Souls of Aredyrah 1 - The Fire and the Light (2 page)

The smith shook his head. “Maybe ye just need
some trainin’.”

“I don’t want any training. You know I don’t
like to fight. Besides . . .”

Jorge slammed the hammer and tongs down
across the anvil. He stormed over and inspected the battered,
half-closed eye. “Humpf,” he said, grabbing Dayn’s jaw in his grimy
hand. “And
this
is what ye get fer it!”

Dayn jerked his face from Jorge’s grasp and
rubbed his now filthy jaw. “I’m sorry, Jorge,” he mumbled.

“Don’t say yer sorry to me, boy. It’s yer
skin, not mine.” Jorge turned away and beat on the blade once more.
“So what were ye doin’ this time—breathin’?”

“No, talking to Falyn.” Dayn’s one fully
opened eye twinkled, the blueness of it brightening at the thought
of the girl.

“Sheireadan’s sister? God, so ye are brave
after all. Well, I hope it was worth the lickin’ ye took.”

“She talked to me today, Jorge. And she
actually laughed at something I said.”

“Laughed with ye or at ye?”

“With me, Jorge, and she smiled, you know,
like she really liked me or something.” Dayn rested his chin on his
fist and stared across the room. “Do you think she really could
like me? I mean, I know I’m not like the others, but that doesn’t
mean she couldn’t like me, does it?” He studied Jorge’s face,
hoping for a positive reply, but the man remained silent.

“Jorge? That doesn’t mean she couldn’t like
me . . . does it?”

“Course not.” Jorge plunged the red-hot blade
into a vat of water. A rush of steam coiled from it with a loud
hiss. “It’s gettin’ late, Dayn,” he said, glancing toward the door.
“Best be gettin’ yerself home now. Ye got a long walk back. Don’t
wanna be caught out near the woods after dark. Demons do their
huntin’ then, ye know.”

Dayn jumped from the stool, knocking it to
the floor. It would take at least two hours to get to his family’s
farm, and it would be dark well before that. He raced out of the
smithy, hurriedly waving good-bye. There was no time for
courtesies.

Dayn paused in the darkening street, glancing
from side to side, worried that Sheireadan’s pack might have
decided to linger about. But he saw no sign of it and continued on,
his shoulders hunched against the chill. He slanted his eyes toward
the timber buildings looming on either side of him. They would have
appeared deserted had it not been for the slivers of light
glowering like cat eyes through the shutters. He turned his
attention back to the muddy ruts at his feet, but he could not
shake the fear of what lurked in the woods between here and
home.

As Dayn followed the road toward the gate
leading from the city, he could not help but notice the fortress
surrounding Kiradyn was more like a huge sloping bank than a wall.
Though he had seen it hundreds of times, it never failed to leave
him curious. No one could recall why the thing had been built in
the first place—it was there long before the demons pushed their
way from the fiery bowels of the earth. Since there were no other
human inhabitants on the island of Aredyrah, it was assumed the
wall was meant to keep out the beasts of the forest. Regardless of
its original purpose, the residents of the city were grateful to
have it. One could never tell when the demons might decide to make
Kiradyn their own.

Dayn drew closer to the gate, but he kept his
eyes cautiously averted. He always worried the gatekeeper would
stop him, but the old man never did, at least not since Dayn’s
father had put a stop to the harassment. He recalled an incident
when he was little, something about ‘keeping the demon out’, but
that had been long ago. He could not help but feel the familiar
nausea, however, as the gatekeeper’s mutterings followed him
out.

Dayn hurried on, working to keep his focus on
the ruts ahead of him instead of the encroaching darkness around
him. But he soon found his eyes drawn to the mountain range that
rose like jagged teeth to the south. He cringed at the sight of it.
The mountains were beautiful, with their pastel colors of blue,
green, and pink, but their beauty was deceiving, for that was where
the demons lived. He had heard the fantastic stories his whole
life, how long ago some people had tried to cross over them and
were devoured by the evil creatures. That was why no one went there
now.

