Cerbera

You could stab me through the gut with a lance. You could take a serrated knife, stick it in me, and twist it in a full circle.

The amount of pain from that, however, is nothing in comparison to the amount of anguish I could sense from Zifor.

It surrounded him like a thick cloud, a mist of pain and suffering floating around him.

“You okay?” I look over my shoulder at him. Zifor’s head hangs, his black bangs hanging in front of his eyes, shoulders sagging.

“He’s processing, let him think.” Tavarn says. His voice is deep and lithe, reminding me of Aareon.

Aareon.

He was gone, left to die with those two children, completely at the mercy of Shur’tyr and the A’Era’i.

Damn it.

Not this again.

Not this feeling of helplessness and grief. Not this sinking feeling in my chest that weighs me down like lead. Not the realization that people I had cared for were gone. Gone to the Void. Gone forever.

It makes me want to hit someone.

It makes me remember Zifor’s hand on my shoulder, the warmth that radiated from his palm. The hard skin of his finger pads through my shirt and bandages.

It made my skin tingle just thinking about it. Zifor was Magi, and while he had Ironglass restraints, I had felt the power swirling in him. The raw power of Emhic trapped in him, the pounding of it in his blood.

“I’m fine.” Zifor whispers.

I don’t pester him. I understand. At least, I think I do.

“Alright. Here to talk if you want.” I say. Zifor’s only answer is nodding his head.

“Cerbera, I need to check your bandages.” Tavarn’s voice startles me back to reality, ripping my thoughts away from the horrors they always went into.

“Sure.” I set down the small pack I’m carrying, my unwounded shoulder throbbing from being rubbed by the cloth strap through my jerkin.

Zifor sat down, wrapping his arms around his ribs, groaning slightly. The urge to pull him into a hug struck, hard and heavy. I nearly took a step towards him, stopping myself just short of doing it.

“Cerbera.” There was a warning in Tavarn’s tone, not really, but hinted in the way it dropped an octave.

“I’m ready. You don’t have to wait.” I say. Tavarn lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

He was tall, a head and a half taller than me, with horns that swooped up in two steep dark brown spires. His eyes were warm and friendly, deep brown pits that seemed bottomless in layers upon layers of wooden umber folds.

Tavarn crossed the space between us, sliding two fingers under the gauze on my shoulder. He muttered something under his breath, eyes widening.

“Have you ever used Emhic before?” His question is one I get often. People look at me, look at the way I fight and move, and assume I’m a Magi. I’m not. I’m ordinary.

So painfully ordinary that magic is almost an annoyance to me.

“No. I’m not a mage.” I bite the words out, forcing each one past the dry surface of my tongue.

“Oh. My apologies.” Tavarn unwraps my shoulder in three quick circles, exposing the torn and bloodied flesh of my shoulder and collarbone to the moist jungle air. I inhale deeply, fighting back the pain.

“How bad is it?” I refuse to look down. Down at the wound I gained out of my own foolishness.

“Bad.” Tavarn whistles. At least he’s being honest, unlike the healer back home. Tara what’s-her-name. She’d been fine, just dishonest when it came to determining the severity of a potentially fatal wound.

“How bad is ‘bad’?” I ask.

“It’s not green, if that was what you were wondering. Other then that, it’s about as red as a fireberry.”

“That bad?”

“Aye.” Tavarn nods.

“What’s a fireberry?” Zifor asks. Both me and Tavarn turn slowly to face him, his face wide with shock.

“It’s a- how do I explain this?” I stammer.

“A fireberry is one of the more rarer ingredients used in alchemy. It’s more common around Bellsworth near the Ice Gorge and the Wilder, up north.” Tavarn explains.

“Oh.” Zifor mumbles. He rubs his wrists, gray cloth running over white-pink gauze and silver bands.

“Can we get a move on? Or will we just magically teleport to this ‘Ribena’ place?” My patience is breaking, cracking under my skin like dead leaves, digging into me with the same stinging pain as splinters.

