar to the previous tunnel, and as Yven walked, she ran her fingertips over the course wall and the sycte brought flashing images to her mind. She saw the walls erode; she saw the moss grow and then die away, but when the vision of Shadaran flooding into the mountain came to her mind, she was forced to a halt. She watched them in furious curiosity as they knocked down sections of wall and dug up the mountain earth until a great mysterious light was exposed. She couldn’t tell what caused the illumination, but she knew that it was powerful and that the Shadaran coveted it relentlessly. Her bare hand slipped into a crevasse and the shadow creatures in her mind were replaced by the image of small red crystal shards that shifted and rolled of their own volition. The sycte’s trance was still upon her as she withdrew her hand from the chasm, and the tiny shards were withdrawn with it, crawling over her fingers and clinging to her skin. They whispered and sang to her in a language she couldn’t decipher, and when she shook the sycte’s vision away and blinked her eyes, her hand was bare and the soft, foreign voices were gone.

“Yven?”

Forbor gazed up at her with wide, curious eyes and his head cocked in fearful wonder. She let her sleeves fall past her fingers, but although the visions were gone from her sight, they remained alive in her mind, terrifying her. But she pushed the fear deep down into her belly and continued walking in silence. As he’d just gotten used to speaking again, the thick quiet between Forbor and Yven was torturous; although he was not alone, he felt as though he was.

“Pardon the disturbance, milady,” he finally piped up. “If you’re not up for chatting, don’t feel forced, but if you are, may I ask: where is your army?”

“Donir,” she replied.

“Why?”

“Because that is where they live.”

“Yes, but why did you venture forth without them? Surely they would’ve been useful on this quest.”

“No, Forbor. My soldiers fight for honor and freedom. I have waged this war to avenge those who were taken from me by Shacore and his dark minions,” she replied.

“They are the enemies of all of Yaliwe’s children, Yven. So, by killing them you are doing the world a great service. What you’re doing is honorable, and it will result in our freedom.”

“Thank you, my friend. When I deem myself worthy enough to wear my crown again, I promise that things between our people will change for the better. The truce shall be restored, and you shall once again have the protection of the Hohmara.”

“Who is protecting the Hohmara while their queen is off braving the wilderness?”

“The army of Donir, of course,” she replied with a smirk. “Careful. There appears to be a sharp turn ahead.”

However, it was not a quick bend in the tunnel that awaited them, nor any other path; there was only a dead end. Yven pushed against it and found it immovable, and in fuming frustration, she collapsed onto the tunnel floor. She buried her face in her hands and screamed, and after her echo faded and she lifted her head again, she gasped at the powerful glow that suddenly filled the cave with verdant light. She stood slowly and peered into one of the many small holes in the craggy walls. It appeared empty, but as she drew closer, a lidless emerald eye burned within it. The pupil contracted as it followed her every move, and when the eye faded from the wall, Yven whispered, “Maladrid was right. We’re not alone.”

“Take one more step, and I’ll shatter my foundation,” a rumbling, conglomerated voice boomed through the mountain. “The ground that supports you will crumble and you will fall to your death.”

“Very well,” Yven replied calmly. “I shall stay right here then until Yaliwe takes me; I have time, and, I’m assuming, so do you.”

“Do not mock me!” the mountain bellowed, and its many green eyes illuminated the tunnel.

“Who are you?” Yven asked.

“I am the one. I am the many. I am the first fashioned and first forsaken. I am those who see; those who are the living dead. We are home, and yet, we will never be home.”

“I’m not fond of riddles,” Yven replied. “Stone is simple, and it should speak so.”

“And I am not fond of trespassers, little girl. This is my land. Do I enter your lands and insult you?”

“I suppose not, but I’ve never seen a mountain enter my lands nor cross into any other.”

“I didn’t mean it literally and you know it!” the mountain roared. “You’d do well to remember that I am your current shelter, and shelter is capable of collapse.”

“You would destroy yourself just to destroy us?”

“Shacore stole my light, and I will have all allies of that demon obliterated.”

“We are not servants of Shacore. The Dalitant and I are loyal subjects of the Lady Yaliwe.”

“Why should I believe you?” the mountain asked.

“If you cannot hear the obvious truth in my voice, you are a stone fool.”

The Isilmaerte roared and its body shook with violent tremors.

“Trespassers!” it boomed. “Garyli Wynher will see the sins upon your soul!”

The floor rumbled and shifted until the rock beneath Yven and Forbor cracked opened and swallowed the alleged intruders whole. Down they fell into the crushing darkness with chunks of rocky earth following their descent, and though Forbor clung to Yven’s shoulders and unfurled his wings to slow the fall, the raining stone hit him on the head and knocked him out cold. As if they were rocks themselves, Yven and Forbor hurtled heavily down into the abyss. The swirling infinity of the plummet overtook them, and there seemed no sign of it ever letting go.

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CHAPTER SIX

Even though he was falling at an incredible rate and his terror remained at its peak, Maladrid had stopped screaming long ago. His stomach felt as though it were in his throat, but he had actually gotten used to the abnormal feeling that accompanied the fall, which would either end at his death or never end at all. Neither falling forever nor falling to death turned out to be Maladrid’s fate, however. What lay at the conclusion of his descent was not a rocky mountain floor as he had expected but a vast, choppy lake of amethyst water. Still, he understood that with the speed at which he would hit the water, the lake might as well have been comprised of rock. Luckily, strung twenty feet or so above the water was a net to cushion his fall. When he hurtled down into it, the net bounced back, but much to Maladrid’s surprise, he did not. Its threading was sticky and clung to his skin and hair, and as he thrashed and struggled to break free, he only became more entangled in the gummy web. But as terrified as he was by the entrapment, his fear was drastically heightened by the legion of black spiders rapidly approaching from all sides. Their small fat bodies hung low while their long spiny legs crooked upward and plummeted down to small hooked feet. The thousands of shiny-backed creatures streamed over him until they completely covered his frozen body, and their thorny feet punctured his arms and tore at his lips. When Maladrid had been saved by the net, he had felt momentary relief, but as the spiders started to flood into his mouth, he only felt his impending death. A low hum that started to rise from somewhere beneath him seemed to startle the spiders; they halted in their tiny tracks, and when the pitch climbed, they began retreating frantically back to their shadowy corners. Maladrid continued to struggle, and before long, the threads of the web stretched and snapped and Maladrid fell into the violet water below. His muscles burned with each broad stroke, and whipping water rushed down his throat as he pushed through the violent waves and toward the rocky shore. When his hands finally found the slippery stones of land, he pulled himself up and collapsed on the bank, panting in exhaustion.

“I’ll let you rest,” a soothing voice said, “but not for too long. There is business to attend to.”

When Maladrid lifted his head, he beheld a man no more than five feet in height with long white hair that was pulled back from his immaculate face. His long robe was as dark as the night sky, and he wore a crown of twinkling blue stars that set a ring of light around his head. As he bent down and ran his hand tenderly across Maladrid’s slick brow, the man’s sparkling eyes somehow vanquished the exhaustion burning within him.

“The part you play is crucial. Pain and weariness are the least of your troubles.”

“Who are you?” Maladrid asked.

“I am the Protector of Children and the Daian of Watching. My true name is Lia, but the Children of Dominhydor know me as Garyli Wynher,” he replied with a grand bow.

“What are you doing here?”

“The Isilmaerte is my home away from Mancyte. But it is Dominhydor that matters now, Maladrid. Dark days have come to Yaliwe’s earth.”

“My Lord, my mind is fatigued by such talk. Please, speak to me of a place without darkness. Tell me about a time when there was only light.”

“Very well; I will indulge your wish, but afterward, we must turn to talk of darkness,” Garyli replied. “Before Dominhydor, there was Mancyte, and before the Children came to the earth, there were only Yaliwe and we, the Daian. We spent an eternity together, the Daian and our creator, and it was the truest bliss one could ever know. There was no want, no fear, and there was no contrast to our perfect lives. My brothers and sisters lived in a way you could not imagine and I could never explain. My happiest days on this earth cannot compare to the time when the Daian swam side by side through the Sea of Stars with our Lady at the lead. When She told us of Her longing to create a new world, and how She desired us to take part in its creation, we bowed our heads and gladly offered our hands to do Her work. When the world was finished and life teemed within it, Yaliwe granted us the privilege of visiting and even living in Dominhydor. When I came down to the earth, I took the shape of the Isil, for they were the first Children I saw, but they knew immediately that I was not one of them. They called me ‘Garyli,’ the Watcher of Children, and many years later, the Hohmara named me ‘Wynher,’ the ancient guide. I became the Protector of all of Dominhydor’s Children and the Protector of the Cyrin, although I am lacking in the latter as of late.”

“What do you mean?” Maladrid asked.

“All in good time, Child. Your friends should be dropping in at any moment,” Garyli replied and turned his eyes upward.

“But the web is destroyed. With nothing to catch them, they’ll be dashed to bits!”

“Maladrid,” the Daian said with a smile, “it’s all under control.”

Within seconds, Maladrid heard faint screams that grew as Yven and Forbor fell like stones toward the broken net and the wild amethyst water below. Garyli raised and opened his hand, and from the blue wreath of stars, a healthy cobalt glow covered his body. Maladrid cringed as Yven and Forbor hurtled downwards; not wanting to see their destruction, he covered his eyes, but there was no splash, and no sound of breaking bones. When he looked again, his friends were suspended in the air a few feet above the choppy lake. Maladrid sighed in relief as Garyli pulled them toward the shore and lowered them safely upon the bank. Yven’s face was one of joyful bewilderment at her survival, but she was so happy that Maladrid was safe, she didn’t give herself a second thought.

“I knew you were alive,” she whispered with her arms wrapped tightly around him. “I knew that when I saw that light extinguished, it didn’t belong to you.”

“No, it wasn’t Maladrid’s light, Yven, but it is true that a light has been stolen from the Isilmaerte, a very important light.”

Yven gazed at the man who was not a man and immediately fell to her knees in gracious awe.

“Daian,” she whispered as the tears filled her eyes.

“Do not weep, Yven, queen of Donir, daughter of Lonho and Vetna,” Garyli said with his hand on her head. “Your quest brings joy to Yaliwe because you do Her work, though you may not have initially set forth with Her work in mind. The destruction of the Dark Lady’s influence in Lochydor is important indeed, but there is a greater goal in this mission than you think.”

“But I am so weary, my Lord,” her mind whispered to him.

“All that dwell on the earth in these times are weary: weary of life and death. Do not bow to me, Yven; I should bow to you. You are queen as you were born to be, and we are all Children of Yaliwe,” he replied in thought and added aloud, “We have much to discuss. Let me lead you somewhere a bit more comfortable.”

The Daian shone radiantly in the dark, and as he walked along the bank of the river that sprouted from the lake, his azure hue mingled with the violet water. As they strode the incline, the void above them became filled with horizontal structures that extended above the center of the lake like three arms of stone, and Maladrid eventually recognized them as the tunnels that branched from the mouth of the mountain. As they ascended the cliff beside the tunnels, Maladrid, Yven, and Forbor not only realized just how far they’d fallen but also just how immense the Isilmaerte really was. It didn’t seem to take as long as it should have to traverse the steep cliffs; perhaps because they were in the company of the Daian Lia and his enchanted stride enchanted theirs as well.

Although Maladrid had taken great joy from the Balenta Glen, the Isilmaerte had its own endearing splendors. The jagged and random angles of the rocky walls were oddly beautiful. Occasionally, Maladrid caught glints of green peeking out between the stones, but as they passed through a veil of moss that hung over the opening to Garyli’s cave, it was crimson brilliance that flooded his eyes. The cavern was amazingly large, as long as it was tall, and the stairs of stone that wound around its perimeter led up to several more levels with gaping holes sprinkled throughout the walls. Each opening was filled with small red crystals that moved slightly, and Maladrid couldn’t help but be captivated by the strange shards that seemed to be humming.

“You gaze upon the Ione, Maladrid. They sing the praises of Yaliwe, though their words would be difficult for you to understand. They speak in a language that can only express joy and beauty,” Garyli said.

“Are they alive?”

“Not as you are, but they are alive with the breath and love of Yaliwe.”

“This mountain is alive too, isn’t it? It has a voice,” Yven said.

“And eyes,” Maladrid added. “Green eyes that watch every move we make.”

“It lives because of those who no longer live. You see, the mountain is not only my home; it is home to the first race of Dominhydor as well.”

“The Isil?” Yven asked.

“They don’t live in Hana? How did that happen?” Forbor asked.

“It was not as far back as the beginning of all time, but it was in the beginning of Dominhydor’s time. When Yaliwe first created the earth, the Isil were the first Children to roam it. The farwe that birthed their kind fell first, but the other Star Stones soon descended and more races were born into the thriving world. For many years there was peace, and the Children of Dominhydor were certain that they would live in the splendor of Yaliwe’s earth forever, but they did not know what the Daian knew. We knew of the Children’s fate, and although we talked with them, it was different then. Some were too in awe of us to speak, and many feared us because they didn’t understand what we were. The Isil weren’t aware that there was such a thing as death and they certainly didn’t think to ponder what came after. In fact, at that time, there was nothing to come after; Yaliwe had not yet conceived of and created Hana, so when the first generation of the Isil died, their souls had no resting place. It was a tragedy, for certain, but because of it, a wondrous light was born: Yaliwe created Hana. Unfortunately, as the Isil were already dead, their spirits did not find the way to the Kingdom of Souls and they came here to rest. Soon after the creation of Hana, the key to Hana was also created. The Cyrin is Yaliwe’s light made substance, and when it is wielded, it is said that Hana will be brought down to the earth.”

“Forever?”

“No. The Cyrin allows all those who have passed beyond to briefly return to Dominhydor. During that time, they are free to make their peace or see those they left behind, but most important of all, any spirits that are trapped in Dominhydor may join Hana in its return above. The Isil who dwell within this rock will finally be able to go home when the Cyrin is wielded.”

“Why hasn’t it been used? Why are the Isil still here?” Yven asked.

“The Cyrin is extremely powerful, milady. It is not to be used so casually.”

“Certainly not by an average creature, but you are a Daian, one of Yaliwe’s chosen. Surely you could wield it.”

“It is not my duty to wield it. It is not my path. Someday, the Cyrin will serve its purpose, and when that day comes, the world will be at peace again.”

“Then it was the Cyrin’s light I felt. I felt it go out,” Yven whispered.

“Its radiance is still burning in my heart, so I know it has not been extinguished, but it is entombed in shadow. You see, the Isilmaerte is where the Cyrin was kept. Since the Isil couldn’t be in Hana, Yaliwe decided that they should at least be near the key to Hana. That way, they would always have Her light nearby.”

“You said it was kept here. Where is it now?”

“Taken, I’m afraid, by the servants of the Dark Lady. Not long ago, I was called back to Mancyte for several months while I took part in the Diadorin, the Council of Daian, and when I finally returned, the Isil were weeping. The Cyrin was gone, and though the Ione and I searched under every last stone in the mountain, I knew in my heart that we would not find it.”

“Shacore,” Yven growled.

“Yes, but what manner of demon this Shacore is, I don’t know,” Garyli said.

“Why would Shacore want the Cyrin? Does the Dark Lady seek Hana on earth?” Maladrid asked.

“Those who worship Her believe Hana to be dark and cold as they are, but they are fools, and their lord is an abomination and a liar,” Garyli replied. “The Cyrin must be found, my Children. It was not meant for hands as cruel as the Shadaran’s or any other servants of the shadow. These are dark days, yes, but they are nothing in comparison to what will happen if Shacore opens the sky. Their Hana will be our Ol, and no pure of heart will escape its torments.”

“I want to go home. I long for the comforts of the Dolihol,” Forbor said sadly, and Garyli patted his head in sympathy.

“I’m afraid I’ve robbed you of the daytime, my friends; you must be on your way at once. The Forest of the Yaermaca is not far off. You should take rest there and drink of the Pools to restore your strength. But I bid you stay, Forbor. This is no journey for a Dalitant, even for a prince as brave and honorable as you. Stay with me, and in time, I will lead you back to the Dolihol,” he said and Forbor bowed his head in concurrence.

“Goodbye, Forbor. I pray we shall meet again,” said Yven as she bent down and kissed the top of his head. “Yaliwe pala e ia ve.”

“Thank you for all of your help, Forbor,” Maladrid said sincerely.

“It has certainly been a pleasure meeting you both. I wish you the best of luck,” he replied as he unfurled his wings, flew up into the air, and landed in Maladrid’s arms.

“You are truly the son of kings, and you will be forever in my thoughts and prayers,” Maladrid replied.

As Garyli unlocked a door and gestured for them to follow him into another tunnel, Maladrid sat Forbor down on the ground and waved goodbye, but his eyes slipped back to his dear friend and savior until the tunnel’s suffocating darkness swallowed the light from behind. For over an hour, they walked as the Ione glittered in the walls around them and sang to each other until they finally reached the last door, which Garyli opened to reveal a bright world with a potentially aphotic future.

“Keep straight ahead and the Forest of the Yaermaca will soon be upon you,” Garyli said. “Dear Children, I’m afraid I feel a grief in my heart that cannot be quelled. An era is ending. The Li seem to be steering far from their origins, but perhaps that’s what Yaliwe intended all along. My love and the love of Yaliwe go with you. Alamintyl, Children.”

With that, Garyli disappeared into the Mountain and locked the door behind him, but for a few minutes, Yven and Maladrid stood in silence while they looked off into the distance, back at the Mountain, and then to each other in short, nervous glances.

“Yven?” Maladrid finally said.

“Yes, Maladrid?”

“Have we any hope to defeat Shacore, retrieve the Cyrin, and survive?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t the hope to achieve all three, Maladrid, but my own survival is not my first priority in this battle.”

They walked mile upon mile with the moon brilliantly lighting their way, and Maladrid found that he couldn’t stop his eyes from slipping up to it. He imagined the moon as a world in itself and that those who dwelt there were untouched by thoughts of darkness, even at night. But one of his reveling glances suddenly filled his veins with ice when he spotted a menacing shadow cast across the moon. Soaring across the illuminated sky was a gaunt ivory beast with its massive spiny wings spread as it darted through the clouds. It was not alone, however; there were scores of the creatures, swooping lower and lower with fangs bared and claws tearing through the clouds.

“Yven,” Maladrid said nervously, and when she followed his gaze to the flooded sky, she immediately drew her sword.

“Anjila!” she shouted.

All of a sudden, from leafy alcoves, a clan of roaring Achnora emerged and swarmed toward Maladrid and Yven. Maladrid swiftly unsheathed his blade and plunged it into an Achnor’s forehead just as the beast was about to sink its teeth into his neck, and Yven whirled around with graceful brutality and sliced at those descending upon her. When an Anjil dove toward her and scratched her face with its talons, she leapt up, grabbed its leg, and pulled it out of the sky. She slammed the screeching beast down to the ground, and as she drove Vetna into its chest and forcefully ripped the Anjil in two, its gnarled body broke into hardened chunks of stone that ultimately fell to dust. While Yven continued to slash at whatever beast dare attack her, Maladrid found himself watching her in amazement. The blood-stained queen, hungry for each kill, enraptured him so that he didn’t notice the Achnor creeping up behind him. The beast lunged and knocked Maladrid to the ground, but when the Achnor flipped him onto his back and its claw flew toward his throat, Maladrid’s blade flew as well. With one stab, he severed the Achnor’s arm at the wrist and stabbed it in the chest, but torrents of hot black blood poured onto Maladrid’s face, and though he kicked the demon back, he couldn’t see the impending danger for the viscous filth in his eyes. The impending danger, however, wasn’t his own. He heard Yven desperately screaming his name, but even when he’d wiped the blood out of his eyes, he couldn’t find her. Her cry sounded farther and farther away, and when he finally saw her, she was just a dot dangling from the talons of the distant Anjil above him.

“Yven!”

The Achnora swarmed over him, and though he tried to break through them to follow Yven, they wrestled him to the ground. Just before their hands closed over his eyes, he saw a shard of brilliance fall from the sky and sheath itself in the ground. Abducted by Anjila and Yven was still helping him; she’d dropped her sword. With a mighty growl, Maladrid exploded out of the beasts’ grasp and bolted toward Vetna, and when his hands wrapped around the hilt, the remaining Achnora seemed to know they’d met their match, snorted angrily, and began to retreat.

“Wretched interloper!” one of the demons yelled.

“Pay no mind, brother. Shacore will deal with him in time. The girl is enough for now.”

“Perhaps Shacore would give us a taste of her. I bet her insides taste of honey.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Maladrid hissed threateningly, and the Achnora roared with laughter.

Maladrid had turned his eyes back to the empty sky, still searching for his friend, and he was so fixated on his sullen search, he didn’t notice one of the Achnora pick up a large stone and hurl it in his direction. It cracked Maladrid on the back of the head and flooded his brain with heavy darkness, but when he collapsed to the ground, his pain swelled more from his failure than his injury, and it was all he could think about before everything faded to black.

When Maladrid awoke, his head throbbed intensely and the smell of Achnoran blood filled him with extreme nausea. The slain beasts lay scattered before him with their wounds oozing onto the grass and staining it with the color and stench of death. Maladrid forced himself to his feet and began to tiptoe in-between the bodies with the hope that he wouldn’t stumble upon Yven laying among them. He screamed her name as he weaved between the carcasses, so loudly and so many times that he quickly became hoarse.

”You’ll find no pretty Hohmara maid here,” hissed a voice even hoarser than his.

An emaciated Achnor, holding its wounded stomach and shaking, looked up at him with murder in its eyes. The dark blood bubbled and frothed between its fingers and dribbled from its mouth as it sputtered and coughed, and Maladrid pressed his blade against the Achnor’s throat.

“Pretty, pretty little maid,” it wheezed as a rictal smile crept across its face. “The pretty Hohmara won’t be pretty for very long.”

“Where is she?” Maladrid asked sternly as he pressed the blade harder against its neck.

“There is no saving her. Shacore is strong. Shacore is wise. Shacore will break open her pretty head and feast upon the sweetness inside.”

Maladrid grabbed hold of the Achnor’s neck, lifted it to eye level, and drew its reeking body close to him with his blade still threatening its throat.

“Mind your tongue, foul beast of Ol,” Maladrid growled.

The Achnor let out a fierce hiss and ran its thick black tongue mockingly over Maladrid’s cheek, but he swiftly grabbed the slimy tongue and held the beast aloft, and with a flash of his sword, the Achnor fell to the ground and clawed at its bloody, tongueless mouth. It coughed and twitched in a dark pool on the grass as Maladrid threw the tongue to the ground. He crouched next to the Achnor while sheathing his sword and stared somberly at the beast choking on its blood and rage.

“I’m going to destroy your beloved Shacore, whatever it is,” Maladrid whispered. “And what’s more, I’m going to find all of your disgraceful kin and put them on a pyre. The sky will be black with smoke, and the air will be so thick with the stench of burning Achnoran flesh, you’ll probably be able to smell it from Ol.”

When the Achnor’s body fell slack, Maladrid trudged back to Vetna’s earthen sheath and knelt beside it with his head bowed. His hand curled around the hilt and his arm around the blade, and he held it against his body so tightly that it shallowly sliced his chest and shoulder. After many drops of blood and tears were spilt for the queen, he finally stood, and with a tortured cry, he withdrew Vetna from the crimson earth.

The pain in Maladrid’s burning wounds swelled as he began again, alone. The stench of the battle behind wafted on the teasing breeze, and his stomach turned with acidic waves. His mind couldn’t focus on anything but the nausea and pain, and if not for the sound of the breeze breaking on the branches, Maladrid wouldn’t even have noticed the small spattering of trees and brush surrounding him. Whistles and rustles accompanied the low howl of the wind, and whispers brought the memory of Yven’s voice. She called for him, begged for his help, and he could do nothing but weep. He had lost her, and what tortured him more than his solitude was the fact that he’d given her up so easily. They had taken her, and he had just stood there and watched like the hopeless fool he was. How was he to help save the world when he couldn’t save Yven?

His heart beat lethargically as if it no longer had the will to keep pumping, and each slow throb traveled through his body to every gash and bruise. He knew that the continued pleas on the wind were merely products of his deliriously exhausted mind, but then, the cries turned to rhyme and song, and the music leisurely changed Maladrid’s sorrow to unexpected contentment. It took hold of his mind and body, and even his heart quickened to match the rhythm of the entrancing tune.

Amidst the surrounding trees, there was one that stood as the queen to all others: a willow with long elegant branches and leaves so vibrant that they shone of their own volition. It swayed as Maladrid swayed, and a grand sweep of the wind’s music lulled them into a graceful ballet. He rested his head against its soft trunk, and while the song entranced and brought joy to Maladrid’s heart, something was brought to the tree as well: life. It wrenched its trunk free of the soil and when its roots fused together, they became dainty and pointed and she, the queen willow, danced across the field with Maladrid in her arms. They circled the stationary trees, and blossoms fell down upon them as they dipped and spun in the moonlight, but when he finally looked up and saw the willow’s feminine face smiling warmly upon him, he broke free of her grasp and recoiled in shock.

“Who are you?” he exclaimed.

When she giggled in reply, her verdant body glistened and the tiny leaves woven into her hair and dress fluttered. She stood several feet taller than Maladrid and her knotted locks of hair cascaded down to her waist, and though every inch of her was the color of new grass, each time she blinked, her green pupils shone with different tints ranging from myrtle to moss. Maladrid saw the wreath of ivy-colored stars that sat upon her noble brow and knew that her blood was rich with power, but in trepidation he drew Yven’s sword, and when the willow woman’s vibrant color was reflected in the blade, the land was sprinkled with spears of green light.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” she said in a deep but feminine voice.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Fair Beloved, the Green Goddess. My name is Yvinhe, and I am the Daian of the Leaf.”

“My apologies, milady,” he whispered as he sheathed the sword and fell to one knee. “Sorrow has wounded me and scarred my vision.”

When she glided forward, the grass grew in size and luster. She touched his shoulder and eased him to his feet, and when her fingers caressed his face, her celestial warmth burned through his body.

“Your eyes are scarred because they are the eyes of the world. I know what you seek, my Child.”

“I seek the Cyrin,” Maladrid replied, “and my friend, Yven.”

“Ah, yes, the queen of the Hohmara. I dare say she is the most promising sovereign Dominhydor has yet born. Except maybe for you,” she said.

“I’m no sovereign. I don’t have a drop of royal blood.”

“I know,” she replied smugly. “But that’s not important right now. You called me, Maladrid, and I came. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I never called you. I wouldn’t even know how to go about summoning a Daian.”

“I am the earth and all that springs from it. The queen’s blade penetrated my breast, and when you clung to it and your tears rained upon the soil, your heart cried out to me. So here I am.”

“Could you help me find Yven?”

“Yven? She is not lost. You know exactly where she is headed.”

