Cerbera

30 years later

It’s dawn. A new light carving into the land, Xroim making his way across the sky. And with the sun, comes the Shur’tyr. The Bugplants. The feared hunters of the jungle.

The village sat nestled under the roots of a tree. Black plumes of smoke rising above stone chimneys set into wooden roofs, with herbs and grasses dangling from strings in doorways and weapons hanging on hooks on the walls. From the vantage point, I could see all this, plus the cook-fires where Shur’tyr corpses are being turned on spits over the open flames. The raised beds of plants that shone and grew in every color that fanned out from the largest hut in a tendril-like way, going all the way to the roots of the nearest tree.

The trees in Arkeya’s first canopy grow to be hundreds of feet tall. The trees in the second canopy, even taller, and third and fourth canopies, thousands. Between the roots, was a jungle of much smaller trees, and plants of every kind, shape, and color.

Sitting cross-legged on a stone formation jetting out of the forest floor, I count how many seeds and berries I have.

Thirty-four.

Enough for a short scouting expedition into the jungle. About five leagues round trip. Tucking them back into the pouch on my belt, I stand up, smoothing out the wrinkles in my forest green jerkin. Taking long steps, I hurry to the soil, then break out into a run, branches and leaves tearing at my limbs and garments.

It took a lot to survive in the jungle, with Shur’tyr at every corner, along with the King’s men hunting for Lore villages. Randor and his vision.

Blah.

Something only fools would think of, and Randor was no fool. Through countless battles and swift, heartless deception, he had killed three quarters of the Lore race, and the remaining quarter could do nothing but hide and wait for the storm to come to be past. It was infuriating, knowing that someone held a figurative axe to my nape, and the only thing I could do about it was wait for it to fall and pray it would not. But Randor and his people feared the Shur’tyr. A fear we’d exploited more times then I cared to remember. Maybe Aareon was right. And that I shouldn’t be concerning myself with the past.

Still.

Randor had taken my parents, my family, everything I had known before-

Stop. I stopped running and groaned, pushing my palm against my forehead and temple. The past is the past. I can do nothing to change it, no matter how much I wish I could.

Hooking my arms around a low hanging branch, I hoisted myself up into a tree. Another branch, a few feet higher, until I could see the worn soil of the ground, broken by overturned logs and smaller plants.

And tracks. Eight sets of prints edged into the mud, each one shaped roughly like fist and as big as my hand. Humans. Pulling out my knife, I crouched and followed the hoof prints, sliding to the ground out of the tree, keeping one eye out for threats that lurked in the underbrush. After all, this was Shur’tyr territory.

I followed the tracks until nightfall, the moons peeking out from behind branches, when I came to a clearing in the undergrowth. A village.

Dark smoke rose from fires eating away at the sides of the buildings. Deep furrows scarred the earth, and the smell of carnage clung to the air with a sickly taste. And lying amid the ruins, were bodies. Bodies in green and brown garb. Bodies with skin in varying shades of green, blue, red, orange, and yellow.

Lore. I swallow and stand up to my full height, tears threatening to come.

Murderers.

That’s the only word I have for the people who did this.

Killers. Who else would go and wipe out an entire village? This was Randor’s doing, period. I growled. They would pay.

All of them.

Every single one of them would pay for what they did. I turned and began to head back to my village when I heard laughter echoing from one of the semi-destroyed buildings on the outskirts of the smoldering ruins. They were here. Pulling my hood up over my head and horns, I stalked to the ruin, moving slowly.

Four people sat clustered around a small fire. Three burly men with full length beards that rippled around their jaws and chests. The fourth had black and white stubble sprinkled on the lower half of his round face. Sharp, eagle like eyes, with a hooked nose that’d the look of having been broken and reset several times. A jagged, ropy scar started under his right eye and disappeared into the collar of his mail and leather jerkin. All of them were joking and laughing, throwing back their heads and bellowing.

I slid behind an overturned boulder, straining to hear their conversation, when I noticed a fifth person huddled on the edge of the overhang. He was small, with black curls that hung in a shaggy mop. Narrow face, lean build. His body concealed by a dark cloak. He sat crouched next to the fourth man, arms wrapped around his legs. One of the men chuckled, taking a bite off a piece of meat in his gloved hand.

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“You really gave them hell, didn’t you?” He snorted, then doubled over, laughing. The others joined in, except for the one with the scar. The boy frowned, his response inaudible. He shifted, pulling the cloak tighter, and I saw a glint of metal bands on his ankles and wrists.

Most likely unsatisfied with his answer, the man reached across the fire and grabbed the boy’s neck, jerking him to the side. Shadows played among the group, giving them a strange, barbaric look only amplified by their armor and weapons. The boy grunted, one hand clasped around the man’s arm.

“Stop.” Jagged scar said.

“Or what? You’ll kill me? You know we don’t stand a chance against this . . . Boy! Look what he did! He wiped out an entire village by himself. Compared to that, we’re worthless and beyond useless.” The man sputtered. His beard was red and twisted at the ends, caked with dried blood.

“Zifor did it with magic. And it is our job to assist him, as the king ordered.”

“Captain Theodan, with all due respect-” Red beard stood up and drew his sword. The silver blade reflected the flames, “We should cut his head off and feed his guts to the worms, or, at the very least, use him as Shur’tyr bait.”

Theodan stood. Zifor shrank away, keeping his face down.

