Light of Epertase 01: Legends Reborn (26 page)

“Of course, your highness.”

“Andon, you and your battalion will head out at once. Begin preparing the Lowland-Epertase battlefield and wait for Terik to arrive.”

Masera asked if Elijah would like the Elite Guard to join in the fight and he waved him off. “No, no, no,” he said. “You need to protect the castle in case another threat arises.”

Elijah’s servant, James, entered, clearly agitated, and whispered into his ear that the Queen needed him right away. The look on his servant’s face told him the severity of the summons and he excused himself from the room.

The captains and servants alike grew quiet with lowered heads.

Elijah hesitated before exiting, turned, and said, “As of now, all war protocols are in effect. Mark today’s date as the first day of the war against the Teks.”

The war plan was in his officers’ respected hands, at least for now. He would check in on their progress when he had a chance.

He raced to the door of Madalyne’s room, slinging it open with a stomach full of dread. “My love,” he shouted.

The court physician sat close to the queen; her floral bedding seemed to engulf her frail body. He rose and bowed, then placed his hand on Elijah’s shoulder. His face told the devastating news before his words could. “Your Highness, there is nothing more I can do. The Queen’s lungs are bleeding and soon she will drown.”

Elijah shook his head. He eased down next to her. She didn’t flinch. He lifted her delicate, cool hand into his.

The doctor said he would wait outside and left the room.

Many years had passed since Elijah allowed the weakness of a tear to flow from his eye but he could no longer hold one back. He wiped away the tears along with any evidence of vulnerability. Madalyne was his life, his everything.

She spoke and he leaned closer to hear. Hers wasn’t the voice he knew. Her volume was very weak, the tone one of peaceful acceptance. “Do not mourn, my love,” she whispered. “I am the luckiest woman in the land. You are a good man.”

He pulled his hand from hers, ashamed, almost angry at her for believing that. “No, I am not.” He pressed both of his hands over his face. “You made me good. My soul is evil.” He couldn’t fight the tears any longer.

“Shhh,” she whispered with calmness only she could give. “That is not true.” An awful coughing spell interrupted her words, quickly followed by gurgling sounds like she was being held beneath water. She struggled to recover her wind and her composure and then said, “I need you to promise something to me.”

“Anything, my love. Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll find Alina … that you will protect her for all eternity. Please find my little girl.” She coughed again. This time when she moved her hand, her chin hid behind blood. “I know Siver is skilled and that you sent him with Tevin, but …” She trailed off, too weak to finish.

Elijah grabbed a handkerchief from the nightstand and dabbed the blood away. “I can’t lose you,” he said. “I need you. You are all that is good in me.”

She caressed the back of his head. “I’ve seen your goodness.” Her hand slowly slid down his back and those were the last words she’d ever speak.

Elijah begged, “No, no, no, please don’t go. Please, my love.”

For the rest of the day, he did not move from her side, holding her hand, never wanting to let go. He wanted to be there for her as she walked through the darkness of death. The Tek commander himself could not pull him away.

He leaned next to her ear and, with a renewed strength, whispered, “I swear to you, my love. Alina will be freed. And she will one day be Queen of Epertase. You have my word. I have done evil but I will make amends. I owe you that.”

Several miles east of the warehouse district, in a field of thin crops, an old farmer worked his fingers raw as he had every day of his life. With the cold season rapidly approaching, his land needed to be plowed for the winter wheat crop. He was on his own, as he had been for the past fifty seasons. His wife was barren so he had no son to lighten the burden.

His oxen struggled with the hard ground and their old age. One of them, his strongest, became stuck again. He leaned his shoulder into the ox’s hindquarters. Neither the oxen nor the man were as strong as they once were and getting stuck provided plenty more problems than in years past. For the past three seasons, he had promised himself to purchase new oxen the following spring, but each year, money was the deciding factor and he was forced to pray the old pair made it through.

He wasted most of the afternoon digging and wrestling with the mud before his exhausted oxen broke free. Though the air was frigid, he was drenched in sweat. With his already soaked handkerchief, he wiped the sweat from his brow as he leaned against his plow.

He scanned the field, disheartened by the amount of work yet to be completed. He took a frustrated breath before climbing back onto his plow. Just as he lifted the oxen reins, he glanced at the dirt path that ran along the edge of his land. To his surprise, there was a horse, a beast of a horse, clopping wearily along. Homer’s eyes weren’t as good as they once were and he squinted.

A fine horse to be out here alone,
he thought. He stepped away from his plow.
Wait a moment …
Something dragged behind the stallion. He strained to focus his old eyes. Not something, someone. He started to jog toward the path. “Irene!” he yelled over his shoulder.

His wife stomped through their front door with annoyance in her voice. “What is it now, Homer? I’m trying to cook …” She stopped mid-sentence; her eyes weren’t as bad as his.

As Homer closed in on the man, he quickened his pace. His jog through the field seemed longer than it used to take. He slid to a stop, blocking the horse’s way. “It’s alright, boy. You’re safe,” he said while patting the steed’s chest.

A pale, limp cannon of an arm hung along the steed’s side, its thick fingers entangled in its mane. He yanked at the long hair until the man’s black-and-blue hand fell free and he thudded to the ground. The man lay motionless except for an occasional faint rise and fall of his chest. Dried blood and bruises covered large portions of his face and body.