“Yes I do, and I have to save her.”

“No, Maladrid, you cannot save her. She is on the path that she must take, and as she must take hers, you must take yours.”

“I won’t abandon her,” Maladrid said sternly.

“You’re not abandoning her. You’re continuing and waiting. You’re following your course.”

“I don’t deserve a course. I let her go,” he whispered. “I’m nothing.”

“Fine,” she said with a shrug. “So you’re nothing; you’re common. You’re a stranger to these lands, a simple boy with no experience in dark times such as these. So, what are you doing here? Why don’t you just go home?”

“I can’t. Even with as painful as this journey has been, it would pain me more to turn my back on it and to turn my back on her. She saved my life and dulled my ache, and for that, I refuse to turn. I will continue.”

“Of course you will. It is your path,” Yvinhe said warmly. “Do you know the story of Nomil, Maladrid?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“As you know, there are two languages in Dominhydor: the Speech of Yaliwe and the Common Speech of Nomil. I was the first to speak in Yaliwe’s tongue, but it was Her language because if not for Her, I wouldn’t have spoken at all. And not to sound high and mighty, I was also the one who named Her.”

“You named Yaliwe?” Maladrid asked in awe.

She nodded and continued, “That was very long ago. Before Dominhydor, there were only Yaliwe and the Daian. We spoke in the Speech of Yaliwe, for it was all we knew. It wasn’t until after the world was created that we began to speak as you and I are speaking now. When the Lady of Light created Dominhydor, there was life within but no life upon, and for several years it remained so as my ilk ventured down to fashion its earthen majesties. But when the farwe fell from Hana, the Star Stones burrowed into the earth and sands of the sea, and they became the Children of Yaliwe’s Dominhydor. The first to traverse the earth were the Isil, quickly followed by the Tylira and Inha as well as the fiendish Coltina and Achnora. I created the Yaerla myself from roots and seeds and the breath of Yaliwe, and they grew as saplings rather than from the farwe stones. I greeted them when they were grown and I spoke to them in the tongue of Yaliwe, and once they learned my language, they began to speak it to others. However, as the speech traveled across the earth, it became more and more muddled, and those that lived far from the Forest where the language had started pure were saddened that what they spoke was only a bastardization of their creator’s tongue. The closest thing to knowing the Lady is knowing Her voice, and not being able to understand Her language prevented them from ever really hearing Her. To make matters worse, because of the muddling, kin on opposite sides of the world were unable to communicate with each other. The Bartosca of Taerydor spoke a completely different version of Yaliwe’s Speech than their brethren in Deydor. The Inha all lived in the same region; they didn’t have the same communication problem as the rest of the races, and therefore remained indifferent to troubles of the other races. There was one Inha, however, who loved to travel throughout all lands in Dominhydor, who found the addled versions of speech frustrating and unnecessary. The Inha Nomil was no one really. Just like you,” Yvinhe remarked with a wink. “But he was no weakling either, and he was very resolute. He wanted to know the creatures unlike him; he wanted to speak to and learn from them. He spent a long time journeying across Dominhydor, but when his life was rocked by the tragic death of his best friend Elent, something switched over in him and he locked himself in his house for a year. When he finally emerged, twenty years had been added to his face and stature, and he held in his hands a massive bundle of papers that were feverishly scrawled with strange characters and words. The Mosecora swarmed his home on the day of his emergence and he taught them the language that he had spent a year devising, and spread the new words across Dominhydor from Dorel to Colytaer. His kin spoke ill of him and deemed him too common to talk for Yaliwe. What right had he, they thought, to create a new language for Dominhydor: a common language, so to speak?

“But Nomil would not be silenced. He understood his part in Yaliwe’s great plan and proclaimed to his kin that he had spoken to Yaliwe during his travels and that She had given him permission to create the new language. His reward for it, She had said, was eternal life, and though he had become daunted at times, he continued to believe that he was doing Yaliwe’s bidding. Nomil faced a world of judgment, but he remained committed to his path, and because of him, a new and blessed language was created and now, it is the preferred tongue of Dominhydor. Yaliwe, Herself, speaks it regularly.

“You are like Nomil, Maladrid. You have a blessed mission, but you are daunted because you’re wondering who you are, as a commoner, to undertake it. But Yaliwe has Her eye on you, Maladrid, and Her hand is upon your heart.”

“What happened to Nomil? Did Yaliwe deliver the eternal life she promised?”

“Nomil died as all mortals must, but he did not die to the world. Yaliwe promised him eternal life on Dominhydor and Nomil did receive it. What he did for the world will live forever. His deeds have changed us all and because of it, he now lives every day in every word spoken, and his soul in Hana is high in Yaliwe’s court.”

“Is that my destiny?”

“I don’t know. I can only see so far ahead. No matter what, you must do as your heart instructs, Maladrid.”

“After all of this, my heart longs for a seizure; it is my soul that still seeks victory.”

“And honor,” Yvinhe added as she laid her hand on his face and whispered sincerely, “You will have it, soldier, but you must walk your path first.”

“To the Forest of the Yaermaca,” he said.

“Yes, that is an ideal destination, but one cannot simply stroll into the Forest. When I created it, I also created a web of magick to surround and protect it. The entrance is hidden by a veil of maddening mists, and when penetrated by those who are corrupt, they become lost within it. At first, they only forfeit their sanity, but their lives always follow. They become petrified by the torments of the fog, and there they remain as statues for eternity. It is the Golasle: the Mists of Madness.”

“What about the uncorrupt?”

“Everyone who enters is judged, and if there is darkness in the heart, my charm will reveal it,” she replied solemnly. “Come, Maladrid. You are weary and the deep night is soon fallen.”

Yvinhe raised her hands to the sky, and Maladrid watched in astonishment as her toes burrowed into the earth and her legs fused back together and became wooden again. Branches grew out from her chest and arms and her hair sprouted large vibrant leaves. Her features melted away as she became the lovely willow again, but her voice continued to vibrate through Maladrid’s mind.

“Lean against me, my Child. Let me envelop you with my soft foliage and lull you into sleep.”

Maladrid nestled against her trunk, and as her branches wrapped around him, her roots emerged from the earth and covered him like a blanket. The blossoming flowers became his bed and their petals his pillows, and as he drifted into sleep, Yvinhe sang low and sweet in a voice that carried across the world.

“Take your breath in swaying strides.

Do not rush your life.

The movement of the rushing tides

Will calm your painful strife.

The wind and leaf

Will bring relief

With joy, you will be rife.

Slowly take your footsteps.

Gently make your round.

Forget the tears that you have wept

That rained upon the ground

The truest goal

Within your soul

Is to understand what you have found.

What life I have is soaring

And wherever I may roam

Through the harrowing and alluring,

I will always find my home.

I will pray

To Yaliwe

And She will lead me home.”

When he fell asleep, he was at peace. Once dreaming set in, however, his mind was overcome by horrible scenarios of Yven’s torture. When he awoke, his eyes burned from exhaustion and his limbs ached, but as he stood and brushed away the leaves, his dreams were still upon him. The willow had wilted and turned gray, and when he touched her, the gnarled bark that had once been so smooth crumbled to ash and fell to a large dull pile of dust at his feet.

“The gold is fading. The silver too,” he whispered.

He looked down his path and it was wrought with uncertainty, but at least he knew where it would lead. The ancient Forest of the Yaermaca awaited him, but what of the mists protecting it? He began to question the purity of his heart and the demons that possibly lay hidden within.

The morning was cold and Maladrid shivered as he trudged with his hand continually wringing around the hilt of Yven’s sword. The rain began midmorning; drops like icicles speared his cheeks and hands. He spent the first night of travel huddled under a tuft of brush and the second upon a deserted plain with no shelter whatsoever. The second night, he hardly slept at all, but he could see the Forest in the distance and it filled him with hope. The impending Golasle clouded the glimmering trees, of course, but he knew that they were there, and for a brief moment, he truly believed that salvation lay just beyond the mists. On his third day of solitude, Maladrid saw the entirety of the Golasle and its billows of ivory stretching as far as he could see. As he stood before them, misty fingers reached out from the clouds, and he recoiled in fear. Although he drew Vetna in defense, he was more in favor of fleeing than fighting, but he remained firm while the maddening mists continued to beckon him forward. He closed his eyes and walked into them, but as soon as he felt the cool fog lay drops upon his cheeks, Yven’s blade was knocked out of his hand and he was suddenly thrown to the ground. An Achnor leaped on top of him, but he quickly jerked his knee upward into the beast’s belly and threw it back. He scrambled to his feet, and when he saw the clan of Achnora circling him, he also saw the glimmer of Vetna, far out of his reach.

“Well, well, brothers, what do we have here?” one of the demons hissed.

“Looks like the filthy boy who was traveling with the queen.”

“No, looks like breakfast,” another howled, followed by the cackling laughter of its cohorts.

The Achnora licked their lips and frothy saliva rolled down their chins as they closed in on Maladrid. His eyes spun over them as they approached, but as terrified as he was, when the Achnora began to lunge at him, he ducked and darted without pause. He sprinted for Yven’s sword and was intercepted by an Achnor crashing into his side, but when Maladrid slammed his fist into its face, he snatched away its blade and twisted it into its belly. He turned just in time to slice the throat of a charging Achnor, and he rolled under grasping arms and plowed through reeking bodies until his fingers wrapped around the cool hilt of Yven’s sword. But when he stood, he found himself alone. There were no Achnora; there was nothing except for thick billows of white. His face was slick with condensation, and although his heart was still pounding from the battle, imagined or not, he continued through the mists as calmly as possible. Occasionally, he thought he saw eyes burning through the clouds or the gleam of ravenous jaws; he even heard a growl and felt something cold and alien brush against his arms. He was no longer alone. There were beasts in the mists, tall ugly beasts with iron claws perfect for ripping flesh from bone, but there were also faces of Hohmara and Lyraera scattered in the fog. Although they didn’t glare at him with the violent rage of the demons, their eyes were cold and their expressions hard. The inhabitants of the Golasle surrounded him on all sides and as his feet pounded the earth, the yelps and screams continued, but below the shrieks, he heard someone crying his name. He immediately knew who it was; he’d heard her cries, both real and imaginary, many times before, but although he ran toward the sound, he never seemed to get closer. All of a sudden he stumbled, and he was launched forward onto a bed of rock; as he lay panting on the pile of stones, his hands and knees torn from the fall, the voices and faces overwhelmed him.

“It’s just a test,” Maladrid whispered. “I cannot trust my senses.”

But it was too real to ignore. The monsters hissed at him mockingly, and all the while, Yven stood sweet and silent between them. An Achnor lunged at Maladrid and he squeezed his eyes shut and screamed as he thrust out Vetna and the beast fell slack upon the blade, but when he opened his eyes, he gasped and dropped the sword in distress. It was not the Achnor he had skewered; it was Yven. He gingerly withdrew the blade from her belly, and as he wrapped his arms around her limp body and buried his face in her neck, he sobbed in pleading sorrow.

“It isn’t real!” he screamed as her blood began to soak into his clothes. “Please, don’t let it be real!”

He didn’t notice the surrounding faces slip away because he was focused solely on hers, and he didn’t hear the shrieks die out for the volume of his grief. He closed his eyes and the tears rolled rampant down his cheeks, but as the mists lifted and light flooded over him, Maladrid cracked his swollen, anguished eyes open and looked at Yven again. She was no longer cradled in his arms and her blood wasn’t staining his garments; however, he was wrapped around something: a statue of a female Hohmara. Although a few of her features were similar, it was not Yven, and he heaved a sigh of relief. It was then that he realized he was surrounded by nearly a hundred statues; creatures from nearly every race in Dominhydor were present and frozen in action with expressions of either fear or ferocity. He was encircled by Lyraera and Wa-D’tila, Grechla with scales of stone, and Anjila with their massive wings unfurled. He ran his hand over the stone face of the Hohmara woman beside him, across her furrowed brow and full pouting lips of gray rock. Her eyes were unnaturally wide as if she’d been frozen in a moment of pure terror, and although he did not know her, his heart ached for her.

“Well, you must be Maladrid.”

He lifted his head and beheld the proud creature standing in front of him. It was seemingly timber yet moving, and its skin looked like polished wood. Its body resembled that of a gazelle, though modestly larger, and from its forehead extended a long crooked branch that was dark brown and covered with tiny leaves that danced in the gentle breeze.

Maladrid realized that he’d been staring at the creature with his mouth agape for some time before he finally replied, “Yes. I’m Maladrid.”

“My name is Nonwe. Welcome to my home, Maladrid.”

“Thank Yaliwe; I’ve finally reached the Forest of the Yaermaca?”

“More or less,” Nonwe responded.

Maladrid observed his surroundings and they seemed plain; they weren’t nearly as beautiful as the Balenta Glen and definitely not more so, as Laia had indicated.

“Do not judge so quickly,” Nonwe said, reading Maladrid’s thoughts. “You have not yet seen the true Forest of the Yaermaca; it lies deeper in the wood. The Yaerla tend and guard this place as well, but the beauty you seek lies behind the gates. This is simply where the statues reside.”

“Who are they?”

“Those who did not pass the Golasle’s test: trespassers with ill intentions. The Mists of Madness ensnared them before they could do us any harm,” Nonwe said as he stamped his cloven hooves and twitched his stubby tail. “I trust the journey through wasn’t too harrowing?”

“No, it was fine,” Maladrid replied with a forced smile.

“You must be weary. Let us get to the gates, and on the way, perhaps you will tell me of your journey so far.”

As they walked slowly through the woods, Maladrid poured his heart out to the gentle Yaerla who listened intently to every word. The forest became thicker and darker as they progressed until Maladrid was forced to squint in order to see where he was going, but seemingly out of nowhere, the gates of the Forest of the Yaermaca appeared and flooded him with brilliant light. The large double doors, woven entirely of silver-tipped leaves and dark green vines, glowed brightly and stretched to the height of the tallest trees. Maladrid gasped as he gazed at the immense doors, struck numb by their grace, but the soft singing coming from the other side eventually broke his trance.

“Is that the Yaerla singing?”

“No. They do, of course, but that sounds more like Dyngyli,” Nonwe replied.

“Dyngyli? I’ve heard that name before. There was a creature in Ladyndal, a creature of many colors, and its song entranced me as never before.”

“That’s Dyngyli, alright,” Nonwe said. “He pops into the Forest often and we welcome him gladly. Truly, one cannot be displeased while in the presence of a Daian, especially one as lighthearted as Dyngyli.”

“I didn’t even realize he was a Daian,” Maladrid replied. “He must’ve thought me quite the fool.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Maladrid.”

“How can I not be? I’ve somehow taken on this incredible task, and I can’t even recognize a Daian when I see one.”

“From what I’ve heard of you, I’d say you are assimilating this new world rather well.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“The Forest awaits. Let Dyngyli’s song chase your worries away.”

Nonwe touched the tip of his twiggy horn to the doors, and they began to open. In the silence of the Forest, the doors rumbled, and as they opened wider, a great light shone through the aperture and caused Nonwe’s wooden skin to gleam. They walked through the gates into a circular clearing where twenty Yaerla stood with their skin glittering likewise. Surrounding the clearing were numerous tall, ancient trees, and as Maladrid gazed upon them, he understood what Laia had meant. Beautiful, though, did not seem the correct word to Maladrid; “glorious” was more appropriate. The bark of the trees shimmered like the Yaerla, and some of their trunks bore odd braches that resembled the Yaerla’s legs and even heads accented with magnificent branch horns that were covered in golden leaves. The rest of the leaves on the unique trees were gold as well, and in front of each was a pool of amber, syrupy-looking liquid.

Maladrid sat among the Yaerla and watched in amusement as Dyngyli danced before them. His colorful body skipped wildly from side to side, and with each step, his feet jingled as if there were bells attached to his toes. As he sang, his voice bounced around the Forest and caused those listening to unknowingly bob their head in rhythm.

“In the fair beginning days

Only the tiny roamed the earth,

But soon the large and formidable

Had their Hanalian birth.

Tall and long, black and white

And burning with Yaliwe’s light

Were strongest of Dominhydor’s might

And the smallest came to spite.

The little Morcs of the grassland

Were hungry only for the green,

But the Tylira fed on Morc flesh

And on that, the Morcs weren’t keen.

‘Numerous we may be,’ they cried,

‘But half of our ranks have surely died.’

‘Come,’ said the Tylira. ‘You all have lied.

Ten thousand more kin our eyes have spied.’

‘Why must you hunt us?’ they asked.

‘Please stop. We wish that you would.

Why must you seek to devour us?”

The Tylira asked, ‘Why must you taste so good?’

‘But it isn’t fair; it isn’t right

That you should have the deadly might.

All we can do is scratch and bite,

But we’re too meek to put up any fight.’

‘Then make yourselves scarce,’ the Tylira said.

‘Disappear if you value your blood.

If our sizes were reversed, you’d hunt our kin.

On our lives, we bet you would.

So the battle is one sided, little ones.

So the match is surely unfair,

But there are far more Morcs than Tylira,

And in sudden danger, you quickly disappear.’

‘That’s true,” said the Morcs. ‘We can,

But can’t we just be friends?’

‘We have plenty of friends, but no lunch,’ they replied.

And with a snap and a gobble, that’s where the tale ends.”

Maladrid giggled and the Yaerla stamped their hooves in approval of Dyngyli’s song. The Daian bowed dramatically, and with a laugh that sounded like silver bells, he disappeared.

“Feeling better?” Nonwe asked.

“My nerves are settled, but my body continues to ache.”

“Come then and drink from the Pools of the Yaermaca so that you may be restored,” Nonwe said.

Maladrid looked at him worriedly as he bent down to one of the ocher Pools.

“Don’t worry; it’s only sap,” Nonwe said, but when Maladrid cupped the sap in his hands and brought it to his lips, the Yaerla added, “And the blood of the Yaermaca.”

Maladrid immediately spat out the sap, and the grass that it touched instantly grew in height and luster. The Yaerla laughed and stamped their hooves in amusement.

“I’m sorry, Maladrid, but I couldn’t help myself,” Nonwe chuckled.

“So there’s no blood in this?” he asked.

“Oh, there is, but don’t worry; it is perfectly harmless. We are here to heal you, not hurt you.”

Maladrid cupped his hands again and sipped. It was thick with grainy sweetness, and nearly as soon as the sap slid down his throat, his pain was obliterated. His abrasions healed before his eyes and he watched in amazement as the blisters and burns on his palm disappeared.

“It’s a miracle!” Maladrid exclaimed as he opened and closed his pristine hand.

“It’s the healing blood of the Yaermaca. The sap has fused your wounds closed with fibers of Yaermini, the strongest wood on earth: unbreakable and resistant to flame. I guarantee that your palm will never be singed or marred again.”

“What are the Yaermaca; how did they become as they are? Are they alive? Can they move?” Maladrid inquired.

“They live as the trees live,” Nonwe replied. “Although they continue on, they have gone into the Yaermaca Sleep. As they remain alive, their souls are not in Hana but in Yde: the blessed realm of the Sleeping Yaermaca. There, they are as the Yaerla are. They are young again and free to roam that world until their tree bodies die in this one. In the early Yaermaca Sleep, they are the Waking Yaermaca and they can move and even talk. Now, they are all deep in the Sleep, except for Baliwa. He is close to Yde, but occasionally he talks and bows his head to the Forest’s twilight dawn. All of us here shall be as they are one day. We shall become the Yaermaca, go to Yde, and eventually join the rest of our kin in Hana.”

“It’s glorious. The Yaermaca are glorious, and the Yaerla are glorious. Everything in this Forest is too beautiful for my eyes; they are scarred by the horrid things I’ve seen,” Maladrid said.

“Would you like to speak to Baliwa? He tells wonderful stories of our beginnings. His words are wise, slow as they are.”

“Would he really speak to me?”

“Maladrid, you may not be as old or divine as we, but we accept anyone who possesses a pure heart and peaceful intentions. Let’s see if the old devil is still awake,” Nonwe said with a smirk and pranced over to a particular Yaermaca.

“Baliwa?” he whispered, but the Yaermaca didn’t respond. “Baliwa?”

Still, there was no response.

“Baliwa!” Nonwe shouted, and his voice echoed through the Forest, but still, the mighty Yaermaca didn’t make a sound.

Finally, Nonwe turned his back to Baliwa, rose upon his front legs, and kicked the Yaermaca forcefully with his back hooves.

“What? What was that?” Baliwa exclaimed leisurely as he opened his eyes and looked around slowly.

Nonwe crossed to his front to face the protruding head.

“Oh, Nonwe! I might have known,” Baliwa yawned, and his jaw creaked slightly as he talked, as if he hadn’t spoken in years.

“I’m so tired. Yde is so close that I can feel the soft grass beneath my hoofs. Perhaps it will be my time soon. At least then I won’t be disturbed by hasty young Yaerla who wake me for no reason.”

“This is Maladrid, Baliwa. He is a fellow enemy of the shadow and a great warrior as well.”

Maladrid blushed at the compliment.

“He wishes to know of the beginnings, and you tell it better than any of us here,” Nonwe said.

“That goes without saying,” Baliwa replied unhurriedly. “As a Second Child, you never saw the beginnings, but I, Maladrid, though youngest of the First Children, came directly from Yvinhe’s hand many centuries ago.”

Maladrid sat down on the soft grass next to Baliwa, already enraptured by the words of the ancient creature.

“It all began with Yaliwe, of course, but our lives truly began with Yvinhe,” Baliwa started. “Yvinhe came down into Yaliwe’s earth, and her hair became the rich soil and her eyes became the grass, and when she lifted her hand to the stars, she brought forth a shimmering dust that bathed the Forest in gold and silver. She bent to the earth and laid her Hanalian lips upon it, and when her love coursed through the roots and seeds in the ground, saplings began to grow. Those saplings were the Yaerla, and they grew strong from the earth and were woven into shape by Yaermini. The saplings grew as the trees but more quickly, and soon, they became the Yaerla as you see them now.

“Yvinhe has a great love for us and has gifted us with knowledge and power, and she has protected us from those with darkened hearts. When the demon Forla came to power, we were called into action after many years of living alone in peace, but we were glad to fight in Yaliwe’s name, and I believe it to be Yaliwe’s blessing that we all survived the battle. Since the beginning of our time, not a one of us has perished, thank Yaliwe.

“I’ve seen many ages of this earth, both beautiful and terrible, and the Sleep of the Yaermaca came as a blessing to me: a release from the pain of fighting impossible evils. One day I became very weary and lay down beside this tree to take a nap, and when I awoke, many years had passed and I was a Yaermaca. The tree had grown around and into me and my Yaermini blood mingled with it. The powerful union created the healing fluid that fills the blessed ponds below,” he said, and Maladrid examined his palm again in awe of the sap’s power.

“Soon, I will go to Yde and be with my brothers and sisters,” Baliwa continued. “There I will dwell for centuries until my body dies away as all trees must in time. I will go to Hana then and join the kin who have gone before, and it will be a sacred reunion that will last for eternity.”

“Amazing,” Maladrid sighed. “This Forest must truly be the most blessed land in Dominhydor.”

“But there were others born in the Forest who are not so blessed, Maladrid: those called the Coltina. They came from the white Star Stones that fell from Mancyte, and although they look similar to our kind, their bodies were formed of Colti, the most durable stone in Dominhydor. They did not stay in the Forest long though; they chose to live in Colytaer, a land near Nave’s Bend. There, they were befriended by the pure-hearted Achnora who wanted nothing more than peace and beauty, but the Coltina were as hard in their hearts as they were in appearance, and they only sought friendship with the kind Achnora because they thought it would draw them nearer to the evil powers. But the Coltina didn’t just want to join the shadow; they wanted to overthrow the shadow and claim the power for themselves. They asked their Achnoran friends to help, but they were turned away. The kind Achnora then fled to the Balenta Glen, and there, by the grace of Yaliwe, they became the Bynts. We befriended them even before they lost the appearance of the Achnora because we recognized that they were pure of heart and only desired peace and beauty.

“The Coltina finally joined forces with the shadow and when the Dark Lady swept her hand over their backs, their ivory bodies turned onyx and they became fearsome guards to her fortresses in Lochydor. They protect it with their black poisonous horns, which they use to gore innocents for their own amusement. Perhaps they continue to plot to usurp their master’s power, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. There are so many evils at work on the earth, and no one could possibly stop them all.”

“That is my impossible quest, Baliwa,” Maladrid whispered sadly. “And though I wish I could listen to your wisdom forever, I must find Yven. She is in great peril, if she’s still alive. She has been taken, probably to Nave’s Bend, and I cannot fight this evil without her.”

“You will find her; her part in Yaliwe’s great plan is not yet over. My fear runs deeper than my Yaermaca roots that you are right about where she is imprisoned, though,” Baliwa said slowly, and his voice dripped with grief. “But all hope is not lost, Maladrid. Take rest awhile to the voices of the Yaerla, for they are the song of the wood in all its joy and lament.”

“Be in peace

Yaliwe! Yaliwe

Said, ‘Be in peace.’

As are the trees

And the leaves

Go forth, Spring life

All the earth be Spring life

Green and gold and silver

And color that is within Her

Wind, be the sound of Her voice

Rejoice; be in peace

As are the trees

And the leaves

And the breeze

That carries the sound of Her voice.”

The Yaerla’s song was the definition of beauty. The male and female Yaerla raised their voices to Hana while Baliwa, the last of the Waking Yaermaca, sang low and deep with his eyes slowly closing. They did not open again. The Yaerla bowed their heads as Baliwa fell asleep to Dominhydor forever and his soul went forth to Yde to join the kin who had gone before.

“All of the First are now in Yde and no longer bound to this earth. The Second Children are all that remain; I hope we can live up to the glory of our forebears,” Nonwe said.

Maladrid knelt before Baliwa, who was silent and still.

“Farewell, Baliwa. I pray that Yde bears more light than Dominhydor nowadays. The shadow is creeping ever closer and we don’t have much time,” Maladrid said, and as he yawned and his eyelids fluttered wearily, he whispered, “Yven,” and fell into a deep sleep.

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Bring the girl to me.”

Yven awoke to find her hands and feet bound. There was a bonfire burning in the dark, and the flames tickled the air with its long red fingers as ash rose and fell like gray snow. An army of Achnora sat around the fire roasting a bundle of Dalitants skewered on long sticks, and Yven watched in terror as the Dalitants’ fur burned from their bodies and frozen faces.

“Forbor,” Yven whispered. “Maladrid.”

“It’s a good thing we came upon these Dalitants. The smell of the Hohmara’s blood was driving me mad with hunger,” an Achnor said with drool running down its chin.

“You shouldn’t even think of sniffing the Hohmara, brother. The girl is for Shacore. You wouldn’t want to enrage the master, would you?”

“Still, she’d make a nice pudding,” the first Achnor hissed as it ran its black tongue over its chops.