Dayn’s foggy breath quickened. Darkness was
upon him, and it was getting colder. His clothes were still damp
from his earlier altercation, and he doubted even his long-sleeved
tunic would keep him warm in the rapidly dropping temperatures.
Nights in the high altitudes of Kirador could be strikingly cold,
even during the warmest of months. It was easy to be tricked into
complacency by a tepid afternoon. He shivered. In his haste to
deliver a bottle of his mother’s remedy to a family in town, he had
rushed out of the house without his coat. He clutched the collar of
his tunic close to his neck, cursing his own stupidity.

The path stretched unevenly up and down the
hillsides still wet from the afternoon showers, but the clouds had
moved on to the south, leaving a bright full moon to light the path
home. As Dayn’s eyes darted between the cloudless night sky and the
creeping shadows of the forest, he began to whistle nervously. But
he stopped mid-tune when he realized it might invite unwanted
attention. “Don’t be such a baby,” he whispered. “You’ve been this
way a hundred times.” But he had never been this way after dark, at
least not without his father.

Dayn glanced toward the trees. They creaked
and groaned, and for a moment seemed to stretch their skeletal arms
toward him. He shot his attention back to the path, determined to
stay focused on what was real—a slippery trail that would tumble
him into the mud if he didn’t watch his footing. But keeping his
eyes on the ground would not help him if a demon decided to make a
meal out of him. Dayn’s mind raced. What would his parents think if
he didn’t return home? Would they search a long time for his body?
Or would they content themselves with the fact that they had borne
a stupid son who couldn’t even run an errand without getting
himself killed. Guilt gnawed at his already churning insides. He
hated the thought of causing his parents any more grief. He was
such a disappointment to them already.

It occurred to him that Falyn might cry for
him, and he felt almost hopeful at the thought of it. He could see
the girl in his mind: her dark hair piled up under her mourning
shawl, her almond-shaped eyes filled with tears, her trembling
hands clutched to her heart as she proclaimed her undying love for
him. For one foolish moment the thought of being attacked by demons
seemed desirable. But a sudden snap of a twig brought Dayn’s
fantasies to a halt. He froze, his eyes darting toward the woods.
No sound could be heard, only the drumming of his heart and the
breeze whispering through the trees. He released a sigh and
continued on.

He had not gone far when another noise caught
his attention, but this time it did not sound like a snapping twig.
It was something else, strange, like the clacking of sticks against
one another. He paused and listened, wrapping his arms around
himself in an effort to stop the feel of icy fingers racing down
his spine. The tapping stopped, and he became conscious of a
strange and heavy silence.

Then Dayn heard it again. He turned and
scanned his surroundings, rotating in a slow circle. The noise, now
coming from different directions, was intensifying in both volume
and rhythm. What had at first sounded like two sticks being beaten
together, now sounded like hundreds—maybe thousands—echoing through
the woods.

Then he saw it—movement—behind the trees—a
dark shape racing in and out—running noisily through the
underbrush—running his way. Dayn turned and forced his legs into a
sprint. The ruts at his feet seemed to test every step. He willed
himself to run faster, but his limbs felt as though they were
weighted by stones. The clacking increased and he doubled his
efforts, his speed finally matching his panic. But as fast as he
was running, he could not shake the creature that was darting
between the maze of trees.

Dayn ran blindly up the winding path, dodging
unknown objects that appeared out of nowhere. He tripped and threw
out a protective arm, then caught his balance and staggered
forward. Glancing back, he realized more than one creature was
pursuing him. Shapes were all around him now, and they would soon
be upon him.

“Daaayn,” he heard an eerie voice howl.
“Daaayn.”

Demons!
Dayn’s throat constricted with
fear, forcing his lungs to labor even harder. He could see little
in the blur of the trees as he ran past, but in the silvery light
he knew he must be shining like a beacon. Should he hide or should
he stand and fight? He had no weapon and he had never won a fight,
not with anyone or anything. How could he possibly expect to defeat
a pack of demons? But before he could consider his options further,
something pelted him on the side of the head, knocking him off
balance.

He tripped over his own feet and fell hard to
his knees. Another object hit him on the back of the head and threw
him forward. He moved to scramble up, but was pushed down as a
nameless weight leapt upon his back. He struggled, but could not
release himself from the crushing pressure to his spine.