“Remember your place, Horan.” He snarled. I creep forward, hoping to get closer to hear more of their conversation,when Zifor turns his head in my direction.

His eyes.

They’re green. Not a dull, unimpressive green, but a brilliant, scolding acid green. Green the color of emeralds over a fire. Shifting backwards, I pull my knife out of its sheath at my hip, turning the blade so it’s inverted, sticking out of the back of my fist. Zifor blinked, then held a finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. I frown, and he returns his gaze back to the fire. Exhaling slowly, I stand and take several steps back, concealed by the shadows cast by the jungle. Then I turn and ran. Fleeing back home to warn Aareon and the others.

Side vaulting over a log that lay perpendicular to the game trail I was taking, I stumbled and slowed down.

You’re making enough noise to draw every Shur’tyr within a league, I scold myself.

That boy, Zifor. If Theodan and that other man, Horan, were right, then that boy had destroyed the other village with magic. Wildfire or Woodland magic was the most likely, maybe even Wither might explain the marks in the earth. But where would he have gotten enough Emhic in order to do an attack like that? That made no sense.

If I ever saw him again, I’d ask. If he wasn’t going to be trying to kill me.

Jogging back took less time then I thought it would, and when I burst into the clearing, I feared the worst. Instead, the villagers weren’t dead, and the only fires sat safely in pits made of hard, rain soaked wood and sunbaked clay. I relaxed, and came to a walk. Aareon would be in the farthest pavilion, and if he wasn’t, then I had no idea where he would be.

The pavilion was made of old, dead wood, and carved to the likelihood of a dragon with its wings bent downwards at forty-five degree angles, creating a wall-less shelter to keep rain out of the shallow groove carved into the dirt underneath it. Seeing Aareon sitting hunched over a leatherbound book with yellowing pages, I came over and tapped his shoulder, making him jump and reach for the knife on his belt.

“Cerbera, what is it?” He asked, looking up at me. His brown eyes were set close together in the center of his face, glasses perched on what was left of his nose. Orange skin, ruby colored hair.

“Din’s been destroyed, possibly by a Magi. And the people who did it are still there.” I say, crossing my arms. Aareon sighed and stood up, putting down his book.

“Describe them to me,” I do, making sure to mention the strange bands of metal around the boy’s wrists and ankles. Aareon nods, “Sounds like Captain Theodan and Horan, but I don’t know who the boy you mentioned is.”

“Theodan called him ‘Zifor’.” I say, accepting the waterskin he offers me.

“Zifor.” Aareon plays the name around with his tongue. I take a long drink, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand when I’m done.

“You heard that name before?” I ask.

“Yes, once. It’s a Shapeless name.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Ravaged. It’s a dark, twisted name from another time, and I can’t guess at why this boy bears a name older than the First Wars.” He rubs his chin, deep in thought.

“So what are we going to do?” I sit on one of the wooden benches and pull out a few berries, swallowing them whole.

“The only thing we can.” Aareon says. I groan, knowing all too well what he means. Sit around and do nothing. Like we always do, and what we’ll continue to do until we’re dead and our heads mounted on pikes.

“Dragon’s dung.” I swear. Aareon raises a brow but doesn’t say anything.

“Is there something else you want to do?” Aareon puts a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him.

“Maybe. I want to find the boy, Zifor, then kill him. Then Randor won’t be able to destroy more villages through magic, and he’ll have to do it the old fashioned way instead.”

“You know that Randor most likely has more Magi besides this boy.” Aareon points out.

“I know,” I throw up my hands, “But what else can I do? At least let me go out and track them, to see where they go next.”

Aareon sighs, massaging his temples with his forefinger and thumb.

“You may go, but be back in a fortnight, or I will assume you have been killed.”

“Thank you.” I mutter. Aareon nods. As I turn to go, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. I spin around and glare at him.

“I almost forgot. Wait here.” Aareon broke into a jog, disappearing inside a nearby hut. He comes back a moment later, one hand clasped in a fist and pressed to his chest.

“What is it?”

“Something your mother would have wanted you to wear.” He cups his hands and extends them, showing what’s in them.

It’s an emerald. Wrapped in gold webs on a braided string of leather. On the front of the gemstone, where all the gold flowed to and connected, was the outline of a leaf, with a highly detailed profile view of a dragon’s head inside.

“You knew my mother?” I say, taking the pendent out of Aareon’s hands.

“Yes. I knew your mother.” Aareon smiles softly. I slip the pendant over my head, where it rests at the center of my sternum.

“What was her name?”

“Isha.” he said.

“Isha,” I whisper, “And my father?”

“Dytui. A brave warrior.”Aareon says. I nod slowly.

“Right.”

“Don’t forget to pack supplies.”

“Right.” Saying goodbye to Aareon, I hurry over to my own small hut, filled with a single hammock, several bags hanging on hooks next to the doorway, and the shortsword I’d pinched off a Dwrfish caravan three winters ago. Buckling the shortsword around my waist, I fill one of the bags with a cloak, dagger, Shur’tyr lures, a waterskin, and provisions. I stop, then scoop up the slingshot and ammo pouch, clipping them to my belt as well.

It didn’t hurt to be prepared. Stepping out, I looked up. Arkeya’s four moons looked back, only one of them full, the others in varying stages. I smile. Anariita, Arero, Detu, and Lexo. Arkeya’s siblings. The Kin of Stone.

Breaking into a trot, I speed out into the jungle, letting the most dangerous environment in Arkeya swallow me whole.