Homer shoved the big man to his side with his shoulder like the man was a stuck ox. Dirt, grass, and pebbles were embedded in the raw meat of his back and sides. The road wore skin and blood like a trail to where his misery began.

Homer jostled him. “Friend, are you awake?” The man didn’t answer.

Homer lifted the man’s head from the ground. His first sight of the man’s bloody, empty eye socket made him turn away in horror. He covered his mouth, hoping not to spill his stomach. “Someone sure did a number on you,” he mumbled through his fingers.

Irene gasped as she ran to Homer’s side. “Oh, my. Is he alive?” she asked.

“Barely. But he won’t be for long.” Homer scanned his field until he had a plan. “Stay with him while I get Shelby and her sled.” He hobbled with his sore, overworked knees across the field to his barn.

Maybe he shouldn’t have left Irene with the broken man, but there was no other voice he imagined that could sooth a dying soul as well as hers.

At the barn, Homer hooked his stallion to his metal sled and covered it with worn-out Lactnee boards as a rudimentary stretcher. He hustled back across his field with his steed in tow.

“Help me pull him up, he’s a big one.”

She tugged at the man’s arm but wasn’t much help. The two struggled and strained until the giant of a man lay half on the sled, half in the dirt. As hard as they tried, that was as far as they could get him.

He gave his horse a light slap on its rear. “Slow now, Shelby,” he whispered. Irene sat up on the sled next to the dying man, caressing his head while whispering encouragement into his ear.

Homer said, “We’re not going to be able to get him into the house without help. Get some blankets. Keep him warm. I’ll get Doc Eckels.” He limped into the barn and then burst through the open doors upon his favorite steed, a blazing one he called Dakota.

He didn’t slow until he reached the small town east of his farm, which was more of a street with a couple of shops and pubs. But from Homer’s farm, it was the closest thing to a town with a doctor as you could get. Thasula was the only other option but the city was another half day’s travel west and his patient didn’t have that kind of time.

Without hesitation, Doc Eckels grabbed his kits and followed Homer back to the farm. When the men returned, they found Irene on the porch, dabbing a damp cloth across the big man’s forehead and dry lips.

“He’s getting worse,” she said.

After a great deal of effort and sweat, the three were able to get the hulking, unconscious man into Homer’s house and onto a bed.

Half a day passed, maybe longer, before Doc Eckels, with his head held low, came from the bedroom.

Homer eagerly met him in the hall. “Well?”

The doctor whispered, “He may live, but not because of me. He’s got an inner strength that seems to will him through his ordeal. Regrettably, I could not do anything for his eye. I was, however, able to sew his wounds and force some medications down his throat which may be just enough. He is exhausted and needs to rest for a few days. I hate to ask but he really shouldn’t be moved and …”

Irene snapped, “Of course he can stay here. What kind of people would we be if we put him out under such conditions?”

Doc smiled at her. “Irene, if everyone was as caring as you I would hardly be needed. But I have to tell you something before you make any decisions.”

“Go ahead, Doc,” Homer said, sensing a solemn tone.

“I recognize your guest from when I practiced in Thasula years ago. He is a very dangerous man and no doubt involved in something very treacherous out here. His name is Simcane, and he is a hired mercenary. Any man or even group of men who could have done this to him should be considered vicious. Keeping this man with you may put you in danger.”

Irene looked puzzled and said, “And what would you have us do? Throw him into the streets?”

“No, no, ma’am. I only mean to inform you is all.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, sounding a tad annoyed. “He will be welcome here as long as he needs.”

“I expected nothing less, my friends. Homer, are you still fighting with those fields out here all alone?”

“Of course. ’Til my dying day, I suspect.”

Doc shook his head. “You two be careful. I will check back tomorrow. In the meantime,” he reached into his bag, “if he awakens tonight, which I highly doubt, give him one of these pills and another in the morning and each time he eats until they’re gone.”

Homer outstretched his open hand. “Thank you for coming out, Doc. We’ll see you in the morning.” The two men shook hands and Doc Eckels left for home.

For more than a thousand years, the mysterious lair of the Elder Three sat in the center of Thasula. Very few Epertasians had been allowed entry and Rasi had not been one of them. For all he knew, his soul would leave his body simply by walking uninvited through the doors. But he had little choice. Alina’s trail had gone cold and the Elder Three may be his only hope.

A glimpse around revealed no prying eyes as he slipped inside. The towering double doors popped and crackled like they had never been opened. The dark entryway stretched forever. It smelled old and dingy like he imagined a tomb would smell.

Rasi reached for the icy, dead hallway wall to feel his way forward. As he scooted along the winding blackness, his gums began to tingle. The inside of his mouth grew warmer and warmer as he edged farther and farther. A million tiny nerves exploded like thousands of stinging insects dancing between his teeth. He fell to his knees. His saliva turned to cotton as though he was forever in the Wastelands without water. He licked his suddenly cracked lips but had no spittle to wet them.

Wait. He licked his lips?

What kind of sorcery is this?
he wondered.

Then he formed his first word in over a decade and it was wonderful – “Alina.”