Cerbera

I don’t remember slamming Zifor against a tree with my forearm pressed to his throat. What I do remember is calling him a Dty’oty: a taker of life.

A murderer.

And I do know he’s scared. I can feel Zifor’s pulse through my arm, pumping fast and strong like a dragon’s wingbeats. I can smell him too: Warm leather, charred wood, and the raw, mineral hint of Emhic. I feel him swallow, the muscles in his neck tightening.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his head tilted back, green irises at the very bottom of the whites of his eyes, watching me.

“Don’t. I do not want to hear it.” I say. Zifor gives the smallest of nods. A brief flash of pain crosses his face, replaced by a mask of uncertainty.

“I didn’t do this. Cerbera, please, listen.” He reaches up with one hand, clasping it around my wrist. His touch is cold, sending shivers up and down my back.

Aareon is dead. Everyone is dead. All because of Randor.

All because I made the mistake of thinking I could change a human’s mind.

Just like last time.

Everyone I cared about, dead.

All because of me.

“I should have let you die.” I snarl. Zifor gulps, fear entering his shimmering green eyes for the first time.

“Then why did you save me?” He asks. I growl in annoyance, releasing him. Zifor shudders, sliding down the tree till he’s sitting on the ground, knees pulled into his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. His hair, a dark mop of oily curls, hangs in front of his face, hiding his expression. I put my knife back in its sheath, letting its reassuring weight anchor me.

“What were they like?” His question startles me.

“Who?”

“The people in your village. What were they like?” He lifts his head, tears in the corners of his eyes, lower jaw clenched.

“Strong, brave, kind.” I say. Zifor nods.

“Mine are dead,” he tenses, resting his chin on his kneecaps. I almost ask him who he means, when it hits me.

His parents.

A deep well of empathy in my gut opens for him, a tiny fraction of my heart calling out for me to comfort him.

To tell him it’s okay.

That he’s not alone in his grief.

“So are mine.” I manage to say, barely getting the words out of my throat. I reach under the collar of my cloths, wrapping my fingers around my mother’s pendant, letting the warm emerald settle in my palm.

The greatest pain is not remembering. I am sorry, daughter, but you must live on. And to live is to forget, I am afraid.

Why? Why did that small snippet of memory decide to come to the surface. I groan, massaging my temples. Then I offer Zifor a hand. He stares at it for a moment, then takes it. I hoist him to his feet, surprised at how light he is.

“Do you remember her? Your mother?” I ask. He nods his head.

“Yes. She died of the plague when I was ten. Randor pressed me into his service the day after, at her funeral. Said a grieving Magi was too dangerous unchecked.” He says. Zifor’s a little shorter then me, the bridge of my nose between my eyes the same height as his forehead. This close to him, I can see little freckles on his nose and cheeks, small circles of ink splattered under and around his eyes.

“Do you?”

“Only- no,” I grit my teeth, “We’re not going to do this, share our sad stories. Share our pasts.” Why had I answered his question, knowing that it was an emotional trap? I turn and go over to the next climbable tree, crossing my arms over my chest. I study my left forearm, taking in the small blue veins under my skin, when Zifor gasps in pain. The sound of bowstrings being drawn follows, along with rustles from the underbrush. Reaching for my knife, I stop halfway, standing up straighter and tensing.

“That’s right, Lore scum. Turn around.” The speaker talks like a snake, sly and cunning, giving me no choice but to do what he says. I turn, facing the addition pieces of scenery.

A man with a light fuzz of silver hair wearing tight blue leather clothes stands behind Zifor, one arm holding back his arms, the other pressing a curved dagger to the underside of his throat. On either side of him, more men in blue leather hoods with ebony masks fanned out, longbows held taunt in their gloved black hands. Zifor’s knees are bent slightly, the column of his neck exposed, the silver haired man’s blade between his jaw and Adam’s apple, digging into his flesh.

“A’Era’i.” I growl.

“Charming day, and you?” The man says.

“Enough riddles. What do you want?” I snap, raising my hands to show him I’m unarmed.

“No pleasureful business with Lore. How sad. Anyhow, you have a choice.” The man puts pressure on the knife, making Zifor cry out softly, the corners of his mouth and eyes tightening in a grimace.