“The boy is ours. The next time we see him, we will tear the flesh from his bones like pulling hair from a Dalitant,” the second Achnor replied as it plucked a blackened hair out of the head of its supper and roared with laughter.

Yven pulled at her bonds, but the threads sliced her skin as she struggled to reach her sheath. And upon making contact with it, she discovered that Vetna was not at her disposal.

“Hey! What are you doing there, little Hohmara?” an Achnor said as it grabbed her wrists and lifted her into the air, but when the beast touched Yven’s hands, a vision fell upon her.

She saw the Castle Lochra in Nave’s Bend; it was surrounded by Achnora and Anjila building stone walls and fashioning weapons of extreme ferocity. Then a formidable phantom stepped forward with a body clothed in churning darkness, and when it raised its hands, the sky cracked and roared; the clouds burst and consumed each other. Yven’s eyes shot open to see the wrinkled gray face of the Achnor, and as it glared at her, its breath was pungent with the odor of death.

“What are you doing there, little Hohmara?” the Achnor growled.

“I see your master. You may think that you are strong and that Shacore is powerful, but the army of the Dark Lady will fall. I will see your kin and every ally of your kin rot on the shambles of Nave’s Bend,” Yven hissed through clenched teeth.

“See the master? How could she see the master?” an Achnor asked.

“She said she saw Shacore.”

“How could she?”

Yven clenched her hands into fists with her jaw rigid and her eyes burning cruelly.

“The sycte! The sycte!” the Achnora shouted in horror.

“Wretched Hohmara witch!”

An Achnor picked up a nearby rock, bashed it against the back of Yven’s head, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“We’ll see what Shacore has to say about the witchy Hohmara,” one of the beasts said. “Scoop her up, brothers. We must get to Lochydor before she lays a spell on us!”

The Achnora traveled by secret tunnels of which only they and the Shadaran were aware. They ran under forests and cities and into the heart of Nave’s Bend with no fear of discovery. Yven, however, was carried over the earth by an Anjil, and all the while, its terrible claws sliced at her body. She was in a terrible haze throughout the flight, but within only a few days, she reached her destination and the horrors of clarity burned through her. When she finally awoke, she was lying upon a stone table surrounded by armed Achnora.

“Where am I?” she asked dazedly.

“Where do you think, fool?” an Achnor hissed. “You’re in the Castle Lochra.”

She raised her hands in a defensive instinct, and a massive outcry sounded through the crowd.

“Sycte!” one shouted, and the assemblage of Achnora cowered slightly.

Yven, noticing their reaction, held her hands up and brandished them as weapons.

“Set me free!” she shouted. “Or I shall use my sycte to destroy you all!”

The Achnora shrank back, except for one who stepped forward and asked with a sinister leer, “Oh, little girl. Why would you say something like that?”

Yven was grabbed from behind by two of the beasts, who promptly pushed her down onto the table. Two more came from the front, took hold of her arms, and held her down until her face was pressed against the stone and her arms stretched out in front of her.

“Shacore is too busy to deal with you now, but he has ordered us to keep you alive. This poses a problem,” the Achnor said, and the group grunted in agreement. “The sycte frightens my brothers, little witch, so we are left with no choice but to get rid of it.”

Yven closed her eyes tightly and whimpered.

“Don’t worry. I’m fairly certain you’ll survive,” it growled and nodded toward an Achnor that was armed with a massive axe.

Yven screamed as the blade plummeted, and when it sliced through the air and struck against the stone table beneath her wrists with a clang, Yven’s vision faded into a morass of swirling colors. The last thing she saw before unconsciousness took her was the Achnora lapping up the pools of her blood on the table.

Some time later, she was roused by a commotion outside the abandoned room: the sounds of screeching Anjila and Achnora yelling orders at one another blasted through the chamber window. Her eyes were blurred and tears burned her swollen face, and though pain shot through her entire body, her wrists, dressed in blood-soaked rags, throbbed with the most excruciating ache. When she looked down at her arms, grotesquely handless, and realized that she would not wake up from the nightmare, she screamed and her voice echoed through the small room.

An Achnor flung open the stone door and stomped angrily toward her.

“Filthy Hohmara! What’s the problem now?” it hissed as flecks of saliva hit her face.

As well as her hands, the axe had removed the tethers around her wrists, but her ankles remained bound, and she whimpered as she tried to cling to the table by wrapping her arms around the sides.

“I don’t have time for this, especially when there’s a damned Tylira attacking the Bend!” the Achnor growled, scampered away, and slammed the door behind it.

Yven slid off the table and landed face down on the cold floor. The only window in the room was barricaded with three iron bars, and though crawling to it with no hands and her ankles bound was quite a struggle, she gathered her strength and was able to slowly pull herself to the window. She bent her elbows around the bars, and with all of her muscle, she was eventually able to pull herself so close that she could lift her body onto the window ledge. She found she could squeeze herself between the bars, but she knew that the long fall to the earth would surely end her. Gazing out upon Lochydor, she saw the Tylira just beyond the gates tossing aside a handful of Achnora with its mammoth paw. A flock of Anjila came down from the sky and swiped at it, but the Tylira reared up, caught one of the beasts in its paws, and pulled it down to the earth with a crash. It dipped its large black and white head to the ground and snapped at the attacking Achnora with its massive jaws. After grabbing one of the beasts by its leg, it swung it around, released it in midair, and the Achnor crashed into the curtain wall and fell to the ground as a lifeless lump. The Tylira let out a fearsome cry as it barreled forward and crushed the advancing Achnora under its paws.

“Yven!” it yelled over the roar of the attack, and she realized that the Tylira come to rescue her was her friend Dordin.

“Dordin!” she screamed from the window.

His ears swiveled as his eyes searched the sky, and finally finding her, he smiled, but he knew that as the Bend opened its stone gates, he had much more to contend with before he could reach her. Three large Coltina charged toward him with their nostrils flared and mouths frothing, and they dipped their heads to display their onyx horns, glistening with venom, but he leaped over them and landed on a group of attacking Achnora. He turned to face the Coltina, flattened his ears, and hissed viciously, and as they charged again, Dordin crouched low to the ground. When they neared him, he pounced over their heads and reeled quickly, swiping at them from behind and sending them flying across the ground. One of the Coltina, however, rose promptly from the tumble, dove toward the Tylira, and plunged its horn into his side. Dordin howled and stumbled in sudden pain, but he bashed his head against the Coltina and knocked the dark beast back.

The gates opened again, and an army of bipedal Achnora charged out with their large swords swinging wildly, but Dordin bounded over them as soon as they were within reach. As he pushed his great body through the closing gate, the Achnora stabbed and chopped at his legs. A trail of blood dripped behind him as he ran through Nave’s Bend, smacking away the oncoming Achnora while his tail swung powerfully and knocked over those that charged from behind.

“Dordin!” Yven screamed as she squeezed herself through the bars and teetered on the stony window ledge.

Dordin darted around his attackers until he was standing directly below the window.

“Jump, Yven!” he cried, and Yven pushed herself off the windowsill and crashed onto Dordin’s back.

“Dordin! I can’t hold on!” Yven exclaimed as he set himself down onto four paws and her body began slipping off of his back.

She fell to the ground with a thud, and Dordin gently scooped her up with his teeth and starting swerving between the hordes of Achnora. The Anjila screeched overhead and swooped down to claw at him, but he would not be stopped; he barreled through Lochydor faster and faster until he was a black and white streak weaving between his enemies.

“Close the gates!” shouted an Achnor.

Dordin bore down as his wounds burned deep; the poison from the Coltina’s horns coursed through his body, and caused him to weaken and his speed to diminish.

“Please, Dordin, don’t give up,” Yven whispered with her body dangling from his mouth.

He gathered all the strength that remained in him, sped up again, and leaped through the closing gates with his tail slipping through just as the doors slammed shut. He continued to run for hours through the Eastern Free Lands until finally he collapsed in a vast grassland and Yven tumbled limply from his mouth.

* * * *

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Maladrid, wake up.”

“What? Why?” Maladrid murmured when he awoke to Nonwe nudging his shoulder.

“Because the Bartosca have come and they’ve brought something of great importance. Follow me to the borders of the Forest.”

“What’s the point? There is no hope left. My last shred was destroyed when Yven was taken,” he said sorrowfully.

“I beg you, Maladrid: follow me.”

He rose reluctantly and trailed Nonwe out of the twilight clearing, and as they walked, the Yaerla appeared from between the trees to travel beside them. As the Forest dwindled, Maladrid saw the bright light of day and a great plain ahead, and in it stood a small herd of Bartosca: massive bear-like creatures with brown fur, ivory tusks, and tan horns that curled beside their faces. Though their statures and shapes were intimidating to Maladrid, their mouths were filled with small, flat teeth, ideal for chewing vegetation, and he heaved a sigh of relief. They were obviously large enough for three full-grown Hohmara to ride, but two of the present Bartosca were bearing a different load. Lying across their backs was a very large black animal with white paws and a white belly, though the white bits were partially dyed red with blood. Beyond that cargo, sitting atop another Bartosc, was a maiden with smoldering green eyes and wild red hair that spun in the breeze.

“Yven!” Maladrid cried and rushed toward her with his arms open.

“Cali, vanti tene,” Yven whispered to Cali the Bartosc, and he knelt down and allowed Yven to slide off his back.

Maladrid and Yven met with a happy embrace, and he thankfully peppered her cheeks with kisses, but when he went to lay kisses on her hands, he gasped upon seeing her wrists wrapped in bloody rags.

“Yven, what devilry is this?” Maladrid bellowed while inspecting the wounds.

“Achnoran devilry,” she replied with misty eyes.

She embraced him again and buried her face in his neck

“What good am I now? I’m useless,” she whimpered, but he lifted her chin and looked deep into her emerald eyes.

“No, Yven. Never. You are a warrior queen and by no means useless.”

“How can I be a warrior if I can’t even wield a blade?”

“Yven, come into the Forest and drink of the Pools of the Yaermaca. They shall heal you and you shall wield a blade again,” Nonwe said.

“I’m useless,” Yven whispered as the tears streamed from her eyes.

“Farmin, Dalyde, bring the Tylira into the Forest as well,” Nonwe said to the Bartosca carrying Dordin.

The Bartosca followed Nonwe, Maladrid, and Yven into the Forest with Dordin strewn across their backs, and though the Tylira was limp and his eyes were closed, his shallow breath was persistent. The rest of the Yaerla stood with the remainder of the Bartosca and the plain became filled with chatter as the two races conversed like long-lost kin.

When they reached the heart of the Forest, Yven’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She gasped at the Yaermaca, tall and beautiful in the twilight wood as the Bartosca eased Dordin onto the ground.

“Maladrid, fill your hands with sap and bring it to Dordin,” Nonwe said hurriedly.

Maladrid bent to the Pool in front of Baliwa and gazed up at him, noticing that the Yaermaca’s only movement was caused by the breeze through the silver-tipped leaves. He filled his cupped hands with sap, carried it to Dordin, and put the thick liquid to the Tylira’s mouth. Dordin’s large pink tongue darted out; when he lapped at Maladrid’s hands, the rough texture tickled his palms. When the sap was gone, Dordin opened his eyes and licked his chops, and though his legs trembled as he stood, he was able to walk slowly to the Pools. As he drank, his fur grew in luster, his eyes became bright again, and his wounds closed. The poison in his body was eradicated by the healing power of the Yaermaca sap and, restored; he let forth a mighty growl as the sugary liquid dripped down his chin and beaded on his fur.

“My Dordin! My savior!” Yven cried as she ran to him and threw her arms around his thick neck.

Dordin wrapped his huge white paw around her and nuzzled against her face.

“Yven, it’s your turn,” Nonwe whispered, and motioned to a Pool with his twiggy horn.

She released Dordin’s neck and walked to the Pool glistening in the reflection of the leaves sparkling above. She knelt down with Maladrid beside her, and he gingerly removed the rags from her wrists. He cupped his hands in the Pool and brought the sap to her lips, and when she shot him a look of worry, his smile reassured her and he offered his hands to her again. She sipped as Maladrid tipped back his hands and the sap flowed down her throat like a healing river. A rosy blush immediately flooded her cheeks, and as warmth coursed gloriously through her veins, her abrasions and lacerations were miraculously mended and all pain drifted away. The rawness in her crudely carved wrists faded and the lesions closed, but from the newly healed skin, five finger-like branches accented with knobby wooden joints sprung forth. Numerous layers of Yaermini encased each twiggy finger, and after a few moments of healing magick, Yven once again had hands to wield a blade. She flexed her new fingers, opening and closing them with perfect ease, and surprisingly, she felt absolutely no difference between her wooden hands and those that had been made of flesh and bone.

“The Yaermaca have given you a great gift indeed,” Nonwe said. “Your hands are now of the same matter as the Yaerla.”

Yven continued to clench and release her hands while Maladrid disappeared behind Baliwa and came forth holding Vetna and the rest of her discarded gear. He bowed to Yven with Vetna flat in his hands, and when she grasped the hilt and thrust it into the air with a powerful cry, everyone in the Forest bowed their heads to the queen shining fiercely in the twilight wood.

Her chest heaved as she sheathed her blade and gazed at the creatures looking upon her in awe.

“I have been in Nave’s Bend in the Castle Lochra, and I felt the power of the Cyrin,” she started. “By Yaliwe, I felt the light of it, but it was veiled by the shadow. I know that Shacore has it. He has the key to Hana, or to whatever he perceives Hana to be. The earth will be stricken with sorrow and torment, and we shall all fall to darkness and death if the enemy is to wield it. Whether we win or lose, the earth as we know it will be changed forever. If this is all part of Yaliwe’s plan, then I admit I do not understand Her will at all. Death is swallowing Her earth,” she whispered, and with her jaw clenched, her face became like stone. “I say if so many are destined to go to Hana before their time, then let us bring Hana to them.”

She climbed atop Dordin the Tylira, facing the heart of the Forest with all eyes upon her, and when she whispered into his ear, he reared back and shot forward through the Forest. The others quickly took off after her, and when they made their way back out onto the plain, they saw Yven polishing Vetna with her dress.

Balibasa the Bartosc nudged the Yaerla Dynide and asked, “Do you think we’re all going to be urged into battle?”

“I doubt the Yaerla will have to go,” Dynide replied.

“I wager you will.”

“You want to bet?” she asked competitively.

“Always. I’ll wager that everyone is asked to go,” Balibasa said.

“And I say only the Bartosca will be asked.”

“The prize will be…” he began as he looked around.

He spotted a beautifully woven blanket that was draped over Barco the Bartosc’s back and said, “The winner will get Barco’s prized blanket.”

“Hey! You can’t bet my blanket!” Barco exclaimed upon overhearing their conversation. “It’s been in my family for centuries!”

“Don’t worry, Barco,” Balibasa whispered. “You know I never lose a bet.”

“You’re on,” Dynide said with a nod.

“War is upon us,” Yven announced. “Even upon you, the Yaerla, and you, the Bartosca. If we do not all fight, we will lose this earth of Yaliwe’s creation to the Dark Lady. I ask of all of you here: will you join me in battle?”

The Yaerla looked to each other, their faces frozen in worry and doubt, and Balibasa bumped Dynide with his tusks and whispered, “I win.”

“Yven, I applaud your determination, but we can’t just run off to Lochydor like this. We need more numbers. We need more strength. Shacore easily outweighs us on both accounts,” Nonwe said.

“First, we shall head to Fircyn, the Hohmara arsenal city beneath Rosdin, to gather soldiers and weapons. You’re right, Nonwe: Shacore is strong, and the darkness that follows him is fierce, but we will have light, my friends. Maladrid, the White Star of Yaliwe, which shone to me from afar, will be our light of hope!” she declared, but Maladrid looked to the ground sadly and kicked at the short grass. “That is, if he still has hope,” she added and tilted her head to meet his gaze.

He looked up and locked eyes with her.

“If you were to lead me, Yven, my hope alone could consume the shadow,” he declared.

“Cali,” she called to the Bartosc, and when he bent down, Maladrid climbed upon his back.

“All who would save this world, follow the light of the Irylwe,” she proclaimed as she gestured to Maladrid.

“Hail, Dordin!” she shouted with her branch fingers clinging to his fur as he bounded away.

“Cali!” Maladrid hollered, and the Bartosc rushed off behind Yven and Dordin.

The rest of the Bartosca sprinted off next, followed by Nonwe, who led half of the Yaerla to the front while the others brought up the rear.

“To Fircyn!” Yven bellowed with her voice carrying across the plain. “And to a better future that waits to be claimed!”

Beyond the plains lay a great lake with cool lavender water and the sun rippling as a white orb in reflection. It stretched for many miles around, but in the middle of the lake, there was an island of large flat stones that were baking in the sun. The company started walking around the lake leisurely, enjoying the sparkle of the indigo water and the slight breeze that caused the tiny leaves of the cril-gis trees sprinkled around the shoreline to sway and rustle.

Though Maladrid’s eyes crossed his surroundings with no intended focus, his attention was suddenly drawn to the stone island and his eyes froze at the sight of a woman sliding up the rocks on her back. Her white hair cascaded down her bare and slender front, and the long white skirt that hung between her legs was drenched and clung to her pale skin. He stared in horrified curiosity as her body bent unnaturally out of the water and slid up onto the island. When she paused, her only movement was the rise and fall of her body, and it appeared to Maladrid as though the rocks beneath her were breathing heavily rather than the woman herself. He stopped walking entirely and stared at her, but he wasn’t the only one; several Yaerla and Bartosca had halted as well, mystified by the oddity. But the true oddity wasn’t revealed until the woman turned on her side and exposed another woman. At first, they appeared to be simply lying beside each other, but as they moved around, Maladrid realized that their backs were joined together. The second woman glared at him with large eyes that were as raven as her long hair and the sopping skirt clinging to her legs. Their faces and bodies were identical in feature and beauty, and together, their silent words called to the minds that would allow them entrance.

“These are the Lonhe: Portitol and Forafir. They are the Ladies of Lorynhal: lost souls of Daian from the ancient days. We must not linger here,” Nonwe urged.

Maladrid and the halted group began walking again, but their eyes constantly slipped back to the island to watch as the Lonhe began to spin. Their pale pink lips curled into smiles and their eyes fixed upon their audience as their white and black hair sliced through the air.

“Maladrid.”

He heard a whisper in his head, and it made him turn to the island again, and he noticed several of his companions turn as well. The Lohne spun faster and faster until they were a blur of white and black, light and dark, and suddenly, they separated and danced independent of each other. With their hands raised to the sky, they started to sing in a tongue that caressed the ears of all who listened. Maladrid’s body swayed with the music with his eyes half closed in dreamy delight, but when he heard a splashing sound, he was jarred back to reality and saw Bon the Yaerla in the lake, swimming rapidly toward the island of Lorynhal.

“Bon!” Nonwe cried as he stamped his hooves. “Bon, turn back; I beg you!”

But Bon refused to adhere to Nonwe’s plea.

“What’s going on?” Yven shouted as she rode up and dismounted from Dordin.

“Bon jumped into the lake,” replied Dalyde.

When Bon neared the rocks, the Lonhe crouched down to help the eager Yaerla onto the rocks.

“Someone has to go in after him!” Maladrid bellowed.

“The Lonhe are of indescribable power,” Yven said. “We don’t have the resources to combat them.”

“Perhaps they do not wish him harm,” Nache said.

“It doesn’t matter whether they wish him harm or not,” cried Baer. “He is our brother! We have to bring him back!”

Nonwe looked to Yven as she shook her head sadly, and as if beholding a faraway dream, they all watched as the Lonhe pulled Bon out of the water. They ran their hands over his back and horn as they laid kisses upon his wooden skin and whispered into his ears, causing them to flicker in delight. Portitol, with her white hair shining, scratched under Bon’s chin and he closed his eyes in ecstasy while Forafir caressed his horn and her black hair tickled his nose. Then, with a horrifying flash of her hand, Forafir snapped his horn in half and drove the crooked tip into his throat. In panic, Baer leapt forward into the water, but Yven jumped in after him and wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him back to shore. The Yaerla whimpered as the Lonhe began gnawing on Bon’s flesh and the blood poured from his neck in torrents. He collapsed onto the rocks, and although his eyes desperately searched for the shoreline, his eyes clouded over before he could find it. He fell still, but the Lonhe continued to tear his body apart with their nails and teeth.

When Bon fell to the earth, the rest of the Yaerla fell as well with bodies shaking in grief and faces streaked with hot tears; they sobbed not only because of their brother’s death or the brutality of the manner, but because his soul passed directly to Hana, he would never see the blessed realm of Yde.

It took several hours to walk around the lake, and all the while, no one could resist looking back to the bloodstained island of Lorynhal where Bon’s once-majestic body lay in pieces. The Lonhe had since joined back together and returned to the waters of the lake, leaving Bon’s remains to rot in the sun. With heavy hearts, the brothers and sisters of Bon plodded on with their heads bowed as they sang a quiet song of lament for the first of their kind to depart Dominhydor. And to add insult to injury, Bon, being of the Second Children, had lived only three centuries, half the lifetime of the Yaerla and less than half the lifetime of the Yaermaca which he was never to become.

The pace of the group quickened as the sun began to disappear from the east, and as the shadow cast by the Forest of the Yaermaca trailed them, the Yaerla longed for the comforts of their twilight home. Much to the fellowship’s relief, Yven finally halted the party on the plains and declared it time for rest. The Yaerla huddled close together, a bit out of their element on the plain, and the Bartosca did their best to comfort them with talk of better days, days when Nave’s Bend was silent. Meanwhile, Yven was off in the distance practicing her battle technique, and every once and a while, a sharp glimmer came from her direction as she swung her blade. Most of the army eventually fell asleep, but Maladrid and Dordin stayed around the fire watching Yven practice.

“She trains a lot,” Maladrid said.

“You have no idea,” Dordin replied with a smirk. “She is a warrior queen first and Yven second. It’s the way it’s always been.”

“It must be exhausting.”

“Not if you love it as much as she does.”

“Love what?” Maladrid asked.

“Power,” Dordin replied. “Strength and command. Some kings and queens would turn that love into evil conquest in order to command all of Dominhydor, but not Yven. That’s why I’ve respected her since the day we met.”

“When was that?” Maladrid asked with curious eyes.

“She was just a child, no more than four years old, and while I watched her swing a sword that was longer than she was tall, she watched me with a child’s intensity and wonder. Eventually, her curiosity got the best of her; she dropped her blade, ran over, and crashed into me with open arms that couldn’t even wrap around my leg. We became fast friends, and King Lonho allowed me to be her personal steed as well as her guardian when her father was away.”

“What about your family?”

“I leave Donir occasionally to visit, but I always return to Yven. She is more family to me than many Tylira. It’s hard not to love her.”

Maladrid glanced in her direction as she was spinning with Vetna drawn and her bronze dress flying high. Her hair smacked across her face as she suddenly switched direction and fell to one knee before plunging her sword into the earth. She flexed her wooden fingers as she stretched her arms over her head and arched her back, and while her body stood out brilliantly against the backdrop of the large white moon, her long hair blazed a vibrant red. She heaved a sigh, walked over to the fire, and slumped down next to Maladrid.

“You should get some rest, my friend,” she said.

“I’m fine. I’ll take watch while you sleep,” he replied.

“No, Maladrid. Dordin is taking watch tonight. Come; we’ll sleep close to the fire just in case anyone needs to find us in a hurry,” she said and placed her hand on top of his.

He gulped loudly as he laid back and rested his head upon the downy grass, and when she curled up next to him and rested her head upon his chest, it rose and fell with each of his nervous breaths. His eyes were upon her as her red hair blanketed his chest in locks of fire and her wooden hands dreamily clutched his shirt. His mind toyed with the idea of touching her, but he couldn’t will his hand to move. However, when her fingers reached out to him in sleep and caressed his cheek, he gently placed his hand upon her head and smoothed her scarlet curls. But upon that first contact, like a knife to his heart, foresight stabbed him with a vision of a river covered in snow. The water ran pink over the rocks while a great shadow cloaked him in fear, but it passed by him, and the stars were in the sky again, glimmering azure and ivory. He swept his eyes over the crowd of his new friends, and though many slept peacefully under the night sky, the Yaerla lay hopelessly awake, singing a dulcet song of woe of which had never been sung by their ilk.

“Whence came you, O pale death

That lay hands upon our brother’s head?

He has left all behind:

Banished from Yde by cruel mortality.

Mockery! Devilry!

O foul Fate that does beat down tall mountains

Of Children that will bend to the Pools

Nevermore henceforth.

With a cold cruel fist didst thou smote our fair brother

Who had to live and breathe many years more.

Since first blood hath been spilt

Of the Second,

The children of shadow

Shall suffer forever more.

And the children’s children

And on until the earth shall take us.

Death! Cruel mockery of duty and valor.”

The song was so powerful as to penetrate even the deepest sleep, and those who might have been too exhausted to dream had their minds easily turned to the Yaerla’s sorrow and then to their own; each one of them thought of someone they’d lost, and with the current state of the world, it was not hard for anyone to conjure up the face of a departed soul. Though Maladrid had his own faces to focus upon, he couldn’t help but think of Yven’s.

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER NINE

With much left behind and the new sun beating down with fiery force upon their backs, the fatigued company forced themselves to fly across the grassland. The Yaerla and Bartosca occasionally dipped their heads to grab a mouthful of the grass, snorting and chomping as they ran, but Dordin strayed for hours at a time in search of grass Morcs. When his large belly was full, he ran back to the group with a collection of Morcs for Yven and Maladrid to eat. Though the sun was suffocatingly hot, when it disappeared behind large gray clouds and the rain began to fall, they longed for the brightness of day. It fell soft at first, but it quickly began falling torrentially. The ground squelched under their feet and their pace lagged as the soaking rain weighed them down, and before they knew it, the grassland had become a marshland, sopping and thick, and as they struggled though the morass, the sky grew dark and the unyielding rain struck their skin like heavy needles.

Bornibar, the smallest of the Bartosca, cried out as his two front paws started sinking into the mud and the earth swallowed his legs. Yven and Maladrid tried to pull him out, but he only sank deeper, and his back paws became quickly immersed in the mire. Bornibar’s brother, Branbir, stood horns to horns with him and tried to lift Bornibar’s body from the mud, but when Branbir’s paw slipped and plunged into the wet earth, he began to sink as well. Suddenly, as if a great wind had extinguished the sun, the land became terrifyingly dark. Everyone froze in the darkness and the world was silent save for heaving breaths of panic and the occasional squishing of mud. The ground began to tremble and the sudden sounds of squelchy footfalls came faster and louder and closer. The Yaerla surrounded the company’s perimeter and thrust their horns forward in defense while Dordin crouched with his ears flattened and bared his teeth ferociously. The footsteps came nearer, and when they finally stopped, a burst of flame ignited a torch and revealed the army of large Shadaran atop Grechla steeds. The yellow eyes of the Shadaran burned like yellow orbs smoldering in a dim black sea, and their shadowy bodies shifted and swirled like a churning black fog. Their shadowy swords were of the same element, and though they never seemed solid, their strike was well known to be so. The Grechla appeared gray in the dark, but the flames of the torch caused their ivory scales to sparkle red and orange and reflected terrifyingly in their massive colorless eyes.