“Of course. Just take it easy.” Tavarn hefts his satchel over his shoulder, gesturing at us to follow him with a wave of his hand.

We follow him, like lambs to the slaughter, climbing higher into more jungle.

Into more wilderness.

“Almost there.” Tavarn’s voice shatters my train of thought, ripping me back to reality. It was a welcome interruption; my head was ringing from alternate fantasies of being tortured in Argona.

All it did made my resolve to end Randor stronger. He would pay for his crimes a thousand times over.

Then he would pay it again.

“How close?” I ask. Rough bark pressed against my palms and aching fingers, digging into my toes and knees.

“Here.” Tavarn pulls himself up onto a thick branch, his long orange body folding around the length of deep brown and moss green wood. I heft myself up after him, reaching around to help Zifor.

The Magi boy clung to the tree like lichen, his body flat and spread, limbs hooked to the trunk in a very spider-like way, his gray and black clothes hugging his narrow frame with sweat.

“Zifor, here.” I offer a hand, loosening my fingers. Zifor looks up, his shaggy black hair pasted to his cheeks. He reaches up, curling his fingers around my wrist. Planting one knee on the edge of the branch, I wrap my other hand around his wrist, yanking him up.

We both flopped down on the tree limb, chests rising and falling rapidly, covered in sweat and grim, our clothes and garments sticking to our bodies.

“I-huff-never want-huff-to do that-wheeze-again.” Zifor groans between deep, rapid breaths.

“No promises.” I chuckle, sitting up. My ribs ached, throbbing from both the arrow wound through my shoulder and the exertion of climbing with little rest and rations.

“Okay.” Zifor closed his eyes, the ashy tint to his skin turning his eyelids translucent.

“Cerbera, a word?” Tavarn crouches down next to me, his brown eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire.

“Sure.” Standing, I follow him to the base of the tree limb where it flowed into the main trunk in ripples of browns, grays, and greens.

“I understand what you have seen. However, I need to know what happened.” Tavarn places his hands on my shoulders, the insides of his hands warm and moist against my skin. Something twitches in my left collarbone, and I look down to see the wound closing up, knitting itself back together under the gauze.

“Happened to what?”

“Your village.”

“Oh.” I go silent. It’s hard, getting the pictures of the destruction out of my head. I can still see the ravaged wood burning, the bodies littering the ground. I can still smell the smoke, the scents of burning flesh and bark. Still hear the fire crackling, the screams frozen in the air.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Tavarn’s hands drops from my shoulders, hanging at his sides. Two orange birds hanging from thick orange strings.

“It’s not something I’ll forget.” It’s barely a whisper, more a promise. To whom, I know not. It could be a promise to myself, to the people who deserve death after what they’ve done. No, I know what it is.

It is a promise to myself.

A promise to never forget.

A promise to not let the dead have died in vain.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Be careful, Cerbera.” Tavarn warns.

“Why?”

“I can see it in your eyes. See your thirst for Randor’s blood. As much as I want him dead too, do not let this need for revenge cloud you. It will bring you more harm than good.” He sighs, running one hand through the short tangled mess of his dark orange curls.

“You can-?” I blink, shock coursing its way through me. How did he know? He said he had seen it in my eyes, my yearning for Randor’s death.

“Yes.”

“Why tell me? You barely know me.” It was stunning, to say the least, that all someone had to do was look into my eyes to know what I wanted. To know what I was willing to leave the world for in order to achieve it.

“I can see myself in you. I can see a younger, more naive self in you. I have been down this path too, Cerbera. Tread carefully, if you plan on taking it.” Tavarn says.

“Okay.” I whisper. Tavarn gives a slight smile.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to lecture you. Zifor’s waiting.” With that, he strides past me, offering a hand to Zifor, who’s still laying on his back, eagle-spread.

I let out my breath, exhaling sharply. My shoulders felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off them, despite what had just happened. I go over to them, casting a look at Zifor. He blinked, looking up at me.

“You okay?” He asks, standing.

“Never better.” I lie. Better kind lies then terrible truths.

Zifor turned to Tavarn, “How much farther?”