“What choice?” Enough choices. Enough of the damn whole world. Enough of people telling me I had to decide.

Can’t choose? Then let me do it for you.

“The choice of life: This Magi, or those two children.”

“What children?”

“These.” The man gestures with his foot, and the foliage to my right is yanked open. What I see sends a whole new wave of repulsion for Randor into my stomach, twisting and churning my gut.

Two A’Era’i held loaded crossbows to the heads of two small Lore children. They were tiny, no taller than my hip, with small brown nubs for horns and wide, terrified green orbs for eyes. The one on the left, a boy, was slightly taller, with blue skin, navy hair, and freckles that overlapped. He gripped his sister-the smaller one with yellow skin and fern orange hair-with clumpy hands.

“Well?” the head A’Era’i promotes, “Who will it be?”

“Aareon.” I blurt.

The man blinks, taken back, “Pardon, what?”

“The village Monarch. Where is he?” I say, letting the tension in my legs seep out, imagining it as a waterfall spilling over the rocks that are my body, into the lake that is the dirt under my feet in white surf like dragon teeth.

“I do not see how this is relevant to the situation.”

“It’s sacrilege to kill a Monarch.” Crossing my arms, I finger the sleeve of my jerkin under my left armpit, feeling for the blade hilt.

“Fine.” The man makes another signal, and one of his henchmen dumps a limp body next to the two Lore children, causing the girl to make a muffled scream. The body groans, and Aareon lifts his head.

A bloody gash mares his right temple, cutting into his eye. His glasses are gone, his brown eyes searching for something. His clothes are ragged, one leg completely soaked in crimson, turning his orange skin a fine shade of cherry.

“Cerbera?” Aareon’s voice is hoarse, cracking and brittle. The coppery scent of blood wafts up, infiltrating my nostrils, making my head and heart spin.

There.

I wrap my fingers around the weapon hilt. Zifor makes a grunting noise in his throat, yet another signal I don’t understand.

“Well, this makes my choice easy.” I say, sliding into a fighting stance. I shoot Aareon a warning glance, hoping he can still read lips half-blind.

I draw my blade at the same time Zifor swings his head forward, then rams it back, slamming it into the nose of the silver man holding him in a cry of pain and a spray of red. The man stumbles backwards, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Zifor jumps next to me, his spine pressing against mine.

“Nice job.” I tell him under my breath.

“Thanks.” He whispers back. I feel him tense, the muscles in his body clenching. He’s warm, soft heat radiating from beneath his roughspun clothes and the fabric of his cloak.

“I hope you can do magic, because it would be extremely helpful right now.”

“I can’t. Though an army of Shur’tyr would be great.” Zifor says.

Shur’tyr.

The idea hits me harder than a falling tree. It’s a crazy one too. So crazy that it might kill all of us, including Aareon and the children.

“Cover your ears.” I reach into my satchel with my free hand, rooting around until I find what I’m looking for. Zifor complies, his shoulder blades shifting as he does.

“Ready.” he says.

“Ducking might be a good idea too.” I uncap the jar I’d pulled from my satchel, letting the sharp scent of almonds and acid out.

“What are you doing?” Zifor looks at me over his shoulder, parts of his nose and mouth hidden by the crock of his elbow and arm.

“Getting you the army of Shur’tyr you wanted.” I throw the jar, along with what’s inside it, at the feet of the silver-haired A’Era’i. He back pedals, bringing his blade up. Putting my bone knife back in its sheath, I stand up straight. I can hear Zifor muttering to himself in short bursts of Draconic. A fast and fleeting script of words.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Behind us, the undergrowth rustles. A deep baritone bellow breaks the sky, shaking the trees and dislodging birds and flying creatures in their thousands, creating a shrill orchestra of shrieks. Behind me, Zifor winces. The earth’s shaking deepens, becoming strong enough to throw us off our feet. I grab Zifor’s bicep, wrenching us both to the ground, when the Shur’tyr emerge.

They’re beautiful.

Three massive creatures that look like beetles with their shells inverted, dark and pearly black with ashy green eyes and obsidian fangs. Tentacles of the sundew plant sprouted from their backs, the underside of each limb covered in purple orbs. The Shur’tyr in the middle reared back its head, roaring. I look at Zifor’s face, expecting to see fear, but all I see is astonishment, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open, jaw slack.