The rain fell heavier and everyone began to sink slowly, but when a Shadara jumped to the marshy ground and drove its dark sword into the earth, the ground started to quake and the mud began to petrify. Yven’s army struggled to pull free before the ground hardened around their submerged feet, and all managed to do so except for Bornibar who had become trapped neck-deep in hard rock. The Shadaran charged him with their blades cutting audibly through the air, and when one caught his throat, he wilted and fell still. Branbir, seeing his fallen brother, leapt at the shadowy creatures and knocked the torch to the ground. The flames were extinguished in a puddle of rain, and the darkness was upon them again, but the absence of light couldn’t stop the battle that had begun to rage with the spilling of Bornibar’s blood. Maladrid couldn’t tell what he was more frightened of: being killed or killing one of his companions by accident.

“Light from my fingers: send them to shadowy corners!” a mysterious voice boomed, and the sky suddenly burst into illumination with a radiant white light.

The Shadaran screeched and the Grechla’s skin began to sizzle, and Yven’s army was forced to close their eyes to the power of the light. When it dimmed, they realized that the enemy was scampering away but also that they were leaving a minuscule amount of their kin behind as casualties. The group stood heaving with their faces and bodies spattered with crimson, but there were some Bartosca and Yaerla that were left without breath and blood painting the earth.

“May my sleep take you and my roots become your blanket,” the voice said softly, and suddenly, all knees began to weaken and all eyelids began to fall.

Maladrid’s hand became heavy as he reached for Yven, but before he gave in to the unexpected exhaustion, her long wooden fingers intertwined with his, and the army fell into a deep sleep. When he opened his eyes again, Maladrid saw surroundings of green health, thick and lush, and flowers of nearly every imaginable color. The air smelled of honey and lilac, and as he breathed it in through every pore, his mind raced and his heart fluttered with renewed fervor. Yven, after letting out a mighty yawn, stood and gazed around her, awestruck by the unfamiliar milieu that possessed not an inch of arid land nor one withered leaf.

“Where are we?” Dordin asked, but the only response was an uncertain one.

“I’m going to have a look around,” she said.

“I beg you, Queen Yven, stay awhile,” a deep but sweet voice echoed.

Yven instinctively drew Vetna and asked fiercely, “Who are you?”

“Please put the Olfir away. We are on the same side,” it answered.

“I’m not in the mood for mysterious voices on the wind. Show yourself,” she demanded.

A loud rustling drew their eyes to a nearby pile of green leaves on the ground, and they watched in astonishment as the pile grew in height and acquired a womanly shape. Her skin was the color of new grass and the gown of leaves that covered her willowy body bloomed with delicate white flowers, as did her thick dark green hair. Around her head shone a crown of stars that sparkled every varied shade of green.

“You fall to your knees before Garyli but threaten me, Queen Yven? Have you no respect for the Daian who nourishes the earth on which you walk, who provides you with all things that grow? Am I not Daian of the Leaf? Do I not deserve to be bowed to as well?” she asked with her face glowing.

“I beg your forgiveness, my Lady,” Yven replied as she fell to the ground in shame. “I was wounded in the recent fray and frightened by this strange new land we woke up in.”

“You are forgiven, of course,” she said, and bade Yven stand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Queen Yven, and it is very good to see you again, Maladrid. I knew the Golasle would give you no difficulty.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Maladrid chuckled, “but thank you for your kindness.”

“You know each other?” Yven asked in surprise. “But she’s—”

“You are Yvinhe,” Nonwe said, mystified. “’Fair Beloved’, ‘The Green Goddess.’”

“So Baliwa’s ramblings weren’t complete nonsense,” the Monha whispered.

“Why have you brought us here?” Yven asked.

“Because you were in danger. Do you wish I hadn’t?”

“We do appreciate your help, but I think we’re all just a bit disoriented because we’re not sure of where we are,” Maladrid explained.

“I see; well, you currently stand in a secret land hidden from the eyes of Dominhydor’s Children. It was a gift from Yaliwe that I protect and keep sacred just as I do with the Yaerla, and as I would like it to remain so, that is all I care to disclose,” Yvinhe replied with a sweet smile. “I am sorry I could not come to your aid sooner, but you are safe now; the only one who knows the location of this island is Yaliwe.”

“Why have you granted us access to such a blessed land?”

“I brought your army here so that it would not be annihilated. Typically, I’m not supposed to interfere in Dominhydor’s affairs, but in this instance, I felt it necessary.”

“Where are those who died during the battle?” Firmadryn the Bartosc asked. “Where are our brothers and sisters?”

“They remain on that land hardened by shadow, and there they will remain for eternity. I tried to move them, but the power that poisoned the soil would not release its grip on their bodies. I covered them with roots and seeds and ensured that life shall henceforth flourish there. No one affiliated with the Dark Lady may tread on them without feeling pain.”

“I don’t care whether you saved us or not,” Baer exclaimed. “I don’t care that you hallowed those who fell. I don’t care that you are Yvinhe who gave life to my kin long centuries ago, and that you are the creator of blessed Yde. You are a Daian; you are the same ilk as the Lonhe who savagely killed my brother, Bon, and stained the Isle of Lorynhal with blood of the Yaerla.”

“Yes, Forafir and Portitol are my kin, but I do not condone their actions. They are no longer Daian as I am, and they haven’t been for quite some time. They were banished from Mancyte centuries ago for choosing the path of darkness,” Yvinhe replied and sighed sadly. “I regret that this battle shall prevent some of your kin from ever seeing the glory of Yde, but all are reunited in Hana in the end. Dear Baer, you have nothing to fear from me; it pains me that you would think me capable of bearing the Yaerla or any good Child of Dominhydor any ill will.”

All faces turned to Baer whose eyes were misty with sorrow, and in trembling shame, he bowed his head to Yvinhe in apology. She lifted his chin and wiped the falling tears from his wooden face.

“There is much to grieve for, and there will only be more to grieve for in the future. That future, I fear, is closer than we all think,” Yvinhe said as she swept her forest eyes across the army. “Death, life, joy, sorrow: you will feel them all; they are inescapable. Even though Yaliwe’s intentions are unknowable, I know She would not have you suffer and She would not have you give up hope. For good to triumph, we must believe that it is possible, and that although every light may be hidden, it is still there, waiting for us to seek it out.”

“As long as I am living, I will never stop seeking the light, Yvinhe,” Yven declared.

“And that is why you were chosen, young Queen, to not only make this journey but to lead it,” she replied and bowed to the Hohmara sovereign. “The Dark Lady’s minions are gone. It’s safe for you to return to Dominhydor now.”

“Gone for how long?” Balibasa murmured.

“Safe for how long?” Dynide asked in unison with the Bartosc.

“Shall we meet again, Fair Beloved?” Maladrid asked.

Yvinhe smiled warmly and laid a tender kiss upon his cheek. She extended her arms and began to lift them slowly, and when she suddenly dropped her hands, the soldiers dropped as well; their heads wilted and knees buckled and they collapsed to the ground like ragdolls. When Maladrid’s face hit the grass, the earth was vibrating beneath him and his body buzzing to the point of pain, but when Yvinhe’s drowsing magicks took hold, the verdant world faded away, and although he heard Yvinhe speak again, he was too focused on Yven’s peaceful face to listen.

“Maca nira e mos baent. Alamintyl, Li.”

A sweet dream swept them up, and although he felt weightlessly numb, Maladrid still felt Yven’s hand tangled with his once again. The sleep didn’t last long, and after they awoke to their recent battleground, they realized that Yvinhe had spoken true. The bodies of those who had fallen were gone and what remained were mounds covered with fresh grass and flowers. Maladrid was pained by watching the brothers and sisters of the departed mourn in tearful silence. Although she felt their grief, Yven’s determination was renewed by the words of the Daian, and while others mourned, she gathered her gear and began loading it onto Dordin.

“Speak your sad words to the dead if you must, but do it quickly. There will be far more to perish if we continue to dawdle,” she announced.

As Maladrid watched Yven prepare for departure, he noticed a slight hardening in her manner; it was as if with each drop of innocent blood spilt on her watch, a drop of her own had iced over. He only hoped his observation wasn’t correct, and even if it was, he hoped that victory might melt the coldness that had accumulated within her.

The sun was beating down on them as they took to travel again, and although the day was bright, each member of the company seemed influenced by the impending darkness. The sun tortured them not only with its heat but also with mocking rays that continuously reminded them that if they failed in their quest, all light would be extinguished forever. Everyone was thinking it, but it was Maladrid who finally spoke his thoughts aloud.

“How can a world so bright be on the verge of such darkness?”

Yven looked down upon Maladrid from Dordin’s back and though he smiled at her, her face was harshly cold.

“It grows darker with each passing hour,” she said. “And we can’t afford to lose any time. It’s at least another week until we reach Fircyn and four days before we have a chance to replenish our water supply in the Coelis.”

“It’ll be all right, Yven,” he said.

“Check our food and water supply and then tell me it’ll be all right, Maladrid,” she replied, and sped ahead of him.

Yven was right to be worried; the water was dwindling, and what was left of the Morc meat Dordin had gathered was turning quickly. Luckily, the Tylira knew of a place near Rosdin inhabited by several colonies of grass Morcs. Until then, the carnivores would have to subsist on vegetation. They continued northeast toward the underground city of Fircyn, parched and hungry, but when they finally reached the river Coelis, they were overjoyed by the glorious sight, fresh smell, and urging sound of water. The sunburned soldiers dunked their faces into the river and sighed as the cool clean refreshment soaked into their skin.

“Dordin and I are off to collect Morcs, and although we shouldn’t be gone too long, I’d suggest staying near the river,” Yven said. “Maladrid, Nonwe, there is a bordering pasture and forest; why don’t you two investigate them and gather as much food as you can?”

“As you wish,” Nonwe replied, and although Maladrid nodded in agreement, he had trouble hiding the fact that he would’ve rather accompanied Yven on her mission.

She noticed his disappointment in her leaving him behind, and though she felt his sadness like a shard in her chest, she plucked it out with a forced smile and a gentle hand upon his cheek. As soon as his sadness seemed even slightly alleviated, she turned away, mounted Dordin, and spurred him into the distance. Maladrid stared after her for some time before Nonwe nudged his arm, and with a dejected sigh, he followed the Yaerla toward the bordering regions.

“There are some berries over here,” Maladrid said to Nonwe as they scoured the pasture.

“Good eyes,” the Yaerla said with the satchel strap clenched in his teeth.

He dropped the sack to the ground and Maladrid began plucking the fat purple berries from the thorny bushes and dropping them on top of the large clusters of da-ni they’d already collected.

“We’ve enough da-ni to last us till we reach Fircyn. That’s all well for us and the Bartosca, but the rest of you won’t get far without meat. I hope Yven and Dordin have some luck.”

“They will,” Maladrid replied.

“What makes you so confident?”

“Because she hasn’t failed us yet. She’ll come through; she always does.”

“Then we know why Yven is here. So the question is, young warrior and friend: what brings you into this fight?”

Maladrid plucked the last berry from the bush and tossed it into the satchel with a sigh.

“Fate?” he asked with a shrug. “Is it blind luck or a blind curse? To be honest, Nonwe, for quite a while I was confused as to why I was here as well, but now I know clearly and plainly: it is in my path to help Yven realize hers.”

“You have a sunny disposition for one whose path is inspired by a doomed fate,” Nonwe muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“You may be a commoner, Maladrid, but you can’t deny your gifts. You’ve seen things, haven’t you?”

“Dreams only.”

“Or visions?” Nonwe replied. “Have you heard the voices on the wind?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because, Maladrid, this isn’t your world. I’m sure you’ve seen dark times and death before, but the simple fact is that you haven’t seen anything compared to what we are about to face.”

“And here I thought the Yaerla were all about compassion and acceptance.”

“We are, and Maladrid, please don’t see this as a slight, but you aren’t exactly experienced in these matters. I, myself, am not as skilled as I could be, and I’ve actually seen battle. I was still quite young when the good warriors of Dominhydor rose up to fight the demon, Forla, who sought to cover the world in shadow, but I soldiered through and I learned a thing or two about the powers at Nave’s Bend. The Dark Lady will not spare you just because you didn’t know any better. She will not grant you any second chances. If you make one mistake, her demons will kill you without thought or regret,” he said. “When I fought in that great battle many years ago, I thought that I was ready, but the first time I drove my horn into the belly of an Achnor, I actually felt regret about it. I pitied the creature because I knew how painful it must have been. After all, it was only acting as its soul dictated; its belief in the Dark Lady was as strong as mine toward the Lady of Light. But as I watched them slaughter the innocent in the name of their Lady, I came to realize that although their belief was as strong and true as ours, they have no hearts. They exist only to serve the Dark Lady’s will, but we, the Children of Yaliwe, exist because of Her will. She loves us; we are Her Children and not Her slaves. I felt regret the first time I killed one of them, but knowing what I know now, I regret regretting.”

“You’re right, Nonwe: I’m not deft in matters of war, but I do know that those supposed ‘slaves’ of Nave’s Bend are as far from being manipulated as we are. Their minds may be clouded, but still, they are free. That is why you feel regret about regretting. They are as free as we are, but they have chosen willingly which path they would follow,” Maladrid declared. “I am young, it’s true, but don’t underestimate me. Maybe if Yven had never crossed my path, I would be useless in this war, but she did cross my path, Nonwe, and she caused my strength and conviction to soar. If you doubt my ability—”

“I don’t,” Nonwe interjected. “I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t either.”

“Then let’s get back to gathering the da-ni,” Maladrid said.

“I didn’t mean to sound unkind or judgmental,” Nonwe said. “I simply wanted to make sure that your heart was in it.”

“Would I be here if it weren’t?”

“I suppose not,” Nonwe replied warmly. “These bushes are picked clean. We should get back to the others.”

“The forest seems to get thicker a few yards in. It may prove more fruitful. What we’ve foraged so far isn’t enough to feed even half of the Bartosca.”

Nonwe nodded and Maladrid gently hung the satchel around the Yaerla’s neck. It was not long before they started to notice the many tall stalks scattered around the forest that were rich with large clustered nuggets of da-ni, and deeper into the thicket, there were several trees that hung heavy with shiny purple fruit. Nonwe reared up and was about to bite into one of the fruits when Maladrid halted him.

“Not these, my friend. I’ve encountered a crop like this before. Try to take a bite and you’ll be in for an earful.”

All of a sudden, there was a rustling in the bushes nearby and Maladrid and Nonwe froze. Maladrid slowly moved his hand to his blade, and when his fingers wrapped around the hilt, they heard the noise again.

“Yven?” Maladrid whispered.

“That’s not Yven,” Nonwe replied quietly as his ears swiveled, and with sudden urgency, the Yaerla swiftly dashed toward Maladrid and slammed the side of his face into his leg.

Maladrid was thrown aside and Nonwe skidded out of the way just as an arrow sailed past them, but the Yaerla quickly regained his footing and shot forward into the deep woods.

“Nonwe!” Maladrid screamed.

He heard the many footfalls and loud struggle ahead, and then, after several muffled grunts, there was silence.

“Nonwe!” he cried as he rushed forward with his blade preceding.

He pushed through the forest and though he continued to shout, he heard no reply, but in the distance, aided by the blazing sun, he spied the glimmer of a discarded arrow. From there, he followed the trail of crimson and broken branches to where he found Nonwe laying motionless beneath the splayed body of a man. With all of his strength, Maladrid rolled the massive man away to see Nonwe’s body and horn splotched with blood and lightly smacked the Yaerla’s face in attempt to revive him.

“Wake up, Nonwe,” he whispered. “Come on; you have to wake up.”

His hand moved to Nonwe’s belly where there was a weeping wound, but he felt the strong rhythm of life persisting, and with a gasp, Nonwe’s eyes opened and he lifted his head.

“Careful,” he said with a wincing grin as Maladrid wrapped his arms around him and squeezed him joyfully. “I’ll be fine, but don’t squeeze me so tight.”

Maladrid released him and glared at the unconscious stranger: a young man with olive-colored skin and knotted locks of black hair tied back with a strip of canvas. He had blood spattered across his youthful face, and his left eye was swollen shut. Maladrid slid his sword beneath the stranger’s neck, knelt beside him, and whispered sweetly into his ear, “If you’re not dead, I beg you to wake in the next ten seconds or I will slice your throat to ensure your mortality.”

He cleared his throat and began.

“One, two, three, four—”

“I’m alive,” the stranger coughed.

“Good,” Maladrid said, “but you won’t remain that way for long unless you speak truthfully. Now, stand up.”

He complied slowly, groaning through the pain of the injuries Nonwe had inflicted, and held his hands up in surrender.

“Please,” he said. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

“You fired an arrow.”

“Unless there are others of your ilk about,” Nonwe suggested.

“No. I’m the only one. I swear.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Mar-Mini,” he replied as he wiped away the blood that had begun to dry on his face.

“You’re a Lyraer,” Nonwe stated.

“Yes. I serve Cite, the king of Rosdin, but I swear: I don’t wish you any harm.”

“The wounds you delivered my friend suggest otherwise,” Maladrid said, but when he looked to Nonwe, he saw that the Yaerla’s eyes were closed and brow furrowed in pain.

The wound in Nonwe’s stomach, the wound that had been so gaping was closing before his very eyes. Thanks to his blessed genetics, every wound was healing, and after only a few moments, it looked as though he’d never suffered a single blow.

“That’s better,” Nonwe sighed, “but your legions shall not heal so quickly, Mar-Mini.”

“Please, spare me, good Lords. I was only carrying out orders,” the Lyraer begged.

“To kill us?”

“The arrows aren’t fatal. They’re tranquilizers. I didn’t want anybody to get hurt.”

Nonwe ripped one of the arrows out of Mar-Mini’s quiver, dropped it onto the ground and sniffed at the tiny tip.

“He’s telling the truth, at least about the tranquilizers.”

“Everything I’ve spoken has been the truth, on my honor,” Mar-Mini said. “Except—”

“Except what?”

“What you said about there being others. I am the only one here currently, but I may not be for long. The rest of the soldiers are close.”

“How close?” Maladrid asked.

“Twenty miles at the most,” he began, “with the lady Yven.”

Maladrid lunged forward and seized the Lyraer by his throat.

“How dare you not be forthcoming with this information?” Maladrid bellowed. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he squealed. “She took off from your camp toward Colytaer. But I came to this forest to find you, Maladrid.”

“You’ve been watching us?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve seen our camp?”

“Yes.”

Maladrid burned with rage as he forcefully but calmly said, “Nonwe, give me that arrow.”

“What are you going to do?” the Yaerla asked.

“Just give it to me.”

Once the arrow was in Maladrid’s hand and the tip was pressed against Mar-Mini’s leg, the eyes of the Lyraer widened and his chin began to quiver.

“What are you doing?” the soldier stammered.

“You’re coming with us,” Maladrid said.

“I’ll go quietly.”

“I know you will,” he whispered sweetly and pierced Mar-Mini’s thigh.

The Lyraer gasped as his legs bent inward, his head wilted, and he collapsed to the forest floor.

“How are we going to get him back to camp?” Nonwe asked.

“We’re not. We don’t have time. Yven’s in trouble.”

“No, Maladrid,” a powerful voice rang from the shadows. “I’m not.”

From between a cluster of dark trees, the queen emerged with one hand on Vetna’s hilt and the other clamped onto her left shoulder. The tops of the trees parted also as Dordin pushed his massive body, loaded down with large, bulging sacks, through the opening. Maladrid ran to Yven and crushed his body against hers in a thankful embrace.

“Easy,” she whispered, and when he stepped back, she removed her hand from her shoulder to show him a wound glazed with blood.

“I’m fine,” she replied to the worry in Maladrid’s eyes.

“The Lyraera—”

“We found them, or more accurately, they found us.”

“What happened?”

“We were just outside of Colytaer when we first noticed the possibility of someone tailing us, but Dordin and I continued anyway. We gathered a great deal of da-ni from the Eastern Freelands, and Dordin succeeded in securing nearly a whole colony of grass Morcs, but when we turned to head back, we began to hear the noises of stalking strangers. Dordin could hear and even smell the withdrawal of bloodied weaponry, and when they finally attacked, they were confident that they’d caught us unawares, but we were prepared.”

“But the arrows weren’t deadly. They were tranquilizers,” Maladrid said.

“They had no arrows,” Dordin replied. “Only swords and axes. They came for blood.”

“And unfortunately, they got it,” Yven said sadly. “Before they found us, they found a trio of Bartosca on their way to join our company. There were only twelve Lyraera, but they brought the Bartosca down and left them in the Eastern Freelands.”

“Freelands indeed,” Dordin scoffed.

“They attacked us, declaring that we captured and killed one of their soldiers. We tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t listen. At any rate, they’re all dead now, but we did them the courtesy that they didn’t do the Bartosca: we buried and blessed them in hopes that Yaliwe might forgive their transgressions. So, who is this one?” Yven asked as Mar-Mini moaned. “And why isn’t he dead?”

“Because he hasn’t tried to make us so,” Maladrid said.

“He has no sword or axe. All he had were these arrows, and they only bring unconsciousness.”

“Brief unconsciousness it appears,” Dordin commented as he sniffed at Mar-Mini. “He’s waking up.”

“They’re not that potent,” the Lyraer wheezed as he yawned and stretched his limbs.

“Not so fast,” Yven said as she drew her blade and laid it across Mar-Mini’s neck.

“As I told the boy and Yaerla, I mean you no harm.”

“Really?” Yven asked with a spiteful smirk. “And your friends: what were their intentions?”

“I admit that the others and I were sent to kill you, Queen Yven, but I never had any intention of following through on those orders. That’s why I left them.”

“You’re the one that we got blamed for killing?” Yven asked.

“I wanted them to think that I was captured, but I never implied who my captors were. I had to leave; I just couldn’t kill an innocent.”

“Then why did you seek to attack us? Even with tranquilizers; why?” Nonwe queried.

“Because if I didn’t, they would have come for you too. I thought maybe if I brought you back to Cite unconscious but unharmed, he might show you mercy.”

“Mercy for what?”

“History, I suppose, and for entering his lands without permission.”

“We’ve not yet crossed into Rosdin,” Dordin growled. “We’ve made no infractions against the king.”

“It doesn’t matter any more; you’ve killed twelve of Cite’s soldiers. If he desired your destruction before, he will now desire your torture as well.”

Yven sneered and declared fiercely, “Let him try. We can all see how well his first attempt fared. What I don’t understand is why you, as a Lyraer, care whether anyone in our army lives or dies.”

“Not all of us are bent upon repeating the past, milady,” Mar-Mini replied. “But I must respect my king; if not for him, I’d have no purpose at all.”

“Or so he leads you to believe. Come,” she said as she lowered her sword and lifted him to his feet. “You will accompany us back to our camp.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not through asking questions yet.”

The remainder of the army, still stationed along the Coelis, was overjoyed when they saw Yven leading the party back to camp, but their expressions quickly changed upon seeing the Lyraeran stranger following Maladrid to the river.

“Clean yourself up,” he said and the Lyraer dropped to his knees wearily.

While he splashed the cool water of the Coelis on his face and washed the caked blood away, Yven tended to her own wounds. When her shoulder was cleaned and dressed, she strode proudly to Mar-Mini’s side and glowered at him.

“I trust you’re feeling quite refreshed?” she asked.

“Yes, milady, thank you.”

“Good. Then it’s time to talk.”

She started to lead Mar-Mini away, but she stopped, turned and locked eyes with Maladrid as she asked, as if exasperated that she had to, “Aren’t you coming?”

He snapped into action with a tremendous feeling of elation bubbling inside and quickly joined Yven. They hiked across the plain in the direction of Rosdin, and Maladrid noticed Mar-Mini’s eyes nervously darting back and forth across the land.

“Here is fine,” Yven finally said, bringing the trio to a halt.

“No, its not,” Mar-Mini said with his eyes still searching the trees and brush.

“So you left your party because you didn’t want anyone to be killed,” Yven said, “and yet you allowed the rest of those soldiers to come after me. Why?”

“Cite requested the destruction of four soldiers in your army: you, Dordin, Nonwe, and Maladrid. We were sent to take out the most powerful first and then go after the rest. I could not have stopped the other Lyraera from pursuing the queen, but I could at least try to warn the rest of her army.”

“You said that you were going to take Nonwe and me back to your king,” Maladrid rebutted. “How is that a warning?”

“It would’ve given you the chance to talk to Cite, and perhaps he would’ve shown mercy, something that the dispatched soldiers would never have done.”

“What kind of life are you living in Rosdin?” Maladrid blurted. “What kind of leader is this king of yours?”

“Cite is strict, yes, but he is a fine man. He has helped lift the Lyraera out of the dark mire of our past.”

“He has only lowered you deeper into it, Mar-Mini, and you are just too blinded by the crown to see it. Cite has done nothing to further your people; if anything, he’s made you even more cut off from the rest of the world,” Yven said.

“He has kept us safe.”

“He has kept you too terrified to think for yourselves.”

“That may be, but he is still the king, and I am still his loyal subject,” he replied. After a pensive bit of silence, Mar-Mini continued, “But there are things happening in Rosdin that shouldn’t be.”

“What sort of things?” Maladrid implored.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Mar-Mini said nervously. “We’re too close to Rosdin.”

“Tell us, Mar-Mini: what is happening in Rosdin?”

“You’re in danger here. We have to move,” he said hurriedly.

“Not until you answer the queen’s question,” Maladrid insisted.

“He’s only doing what he thinks is right,” Mar-Mini began with his eyes to the ground. “But sometimes it seems like his intentions are ill. He swears that he wants nothing more than peace between all races and clans, but he never seems to follow through on those desires.”

Mar-Mini eyes suddenly shot wide open and fixed upon a patch of bushes straight ahead, and with his voice shaking, he whispered, “We should have moved.”

The sound of an arrow slicing through the air provided a brief warning, but it didn’t give enough time for Mar-Mini to duck. It struck him accurately between the eyes, and though the force of the blow was astounding, Mar-Mini didn’t fall immediately. His lifeless body wavered for a few seconds until his heels slipped forward and his body tipped backwards down onto the ground. A barrage of arrows was loosed upon them, but before they could fall on flesh, Yven grabbed Maladrid and pulled him behind a nearby cluster of shrubs.

“I don’t think those arrows are mere tranquilizers,” Maladrid said.

