James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Wirr nodded slowly. “People see you as an easily accessible way to influence her… and maybe my uncle, too?” he deduced.

“Exactly.” Dezia sighed. “Most days someone manages to corner me, trying to convince me of one thing or another. A tax should be raised. A law should be changed. The king should know about this nobleman’s bad behaviour. And there are always… ‘incentives’ for me, should I decide to help.” She shrugged. “Recently, it’s changed from that to suggestions about whom I should be marrying. Houses sending their sons to court me, after Karaliene turns them away.” She scowled. “That, I hate most of all. And a lot of them don’t understand that persistence won’t change my mind.”

Wirr frowned. “They won’t leave you alone?”

Dezia shook her head. “Several of them were apparently told by their fathers to woo me at all costs. I’ve had more expressions of undying love in the last few months than I would want to see in a lifetime.” She gave a small, humourless laugh. “Though, that may stop now.”

“Why’s that?”

Dezia hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I shot one of them. Just before I left.” She paused. “In fact, it may have been why Karaliene insisted I come with her and Aelric. I… wasn’t too popular with House Tel’Shan.”

Wirr gave her an incredulous stare. “Shot? As in, with an arrow?”

“Accidentally, and only in the shoulder. It wasn’t much more than a graze,” said Dezia defensively. “Denn Tel’Shan. He said he’d do anything for me, so I said I needed someone to hold up targets while I practiced.” She grimaced, but the edges of her mouth still curled upward slightly at the memory. “The idiot didn’t realise it was a joke. Then when I tried to back out by explaining to him that it was really dangerous , he got quite upset - said I was insulting him by suggesting that he wasn’t courageous enough to do it. So I let him." She sighed. "I didn’t mean to hit him, of course, but he flinched on the first arrow. Not my proudest moment, even if he did bring it on himself somewhat.”

Wirr stared at her in astonishment for a moment, then gave a disbelieving laugh. “No wonder you agreed to come with us.”

Dezia punched him on the arm in a reproving manner, but she smiled back.

Wirr shifted. “So how does Aelric take all of this?”

Dezia smirked. “Not well. And being the swordsman that he is, he is rather handy to have as an older brother.” Her smile widened a little. “Most of the time.”

Wirr grinned back.

They spoke for a while longer until the smells of cooking wafted over to them, and they reluctantly made their way back over to the others. The rest of the evening proved to be uneventful, and soon Wirr was lying down to sleep, a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of Dezia.

In the back of his mind, though – and as hard as it was to remember sometimes – was the unavoidable truth of his position. He was a prince of the realm. There was a good chance that when the time came, his father would tell him with which girls he could socialize. Or more to the point, with which House he should be allying himself.

Still, out here, in the open air and away from the eyes of the nobility and his responsibilities, he could dream.

Davian frowned at the dusty plain stretching out before him.

Where was he? A moment ago he had been bedding down to sleep on the road through the Menaath Mountains; his mind was clear, sharp, with none of the fuzziness he would have expected from a dream.

He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Behind him was a thick tangle of forest, but the trees were unlike anything he’d seen in Desriel. In front was a vast plain, in the middle of which a mountain range rose abruptly, majestically, silhouetted against the setting sun. The tallest mountain seemed cut in two, as if a great knife had carved a thin slice from its very core; the orange sunset shone directly through the gap, making each half of the mountain stand out in sharp relief.

Though he’d never been here before, Davian recognised it; many artists had rendered this very image to canvas. He was looking at Ilin Tora.

He shifted his attention back to the plain. Dotted across it, small groups of men in black armour moved with mechanical efficiency as they built fires and cooked food. Davian frowned as he studied them. Many were wearing helmets in addition to their armour – but where there should have been a slit or holes for eyes, there was only smooth, dark metal. How could they possibly see what they were doing? Yet each man moved with an assured air, none looking even slightly troubled by their apparent lack of vision. Over each face was inscribed a single, large symbol: three wavy vertical lines, encapsulated by a circle. An insignia, perhaps?

Davian just stood for another minute or so, eyes narrowed as he observed the proceedings. Each fire was manned by a single soldier without a helmet, who simply watched as the other men went about their tasks. A commander of some kind, presumably, though there seemed to be a lot of them. He shivered as he watched. The entire picture was… unsettling.

Was he dreaming? He could feel the last of the day’s heat still radiating from the ground, the dryness of the air in his lungs. He pinched himself sharply on the wrist, wincing as the pain registered.

No, not dreaming. He was here.

Suddenly he noticed a tall man with an authoritative air striding amongst the fires. The helmetless man – seemingly the leader of this army – raised a hand. The soldiers all stopped what they were doing, gathering around. There was a feeling of excitement, a sense of anticipation that was almost palpable.

The general, as Davian thought of him, waited until every eye was on him. His features were rugged, with scars crisscrossing his face liberally. His black hair was shoulder-length, tied back.

He gazed over his men calmly. His eyes were hard and proud.

“Two thousand years,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard by the men in front. He shook his head. “Too long.”

There were murmurs of agreement amongst the soldiers, but the general raised his hand, silencing them immediately. He stood straighter, taller, pride in his stance. This time he shouted so that all could hear him.

“Two thousand years our people have waited for justice. Two thousand years of survival, of struggle, of sacrifice. But our time has finally come! We have broken free of our prison. We are at last ready to face our ancient foe, and you who have passed through the ilshara unscathed are truly worthy of this fight.

“You all know me, or know of me. My name is Andan Mash’aan, Slayer of Lih’khaag, Second Sword of Danaris. My trust is in the steel on my hip and the men at my side. My faith is in the plans of the Protector and our resolve to carry them out.”

He looked out upon them with a fierceness that made Davian take an involuntary step back. “By all these things, by my name and honour, by my life itself, I swear this one thing to you. When our task here is complete, this country will burn. Her rivers will run red. Her armies will be like dust beneath our feet. Her women will scream and her children will weep.”

He raised his sword, screaming the last with fire in his eyes. “Andarra will fall. We will have our revenge.”

The roar of approval rolled over Davian like a wave, thunderous in his ears.

Davian shivered despite the afternoon heat.

The road had disappeared and the forest had become thick, almost impassable as the day had progressed, slowing them to a crawl as they hacked their way forward and upward through hundreds of years of undisturbed growth. Something about the forest was unsettling here; the shadows seemed to writhe and shift in ways that did not marry up with the movement of the trees, and it felt as though eyes were on them at every moment. The trees themselves were thick, bent and twisted, looming over them as if angered by their intrusion. No birds sang, and Davian had not heard the sounds of any other wildlife since early in the morning.