“What?” He manages to say.

“Told you.” I can’t keep a smirk off my face. It’s been too long since Aareon let me summon Shur’tyr. He had always told me to wait. To wait until I was older. And I was older. The last time I had asked him had been seven years ago, when I was seven.

Can I do it?

Do what, little ifre?

Call the monsters, like you.

When you have proven yourself, daughter.

Little ifre, little flame.

That’s what Aareon had called me.

“Cerbera.” Zifor’s shoulder pressing against mine brought me back to the present, as the three large Shur’tyr ravaged the A’Era’i in bloodcurdling screams and wet ripping noises.

“Need to move, right.” I start to move in a crouch towards the children and Aareon. Zifor follows, slipping one of his hands into mine.

His palm is warm and moist, his grip tight and comforting, sending little sparks up my arm. Then we run, daring to put ourselves into a loose crouch, shoulders brushing, leaves and twigs snaring at our legs and clothes.

“Follow.” I pull ahead, leading Zifor.

“Can’t-wheeze-breath.” Zifor tugs at my hand. I twist to see him gasping, face bright red. Slowing, I readjust my grip on his hand, moving it to his wrist. I look into his eyes, into those deep, sorrowful pits of sparkling green flame.

“Trust me.” I tell him. He swallows, then nods, taking a big gulp of air. We continue running, until my sides ache and Zifor looks like he might about pass out, his pupils dilated, the dark pink of his lips parted, his skin pale. Putting my hands on the back of my head, I stretched back, letting my muscles and tendons strain against one another along my spine.

“Did we lose them?” Zifor’s hunched over, hands cupped over his knees, cloak falling around him in dark flaps.

“Think so.” Right as I say this, I hear the twang of a bowstring. Sharp pain blares up from my chest, and I reach up to feel hot, sticky blood leaking around my fingers, bubbling up from my left breast. I sag to the side, slumping against a tree root, my vision swimming in shades of gray and black.

“Go.” I see Zifor’s blurry form bend down in front of me, his hands raised part way.

“Cerbera.” He says. I open my eyes wide enough to take in his face. His terrified, pale face.

“Run!” I use the very last ounce of my strength, yelling at him to run, to leave me. As I fade into darkness, I hear his footsteps retreating, and bottomless gratitude swamps my heart.

Too many of my friends and family have given their lives for me. And no one. Not a single person, would have to do it again.

Do your worst, Xroim. I can take it.

The first thing I notice is that I’m moving. Which means either this is the Void, or I got captured and somehow managed not to bleed to death from a barb arrow through my chest.

Why did Arkeya have to have such a twisted sense of humor?

The world jolts upward, and I bang my shoulder on a plank floor. I try to reach up to my wound, when I realize I can’t: my wrists are bound in iron manacles, as well as my ankles. I’m gagged, I can feel the dirty cloth in my mouth, and blindfolded, my sight filled with dark brown fabric. Other senses come back to me in slow fits. The air smells like horse manure and straw, heavy enough to be suffocating. I can feel my clothes pressing against my body, most of my shirt and jerkin soaked with blood. Hard wood bites into my hip, shoulder, knees, and ankles. Another jolt, and something heavy and soft slams into my spine; and into the arrow still lodged into my body.

The only thing keeping me from screaming is the gag. Spots swim in my already cloudy vision, and I feel my hold on conciseness slipping.

The object rolls away, and I sigh in relief, shuddering.

Too much pain, too much suffering.

Too much loss.

At least Zifor escaped. I work my jaw, clamping my eyes shut. Zifor ran. He had listened. How I knew, because I could hear only one person’s breathing; mine.

The wagon-I’m sure it’s a wagon now-comes to a grinding halt. A rough scrap of an iron clasp door, followed by muffled footsteps and grunting. Rough gloved hands hoist me up by my biceps. The sharp tip of a blade presses against the inside of my nose between it and the corner of my right eye.

“Don’t move if you value your eyesight.” The blade jerks downward, cutting through the blindfold. Now I flinch, raising my left shoulder to block the harsh light.