“An arrow through the skull could sedate anyone,” Yven replied.

“What should we do?”

“We should fight,” she hissed joyfully through a grin.

“Yven, we don’t even know how many there are.”

“You’re right, Maladrid, so why don’t we just stay behind this bush and wait for them to slaughter us where we sit?” she asked facetiously, and with a howl, she leaped up and charged out from behind the shrubs.

When Maladrid stood to follow her, he saw her already engaged in combat with three brawny Lyraera, but before he could sprint to her aid, he felt a heavy burn explode in his shoulder and looked down to see his torn tunic starting to flower with blood. Luckily, the arrow only sliced his arm, but it was enough to make him aware of the archer. He flew toward the man with his sword raised while the Lyraer struggled through his panic to nock the next arrow. He cut the archer down with one solid blow that spattered blood across his face, and Yven took out the other three soldiers with Vetna’s ferocity slicing them into submission. She stood panting and staring down at their ravaged bodies with blood, sweat, and tears dripping down her cheeks, and when Maladrid placed his hand on her shoulder, he felt the tremors crawl across her skin as she turned.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered.

“It’s nothing. Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded and whipped the excess blood off of her blade as she said, “Let’s get back to the others.”

With the battleground left behind, the army continued its march toward the kingdom of those they had so recently slain. They had to reach Fircyn, and passing through Rosdin was the only way to get there. When Maladrid’s fingers grasped his hilt, he found it sticky and his hand stained with the blood of the Lyraeran archer, but he wasn’t focused on it for too long; he had a more important sight to focus upon. In fact, his eyes were the only ones possessed by the company that weren’t constantly crossing the countryside. His eyes were fixed upon Yven’s magnificence, cold though it seemed. But he understood why her expression was so chilly. She was focusing on things he could never begin to understand, like the lives of thousands teetering on the edge of destruction; but beneath the icy exterior, he saw and even felt the presence of her hot spirit on the verge of boiling over. The fire of her soul ignited his, and he no longer felt common; actually, he felt like a king. He lifted his chin and held his head high as he rode beside the queen and led his armada into a land he never before dreamed he’d see. For several days, they pounded through the Lyraeran territory with courageous but fearful hearts. Although he saw no evidence of it, Maladrid knew that the army was being carefully watched, and he feared what would happen when the Lyraera finally made their presence known. But even as the enormous stone gates of Rosdin appeared, the Lyraera did not reveal themselves. Perhaps it was because they were intimidated by the blood of their brothers splattered across Yven and Maladrid’s clothes, or maybe they were just biding their time. Either way, the army continued until the entirety of Rosdin could be seen from the top of the ascended hill. Most of Rosdin’s buildings were the dull hue of gray stone, but a few were marbled with color. They were all stunted and wide, and each door was crafted in the style of the city gates. Their entryways weren’t nearly as impressive as the grand entrance itself, though. The gates were mammoth and gray, but up close, one could see tiny flecks of Colti sparkling within, and a large eye, split down the pupil, was carved into the center of the door. Most of the structures were dwarfed by the Rosdin gates: they were tall and thick and spawned a great impenetrable wall that surrounded the Stone City, but tallest and most magnificent of all was the awesome fortress of King Cite. The towers stretched high into the clouds with blunted peaks, and the centermost section formidably squatted between them was a rectangular structure with a large circular entryway and an carven eye of stone set upon the lip of the edifice.

“The Eye of Rosdin has watched the city since the Erfira first established these lands. Cite is a direct descendent of Patant, Lord of the Erfira, and while it is a noble birth, it is not exactly an honorable one,” Yven explained to Maladrid. “But we must give the king our respect, especially considering our most recent frays with his men, of which I’m sure Cite is fully aware. The Feri-Stonhe, the necklace that he wears, grants him such abilities.”

“What kind of abilities?”

“This land was first cultivated by the Inha, who were ancestors of the Hohmara; but when the Erfira grew in strength and number, they invaded and took the Inha women for their own. The Inha wouldn’t fight back, though; they strove for peace and understanding with the Erfira, and after many years of struggle and death, peace and understanding did come. When Forla assumed power over Lochydor, one of the Inha princesses was taken by the Shadaran, and a mighty Erfira warrior and prince named Rara-eca came to her rescue. He rescued her from Lochydor, saved her from worse than death, but sadly, on the journey back to Rosdin, they were both killed by Forla’s minions. Both races were saddened by the loss of the young royals, and all other problems seemed insignificant for a while. The Inha crafted the Feri-Stonhe as a gift for Patant, Lord of Rosdin, and because of the magick in its making, it granted his mind the power to see whoever hovered within or even near his kingdom. The Inha remained in Rosdin for a decade following, but they were abruptly exiled by the Erfira, probably because they felt the Inha were growing too numerous. It was not until the early Hohmara came into power that they decided to reclaim the land of their ancestors that had become inhabited by the Erfira’s children, the Lyraera. After a lengthy battle between the two races, the Hohmara were victorious. However, they allowed the Lyraera to continue living in their realm on the condition that they allow the building of a Hohmara city beneath Rosdin.”

“A whole city underground,” Maladrid said in amazement. “I can hardly wait to see it.”

“It’s more of an arsenal, really. Most of the residents are soldiers, and there are more weaponry and battle gear than actual residents. To be honest, Fircyn was always meant to be the never-dispatched reserves: the last hope. I never thought it would come to this.”

“Nor I,” Maladrid said with a slight smile.

She looked at him in a way that showed how much she appreciated his presence, but then immediately looked away, proving that what lay ahead was far more important than he. But still, the smile she gave spoke volumes, and Maladrid was filled with hidden light. All of a sudden, and with a shocking clamor, an army of Lyraera finally showed themselves, surrounding Yven’s company with their bows poised and swords drawn.

“What is the meaning of this?” Yven asked fiercely.

A Lyraer with olive-colored skin and dark burgundy hair stepped forward with almost pompous confidence and sheathed his sword. He wore a robe of emerald hue with his silver armor sparkling beneath, and though his face was stern, his voice was soft but with a hint of condescension.

“I am Vet-Fista, High Guard of Rosdin. Tell us why you pass into our lands now or die.”

“Your land? This is Hohmara land. Your kingdom is built above Fircyn, which belongs to me. You are lucky that I do not kill you,” Yven said sternly.

“I must say I’m surprised that you continued your journey to Rosdin after slaughtering a handful of its soldiers. Even upon the immature hands of this unworthy commoner is the blood of the Lyraera,” Vet-Fista said with his eyes directed at Maladrid.

“They killed one of their own brothers before they attacked us,” Maladrid declared.

“Sacrifice is necessary in war, especially when dealing with a traitor, as Mar-Mini clearly was,” Vet-Fista replied. “It was a loss easily afforded.”

“How noble of you,” Nonwe muttered sarcastically.

“I am queen of the Hohmara and I think I have been patient enough. Delude yourself into thinking you have some tenure in this land if you must, but do not forget that if I wished it, I could exile every last one of you. Or perhaps you’d rather my friend Dordin show you how his kin used to deal with your trespassing kind.”

“I would love to avenge the Tylira who fell to the invading Lyraera,” Dordin growled with his ears flattened.

Vet-Fista gestured to his army and they reluctantly lowered their weapons.

“You may pass, but the Tylira must stay outside the gates. We also haven’t forgotten those of our people who were mercilessly slain on that foul day in Dorydor,” Vet-Fista stated.

Dordin leaped forward and hissed viciously as the army drew their swords again.

“You invade Dorydor, a land given to us by Yaliwe, and expect mercy?! You are greater fools than the Erfira!” roared Dordin as his claws dug into the earth.

“Nevertheless,” Vet-Fista started, “you may not pass through our gates, nor may the Bartosca.”

“Why not?” asked Cali. “We have never harmed your people or your ancestors. It was you who came into Deydor and tried to take the land. Many of my people were slaughtered and yours remained untouched. The blood of the Bartosca stains Deydor, not that of the Lyraera.”

“Please understand: our people are shaken by the rise of this mysterious beast called Shacore, and more than ever, they fear what is unfamiliar to them. Very few have ever seen your kind, and I think your presence would frighten them and force them to be defensive. I will not allow bloodshed in the Stone City.”

“No, you prefer to spill blood in lands you’ve invaded,” Dordin said under his breath.

But Vet-Fista heard him and replied, “You judge us harshly by the actions of the past. Now is a time to look to the future.”

“If your kin had looked to the future instead of being greedy, murderous thieves, the present would be a lot more peaceful.”

“Dordin, please calm down,” Maladrid said. “The Tylira and Bartosca will stay. I trust you have no qualms with the Yaerla?”

“I would not for the world leave the Bartosca and Dordin here alone,” Nonwe said and the Yaerla nodded in unison.

“They will not be alone,” Vet-Fista replied. “My men will guard them as friends of the Hohmara queen.”

“All the more reason for my people to remain here. I would rather they were alone than guarded by your men. I trust you even less than I trusted the Erfira. Besides, we’ve no reason or care to see your king,” Nonwe replied.

“Suit yourselves. But let me remind you that the Erfira were not our only ancestors; we are also kin of the Isil, who in turn are kin of the Hohmara. The blood of our parents is similar to that of yours, Queen Yven,” stated Vet-Fista.

“No, we are not kin,” Yven started.”You have the blood of the Erfira in your veins, the blood of murderers, thieves, and rapists. The only reason the Isil women mingled with the Erfira was because they were forced to. Don’t tell me that we are kin and expect forgiveness for the wrongs of your people. This isn’t a family reunion or a visit for pleasure; I’m passing through Rosdin only to get to Fircyn.”

“Much good may it do you. Follow me.”

Maladrid and Yven said goodbye to their army, and as they followed Vet-Fista through the city, many Lyraera came out of their homes to stare at them. As they passed, several townspeople cried out curses from their windows, but when Yven shot them a cold glance, they closed the shutters instantly and were silent. Once inside the castle, Vet-Fista led them into a large scarlet-colored room that was adorned with ancient shields and weaponry of silver and gold. The floor was carpeted in golden cloth with scarlet fringes and the long table in the center of the room was draped likewise. But although the table was quite large and capable of seating nearly a hundred, there was only one chair, and its throne-like craftsmanship led the pair to believe that it was for Cite, alone, to sit upon.

“You will wait here while I alert the king of your presence,” Vet-Fista announced.

“We’ve no wish to see the king. Take us to Fircyn,” Maladrid said.

“These are my orders from Cite, and I will follow them. You may, in fact, benefit from an audience with the king,” he replied, forced a meager bow, and swiftly exited the room.

“I don’t feel good about this, Yven,” Maladrid said nervously.

She smirked, pulled the gilded chair out from the table, and raised her eyebrows as she slowly lowered herself down onto the king’s seat. She sat tall with regal poise at first, as if just playing the part of royalty, but then she casually threw her legs over the arm of the chair and yawned.

“I’m not worried, Maladrid,” she said. “And you shouldn’t be either. We’ll indulge Cite’s wishes and we’ll be in Fircyn in no time.”

“Why don’t we just go now? It’s your city, not his. Why do you need his permission?”

“It’s not about permission, Maladrid. This is how it’s done. You have to bow a bit before you can stand tall,” she explained, and then shook her head and added, “You wouldn’t understand.”

When she noticed the pain from her statement shoot through his body and alter his expression, she sighed apologetically and said, “It’s complicated, Maladrid. I don’t want to talk to Cite any more than I want to talk to Shacore. He is despicably deceiving. He is far beneath me and he is far beneath you.”

“Yven, I’m not—”

“You’re a hero,” she said. “He’s a coward.”

“Then why wait for him? Let’s go, Yven. Show me the hidden city.”

“Not today,” the voice of Vet-Fista sounded from behind them.

He appeared in the doorway with a scowl firmly etched across his face and his brawny arms crossed over his chest. Yven immediately sprung out of the king’s chair and cleared her throat.

“Cite is currently occupied with more important matters,” Vet-Fista said as he glared at Yven. “But the king has arranged for you to stay in the castle for the night.”

“I’m sorry, but we just can’t wait,” Maladrid said.

“Well, I’m sorry, but the matter isn’t up for discussion.”

“I understand, but reaching Fircyn as soon as possible is of great importance. I’m afraid we can’t afford any delay.”

“The king insists that you stay the night. We are willing to accommodate you in every way we can. You’ll be quite comfortable, I assure you, and in the morning, when Cite is at leisure, he will grant you audience.”

“Very well,” Yven sighed. “And our friends at the gates—”

“—Will be well guarded and tended to. You have the word of the Lyraera that no harm will come to them or to you.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t give me much comfort, but I do appreciate the attempt at kindness,” she said sharply.

“Good. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

The east wing was deathly silent as Vet-Fista led Maladrid and Yven to their chambers, and though the brilliantly woven draperies were enough to occupy the eye and mind, Maladrid finally broke the silence with a daring query.

“So what’s keeping the king so busy?”

“Oh, this and that,” he whispered whimsically. “Besides, as a commoner, do you really think that’s any of your business?”

“Watch yourself, Vet-Fista,” Yven warned. “This commoner has done greater deeds in the past few weeks than you’ve done in your entire life. I will not permit you to insult him.”

“Well, the debate about rank will have to wait. We’ve reached our destination,” Vet-Fista said as he halted between two doors, each bearing a carving of a Lyraeran warrior frozen in a fierce battle stance, and having large gilded latches with the Third Eye of Rosdin engraved into the gold.

“Milady, your room is to the left, and yours, sir, is to the right. Sleep well, and I’ll be back in the morning when Cite is ready to see you.”

He bowed hurriedly and left them alone in the darkness of the east wing. Yven smiled and shrugged, and when she twisted the latch, the metallic click resonated against the walls and caused them both to flinch.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, Yven.”

Although the canopy bed, with its numerous pillows and downy blankets, was cozy, Maladrid couldn’t help but toss and turn. Whenever his eyes closed, he saw demons in the shapes of Shadaran and Lyraera and evil that has no name. For what seemed like hours but could’ve been only minutes, he remained awake with his mind fixed on horrendous scenarios, but comfort finally came to him when he stood outside her chamber door, twisted the latch, and pushed it open. Yven promptly sat up when Maladrid entered and wrapped the azure blankets tightly around her ivory body.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Maladrid said as he shut the door behind him.

“Neither could I,” she said. “My mind is racing too fast to rest. I’m sure yours is as well.”

“No. I couldn’t sleep because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to protect you. I couldn’t leave you alone in this place.”

“Foreboding demons,” she said with a smile.

“And all the rest,” he added. “I’d feel a lot better if you allowed me to stay.”

“Of course,” she said as she shifted to the other side of the bed and pulled the blankets back, and though he initially stepped forward to accept her offer, he quickly stepped back with his head bowed.

“The floor is good enough for me,” he said. “Common as I am.”

“There is nothing common about you, my friend.”

She handed Maladrid a pillow and a blanket before lying down again, and he curled up on the wooden floor beside her bed, but although the floor was cold and hard, once he was cocooned in cloth and knew that Yven was safe, Maladrid began drifting off into dreaming.

“Thank you,” Yven whispered, and after that, the only sounds in the room were the peaceful breaths of slumber.

A forceful rapping on Yven’s chamber door roused the pair only a few hours after they’d fallen asleep, and while Yven disappeared behind the dressing screen, Maladrid opened the door and stepped out into the hall from Yven’s room. Vet-Fista, with an eyebrow raised, flashed a sinister smile and nodded his head.

“The queen is nearly ready. I’ll only take a moment,” Maladrid said.

He pushed past Vet-Fista and opened the door to his chamber, but before he could close it, he heard Vet-Fista mutter, “A commoner with a queen. How much lower could she sink?”

Maladrid shot toward him and grasped Vet-Fista’s neck with both hands, but when sharp vivid images flashed into his mind, he released and backed away from the startled Lyraer.

“It’s a funny thing,” he said. “I’ve never seen things in the way that Yven saw them. I never saw that clearly; I never really knew what was coming, but I have a certain feeling that you will die today.”

“Forgive me for not trembling with fear,” Vet-Fista replied. “A little upper hand goes a long way.”

When Yven emerged from her chamber, Vet-Fista was rapping his fingers against the wall impatiently, but for Maladrid, the wait was completely worthwhile. She was radiant in her scarlet robes and hair exquisitely sculpted into fiery tresses that flooded down her chest and back.

“Is the king ready for me?”

“Are you ready for him?”

“You better believe it.”

“As you wish, milady. Cite is waiting in the Hall of Kings.”

“Long live the queen,” Maladrid pronounced.

“Indeed,” the Lyraer replied sarcastically and started down the hallway.

As they walked through the hall and down the winding stairs, there was silence, just as there’d been as they walked to their chambers the night before; but this time, it was Yven who broke the silence.

“You know, you talk in your sleep,” she said to Maladrid.

His face ignited in a bashful blaze, but he shook it away and replied with brilliant cunning, “Milady, so do you.”

She hadn’t, of course, and even if she had, he’d been too deep in sleep to hear it, but Maladrid imagined that as a queen, talking in her sleep was the only time she could really say what was on her mind. Obviously, Yven wasn’t one to hold her tongue when it wanted to lash an ear or two, but because of a queen’s propriety, there had to be some things she just couldn’t say aloud but desperately wanted to express. Maladrid hoped that one of those things was the one thing he wanted to hear most.

Seeing King Cite waiting for them without the Hall of Kings ripped Maladrid’s mind away from its dreamy ballet, and he bowed rigidly to the king. Cite’s skin was a golden shade of tan; his long braided hair was dark gray and hung around his face; and though he was taller than Vet-Fista, close to seven and a half feet high, his purple robe trailed an exceeding length behind him. Around his neck hung a silver eye-shaped medallion, and a red jewel shone as the pupil; Maladrid knew for certain that it was the Feri-Stonhe, not only because of Yven’s description but because he could feel the power emanating from the necklace in waves. Cite had been king for many years and each one was written on his face, but not in the form of battle scars. The Lyraera were well known for staying out of battle, and the king only ordered his army into combat when the Bend directly attacked Rosdin. The king himself had not fought in a war for decades.

“Welcome to Rosdin, Yven, daughter of Lonho, queen of the Hohmara. I am sorry for any delay I may have caused you,” Cite said warmly, but when he looked to Maladrid, he asked coldly, “Who are you?”

“I am Maladrid, good King, a soldier in the queen’s army.”

“You: a soldier? Remind me to not ask aid of the Hohmara army any time soon,” he said, and Vet-Fista chuckled.

“What matters now is that we proceed to Fircyn. We’ve been delayed enough.”

“Forward as you are, you are right, Maladrid, but I’m afraid going into Fircyn will do you very little good.”

“What do you mean by that?” Yven snapped.

“Come, there is much to discuss,” he said and gestured for Yven and Maladrid to follow.

He led them into a large room with a rectangular stone table that was surrounded by large golden chairs and walls that were decorated with beautiful tapestries of warm hues portraying the royals of the past.

“Yven, I’m afraid Fircyn is no more,” he said casually as he sat down at the head of the table. “The Achnora have been tunneling through the earth as a means of hidden travel and in doing so, they stumbled upon your underground city. Unfortunately, we did not realize it until it was too late. The Achnora destroyed the city and slaughtered all who lived there. There were no survivors.”

“You lie,” Yven said through clenched teeth. “You would’ve seen it through the Third Eye.”

“The Feri-Stonhe does see much, but in this aspect, I’m sorry to say it failed.”

“Is it possible, Yven? Could Fircyn really have been ambushed?” asked Maladrid.

“Of course it’s possible. Even the great city of Fircyn can be caught unawares,” Cite quickly answered.

“But the armies! The weapons! Half of the men of Fircyn could’ve defeated an entire kingdom,” Yven protested.

“As I said, they were caught unawares,” Cite replied. “You can see for yourselves, but I do not suggest it. It was a terrible massacre; the city looks, smells, and feels like death.”

“If it takes my entire life, I will have vengeance upon the devils that did this!” Yven shouted as she banged her fists on the table.

“Perhaps, you can have it now,” Cite cooed. “After the ruins of Fircyn were discovered, a stranger passed into our land from Tirydor: a Rani called Daradis. We believe he was the cause of the slaughter; we believe that the Achnora were under his command. So we captured him and locked him in the dungeon. Of course, he denies any involvement, but he is a liar. They all are. Rani can never be trusted.”

“How are you possibly keeping a Rani imprisoned? They have more power than all of your armies combined,” Yven said.

“We’ve been keeping him under heavy sedation. The sorcerer can do no more harm.”

“This is wrong, Cite. You’ve no proof that this Daradis has done anything harmful to anyone. You’re holding a possibly innocent member of an ancient race captive and you’re poisoning him with your silly potions,” Yven protested.

“I thought you would be pleased. The Rani are and have always been a threat, especially to the Hohmara. They raped the female Inha in attempt to prolong their race and ended up killing them when their bodies could not bear the pregnancies, and then they turned to the Hohmara to attempt propagation. And why? Because from the beginning of their existence, they savagely abused the only female of their ilk until she was forced to sacrifice herself to the sea. They are a disgrace to the Li, ancient though they may be.”

“Was it not your ancestors, the Erfira, who raped the Isil just to satisfy their lusts?” Maladrid asked. “Do not be so quick to judge, Cite.”

“I want to see him, this dangerous Rani who commanded the destruction of Fircyn. I want to see him with my own eyes,” Yven pronounced.

“Very well. Follow me.”

Maladrid and Yven followed Cite closely down many long corridors and through an iron door guarded by two soldiers, and after he led them down a long winding staircase that ended at a sliding door of bars, the guard at the gate unlocked it and they proceeded to the end of the hall. The last cell on the right was the only one occupied, and the occupant was the Rani, who lay prone on the stone floor in a long black robe with his snow-white hair disheveled. Cite kicked the bars of the cell, and the metallic clang echoed in the hollow, damp dungeon. The Rani shifted and moaned, but he didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

“To your feet, demon of Ol!” Cite shouted and kicked the bars again.

The Rani groaned and lifted his body with his arms shaking and his hair veiling his face.

“To your feet, I said!”

The Rani’s body trembled madly as he stood, and when he stumbled forward, he collapsed against the bars and weakly reached through them, trying to claw at Cite.

“You see, Queen Yven, he is a beast. See how he reaches for your throat? Say the word and he will be destroyed,” Cite said.

Yven stepped forward and studied the Rani’s face. His white skin was flawless, and his eyes were as gray as the stone walls around him. He looked young, but his eyes had the mark of wisdom, of experience, and of someone who’d already seen many ages of the world; his body was frail, and no power seemed to remain in him.

“Hello, Daradis. That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, milady,” he whispered.

“You’ve been accused of a very serious crime, Daradis. Are you guilty? Speak true for I will know if you are lying.”

He looked at her and smiled, and as he began to speak silently to her mind, his voice was wonderfully melodious.

“You’re right, Yven: my eyes reveal much about my life, but yours do as well. They tell a story of suffering, of death, and of one who has seen much that most cannot see.”

“Yes, Daradis, I once possessed foresight granted to me by the sycte. But I lost that gift when the Achnora took my hands—Achnora like those you set against Fircyn,” she said as she clenched her wooden hands into fists.

“I would never harm any of your people, Yven, but I can understand why you would be quick to believe it. The Rani history is a sad, bloody one, but I have always been a friend to the Hohmara as well as a friend to their forebears. I am a sorcerer of the earth, and my intentions have always been born of Yaliwe’s light. I would never harm an innocent soul.”

“The king of Rosdin has accused you of murder. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

“I do not fear death or torture. Yaliwe knows the truth, and so do you.”

“Why should I believe you, Daradis? Why you and not Cite?”

“Because, Queen Yven,” Daradis stated aloud, “Cite was the one who ordered the slaughter of your people and the destruction of Fircyn.”

“How dare you!” Cite boomed and drew his sword, but Yven grabbed his wrist and pushed his arm down.

“No, Cite. I will hear what the Rani has to say. Go on, Daradis.”

“The Lyraera entered Fircyn in the dead of night with vials of ornhon that they poured into the wells to poison the Hohmara. Many died, but the stronger ones only took ill and slowly began to recover; they would have, if not for the Lyraeran army that stormed Fircyn and massacred those who survived the poison. Your people didn’t stand a chance, Yven. They were weak, sick, and outnumbered. Then the army tore down the towers and burned the bridges—”

“Silence!” Cite bellowed. “He speaks lies, Highness, filthy Rani lies. He wishes to save his skin and nothing more. What would the Lyraera have to gain from destroying the arsenal of our most powerful allies?”

“Allies?” Daradis exclaimed. “You do not see the Hohmara as allies, Cite. You fear them. You would do anything to bring them down, perhaps even align yourself with the Dark Lady’s minions. Did Shacore make you an offer, Cite? Is it affiliation with the shadow or just your own petty selfishness that drove you to kill so many innocent people?”

“Lies! All of it!” Cite shouted.

“Is it? Tell me the truth,” Yven said as she pointed Vetna at Cite’s throat.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Yven. Slash at me and miss, and my men will tear you limb from limb. I can only imagine what they’d do to a pretty Hohmara queen who actually kills their king!”

Maladrid swiftly drew his sword, grabbed Cite from behind, and pressed the blade against his neck.

“You owe the queen an apology for that, Cite. You owe her your allegiance for letting you and your kin remain in her lands. You owe her your life,” Maladrid growled.

“Look at the king, Yven,” Daradis whispered. “Look at his fear; look at his guilt. He murdered those of your kin that could aid you to victory, and he’s taken your land for his own. You know I speak the truth.”

“Damn you, Daradis! Damn all of you, especially you, Yven! You and your kin should rot in the fires of Ol!”

Maladrid flicked his arm and when the blade sliced Cite’s throat, the blood poured in crimson streams down his purple robe and beaded on the fabric. He wavered for a moment before his knees buckled beneath him, and then the king of the Lyraera fell dead on the dungeon floor.

Maladrid stood panting over the body and asked, his voice trembling, “What have I done?”

“What should have been done years ago,” Yven replied.

“But what are we going to do now? How are we going to get out of here?”

“Stand back,” Daradis said. “I am not sure what state my magick is in.”

They pushed their backs against the bars of the opposite cell as Daradis’ body was overtaken by violent shivers and spasms, and they gasped as Daradis’ body became a transparent, misty vapor and he walked through the bars. He collapsed on the floor at Yven and Maladrid’s feet and shuddered as he slowly became solid again.

“It’s the ornhon. They’ve been putting small doses in my food and water to keep me weak. I’m surprised I could do that much.”

“Is there any way you could cast some spell to hide us from Lyraeran eyes?” Maladrid asked.

“I dare not. Once we get outside the castle we may need what little power I have left,” Daradis replied with his body still quaking slightly.

“Best to get on with it, then,” Yven said.