“Daaayn,” the voice above him said. But it no
longer sounded like that of a demon. And this time it was followed
by laughter.

Dayn was rolled over roughly as Sheireadan
removed his boot from his back. Staring up at the pack of
black-haired boys that surrounded him, Dayn could see they all
carried sticks, except for one who carried a sack. The others
reached into it, laughing and hooting, and grabbed up handfuls of
the dark stuff it contained. Dayn threw his arms across his face as
his body was pelted once more.

Sheireadan knelt down and grabbed Dayn by the
front of his tunic, digging a knee into his gut. With a free hand
he reached into the sack being held out to him and smeared the foul
smelling stuff across Dayn’s face.

Dayn gagged, realizing in an instant it was
manure. He wrestled to free himself, but a hand shoved him down,
slamming his head to the ground with a painful
thunk
.

“Will you never learn, spawn-boy? Stay . . .
away . . . from . . . my . . . sister . . .” Sheireadan said,
striking a blow to Dayn’s face with every word he spat.

“We—were just—talking,” Dayn sputtered. But
he knew the minute he said the words that he had made a mistake. No
one disputed Sheireadan, not even his friends.

Sheireadan rose and planted his boot on
Dayn’s chest. “Just talking? What right does an abomination like
you have to even breathe the same air as her?”

Dayn spat blood and manure from his mouth and
clawed at the boot that was crushing his chest like a boulder. He
could barely breathe, much less answer Sheireadan’s question, but
his efforts for relief were greeted only by increased, grinding
pressure to his ribs.

Sheireadan glared down with dark, narrow
eyes, then twisted his scowl to a sinister grin. He winked at the
other boys who laughed and nodded their approval. Reaching his
hands down to the front of his own trousers, Sheireadan fumbled for
a moment. Then he spread his legs and relieved himself upon Dayn in
one long, pelting stream.

Dayn gasped as warm urine ran down his face,
neck, and chest. The boys’ laughter echoed in his ears. He went
sick with humiliation. Sheireadan had done many cruel things to him
in his lifetime, but this was by far the worst.

“There, demon spawn,” Sheireadan said,
tucking himself back into his pants. “Now the rest of you matches
your hair.”

The pack tossed their sticks onto the huddled
form at their feet and turned away, chortling as they strutted back
to town. Dayn curled himself up, clutching his ribs as he listened
to the boys’ voices fade into the distance.

He rolled onto his back and lay motionless on
the cold, damp ground. The only warmth he could feel was that of
the blood and urine running down his face. Staring up at the canopy
of stars that blanketed the night sky, Dayn wished more than
anything he had wings to fly. He recalled all the times he had been
abused by Sheireadan and the others. It was more than the issue of
Falyn, Sheireadan’s younger sister, he knew. He was fifteen now,
and the harassment had been going on for as long as he could
remember. Most of the residents avoided him when he went to town,
whispering and crossing the street as though he would contaminate
them in some way. He looked so different. His eyes and hair were
pale, while everyone else’s were dark. And he was tall, taller than
even the tallest man in Kirador. The details of his birth were a
great source of gossip; few believed his birth had been a natural
one.

“Why am I so different?” he asked the stars
as though they could answer.

Then he saw it, blazing across the night sky,
a great stream of light, its dazzling colors of red and gold
coursing through the heavens. He stared as it streaked past, its
brilliance reflected like sparkling stars before his eyes. But just
as quickly as it had ¬appeared, it vanished into the blackness.

“Are you my answer?” he asked, wondering if
Daghadar, the Maker, had finally seen fit to acknowledge his pain
in some mysterious way. “Well, your answer is going to have to be
better than that.”

He lay for a long while, staring up at the
stars, searching for another sign of the magnificent light. But he
saw nothing more of it and realized, message from the Maker or not,
he had to be getting home. He pulled himself up and staggered
toward the path.

It seemed to take hours to reach the last
crest, but when he did he paused to gaze at the timber house
nestled in the mist below. Its windows shone with a cozy glow from
the firelight within, and a stream of smoke spiraled from the
chimney, dissipating into the cool night air. Dayn smiled, the
warmth of the house matching the relief he felt at the sight of
it.