A man wearing furred trapper’s leathers stands in front of me, dirt and blood coating him in a fine layer. He has a scraggly beard, with small, blank dark eyes separated by the harsh crest of his hooked nose. His mouth is in a permanent grin that sent chills through my body, most of his teeth missing or filed to points.

“Well, well, well. A little Lore all on her own. How tragic.” His eyes travel to the arrow in my chest, and a hunger enters his expression. I tense, waiting, knowing what he wants to do. Instead, he hooks two fingers into the gag, his dirty hands rough and wrinkled like dried herbs and leather. The gag falls from around my mouth to my collarbone, tight against my neck. I groan, sagging forward. The man behind me loosens his grip.

Bad idea.

For him.

Ramming my shackled hands into his crouch, I spring forward, body slamming into the one in front of me. He crumples like a folding bow, quick and with a loud crack. I swing to the side, my bound ankles throbbing in protest.

I hit the wood floor, something hard jammed into my throat, my entire body laced with pain.

“I told you trappers to be careful.” That voice. Looking up from the corner of my eye, I manage to see the newcomer. It’s the A’Era’i from the woods. If he survived, then-

No.

Just no.

“We be sorry, sire. Very sorry indeed.” The first trapper says. He began to nod his head, shooting his comrade a look while doing it. The A’Era’i scoffs.

“And the hounds?” He sounds bored, like this is all a waste of his time in his already meaningless life.

“They picked it back up. We’ll have it when they return.” The second trapper says.

“Hmm. Tie her to the post. And wrap that blasted shoulder before the entire wagon is red.” The pressure on my throat wanes, the man removing his foot. He steps back, letting the two trappers pull me to my feet. Now I can see where I am.

It’s definitely a wagon, I can tell from the curved, low ceiling, and the wooden bench cabinets that line the walls. The A’Era’i chuckles to himself. Then he leaves, leaving me and the two trappers. One takes a coil of brown, soiled rope while the other manhandles me, dragging me over to the pillar of wood.

I get bound to it, the rope wrapping around my midsection, pressing my back into the hard wood, causing the arrow to wedge more out of my chest with a bloody gurgle. I barely contain a moan, clenching my teeth and jaw.

“Wonder what the hounds will bring this time.” The trapper with the missing and filed teeth says, rubbing his shoulder, grimacing slightly.

“Could go for some more roasted Shur’tyr.” The other pats his round, shield-like belly, sighing in content.

“All you ever think about is food, you moron.”

“Not true. Come on, or the boss will get all murdery again.” They leave too, shutting and locking the door with a metal squeal and slam. Groaning, I slump, letting all the tension in my legs evaporate, going over what I knew in my head.

Zifor had escaped, where he’d gone, I had no clue. He was alone, on the run, with magic-restricting cuffs and zero help.

Foolish. I lean my head back, feeling my horns puncture the wood. There I close my eyes, my brain jumping from one vision of horrific torture to the next. I can see racks and bloodied spikes. An iron maiden, a whipping post, hot iron rods over a glowing cup of embers, chains. I let out a whimper, the sudden pressure of what had happened pouring over me in hot waves of fire and blood.

The past is past, there’s no changing it.

The same words that had kept me from drowning in grief, mourning what I had lost and what I was afraid of losing.

Hounds.

That’s what the trappers and the A’Era’i had said. That they were hunting something down in the jungle with hunting dogs.

It hit me when the door swung inward on its hinges, emitting a high pitched shriek. I leaned forward, trying to see out, when a bundle of rags was thrown in, hitting the far wall with a fleshy thump, and rolling down to the floor, laying there.

“Zifor.” His name catches in my throat, sending a hurricane of emotions into my chest. Two people enter after him, slamming the door in their wake. Zifor moaned, lifting his head. The person on the left is the A’Era’i, the person on the right the trapper with the shield belly.

“I had hoped you would have put up more a fight, but your current state will have to do.” The A’Era’i says, scowling. My fingers curl into fists, my jaw tightening.

“At least we got him, capt’n.” the trapper yawns, patting his belly.

“I suppose. Listen, Magi,” he bends down, grabbing Zifor by the throat, “when we return to Argona, you will behave. If you don’t, I have developed a new tactic that will put you in your place. I suggest you take this time to . . . reconsider your allegiances.” His grip clenches harder around Zifor’s neck, causing him to make a strangled sound.