Maladrid held Daradis’ arm in support as they followed Yven’s confident charge through the dungeon, and though Vetna was readied to strike down whoever stood guard, the inner gates of the dungeon were open and unattended.

“Where’s the guard?” Maladrid asked.

“Just be thankful that he’s gone. We still have the next gate to deal with,” Yven replied, but when they reached the iron door, they found it unguarded as well.

They kept moving up the stairs and through the palace, but when they emerged from the castle, they were forced to a sharp halt. The entire Lyraeran kingdom, every man, woman, and child, stood before them heavily armed and hungry for blood.

“Murderers!” shouted the crowd.

“Queen Yven of the devil Hohmara, give yourself up now and be spared!” Vet-Fista roared from the front line.

“You would let us live?” shouted Yven skeptically.

“No, but we might do you a favor and kill you quicker!” a Lyraer replied, followed by heavy laughter.

“You have no choice but to surrender. You’ve killed our king and therefore deserve to die,” Vet-Fista boomed.

“Your king murdered my people: innocents. And even worse, he turned his back on Yaliwe. No one but Shacore deserved death more than him.”

“Mistakes were made, perhaps, but Cite has always had our best interests at heart. What about you, Yven? You abandoned your kingdom in favor of a selfish, ill-fated quest. Turned renegade, have you?”

“Don’t you dare speak to her like that,” Maladrid snapped.

“Ah yes, the gallant commoner. I must admit, Yven, that your choice in soldiers is quite amusing. And now you’ve sunk so low that you’re associating with a Rani. What’s next: Dalitants?”

The Lyraera roared in delight, and the thunderous echo of the gates of Rosdin slamming shut caused Maladrid to flinch.

“There’s no way out,” Vet-Fista declared. “There’s no one who can help you. The Fircyn soldiers are all dead and your friends are gone.”

“What?”

“They took off last night, fled in cowardly terror. You see, you’re powerless, Yven, and you’re alone.”

Maladrid swung his sword with ferocious finesse and smiled with perfect confidence as he declared, “She’s not completely alone.”

“Daradis, now would be a good time for a charm or two,” Yven whispered as the Lyraera advanced with their swords gleaming and arrows primed.

“I will do my best, milady,” he replied, and raised his hands above his head.

He closed his eyes and his lips moved swiftly as he spoke, growing louder with each recitation until his voice was a desperate cry that resounded off of every stone in Rosdin.

“Paertyle, Daian of the Water, creator of the lakes and rivers, help us now! Lela, Daian of the Wing, keeper of the Colc, help us now! We are the Li, and we need your blessed aid.”

“Your weak magicks are no match for this army, Daradis,” Vet-Fista scoffed; suddenly, the ground rumbled and the air blew cold, but the earth was soon still again, and the Lyraer chuckled in amusement. “Is this the extent of your power: making the ground tremble slightly?”

An outcry sounded from the north wall and traveled through the crowd of Lyraera, and their faces became pale with terror. A young soldier plowed through the mob and when he reached Vet-Fista, he was panting and choking on his words.

“Out with it, boy!” Vet-Fista bellowed.

“It’s the Tirdrona, my lord. They are raising the sea. They are crashing against the shores and the waves are climbing very high,” the solder replied, his fear apparent.

“But the wall—”

“The water will soon flood over it, my lord.”

Screams resounded from the north and all eyes turned to the coast. The howls of the Tirdrona reverberated, accompanied by the wet smack of waves against the stone barrier; echoing that din was the devastating sound of the wall crashing on top of the Lyraera who cowered behind it. The crowd screeched and scattered, and when the crystal water descended, it wiped them out with vicious force, no matter which way they ran. The immense wave curled and smashed through Rosdin and its inhabitants and when it was so close to Maladrid that its shadow cast a vast darkness over him, Yven’s wooden hand grasped his and squeezed.

“Here it comes,” she whispered.

The torrential water flooded through the kingdom and swept away everything in its path; everything except the three brave warriors who were plucked from the ground just in time.

“Something has me!” Maladrid cried.

“It’s the Colc!” Daradis replied. “They saved us. They’re taking us to safety.”

The extreme strength of the wind as they sped through the air caused Maladrid’s eyes to sting and made it difficult for him to see through the blasting current. But he saw Yven and Daradis beside him in the sky, each carried by the vaporous talons of a massive Colc. When he looked down upon the faraway world, his stomach turned and his heart ached, especially as he watched the city of Rosdin consumed by the water and the Lyraera disappear into the vast sea.

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER TEN

“Wake up, Maladrid.”

“Where are we?” Maladrid mumbled sleepily.

“We’re back in the Eastern Freelands,” Yven said and pulled Maladrid to his feet.

“How did we get here? How long was I asleep?”

“They brought us over several days, but don’t worry; amnesia seems to be a common symptom of traveling by Colc,” Yven replied. “We’re somewhere between Colytaer and the southern end of the Forest of the Yaermaca now.”

“What about Dordin and Nonwe? Where’s the rest of the army?”

“They’re on their way. A flock of Mosecora passed by this morning and delivered a message from the others. They should be here by tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. Even better, the Wa-D’tila of Panydor have joined with them, and the Wa-D’tila of Milydor are coming from the south to meet us as well. We may not have the Hohmara numbers I anticipated, but we’re still building quite an army.”

“That’s good news, and it’s been a while since we’ve had any of that,” Maladrid said as he smiled and gazed into Yven eyes.

For a moment he was lost in her and felt that she, too, was lost in him. A slow blink quickened his pulse and she could see the change dance through his body.

“Where’s Daradis?” he asked.

“The Colc took him back to Tirydor so he could council with the Rani there and persuade them to join us.”

Maladrid sighed, sat down on the grass, and massaged his temples. They were surrounded by very large trees that gave off a dark green hue in the setting sun, but Maladrid couldn’t bring himself to bask in the milieu’s loveliness.

“Are you all right?” Yven asked and sat beside him.

“When I started out, I didn’t know my destination or my purpose, and even through all the time we’ve spent together, I’m still not sure what use I can be to you. I’m not this Irlywe you speak of, Yven. I couldn’t save you at the Isilmaerte, and I couldn’t help you defeat the Lyraera as well as you deserved. Now we are about to meet the darkest foe of all, and I’m terrified. I don’t want to lose this war, Yven, but I don’t know how I can help you win it.”

“Maladrid, you were chosen for a reason, just as we all were. If you don’t believe in yourself, know that I believe in you. Yaliwe has built our paths and we must all walk them. So, Maladrid, will you walk with me? I know that there are horrible shadows looming, but will you walk with me?” she asked as she laid her wooden fingers gently upon his hand.

“Yven, Yaliwe pale e ia ve,” he whispered as he reached out and caressed her cheek with curled fingers, but just as the distance between them began to close, the ground suddenly rumbled; it was so slight that they nearly dismissed it, but it came again, stronger and louder.

They peered into the distance and saw a group of black dots, approaching speedily and immediately, Maladrid and Yven grabbed their gear and quickly climbed up into a tree. Once they were hidden, they cautiously peered out from the clusters of spade-shaped leaves, but they couldn’t discern anything about those approaching except that there were a lot of them.

“Ho there!” a voice rang from the distance. “No need to bolt so!”

As the party approached, Maladrid could make out the figures of fifteen Wa-D’tila with shining coats and heavy hoofs beating against the earth, and upon a few of their backs were Rani riders with their long hair whipping in the rushing wind. Bringing up the rear of the approaching company were Dordin, Daradis, the Yaerla, and the Bartosca, causing Maladrid and Yven to joyfully descend the tree.

“Well met, Queen Yven and Maladrid,” said a silvery Wa-D’tila with dark gray freckles and a jet black mane that he shook out of his eyes. “I am Raleni, lord of the Wa-D’tila of Panydor. If you grant me the honor, I offer you my army as surely as I offer my life.”

“You are very welcome here, Raleni, as is your army,” Yven said and bowed humbly to the Wa-D’tyla.

One of the Rani dismounted and fell to a knee at Yven’s feet. His robe was emerald, but when he moved, speckles of aquamarine shone in the fabric. His hair was dark as night and hung far past his shoulders, and in his deep gray eyes was the permanent gaze of grief.

“I am Lislo, king of the Rani of Tirydor. Daradis told us of your mission, and it would do us great honor if you would allow us to have some part in it. My brother, Panle of Cyn-Ros, also seeks to join your ranks and will soon be with us.”

“Yaliwe bless you all for coming. An army as diverse as this hasn’t joined together since the overthrow of Forla, and I know that Shacore will fall to it just as quickly as that demon did,” Yven pronounced.

As the soldiers fashioned makeshift beds and sat around the campfires, Dordin nuzzled against Yven, glad for her safety, and Nonwe led the Yaerla in a sweet song.

“Though the road may have twists

We shall abide them.

And the tossing waves of the sea

By Yaliwe, we shall ride them.

May never the sun of Her eyes burn away.

Keep the stars of Her body to light another day.

And we’ll be silent as stones

In the water’s flow;

To go, and never stop, to go,

Until we are safe again, to go.”

Deep night fell fast, and while the others slept soundly, Maladrid couldn’t keep his eyes closed. He’d never felt so awake; his mind raced with the adventures he’d undertaken and the adventures yet to come, and eventually, he abandoned his bed and began strolling around the trees and through the downy grass that tickled his ankles. The air was almost sweet as he strode along taking deep, fulfilling breaths, and as he walked, he was suddenly taken by a swell of song that coursed leisurely over his tongue.

“Once there was a maiden

In the delicious times of life.

She found herself a lover

To make her hence a wife.

And to that man she gave

Her heart and all her soul

The pledge to live for him alone

Until the world grew old.

But darkness took her castle

And evil took her love

And her babe that slept silent

Slept silent then above.

All was death and grieving

And the forest called her name.

The leaves became her pillows,

The soil would be her grave.

But the lady did not die

And she lingered for her sorrow

And hope that the sun would rise

For her on each tomorrow.

And just when she thought

Her life forever lost

Through the weeping forest,

A loving stranger crossed.

He filled her life with laughter;

He filled her life with jest

And she lived in true happiness—

Until the stranger left.

And so her tears resumed

But the stranger then returned

When he realized his love for her

The future in them burned.”

“What a sad song,” a tender voice said from the darkness. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it was just so sad. I’m not sure if I can handle it tonight.”

Her hair was ablaze in the moonlight and Maladrid bowed to Yven as she entered the clearing.

“It gets happier,” Maladrid said.

“How does it end?”

“With a child,” he replied. “My mother used to sing it to my brother and me.”

“You have a brother? Where is he?”

“I’m not sure. He left a few years ago,” Maladrid answered. “I’m afraid much of my life is even sadder than the song.”

“We all have sadness, Maladrid. I’m sure there was happiness in your life as well.”

“Yes, but it seems so long ago. Nowadays, happiness seems forced.”

“All happiness?” she asked as she laid her hand on top of his and met his eyes with poignant fervor.

“My Queen and friend,” he said, “you are the truest thing I know and the greatest creature I’ve ever met. What you’ve taught me will live forever in my soul, and your touch will live there also. Thanks to you, I do know my course and understand my place. And at last, with your aid, perhaps I can be happy once again.”

“I wish I could help you with that, Maladrid,” she whispered as she withdrew her hand and lowered her head. “But this is a story of freedom and survival, and time is running short. What I could say would quicken our hearts, but it would not quicken the journey to save our lives. Without freedom, we could never live as our hearts desire.”

“You truly are the daughter of a king. Your father would be proud of you, Yven.”

“Maladrid, don’t sing my praises. Sing of joy. Sing of love, but do not sing of me.”

“Yven, a song composed in admiration of you is one of joy and love. Don’t reject what you are and what you presence does to those who follow you.”

She shook her head with her eyes closed and when she opened them, two heavy tears fell and stained her cheeks with glistening lines.

“Please,” she whispered. “I’m not blind, and I don’t want to push you away, but if this is revealed, those who mean to harm me will go through you. I cannot risk it, and I don’t mean to. But you will always remain.”

She bent down and ran her twiggy fingers across his cheek.

“Always, my friend.”

“The world will always need you more than I,” he said. “Always and ever.”

She forced a smile through the grief and hung her head.

“Do you remember being a child, Maladrid?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Because I don’t. I remember being a princess but never a child. Did you play? Did you roam?”

“Yes, milady.”

“There were times in the dark when I would gaze up from my window and dream about being in the stars.”

“Everyone has had such dreams, Yven. Everybody wants to be more.”

“But I am already everything. The world is upon my shoulders and I cannot will my foot to take another step, but the world is stationary until I move. How do I move? Even with you at my side, I find it hard to move.”

“Perhaps it is because I am at your side.”

“No,” she said as she grasped his hand. “I need the white light of Yaliwe upon me, and that is you. You drew me in and led me to my destiny.”

“Yven, you are the leader.”

“Yes, but I followed my heart to find you. I left Donir alone because I knew that all I needed lay before me. And I found you. You were my beginning, but no one dwells upon the end like a sovereign. The end is always upon me because of my blessed blood.”

“And because of it, you were also denied a childhood, but look at all you’ve gained: a world to admire you, to follow you, a life that will linger in song and story long after you are gone.”

“That time will come soon, I fear,” she whispered.

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Things are changing, Maladrid. For one, the night is quickly becoming day and we’ve not seen our beds.”

“Has the time passed so quickly?”

“It always does.”

“Then I will bid you a good night, milady, although I must say that seeing your face in the moonlight is not an easy sight to leave behind. It’s rivaled only by the look of your face in the sun.”

“You flatter, my lord.”

“Only to honor the truth,” he replied with a bow.

Maladrid walked back to camp knowing that it might never get any better than that, but he was completely satisfied in the knowledge.

The next morning was hot but possessed a cool breeze that soothed the fiery strokes of the sun. Each traveler had his own canteen filled with icy water from the Galaelis, which they crossed in the early morning. Yven was resolved to avoid going over the Hara-gis-Maerte, for the journey over the mountains could delay the mission for almost a month. Raleni suggested a stop in Milydor, home of his cousin Iotyle, the lady of the Wa-D’tila, to secure further numbers, but after much deliberation, it was decided that instead of stopping, a great outcry for help was to be sent throughout Dominhydor by way of the Mosecora. Since most of the Mosecora had vanished from the skies and taken up residence in Colytaer, the former land of the Coltina would be their next destination. It would take nearly a week to get there, but since there were no better options, Yven was forced to accept the delay.

“When the Coltina switched to the Dark Lady’s side, they abandoned Colytaer in favor of Lochydor,” Nonwe explained to Maladrid as they journeyed. “Now it only houses an arm of the Galaelis and the refuge of the Mosecora, but it is still a dangerous place. Evil was done there, and evil always leaves an impression upon the land.”

“The Achnora pass through Colytaer as well,” Yven added. “I doubt we’ll encounter any; they should be in Lochydor making preparations by now, but we should be on alert anyway.”

Even though the ground was hard and craggy with Colti, there were still a great deal of trees clustered across the land, and even though the trunks and branches were as hard and white as the earth, their leaves still fluttered in the brisk breeze. Yven’s army expected the Mosecora to appear instantly when they entered Colytaer, but they saw no sign of them nor heard the flutter of friendly wings, and after nearly six hours since crossing into Colytaer, the army grew uneasy.

“Where are they?” Maladrid asked.

“They’re holed up, no doubt. Even the skies are perilous these days. Besides, we’ve not yet reached the palace.”

“Palace?”

“It was built by the Erfira,” Daradis said. “They briefly lived in Colytaer because this is where their Farwe fell. But the Coltina came soon after, drove the Erfira out, and claimed the land for themselves.”

When the palace at last came into sight, it was still a few miles away, but it was clearly massive. The trees that grew around and through the frame made it a great twisted fortress forged of rock and root that cast a long shadow over the advancing army. The keep was riddled with holes through which barbed weeds grew in tangles, and the curtain wall had been smashed to a pile of rubble. Yven pushed open the splintered castle door and the rusty hinges creaked sharply. When the cloud of dust billowing about the foyer cleared, the dismal desolation of the palace’s interior was revealed.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Yven called.

“Maybe they’re all in flight.”

A light flutter echoed through the hall, followed by a soft squawk, but before the soldiers could question the noise, the foyer became filled with a cacophony of caws. From hidden nooks, a covey of wing, beak, and talon rushed over and around them until it broke into many directions and finally settled on the many branches and stones jutting out from the walls. The Mosecora hopped around joyfully on their perches with their great wings fanned, and though they were far less formidable than their flying friends, the Colc, their acutely hooked beaks and razor-sharp talons were clearly nothing to be dismissed.

“Well met, Queen Yven and good warriors of Dominhydor,” announced the largest of the Mosecora, who wore a spiky crown of Colti upon his head of rich brown feathers. “I am Mi-gis-Mil, high captain of the Mosecora, and on behalf of my brothers and sisters, I welcome you to our refuge.”

“Do you know why we’ve come?” Yven asked.

“Of course. You need us in a courier capacity, and we will accept the task. I regret that we cannot do more, but we remained confident that you would find some part for us to play in this battle, be it a small one.”

“This is an extremely large part that you would play, Mi-gis-Mil,” Nonwe stated. “If this message you deliver recruits more soldiers, then we have a good chance of winning this battle, and when the Anjila have been conquered, you can reclaim the skies.”

“But even if no one comes to our aid, we are in your debt,” Maladrid added.

“All of Dominhydor shall know that because of you that there is work to be done: Yaliwe’s work,” Yven pronounced. “They will know that we will not stand idly by and let Shacore take what is ours. They will know that light shall reign over shadow. That is the message, my Lord; what becomes of it depends on you.”

“My kin and I shall speak it like fire in the field. Not one creature from Tylira to Morc shall ignore the queen’s message,” Mis-gis-Mil declared. “For the first time in centuries, each and every Mosecora shall take to the sky and cross this land as a proud clan again.”

Yven’s army knelt before the creatures, and when their heads touched the floor, the Mosecora sounded their noble cry and pushed off from their perches. The prodigious flock swooped down over the genuflecting Li and out of the palace, and they flooded the sky with their earth-colored bodies and spread like fingers of Yaliwe stretching across the world.

Over the next few weeks, the fellowship bided their time. They remained hidden in the twisted palace of Colytaer and only left the sanctuary in order to fetch fresh water from the Galaelis. As they waited patiently for the return of the Mosecora, three Tylira joined them from Dorydor, two from Bali-Ros, ten of Milydor’s Wa-D’tila, and one morning, Maladrid awoke to two newly arrived Rani from Cyn-Ros cooking a fabulous feast of grass Morcs and berries. The Rani had ridden with a new group of Bartosca from Deydor, and Yven’s army couldn’t have been more ecstatic, until the next day when three more Rani arrived from Tirydor, coupled with Wa-D’Tila from Panydor.

“I am pleased that there are so many of you who believed enough in this quest to come so very far. I know the journey has been long and weary, but because of it, now I have little doubt in my heart that we will be victorious. Yaliwe, be praised. She has brought us her finest warriors,” Yven proclaimed; her eyes swept across her allies until they fell on Maladrid, and a great smile crossed her face.

He forced his reciprocating smile because in truth he didn’t feel worthy of her compliment, but when she marched over to him and lifted his eyes to meet hers, she whispered, “Her finest warriors.”

“Let’s to bed, milady,” Nonwe suggested. “We have quite a trek to begin in the morning.”

“I wish I knew we could have a full night’s sleep. In all the time we’ve been here, I’ve not slept well for fear of Shacore and his demons. They seem to have a habit of interrupting our rest in some form or another,” Maladrid groaned.

Daradis called to his kin and the Rani joined hands in a circle. They whispered in unison with their heads bowed to the earth, and the rest of the fellowship gazed on in wonderment as the ground began to quake. Splinters of light shone through tiny cracks in the foundation, but then the light burst upward and bent around the warriors, the castle, and a great deal of Colytaer. The immense dome of light filled several of the soldiers with wonder and they ventured out of the palace in order to inspect its magnificence. When Maladrid pressed his hand against the dome’s shining wall, it felt like warm gel, and his arm passed through it.

“What is this?”

“Just a charm,” Daradis replied. “We may penetrate it, but the outside cannot. It should keep us hidden from unfriendly eyes, at least until sunrise.”

The air was still as the ponderous night fell. The army settled into a calm doze, all save Yven, who had become accustomed to remaining awake while others slept. Dordin joined her by the fire, and together they enjoyed the warmth of the flickering flames. She rested her head against Dordin’s leg, and when his fur surrounded her face, she was granted a fluffy black mane. His deep constant purr vibrated against her cheeks and brought her to complete peace as he kneaded the ground with his great paws in utter contentment.

“Yven, why did you want to leave me behind?” he whispered. “Why did you send me away?”

“Dordin, you know why. I needed to make this journey alone.”

“But you’re not alone. You could never be alone. You draw people to you because of who you are. You are a leader, a champion, and more so, the finest creature I’ve ever met,” he replied lovingly.

“I was just trying to protect you. You are the only one who has been with me through my entire life. Yes, I sent you away, but I always knew that we’d see each other again. I have often wondered how you can be so devoted to me though. You had a life before we met, and you will have life after I am gone. How could you love me so when there will be so many more like me in your lifetime?”

“My Queen,” Dordin whispered sorrowfully.

“Will you forget me?” Yven asked with her voice trembling and wiped the tears from her face with her twiggy fingers.

Dordin lifted his paw and curled it reassuringly around Yven’s body.

“Don’t speak about that again, I beg you. I don’t ever want to imagine a time without Yven.”

She flung herself against him and wrapped her arms around his fuzzy neck in an honest embrace. Dordin nuzzled his friend and purred loudly as she settled into his fur and they both fell into a tender sleep. But while they and others peacefully became lost in their own dreamlands, Maladrid found himself standing in an unfamiliarly misty, snow-covered region. The snow was dyed russet and piles of faceless bodies lay strewn about the rocky ground, and as he tiptoed around the corpses, a thick silence hung over him. The river was trickling through the otherwise still land as the snow eased down from Hana, but oddly, as he weaved between the bloody drifts, he felt slightly elated. The falling flakes cooled his boiling body, and steam rose from his skin as the snow kissed his hot flesh. When he neared the river, he found it plugged with an unnatural dam with water dribbling around it and sprinkling the surrounding white bank with dots of red.

“Look to the mountains, Maladrid.”

He spun around to face a sudden range of rock with flecks of gleaming red scattered about the face, but unexpectedly, from the solid mountain came a ghostly figure that hovered before him. He only saw brilliant swirling mist without definition, but at the peak of the vapor sat a crown of tan stars winking in glorious distinction. Maladrid humbly collapsed before the being and bowed at its hazy feet.

“Do you know me?” its light voice chimed.

“You are a Daian,” Maladrid whispered, and as he gazed at the figure, he could swear he saw the distinct outline of hidden eyes within the fog.

“I am, but to be more precise, I am Cynia,” it replied. “I am the Daian of Inner Earth and I have a gift for you, Maladrid the Irlywe.”

“A gift for me?”

The mountain range rang in resonance, causing the earth to tremble and Maladrid to fall backwards onto a bed of rock and slice his thigh. Favoring the leg, he scrambled to his feet and beheld, wide-eyed, a large sliver of red light floating in front of the mountain. As it drifted toward him, it shrank into a glassy crimson shard, and when it reached him, he opened his palm beneath it. The tip of the sliver tickled his hand as it lowered and finally fell into his grasp. As he held it in his fist, beads of sweat formed in his palm from the shard’s heat, and the droplets that fell from his hand onto the earth created pools of perspiration that sparkled with flecks of red.

“The length of the future is decided in the lifetime of a moment,” Cynia whispered. “Take this, Maladrid. You will know what to do when the time comes, but for now, you should just focus upon the thunder.”

Maladrid was puzzled by the statement, but when a thunderous rumbling overtook the land, his confusion was abated. With a shriek, he shot awake, still hearing the clap of thunder that had sounded within his dream. The others were stirring, rubbing their eyes and groaning as the new light of Dominhydor shown brilliantly through the Rani’s barrier. As Maladrid’s senses flooded back, he felt a stinging pulse in his thigh caused by the wound he’d sustained when he’d fallen on the rocks in his dream. He was rightfully taken aback, but even more shocking was a different throbbing sensation a few inches above the cut. If the wound had transcended dream to reality, he had an idea what might be causing the other sensation, but he couldn’t believe it until he reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the shard.

The Mosecora swarmed back into Colytaer only a few hours after daybreak, and though their numbers were still strong, Maladrid immediately noticed that they’d lost several soldiers; for one, Mi-gis-Mil was nowhere to be seen.

“What happened? Where is the high captain?” Yven asked.

“I’m the high captain now,” one of the Mosecora said as he glided down wearing the thorny crown of Colti that had so recently sat upon Mi-gis-Mil’s brow.

“What happened?”

“There was an ice storm in Balochena. The hail knocked us out of the sky, and we were forced to take shelter in a cave. It wasn’t long before the Achnora found us, but we fled quickly and were able to escape with most of our army intact. But because we had no choice but to travel through the storm, those with injuries worsened. By the time we were able to take rest in Bordal, it was already too late for many of them. Mi-gis-Mil was one of those who were injured in Balochena. His left wing was broken and his beak crushed, but he insisted upon continuing. Less than an hour after we touched down in Bordal, my dear father, high captain of the Mosecora, passed on to Hana. So, Queen Yven, I am Galmaca, the new high captain, and since it is clear that your numbers have grown, I suppose I don’t need to tell you that our mission was successful.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Yven said.

“Thank you, but there is no time to dwell in sadness. There’s no doubt that the powers at the Bend are aware of your proximity to their kingdom, and because of that, I’m afraid you cannot stay here any more.”

“I understand completely; we will depart at once,” Yven replied. “Thank you for your help, and I promise you that it will not have been in vain.”

The Rani had made good use of their time in Colytaer by constructing thousands of arrows from the durable stone of the land. They also fashioned special headgear for the Tylira and Wa-D’tila: crowns with two distended horns that glimmered in insured fatality were fastened around their foreheads. But although they were adequately armed for battled, they had no plan of attack.

“Milady, if we stayed in Colytaer for another month or so, we could fashion catapults and battering rams and perhaps take the Bend by surprise,” Lislo suggested.

“There is no way to surprise them, and we cannot delay any more. In fact, I think simply storming the gates would be the most shocking of all. They would think us to have a brilliantly elaborate plan, and that would be nice, but we don’t. We have to leave now with what we have. If we develop a plan later, great, but for now, we’ll just have to rely on one another. Besides, armies with well-laid plans, twice as many warriors, and even great stone catapults have fallen to the Bend.”

“Then what hope do we have?” Lislo asked.

“My friends,” Maladrid began, “as I have progressed through this journey, my hope has been both high and low. Perhaps this battle is futile, but then, ask yourselves: why are you here? You are here because you believe in something so sincerely and passionately that even though it may cost you your life, it is worth fighting for. But we’re not fighting for freedom or good. We’re fighting for the prospect of freedom and good. Take comfort, my friends. Take comfort that you have such a leader as Yven and that you have such companions to fight beside. I am grateful. I am content. And when we storm the Bend and trample the armies of Shacore, I will be complete. So those who don’t want to step toward a tomorrow that is free and good, take a step back. I care for you all, but do not waste our time. Go back to your families and protect them, for if we do fail, they shall be next to die.”

“Maladrid is right. If there is anyone here who do not believe in this quest, do turn and go,” Yven declared with eyes sweeping the crowd.

“My allegiance is to Yaliwe alone,” Daradis declared, “but She bids me follow you, Queen Yven.”

One by one, the members of the army bent to the ground with their hearts allied, but when Maladrid knelt as well and she gazed down upon him, she fell to her knees also, too consumed by her emotion to stand alone.

“Thank you, Maladrid. My lord, my White Star.”

For many days it was soft and sunny, and though their minds were fixed on the upcoming fray, they chatted and enjoyed each others’ company. They had passed out of Colytaer and into the southeast of the Eastern Free Lands, and as they neared the borders of Nave’s Bend, the sky filled with gray clouds. They knew they were nearing danger and thoughts of death cascaded down as fat drops upon their heads and crashed across the sky with splinters of lightning. Although the breeze grew cold, the hope of good and freedom kept them warm. The future was only a few days march away and the rush of anticipation willed Maladrid on despite him wanting to collapse from exhaustion, as it was with many of the soldiers. A couple of the Yaerla were stricken with illness from the fatigue and damp weather, but still they plodded on. When Dordin’s paw was cut by a jagged rock, the wound was too deep for him to continue at his current pace, so the fellowship was forced to stop and camp for a day. But Nonwe had a remedy that would speed the Tylira’s recovery: his Yaermini blood. Yven shallowly sliced the Yaerla’s leg and soaked up the blood with a piece of cloth, and when she applied it to the Tylira’s pad, the majority of the gash healed.

“It’s not as effective as the Pools, but the bleeding will cease and you’ll be able to walk. You’ll still feel some pain, but it will fade as your body heals naturally. On our return journey, we shall all visit the Pools and be restored,” Nonwe explained.

“Return journey indeed,” Dynide muttered.

Balibasa tapped Dynide with the blunt side of his tusk and whispered, “I’ll wager there is a return journey. If I’m right, I get to drink from the Pools before you. If I’m wrong, well, then you’ll win and we’ll probably all be dead.”

“Seems like a pointless wager to me, but you’re on,” she replied.

“Chin up, Yaerla friend. You know I never lose a bet.”

Raleni had been sent toward Nave’s Bend before the fellowship left Colytaer in order to scout the borders and activities of those within, and when they were but a day’s walk from the gates, he came bounding back to the company.

“What is your report, Captain?” Yven asked.

“There is quite a rage building within the walls but no guards outside. The gates are open. I observed for days, and still the gates remained open, but no one entered or left the Bend that I could see. I believe they are expecting our arrival, even welcoming it, and it is clear that they do not fear our coming.”

“I see. Any sign of Shacore? Did you see anything that could help us: weaknesses, numbers, weapons?”

“No, Queen Yven. I saw nothing as such. My view through the gates was rather obstructed for the briars that surround them. I could deduce that their numbers are many, but I couldn’t guess exactly how strong. I saw no creature I deemed to be Shacore; he must be hidden away inside. I am sorry I could not be of more help.”

“Don’t be sorry. I thank you for your services, Raleni,” Yven replied.

“Riders approach from the east!” Dalyde bellowed, and she and Maladrid peered toward the approaching party in the distance,

“They are riding Wa-D’tila. Dorel Wa-D’tila from the looks of it,” Raleni said. “That’s strange. The Dorel Wa-D’tila hardly ever travel this far and they never allow themselves to be ridden.”

“Arm yourselves, friends!” Yven shouted and mounted Raleni. “Whether they be friend or foe, we must be prepared. Get into formation now!”

The Bartosca ran to the front line and bowed their heads to exhibit their glimmering horns and tusks while the Tylira stood behind them and clawed at the ground as they crouched for attack. However, a screech tore through the air and grew louder as an arrow sailed toward them. Yven shouted for them to retreat and the army fell back, but the arrow fell far too short to even be threatening and landed with a squelch in the ground.

“Yele, Raleni,” Yven whispered and the Wa-D’tila charged forward.

He sprinted past the arrow as Yven eased down his side, snatched it from the mud, and returned to her army. It was of Hohmara make and had a bit of cloth tied to it. As she ripped the note free, all eyes were upon her in anticipation, but the only thing scrawled upon the cloth was a name.

“Folcir?” Maladrid asked as he read the note over her shoulder.

“Folcir of Donir,” Yven replied. “I know him, but stay alert; it may be a trick.”

However, when the strangers neared, Yven rejoiced silently. Their army was comprised of fifty strong Hohmara led by Folcir, her royal advisor and captain of the guard.

“Stand down, friends. We have nothing to fear from these warriors,” Yven beamed.

The Bartosca and Tylira stepped aside as the Hohmara army trotted to their queen. Their armor shone through their tunics, and their bronze helmets caught the brief blink of sunlight through the passing clouds. Folcir and Yven strode toward one another, and after standing in silence for a few moments, they crashed together in a joyful embrace. When they broke apart, Folcir fell to one knee.

“My Queen, Yaliwe be praised that we found you in time,” he spoke graciously.

“In time for what?”

“In time to stop this madness, of course,” Folcir replied boldly.

“Of what madness do you speak?” Yven snapped.

He bowed his head and responded, “The madness that you would deny us the pleasure of fighting beside you, my Queen.”

She smiled as she clamped her hand to his shoulder, and he gasped when he noticed the drastic change inflicted upon it.

“Milady, what has happened to you?”

“Too much, my friend.”

“How did you find us?” Maladrid asked.

“With no word from the queen, we began to grow worried about her condition. But one day, the skies were filled with Mosecora, and they called out our queen’s message. We were able to slow their flight enough to get an explanation and learn of your plan and route, and for several weeks we journeyed by foot until coming upon another army on its way to join your ranks: the Wa-D’tila of Dorel.”

It was then that Folcir’s mount spoke up.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Queen Yven. I am Panhon, high lord of the renegade Wa-D’tila of Dorel. As you may know, we long ago separated ourselves from those who would tame and ride us, but then the Achnora came into our land and slaughtered those who would not be tamed. We decided to flee in search of you when we heard the Mosecora’s message, and when we encountered those from your kingdom, they were kind and did not try to ride us; they merely wanted to join us. That is why we abandoned our prior rule and let them sit upon our backs.”

“The Achnora have invaded Dorel?”

“They came from underneath the Iomaerte and ambushed those in the land. I am sorry to bring you such news, my Queen, but many cities there have already fallen to shadow,” Folcir said.

Yven’s head wilted and swayed as she clenched her jaw in grief.

“My people are suffering. The kin of my friends are suffering. Well, that ends now. We may not be able to ambush the Bend, but it will fall nonetheless.”

“Milady, we have brought supplies: weapons, armor, food, and drink,” Folcir stated. “Shall we rest for the night and prepare?”

“I’m prepared to storm Nave’s Bend as I am now, Folcir,” Yven answered fiercely. “But since you’ve traveled many a somnolent mile to bring us aid, we will indulge you. However, this shall be the last of nights, for all of us. This shall be the last night we sleep in fear, the last night we pray for victory, and the last night Shacore rules.”

As it had been on several evenings prior, while the majority of the army slept or at least attempted to do so, Yven was awake and training. Her sword sliced the air as she spun and dashed and speared invisible foes, and, as on many evenings before, Maladrid sat by the fire and watched her every entrancing move. Her determination and fervor quickened his pulse and filled him with a wonderfully queasy feeling as he fidgeted and nervously adjusted his position on his rocky seat. Occasionally, her eyes found his and almost immediately broke contact, but she never broke her graceful, battling dance.

“She’s mesmerizing, isn’t she?” Folcir said as he sat down next to Maladrid.

Maladrid ripped his eyes from Yven’s swordplay and directed them at the flickering flames.

“Yes,” he replied. “The way she trains, her focus, her strength: it’s inspiring.”

“Surely that is not the only thing about her that inspires you,” Folcir said as he nudged Maladrid’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

“Do you think I’m blind? I’ve known Yven since her birth, and she has never looked more radiant. There is a new spark within her: the same one that is within you.”

Maladrid’s eyes drifted back to the glorious creature with the gleaming sword. The moon ignited her red hair and emerald eyes, and when she turned, she met Maladrid’s gaze and waved coyly.

“You do know that you’ll never have her, don’t you?” Folcir whispered. “You know that you have no chance.”

“I’m not quite sure to what you’re referring, my lord.”

“I’m referring, Maladrid, to what you know and can’t accept. She will never choose you. The spark within her is evident, but brilliant as it is, it will die like every ember in her heart must. It is the way of the blessed warrior. As a queen, she is born with sacrifice in her blood. Her life is something you could never understand ,much less be a part of. The royal do not honor the common.”

“Yven is different.”

“You are right about that, and I must say that the differences between Yven and her forebears trouble me. But one thing is clear: the future depends on Yven’s marriage to one of blessed blood. And you, Maladrid, brave and true as you may be, are a commoner, a nobody, one of the expendable cavalry. She may have formed a small bond with you, but that bond will break, my friend, and she will banish you from her mind.”

“Her mind, perhaps, but her heart will not forget.”

“Yes, it will. She is a queen and the desires of her heart aren’t a priority to her. Her focus is always on what’s best for her people, and that will never change; not for you or anyone.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Maladrid asked.

“Because when she shuts you out, and she will, I don’t want you to be brokenhearted by surprise. If she is victorious in this battle, she will return to Donir and leave you behind, alone.”

“Never,” Maladrid whispered.

“I’m sorry, but you have no choice but to accept it. Her path leads to greatness and yours to mediocrity.”

“The lady Yven is my friend. She has never judged me or made me feel less than a king.”

Folcir stifled a chuckle and smacked Maladrid’s back in amusement.

“Play the king if you want,” Folcir said, “but such having such fantasies will only hurt you more when she tosses you aside.”

Maladrid stood and looked down at Folcir with menacing eyes as he replied, “You’re wrong, Folcir. You don’t know Yven at all, and you don’t know me. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he drew his blade, “I would like to join my friend in training.”

As he began to walk away, Folcir called after him, “In my experience, commoners are not typically known to train with the blessed.”

“Not typically, no,” Maladrid murmured and disappeared into the darkness.

[Back to Table of Contents]

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The last stretch of land before Lochydor was a very steep hill that, once surmounted, allowed the army to see the entirety of Nave’s Bend and the mountains in the distance. Dark billows of smoke rose from the Castle Lochra and though a great din emanated from the courtyard, they saw no being on the land or in flight.

“Where are they?” Dordin asked.

“Do you see anyone, Maladrid?” Yven asked him, but he did not hear her.

In fact, his eyes were not even facing Lochra; he was staring with his eyes agape at the range of rock adjacent to the Bend.

“Maladrid?”

“I’ve seen those mountains before,” he whispered.

“The Hara-gis-maerte? When have you ever been near the Bend before?” Dordin asked.

“Only in a dream that struck reality,” he replied intently as he reached into his pocket and grasped the crystal that was hidden there.

“Do you see anything?” Yven asked Folcir.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“Well, no time like the present,” Dordin began. “Shall we charge?”

Yven shook her head as if suddenly confused by every thought that flooded her mind. Her eyes crossed over her friends, but she avoided contact until she finally fell on something that intrigued her.

“Barco,” Yven started as she lay her hand on the blanket that the Bartosc had draped across his back. “May I borrow this for a moment?”

“Of course, milady, but do be careful with it,” he replied nervously.

She beckoned for Dordin and when she whispered into his mammoth ear, he nodded and opened his jaws. Barco winced as Yven laid the blanket across Dordin’s teeth and he closed his mouth around it. Like a rocket, the Tylira took off toward the Bend, and although there was a general outcry of shock among Yven’s army, she stood watching Dordin in unwavering confidence with her hands on her hips. He was still a fair distance from the gates, but he could feel the enemy’s eyes upon him as he neared, and with all of his strength and his teeth easing up on Barco’s blanket, he reeled back and heaved it toward the courtyard. It sailed over the curtain wall and hovered in the air for several moments before hundreds of arrows pierced it and forced it to the stony ground.

“I’m sorry, Barco,” Yven said, hearing the sad moan from the Bartosc.

“I suppose the sacrifice is worth it to know we would’ve been ambushed by archers,” he grumbled.

“Now what?” Lislo asked.

The slight whistle of the wind amplified the silence of indecision, and all eyes turned back to Yven: an occurrence she had really come to abhor as she stared, frozen, at Lochydor.

“Yven?”

“The Achnora sure are livid,” Dordin said as he rejoined the group.

“Did you see Shacore?” Folcir asked.

“I didn’t even see the Shadaran.”

“Yven,” Maladrid whispered as he set a tender hand on her back.

“I don’t know what to do,” Yven said in a panicked whisper. “My father would’ve known what to do, but I’m just not good enough, not strong enough.”

“Yes, you are, Yven. You are our leader and friend and we have sworn in blood to follow you and follow you gladly. We await your command,” Maladrid said.

“Maladrid, I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can and you will.”

“Milady, let me go ahead,” Daradis said as he sidled up to Yven and slung a quiver of arrows across his back. “I have an idea. Give me leave to test it.”

“Daradis—” Yven started with a questioning tone as the Rani mounted Dordin.

“Good enough,” he said and with a yell, he spurred the Tylira toward the Castle Lochra.

Daradis clung to the scruff of the Tylira’s neck as Dordin’s paws pounded against the ground, but as they neared the gates, a flock of Anjila swooped down from the dark sky with their claws reaching for Dordin’s throat.

“Force them to lower, Dordin. I need to be beside them,” Daradis whispered.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Dordin replied.

The Anjila played right into the Daradis’ hands, lowering and flying level with him. Once he’d whispered a quick prayer to Yaliwe, he flung himself at the closest Anjil. It screeched as he landed on its back, and though it initially lost some height, it quickly regained as it tried to shed the Rani. The other Anjila fell into a dive toward Daradis, but he quickly loosed one arrow followed by another, and when they landed accurately between the eyes of the two other Anjila, the beasts fell limply and crashed to the ground where their bodies broke into rubble.

Meanwhile, Dordin returned to his companions and informed Yven that the armies of Nave’s Bend would soon be stirred. The queen ordered the army into their lines and wiped the sweat from her brow. As the Anjil flew over Nave’s Bend with Daradis on its back, the Rani finally saw what could not be seen from outside the gates: Barco’s blanket was skewered on the ground by blade and arrow, and hidden behind small stone walls surrounding it, a legion of Achnora were crouched in readiness. There was also a small army of Coltina stationed between two towers neighboring the Castle Lochra, their black horns glistening with venom. The Anjil darted and swooped, attempting to shake Daradis away, but when he clamped his hand to the base of its skull, he entered its mind, forced it to surrender its will, and Daradis took up the steering. He directed the Anjil to plunge toward the Bend as he readied his bow, and at the opportune time loosed arrow upon arrow into the skulls of the Achnora. A tremulous din erupted from Nave’s Bend. The Coltina began to pour out through the gates with the Achnora on their heels as a tidal wave of gray and black that barreled toward Yven and her army.

“Here they come,” she whispered.

“Yven, your father would be very proud of you, and so am I,” Maladrid said tenderly.

She grinned as she raised Vetna high in the air with faith and pride renewed and screamed with beautiful resonance, “For Yaliwe!”

The hordes behind her charged forward, but she and Maladrid remained firm. She lowered her sword and when her head turned to him, he saw a tear spill over her eyelashes and roll down her cheek as she added, “And for you, Maladrid.”

She spurred Raleni and broke through the enemy sea crowned with waves of threatening silver as Maladrid tried desperately to keep up. He plowed through the Achnora with his steed, and although he screamed with each slash and crash, he couldn’t hear his own voice for the cacophony of battle: a brutal harmony of cries and clashes and sudden thuds.

Once Daradis had loosed his last arrow, he steered the Anjil toward the ground, but the surprising jolt of an enemy arrow piercing his shoulder threw him out of control and he plummeted wildly toward the earth. He crashed into a jumble of Achnora and when his head slammed against the ground, everything fell to black. When his senses were regained, he was surprised that he was still alive, though horrible pain surged throughout his body and his arm had acquired an unnatural bend. He desperately tried to reach for his sword, but his body refused to obey his mind’s commands, and as he squirmed, the Achnora descended upon him. He never gave up his struggle, even as the beasts lunged at his throat and tore at his face, but eventually, Daradis disappeared into the snarling gray cloud of Achnora.

Yven dismounted her Wa-D’tila and pummeled her way through the Achnoran hordes. Maladrid lost sight of her as she cut a path through them and they closed in behind her. He searched for her as he struck down the raging beasts before him, and his mind raced with images of her that were beautiful at first, but when the shadows of doubt lurked into his mind, he began to imagine her bloodied and limply stationary. Reality jolted back to him when an Achnor’s blade stung him in the shoulder, and he dropped his sword with the swelling pain. He grunted as he slammed his fist into the Achnor’s face, and when the beast fell back, the blade slid out of his flesh with a jagged withdrawal. He snatched up his sword, fighting against the shooting pain caused by trying to grip the hilt, but before the Achnor could stand back up, Maladrid brought his sword down and clove its body in two. His tunic sleeve was drenched in bicolor fluid: his blood and the foul black blood of the Achnor. But as he looked down upon the demon, he realized that the sword in its hand struck him familiar. It was a Rani’s sword: Daradis’ sword. His heart sunk at the probability of his friend’s demise, but as he heard the snarl of a charging Achnor, he allowed necessity to swallow his sorrow and threw himself back into battle. Meanwhile, Yven was throwing an Achnor into a tower wall and wedging Vetna between the folds of its neck.

“Where’s Shacore?” she hissed.

The Achnor clamped its mouth shut and smiled, causing her to slice the demon’s throat, but when another of its ilk ran by, she caught it by the arm and slammed against the wall where its brother had been.

“Where’s Shacore?”

“You’re dead,” it gurgled, and she let her blade fly again and slice the Achnor’s neck.

She turned and looked upon the land behind her, but the terrible scene left no indication of which side was prevailing. She saw no sign of Maladrid, but her faith told her that he was still alive, and when the crowds parted for a moment, she saw his sweet face spattered with black blood and twisted into a grimace as he burned through his enemies. Although he did not see her and they could not know each other’s minds, they both shared a thought: they had yet to see a single Shadara in the fray.

A large flock of Anjila appeared in the sky and when they dove upon the crowd, they picked up the Hohmara in their talons and smashed them into the castle walls. Nonwe reared up in defense and plunged his twiggy horn into a lowering Anjil’s belly. He threw his head to the side, forcing the dead Anjil to slide off and tumble flaccidly onto the ground, and its body cracked into a pile of stone debris that Nonwe defiantly stomped through. But when he lifted his head, he found himself face to face with a large Coltina with froth spraying from its mouth as it snorted.

“Well if it isn’t Nonwe, Lord of the blessed Yaerla,” the Coltina growled snidely. “You don’t know me, of course, lowly creature that I am. You think all creatures that come from the Farwe are lowly, don’t you?”

“I fight beside those who come from the Star Stones, and I do not consider myself better than they. But I am better than you,” Nonwe replied proudly.

“Blessed by Yvinhe and therefore blessed by Yaliwe. What a fool you are,” it snickered.

“All were blessed by Yaliwe. The difference between my kin and yours is how we chose to use our blessings. We chose Yaliwe’s light and are therefore beloved, but you allowed yourselves to be swayed by the Dark Lady and therefore chose to turn your backs on Yaliwe.”

“Really? Well, we shall see which race is the most beloved when Dominhydor falls to Shacore and then Shacore falls to the Coltina.”

“If you believe that, then you really are hopeless.”

“Charge then, if you are so hopeful. Charge and feel the burning plunge of death,” it said as it sneered and brandished its horn.

Nonwe lunged forward with his head dipped and sliced the Coltina’s leg, and it roared as it whipped around and scraped Nonwe’s back with its horn. Nonwe stumbled as the tip dug into his flesh and when he collapsed to the ground, the dark Coltina stood above his sprawled body.

“Another of the favored kind has fallen to the underestimated,” the shadowy beast announced.

“I may have fallen to the ground, but I have not fallen to you,” Nonwe hissed and when he kicked the Coltina’s hooves from underneath it, it crashed to the ground.

Nonwe arose slowly as the wound in his Yaermini flesh healed, and he placed his hoof upon the Coltina’s stomach and his horn to its throat.

“My life has been lived in shelter and your master drew me out. I long for my Forest home, but even more so, I long for the defeat of your wretched kind so that the Forest may be safe for those to come,” Nonwe proclaimed, and with a mighty thrust, he drove his crooked horn into the Coltina’s neck.

It gurgled for a few moments, but when the disgusting noise ceased, Nonwe heard the pounding footfalls of attack behind him.

“Nonwe!” Maladrid cried upon seeing the danger that was swiftly advancing upon his friend.

He heaved his sword at the Coltina bearing down on Nonwe, and the blade sheathed itself in the back of the beast’s skull. The charging Coltina lost its voluntary movement and skidded across the ground.

“Nice shot, my friend,” Nonwe said with a grateful nod.

Maladrid bowed his head humbly, and when he spotted a fallen Hohmara, he took up its sword and said, “Forgive my need, soldier, but I must borrow your blade.”

He suddenly felt a stripe of pain across his scalp and spun around to see an Anjil screeching and flapping beside him with his blood on its talon, but with one fierce stroke, he struck the monster down.

“Dammit,” Maladrid grumbled as he touched the swollen laceration on his head and felt the warm blood rolling down his scalp, but when he felt the presence of someone behind him, he reeled around with his sword preceding, and it clanged against the sword of one who smiled at him.

“Yven.”

“Maladrid, have you seen any sign of Shacore?”

“No nor anyone I’d presume him to be.”

“You’re hurt,” Yven said as her twiggy hand moved to his shoulder.

“It’s not too deep,” he said as he shrugged the pain away.

All of a sudden, a creaking rumble sounded over the din of battle. The immense doors of the Castle Lochra opened slowly, and from between them, a colossal wave of Achnora flooded forward with swords shining fiercely.

“And I was just about to say things were looking up,” Maladrid sighed.

“You should know better than that,” Yven chuckled.

“Shall we?” Maladrid asked with playful courtesy as he motioned to the oncoming Achnora.

“After you, my lord,” she replied with a theatrical bow.

Maladrid dove forward with his sword raised and itching to slice, but as he cut them down, he couldn’t help but notice his companions being cut down as well. He darted about the bodies of those who’d already fallen, in attempt to avoid trampling his friends, but he caught his foot on the curling tusk of a fallen Bartosc and stumbled. Just as he was regaining his balance, a Wa-D’tila, crazed with injury, dashed past and knocked him down. As Maladrid lay upon the ground, he could feel the incredible heat of the crystal in his pocket that made his thigh pulse madly. He reached into his pocket and when he wrapped his fingers around it, he discovered that the pulse wasn’t coming from his leg but from the shard itself. When he removed it, the red light shone so brightly that he had to shield his eyes from the overwhelming luminescence, but just as Cynia had said in his dream, Maladrid knew what he had to do. Like a catapult, he drew his arm back and hurled the crystal into the air. The sliver twinkled in flight, sailed back down, and plunged its tip into the ground. It stood straight for a moment, but then, it sunk deep into the earth and its light was extinguished. Just as Maladrid was groaning in dejection at his failure, a terrible tremor rumbled through Nave’s Bend, and jagged cracks that cut around and under the feet of the warriors surged from the shard’s point of penetration. Yven was thrown to the ground, and as she fell, an Achnor dove at her and its sword plunged into the earth, just barely missing her side. She grabbed the demon as it tried to withdraw its blade and slammed her fist against its jaw, proudly crushing the lower half of the Achnor’s skull. The rumbling continued for several minutes until it finally ceased with a high-pitched squeal that caused the armies to cower and cover their ears. From the hole where the crimson crystal had landed, a powerful geyser comprised of thousands of little red stones erupted.

“It’s the Ione!” Maladrid cried.

The Ione hesitated momentarily before descent and then, like brutal rain, they came crashing down upon the enemies of Yaliwe. The impact of their strike burned holes through the minions of Shacore; they pierced the flesh and drilled through the bone, but because they were able to control their force and direction, they simply bounced off of Yven’s army and burrowed back into the ground. Achnora collapsed by the dozens and several Anjila that were circling the red geyser fell out of the sky with puncture wounds searing their wings. After the last of the Ione had fallen to earth and burrowed back into the soil, the destruction that lay before the survivors was staggering. There were only a few Achnora left standing amongst the ruins of their race, and the whole of the Coltina army was annihilated, splayed upon the ground and riddled with holes. The soldiers of Yaliwe had suffered great loss as well, but there were still many who remained; injured, perhaps, but still standing strong. As Yven and Maladrid walked through the obliteration, they heard a tortured yowl from across the field, and as they peered into the distance, they saw the large, trembling body of Dordin. Yven quickly mounted a nearby Wa-D’tila and spurred it to a gallop, but even before the steed slowed, she leapt off and began running toward Dordin. His paws clutched at the calming light that he saw slowly rolling toward him and reached for the dear friend running to his side.

“Yven…”

“No, don’t speak,” she replied as she frantically wiped blood from the corners of his eyes. “Just be still. You’re going to be fine.”

“No,” he whispered.

“Yes, you are,” she said sternly.

She examined his injury and held her hands against the gaping wound in his side, but crimson covered her wooden fingers and the blood ebbed in relentless torrents. She didn’t even realize that she was kneeling in a large red puddle as she madly tried to staunch the bleeding.

“Yven, stop,” he begged quietly. “Please.”

She broke down upon him and buried her face in his sopping fur, and choking on her tears, she rose from his wounded side and sat beside his tired eyes.

“I won’t let you go, Dordin. You saved my life, and I’m going to save yours.”

“You already have, Yven. From the instant I met you, I was saved from the possibility of ever feeling alone or unloved,” he responded and forced a weak purr as he nuzzled against her.

When she rested her head in the cradle of his neck and smoothed his blood-speckled whiskers, she could feel his breath growing shallow and the dull purr fading away.

“You were supposed to live long after me, Dordin. I was supposed to go first; not you.”

“And yet, it does not pain me. I have lived well enough for any creature because I have known you. Haven’t you realized yet that for those who love you, an instant in your presence far outweighs an eternity without it?” he told her, and between devastated sobs, she kissed his cheek.

“I have known good men and women,” she started with her voice trembling, “I have known good beasts and good creatures of air and sea, but you are the best of them, my friend. You have selflessly carried me my entire life, and when we meet again in Hana, I promise I will carry you forever.”