“Let him go.” The words creep out like a wisp of smoke, escaping my throat in hoarse drafts. The A’Era’i stands, dragging Zifor up with him.

“Why should I listen to flea-bitten scum like you?” He eyes Zifor’s body with cold judgment.

“You shouldn’t, that’s why you should.” Riddles. Everyone likes riddles, because they give you an excuse to bash someone’s skull in.

“Hmm.” He opens his hand, and Zifor drops, crumbling at his feet in a ball of torn gray and red cloth.

“Sir?” The trapper edges toward the door, reaching for his dagger.

“Get the men ready. I want to be in front of the citadel by daybreak, understand

?”

“Yes, capt’n.” They go, exiting the wagon. I wait until the door has been locked and the torches roaring, to turn my attention to Zifor.

He lays on his side, his clothes ripped and stained dark red. He groans, pulling himself into a sitting position, one hand braced on the wall. His arms are covered in makeshift bandages and angry pink cuts, turning his sleeves scarlet. Zifor’s right leg was a bloody mess, dark crimson drenching his pant leg.

“Zifor.” I echo his name, letting it fill the cabin. He lifts his head, peering at me from beneath his tangled black bangs, blood and grim caked in his hair and all over his face.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is gravely, like shattered wood. Then he bends over, hacking blood.

“Don’t” I say. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze with his sparkling green eyes.

“Hope you have a plan, cause I don’t” He rolls to his back, one hand clutched over his ribs, the other against his leg.

“Got any knives?” I fiddle with my shackles, searching for a keyhole or clink.

“They searched me when I got caught.” Zifor groans again, leaning his head back, exposing the slender pillar of his throat.

“That how you got those?” I gesture vaguely to his wounds with my chin.

He grimaces, “Yeah. One of the dogs bit me, the others-” Zifor lifts his right arm, putting the cuts and bloody wrappings on display.

“How long?”

“Hmm?”

“How long has it been since I told you to run?” I ask, a cold pool of dread collecting in my stomach

“A week.” Zifor says. He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

“You don’t-” My jaw goes slack.

“You saved my life. Now it’s my turn to save yours.” Green light begins to course through Zifor’s veins, rippling up his arms, wrapping around his fingers and hands. His eyes start to glow, bright green circles in stark contrast with the black of his hair. Then it stops. The green goes out, leaving an afterimage scalded in my mind, and the walls and ceiling a dark brown bleached of color. Zifor groans, his eyes rolling up into his head, body twitching. He falls, skin turning an ashy green.

“Idiot.” Fresh pain blossoms in my chest, sending me hunched over, jaw clamped shut. Zifor’s unconscious, his limbs laid out next to him like offerings to the dead. His hair piled around his head, hiding his eyes. On his wrists, the Ironglass bands smoke, turning the skin around them pink and raw.

“Idiot.” The words fills the room, heavy like a rug thrown over a head. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

The wagon jerks to a stop, muffled shouts and cries audible from outside it. A high pitched scream rings out, followed by the entire wagon being shaken. I get jerked to the left, the arrow fletchings snagging on the pillar. Spots swim in my eyes, turning my vision black and full of holes. The wagon is rammed into again, the whole thing tilting sideways. More pain, more spots, less holes. The smell of burning flesh hits my nostrils, making me gag, my throat clenching and pulling in on itself. I let out a moan, blood dripping from my mouth. It’s too much. Too much pain. Too much suffering.

Yet not enough vengeance.

Randor would pay.

They all would pay.

Everyone except Zifor.

Because this world had a twisted sense of humor.

The wagon shudders again, signaling another attack. More screams and shouts echoed from outside, clawing at my ears like scavengers fighting over a corpse, ripping and tearing at it. The need to live in order to wreck havoc in Randor pounded in my head, hard and brash, like a thousand drums. I would live. I needed to live. And nothing would stop me, not even an arrow through my chest.

The next time the wagon shook, the door flung open, sending a harsh beam of filtered sunlight across the interior. Someone pokes their head through, whistling when they see me tied to the post and Zifor on the floor.

“Well, seems Delto was right.” The person, bless the gods in all their Draconic glory, is Lore.

“Took you long enough.” I manage to say, before my vision goes black, and the world goes silent.