She gently patted his cheek as the hot tears streamed down her face, and as Dordin drew his final breath, he sounded satisfied and at peace. She collapsed into him with her face buried in his neck, and as she choked on her sorrow, she screamed “Yaliwe” with all the rage of one who had what was most precious to her stolen out of her hands.

Just then, Maladrid ran up, and when he saw Dordin motionless, he fell to his knees in despair and wept for the loss of his friend. Yven sat, nestled in Dordin’s bed of a body, with her jaw clenched, as furious as she was devastated, but eventually she lifted her head and defiantly wiped the tears away. She could feel a dark presence consuming her, be it her grief or Shacore, and she knew that her final battle was near. Her eyes shot to a high tower of the Castle Lochra and burned with a fire that terrified Maladrid as he watched her and began to fear something he couldn’t understand: a flash of images that came to his mind of a rolling river staining the snow with pink water.

“Dordin,” Yven whispered through gritted teeth with her eyes still glued to the tower. “I will see you soon.”

Before Maladrid knew what was happening, she was bolting toward the tower, but he caught up with her and tackled her to the ground.

“Yven, don’t do this!”

“Let me go, Maladrid,” she growled as she struggled to break free.

“Yven, no, please. This isn’t what Dordin would have wanted.”

She freed her arm and struck him so forcefully across the face that he fell into brief unconsciousness as she scrambled to her feet and began sprinting toward the Castle Lochra again. She found the tower door unattended and darted up the spiraling staircase with Vetna preceding and prepared to kill those demons waiting in the stairwell, but they never came. She could hear Maladrid feebly shouting her name, and although each cry stabbed her heart, she ignored it and continued to dash toward uncertainty. Up and up she ran until her lungs burned with ash and her legs felt like iron, and when she finally saw the door, she reached out happily to push it open. However, before her twiggy fingers could touch the handle, a blunt object crashed down upon her skull, and darkness rolled over her.

When Yven awoke from the blow to her head, her brain throbbed and her stomach turned with intense nausea. As her vision cleared, she saw the Shadaran standing over her with dry cackles leaping out from each dark rictus. Their churning faces were distorted as they snarled and snickered at her, and their fiery eyes burned within their shadowy flesh. She jumped to her feet and reached for Vetna but found it missing, and the Shadaran laughed in amusement and displayed their swords mockingly.

“Cowards!” she bellowed.

“Weapon or not, you’re still doomed,” a Shadara hissed. “There is no defeating Shacore.”

“Bring this Shacore to me, and you will know the power of the Hohmara,” she growled through clenched teeth.

The crowd of shadowy beasts suddenly split, and from the hidden darkness a tall figure emerged. Dressed in long black robes, he wore a high jagged crown upon his pale brow, and by his features and stature, Yven immediately knew that he was a Rani. Yven searched his face for weakness but found only the rigid structure of betrayal. But there was something else as well, something strangely familiar.

“Shacore,” Yven hissed.

“Yes. Of course, ‘Shacore’ is only a pet name the lower beasts gave me,” the Rani replied whimsically in a deep proud voice as he drummed his long thin fingers together. “It has a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it? ‘Shacore,’” he purred. “Besides, I do prefer ‘Lord of Darkness’ to ‘Soft Flood.’”

Yven’s eyes grew wide, and then, as if accepting some shameful truth, she bowed her head.

“I know the name ‘Soft Flood,’ and I know why I thought you familiar. It’s your eyes. They have the look of my father, Lonho,” she said. “So this is what became of you after my father released you, Paerca.”

“So you do know the story,” he replied with a smirk. “I suppose I owe you condolences, Yven, for your father’s death. I was so saddened to hear that my only son had been so savagely killed. Then again, I did order it, so it didn’t really come as a surprise.”

“Paerca, you disgrace your people and disgrace me that I bear your blood.”

He drew a dark sword and ran toward her with the sword raised to chop her in two. She remained as stone, glaring at him as he flew, and though the blade halted only a few inches before her face, she did not flinch.

“Know this, Granddaughter: in Lochydor, I am king and God, and soon I will be both to all of Dominhydor,” he whispered with the sword still threatening her life.

“It’s amazing that you would put yourself on the same level as Yaliwe,” she replied in disgust.

“Oh no, my child,” he said while he sheathed his sword and drew his face close to hers, “I am far, far greater than Yaliwe, and you would do well to remember that.”

“You’re a damned fool, Paerca.”

“Shacore!” he corrected with a bellow.

“Your name doesn’t matter. You’re going to pay for your sins, Grandfather. I may not be the one to dole out your punishment, but you will surely get one. I see it. I may not have the sycte anymore, but I can see it quite clearly.”

She closed her eyes and smiled as she saw his end play over and over in her mind. Finally, she locked eyes with him again and declared defiantly, “You’re dead, Paerca.”

The Rani pulled his fist back and slammed it into Yven’s face with a satisfied grunt. She stumbled backwards and crashed onto the floor, and her head wilted and bobbed under the extreme pressure of pain. Her mind was so jumbled from the blow that even as Paerca approached her and placed his shadowy sword against her neck, she couldn’t acknowledge it.

“You’re the one who’s dead, Granddaughter,” he remarked as he turned away from her crumpled body and faced his minions. “You three stay and deal with her,” he said as he nodded to the Shadaran. “The rest of you follow me.”

“What about the boy?”

“The new and improved queen will take care of him,” Paerca replied with a grimace, and with that, they fled through a hidden door.

The three remaining Shadaran slithered toward Yven, snarling and snapping their jaws, and with ravenous howls, they dove forward and began their consumption. Pain struck Yven acutely, but her body soon became numb, and although she couldn’t focus and all sound was severely muffled, through the hazy fog of her senses, she swore she heard a white star calling her name.

Once Maladrid had recovered from Yven’s strike, he bolted for the tower, and once he had nearly reached the end of the staircase, his eyes caught the glimmer of familiar weaponry. He was shaking uncontrollably as he picked up Yven’s discarded sword, but knowing that he had to save her, no matter what, he gripped the Olfir tightly and exhaled the rising terror.

“Yaliwe, Yven needs you now. Please help us. She needs you, and I need her,” he whispered as he wrung his hands around the hilt. “I love her.”

Something surged through Maladrid’s body then, and he felt no more fear. It was as if with those three words, any strength that could possibly be his, was his. He felt more powerful than ever before, yet he also felt a certain warmth melt through him, and even standing just on the other side of possible death, a sweet smile stretched across his face. He finally knew his purpose, and it was her. It was always her.

“I can’t wait to tell her,” he whispered.

He flew forward with an echoing war cry blasting from his heart, and the door crashed down under his force. He expected that as soon as the door smashed in, the Shadaran would shoot toward him from all directions, and he would destroy every last one and valiantly save the queen of the Hohmara and ruler of his heart. At long last, he would take Yven into his arms and hold her until the end of days. But there was no instantaneous brawl, and there was no gallant rescue. There were only Maladrid and Yven. Save for them and a few beams of light breaking through the dingy glass of the windows, the room was completely empty. Yven’s body, beaded with sweat and blood, was lying facedown on the stone floor, and her raw scalp only had a few patches of thin hair remaining. The floor beneath her was pooled with crimson, and the blood was so thick and stagnant that as he looked down upon her, he saw his reflection unwavering within it.

He looked like a devil, he thought, but he still appeared a small child in war paint. He had no business there in battle, trying to protect the world, but when he looked back to Yven, he once again remembered his reason for it all. It wasn’t to protect the world; it was to protect her. And he had failed. He fell to her side and rested his hand on her head. The remains of her hair were spiky and poked his palm, but when his hand slid to her neck, it was still warm with recent life. Half lost in his grief, he felt something: the slight rise and fall of her neck. He collapsed on top of her and pressed his face against her back as he listened, smiling, to the shallow breaths that sounded more beautiful than music. Yven, his love, was still alive.

“I knew you wouldn’t give up,” he whispered.

Her muscles tensed and relaxed beneath him as her shoulder blades arched and then disappeared beneath her bruised flesh. Maladrid watched in thankful joy as her wooden hands clawed at the floor and she began to push herself up. Her back was still facing Maladrid and her body was shaking, but when she slowly turned her head to him, he shrank back to the wall in horror and crumpled to the floor.

Her lidless eyes flashed yellow as her skin sagged and deteriorated right before his eyes. Some bits were soggy flesh that fell to the floor in sloppy chunks while other parts of her skin flaked away and flew about the room like ash. What was left of her natural skin tone darkened in patches that branched across her face until most of the lovely peach hue was gone. When her smile stretched into a gruesome grin, the corners of her mouth split and jagged lacerations ripped up the sides of her cheeks to reveal the bone beneath.

“Yven?” Maladrid moaned.

A low growl rumbled from her throat, and the low, juicy voice that replied turned any warmth in Maladrid’s body to aching ice.

“There is no Yven here,” she replied.

“Yven, I know you’re still there.”

“Your Yven is dead.”

Her skin had turned completely black and her face no longer possessed any of its original beauty; it was jagged, sunken, and horribly reconstructed by the Shadaran’s craftsmanship. Her body lost its structure; flesh and bone were replaced by shadow; and from her stomach, she withdrew a dark sword. Maladrid readied Vetna against its keeper, and with a deep breath and a silent prayer, he flew forward and sliced at the shadowy devil. He nicked its shoulder as he ran past, but spun quickly to drag the Olfir across its back. It howled as it slammed its sword against Maladrid’s, but even though he pinned its weapon to the floor, the beast was too strong, pulled its sword free and threw him backward. The shadow of Yven snorted and took stance with its dark churning weapon high above its head, itching to carve Maladrid in two. The sweat on his brow rolled down and burned his eyes, and as it seeped into his wounds, each droplet of perspiration felt like a thousand shards of salt. The beast hissed and shot toward him with a horrendous screech, and though Maladrid darted away, the shadowy sword caught his injured shoulder and sliced the raw flesh even deeper. He fell to the floor and wailed as he saw the gore slide down his arm, but he scrambled to his feet and forced himself back into an attack position.

“Why are you doing this?” the demon growled. “Your girl is gone. Your hope is gone. What is there left for you but death? Wouldn’t it be a welcome gift: letting go?”

Maladrid’s jaw trembled and he winced at the pain in his shoulder, but with strong intent, he raised Vetna and pointed it at the churning charcoal creature standing before him.

“Why do you still bother?” it asked.

“Because she would’ve wanted me to,” he replied, and with all of the strength that remained in him, he flung himself forward.

As he brought the sword down upon his foe, he felt the sharp burn of the Shadara’s blade suddenly in his stomach. The heat of the poison surged through his veins, and the need to sleep hit him so abruptly that he fell to his knees. The creature bellowed with laughter as it approached the huddled soldier, and it spat a reeking wad of phlegm on his face. Maladrid was too weak to wipe the offense away and felt his body instructing him to surrender. The combined pain of his injuries was almost too much to bear and though he wanted to weep, there were no more tears to shed. He had done enough crying for those whom he’d failed to save, and he’d had enough hurt to drive him into the ground with no fear of regret. When the dark sword sailed toward him again, he felt no will to avoid the strike, but even with all of these resolutions, he still shifted to miss the blade’s stroke. He kicked his leg across the floor and knocked the Shadara’s feet from underneath it, and when it fell, its sword tumbled out of its claw. Maladrid’s throbbing arm shot out and snatched the Shadara’s weapon, and though the poison seared through his muscles, he braced himself against the wall and pushed himself up. Before the fiend could stand, he lunged forward with a resounding scream and plunged both swords into its belly. The beast’s silver blood flowed madly as Maladrid twisted the blades, and when he leaned forward and tensed his burning muscles, he lifted the impaled Shadara into the air. It screeched and squealed with its limbs flailing and claws grabbing for Maladrid’s throat, but with one final burst of strength, he rushed toward the tower window, crashed into the frame, and shattered the glass. Maladrid’s sudden halt freed the monster from the swords, launched it into the air, and when it plummeted down to the river below, Maladrid collapsed to his knees and fell face first onto the stone floor. He flung the dark weapon away and clutched Yven’s blade close as he shook and wept for what he had done. He was so distraught, in fact ,that he didn’t even notice the jagged shard of glass skewering his hand. When he finally saw it, he was surprised that although the majority of his body ached, his wounded hand did not. Only a slight amount of blood oozed from around the injury, and he watched in awe as it healed around the glass. Suddenly, he remembered the previous injury to that hand and the remedy that came from drinking of the Pools of the Yaermaca. When he yanked out the shard, the wound closed completely. He woozily examined his healed hand and hopefully, placed his palm, still spotted with blood, to the gaping wound in his shoulder just as Nonwe had done to heal Dordin’s paw. The Yaermini in his blood fused with the torn flesh of his arm and the gash in his stomach, closing enough to dull his pain and staunch his bleeding. He stood unsteadily and when he planted his cheek against the wall, the cool stones made him sigh in relief, but he knew that he had to force himself to face the window again. When he finally peered down, he shuddered at seeing that the Shadara had fled Yven’s body and she lay unnaturally bent over the rocks in the river with the water pooling up behind her.

“What have I done?” Maladrid whispered tearfully. “Yven, my love.”

He could’ve stared down at her forever in sorrowful regret, but when his eyes slipped to the battlefield, need forced him to dash down the tower stairs. He emerged and quickly mounted a Wa-D’tila, spurred it to a gallop, and caught up to his companions who stood defiantly as a swarm of Shadaran flooded from the Castle Lochra. But as the Shadaran broke into lines, one of a different race stood among them, and when Maladrid joined the front line of his army, he stood beside Lislo who was staring, awestruck, at the tall man in the midst of the shadowy cavalry.

“Do you know him?” Maladrid asked.

“Sadly, yes, he is one of my kin, but I haven’t seen or thought of him in ages. Paerca was his name, but now I fear he has adopted a new one,” Lislo replied.

“Shacore.”

Lislo nodded, but when he faced Maladrid, his eyes widened with sorrow and fear as he asked, “Maladrid, where is Yven?”

“Where is Yven indeed!” bellowed Paerca from the ring of shadow that roared with laughter. “Where, oh, where has my granddaughter gone?” he sang mockingly.

“Paerca,” Lislo began,” how could you lend yourself to this evil? Our line has suffered enough tragedy.”

“Please, call me Shacore. You’re right, Lislo, our kind has had its share of bad times. That is why you should be thanking me for restoring our prominence. What other race could tame the Shadaran?”

“The Shadaran are mindless fools, and you are an even bigger fool for being proud of that achievement,” Lislo snapped.

“When I was weak, comments like that would’ve hurt my feelings. Now I am king of Nave’s Bend, commander of the most powerful army in the world, keeper of the Cyrin, ruler of all Dominhydor!” he roared, and the earth shook with the power of his declaration.

“The Cyrin,” Maladrid whispered as a slight breeze caught Paerca’s robe and revealed the tiny sparkle of a silver key on a chain around his neck. “I just saw a glimpse of Hana.”

“Enough delay. I am very eager to begin my glorious rule, so let’s get your destruction underway.”

From beneath his robe, Paerca drew a shadowy sword, and the Shadaran mimicked him with their own fatal blades. All of a sudden, Lislo plunged his sword into the ground and opened his hands to the sky. The ground began to shake, and from beneath Paerca, a large crack began to form. The Lord of Darkness stumbled as the crevasse widened, and with a sustained yell, he fell into the opening and disappeared; the underground cry ceased for a moment but then continued in a crescendo that peaked as Paerca floated out of the fissure and lowered onto the ground.

“Lislo, did you really think that your feeble powers could destroy me? I am the most powerful being in Dominhydor. Why do you think the Shadaran chose me to be their master?” Paerca guffawed. “It’s just too bad that the rest of my Rani brothers can’t come around to my way of thinking. I’d save the best Hohmara women, and once the enemies of the Dark Lady are vanquished, our race would be renewed and we could repopulate the earth.”

“That will never happen, Paerca,” Lislo said.

“Shacore!” he screamed, and when he forcefully crossed his arms over one another, Lislo’s body suddenly split into fourths and fell to the ground in sodden sections.

The army shrunk back from Lislo’s remains, and as much as Maladrid wanted to race forward and drive Vetna into Paerca’s heart, he was petrified to his spot.

“Come, my friends,” Paerca shouted to the army of Shadaran. “Don’t be so shy. Charge!”

Maladrid flinched as he expected the shadowy beasts to surge forward, but instead, they advanced calmly and bent their lined formations into a semicircle that surrounded Paerca.

“What is this?” he cried in outrage as they continued to close in. “I command you to stop! As your leader, I command you!”

“Shacore,” the Shadaran hissed.

“Yes. Shacore. Obey me! Obey Shacore!” he bellowed, but the Shadaran began to cackle and then roar with laughter as they returned their swords to their shadowy bodies.

“What are you doing? Attack them! Kill them, you worthless fools!”

“Who are you to give us orders?” one of the Shadaran asked.

“Fool! I am Shacore, Lord of Darkness!” he screamed and raised his hand to strike the shadow creatures with his magicks, but as the Shadaran hissed in unison, he found that his arm was stuck midstrike and his fingers frozen.

“What’s happening to me?” Paerca shrieked.

“We’ve come to know your power and acquire it for ourselves, and now, we exceed it,” the Shadaran growled.

“How dare you defy me?” he shouted as he raised his other hand and started to strike, but then his arm suddenly bent backwards at his elbow with a sickening crack.

“You are not Shacore,” the Shadaran snarled as they released their magick grip on him, and he crumpled to the ground in pain. “We just needed you to draw the spotlight while we learned your powers. Now we can become the true king of Nave’s Bend, the true ruler of Dominhydor.”

One by one, they began to attack Paerca. They clawed and chomped at him and forced their churning bodies into his mouth. As they charge en masse, they streamed down his throat with violent strength and caused him to choke on shadow.

“Fall back,” Maladrid whispered.

“Syla mor!” Nonwe bellowed and the army retreated. “Re-ta!”

Paerca’s body bulged and split as the Shadaran writhed about inside him, and as his flesh ripped apart, the army could see surging shadow between the cracks. His body stretched to its breaking point, and finally, it burst outwards and upwards, and what was within took the shape of a monstrously large Shadara. The shell of Paerca fell to the ground, and though most eyes were upon the mammoth demon looming over them, Maladrid kept his eye glued on the Cyrin that lay among Paerca’s shambles.

“I am Shacore!” the shadowy monster roared, from within its great churning stomach, it drew a giant blade that cast a long shadow across the petrified faces of Yaliwe’s army.

Maladrid trembled as he lifted Yven’s sword; intense fear bubbled through his body, and beads of sweat became streams that burned his eyes, but still he stepped forward and screamed, “For Yaliwe! And for Yven! For our Lady and our queen we shall destroy our enemy! For the prospect of good and freedom!”

His voice grew soft and with tears welling in his eyes, he added, “Love can build you up and cause you to remake the world all for the sake of her name. Yven.”

His ferocity clutched him again as he remembered her, or more appropriately the bastardization of her by the shadowy devils, and his rage soared. He lifted Yven’s blade again as if he were stabbing the sky, and then hurled himself forward in screaming attack. His companions followed after with their respective weapons aimed to kill, but when Shacore’s blade crashed down, it annihilated a line of the army. While it was buried in the ground, Maladrid sprinted around it and snatched up the Cyrin from Paerca’s severed neck. He hopped onto a Wa-D’tila and dashed away from Shacore just as it was sweeping its blade through the crowd, flinging the soldiers left and right and into the walls with snapping thuds. Maladrid located Nonwe at the back of the crowd. The Yaerla was limping and trailing blood behind him, and eventually, collapsed to the earth.

“My friend, you’re hurt? Why aren’t you healing?”

“The blade rushed in and severed me beyond repair. The Yaermini will never heal this wound; it is too deep.”

“I know that pain,” Maladrid whimpered as the thought of Yven flooded his mind.

“Maladrid, give us some comfort or some plan. Tell me you have something to overthrow this beast,” Nonwe pleaded.

Maladrid reached into his pocket and withdrew the key that gleamed with a luminescence that was almost musical, and Nonwe’s eyes brimmed with joyful tears.

“The Cyrin,” he whispered. “Maladrid Irlywe, you have the Cyrin. But how can it be wielded?”

Maladrid’s mind drifted back to the first days of his impossible quest. He had been fighting the wind and lost it, but there was a gain that day as well; it was the day Yven walked into his life. Her touch brought him visions such as he’d never seen before, visions of a snowy river and the sky fraught with churning clouds. They were dark and spoke of death, but there was also hope shining through: a brilliant keyhole in the fatal mire of mist. When he looked to the sky over the battlefield in Nave’s Bend, he saw a similar sight. The clouds were swirling like the flesh of the Shadara, and he looked at Shacore with perfect understanding. The clouds were within the Lord of Lochydor, and Maladrid had to help the light break through. He drew back his arm, and with the strength of Yaliwe Herself, he cast the Cyrin toward Shacore’s swirling belly. The radiance of the key broke into the beast’s body and the Cyrin exploded into beams of light that caused cracks in Shacore’s amorphous structure. As the light burned through its shadowy flesh, the demon’s shriek built into a high-pitched scream above the audible boiling of light and dark. With a tremendous release, Shacore and the sky burst open in unison, and black ash from the Lord of Darkness coasted down and blanketed the ground. But mingled amongst the dark bits were downy flakes of snow. They eased down from the erupted sky and turned what seemed like desolation into rebirth.

The cool snow sizzled and steamed when it touched the skin of the fevered warriors, and they became covered in pristine white that glistened with the light of Yaliwe. Shacore and all of the Shadaran were gone and the Bend was silent in the snowfall, but victory was overshadowed by the great losses suffered, and the survivors could not celebrate for the casualty around them. The remaining Yaerla crowded around their fallen kin and wept for those that had bypassed Yde, while the Bartosca and Tylira sang dirges for their departed. Maladrid ran to the river where Yven lay. The water that trickled from beneath her broken body turned crimson from her influence, and the new fallen snow was spattered pink from the river rushing around her. He fell to his knees and his mind played her images: the first time he’d laid eyes on her, the deliciously bold way she fought her enemies, and lastly, her still body that was quickly being covered with flakes of white that turned pink on contact.

The wielding of the Cyrin had destroyed the beast Shacore, but it had also brought glorious Hana down to Dominhydor, and for a short time, the grief of loss was alleviated. The souls of the departed were able to make their proper farewells. In addition, the first generation of Isil, who had long been trapped in the Isilmaerte, were given relief from their imprisoned state and welcomed into Hana. As estranged kin and friend reunited in joy, Maladrid sat alone on the bank of the river. His body burned with the pain of injury and loss, but when he heard the change in the water’s flow, he turned and finally saw the return of hope. She walked out of the river with her hair smoldering brightly around her pristine face, and as her sweet smile forced him to his feet, his eyes welled and she clutched his hand. The softness of her fingertips surprised him: the hands of a Hohmara. Yaliwe had restored her in every way, but his happiness for her could not vanquish his sorrow.

He cradled her face and whispered, “Yven, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I am a queen, and I understand what sacrifices that title requires of me. But you will go on, Maladrid. Don’t forget what you’ve seen and done. Don’t forget me,” she pleaded with tears in her eyes.

“I could never forget you, my Queen, my love.”

She buried her face in his neck and said softly, “We will see each other again.”

She pulled him into a majestic kiss that made Maladrid weep for their destiny to break apart. He refused to relinquish his hold on her, but she began to fade nevertheless, and as she disappeared, she at last spoke the words Maladrid had longed to hear. They were simple and few, but when they rang across the sky, he finally felt at peace.

In the wake of Hana’s return above, the soldiers of Dominhydor found themselves filled with new emotions. The second departure of loved ones inspired feelings of the first loss and also the healing of the wounds inflicted by it. For several minutes, no one moved or spoke a word, but when the spell of Hana had lifted, the troops were forced to turn back to business. Many lives were lost in the battle and many great warriors were returned to the earth from whence they came. While stretchers were made for the injured and strapped to the Tylira’s backs, reams of canvas were unrolled to swathe the dead. Afterwards, the army marched silently toward the limp body that lay strewn across the river and bowed their heads as Maladrid lifted their queen from the water. The soldiers genuflected as her body passed, and though her dripping hair soaked Maladrid’s shirt, his clothes were not as drenched as his cheeks. Her face was pallid and accented with patches of crimson, and even though he had closed her eyes, they inched open with each step he took. When he reached the end of the line, a length of silk was laid upon the ground. He knew had to put her down, but despite that, he struggled to let her go. Although the Shadara that had invaded Yven’s body had fled and her softness and color had returned, it had ravaged her insides, and even before Maladrid laid her upon the silk, her skin had begun to deteriorate. He nodded as Folcir reached into his satchel and withdrew a beam of bronze light; in his hand was the honor of Donir: her birthright, her crown. He placed the thin wire upon her brow and she shone with life, but in truth, she was only glowing death devastated by the advancing shadow in her flesh. As Maladrid’s tears fell upon her, the droplets shone as jewels on her crown, and though his hands trembled as they released her, he eventually set her body down.

“We’ll take her back to Donir,” Folcir said.

“Yes, but not like this,” he said. “The evil inside will devour her long before you reach the kingdom.”

He paused as grief seized his voice, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and continued, “I won’t watch her fall to ash; I won’t watch the shadow destroy her again.”

“What are you suggesting, Maladrid?”

He looked across the crowd of loyal soldiers with his eyes brimming, and he answered strongly, “Start the fires. Give her body to the fire that raged within her spirit.”

“You can’t be serious,” Folcir sputtered.

“You love her,” Maladrid said. “She is your queen and undoubtedly you love her. Obviously, you don’t want her body desecrated, but it’s happening regardless.”

“She may have been my queen, but she was also my friend,” Folcir added.

“Mine as well,” Maladrid replied. “But she does not merely have my love; she is my love. She means more to me than you could ever understand, and so this hurts me far more, but I know this is what she would’ve wanted. Fetch the torches and bring the oil. If she will be ash, the fire will make her so and not the demons that violated her.”

Folcir couldn’t help but surrender. The flames sparked beside him and the Rani that surrounded her silken cocoon splashed oil upon her swiftly rotting body and chanted for the continuing vibrancy of her soul in Hana.

Maladrid bent down and laid his hand upon her cheek, and as the fires behind him were ignited, he whispered, “I will never forget you. Even when I pass from this world, you will linger in me. I believed you when you said it, my love: we will meet again.”

A torch was passed into his hand, and with his body trembling, he rested it against her body, and when her clothes caught fire, the other torches were laid upon her. There, in the center of Lochydor, the queen of the Hohmara was engulfed in purifying flame, and a great dirge sounded from the throats of the Children of Yaliwe. The song carried lament, but it also carried hope as well as love that exceeded mortality and penetrated all realms.

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