“We’re here, believe it or not.” Tavarn takes a step back, gesturing to the seemingly empty void of trees and vegetation that served a backdrop to us.

“What are we looking at?” Zifor squints, his eyes narrowing, cutting his bright green irises in half.

“That.” I point, my finger wobbling slightly.

“Oh. I see it.” Zifor says. I’m glad he can, despite everything that’s happened. In front of us, half hidden in the foliage, a group of wooden hexagon huts made of dark cedar wood with thatched green roofs sat built into the trees, connected by a tangled web of rope and plank bridges, rope swings, and other various methods of moving between platforms. Plants grew on the roofs, smoke leeching from the cobblestone chimney of one brick hut. Platforms jutted out like limbs, made of various types of wood. There was no Lore to be seen, but what I did notice was strange was the catapult that sat on one of the more isolated platforms, next to the hut made of brick with the smoke.

Hanging suspended between our branch and the closest platform was a rope bridge, the knots in it tied in careful loops, the planks not too far apart but not too close together either, swinging slightly in the gentle breeze. And standing on that rope bridge, right at the lowest point of its slight downwards arc, was a Lore.

“Delto.” Tavarn stepped in front of us. I could see the muscles in his jaw tightening, the ones in his nape rolling. The Lore on the bridge marched over, right up to the end where it was anchored to the bark. He didn’t step off, instead kept his feet planted firm on the swaying planks.

“I thought the Shur’tyr had gotten you.” He snarled.

Delto was tall, his skin a dark, dull blue, hair a tangled mess of midnight hanging to the sharp angles of his jaw. He wore a loose green tunic under a gray vest that was unfastened, leaving portions of his toned chest bare. Tight brown pants that ended right below the crook of his knees, leather wrapped around his ankles, the arches of his feet, and his wrists. Three amulets hung around his neck on three silver chains. The first was of a small orange dragon curled around an egg. The second a sword with a corkscrew sapphire wrapped around it. The third a tip of a black horn tangled in a copper wire net.

His horns stood looming, two black hooks emerging from his upper temples, curling around in a loop to the back of his head. Then there was his eyes. Well, eye. Delto’s left eye was gone, replaced by a leather eyepatch and a jagged scar that run parallel with his nose, bisecting his angular dark brow.

“Who are they?” He points to me, then to Zifor.

“Allies.” Tavarn responds.

“Allies?” Delto cocks his head to the side, studying us with his remaining acid green eye.

“Yes. Did you tell Cata and Xandyr?” Tavarn asks.

Delto let out a sigh, his broad shoulders drooping, “Orders are orders, Tavarn. Don’t stop me.” Then his eye began to emit a light glow, bright green light traveling through his veins up from his fingertips, through his arms, across the exposed skin on his chest, up to the sides of his neck.

The light hummed under his skin, all of his veins and arteries aglow with it. I took a step back, crouching. Tavarn did the same, as did Zifor. I reached for my knife, fear sinking its teeth into my spine when I remembered that Tavarn had it.

Idiot.

Aareon would be pissed that I had no weapon.

No, Aareon was dead. The only one I had to blame for this was myself and my foolishness.

“What did Cata and Xandyr tell you?” Tavarn’s voice is barely a whisper, more a command.

“That the Magi would die, the girl too if she intervened.” Delto’s words have a strange ringing to them, the glow in his veins pulsing with each one. He raises one hand, fingers splayed in the air.

“Delto, s-” Tavarn is interrupted by a scream. A scream that is painfully familiar. A scream I’d wished never to hear again. I whirl around, just in time to see massive green and rust-brown, thorn-covered vines erupt from the ground, twisting around Zifor’s body.

He lets out a cry, struggling against the earthly restraints. The vines curl tighter, drawing crimson blood that flows over their thorny lengths, collecting in puddles on the ground. I can smell the blood, as well as the raw mineral scent of Emhic. The air is vibrating, blurring from the amount of pure magic in it.

“Delto, stop!” Tavarn yells, his hands clasping into fists at his sides. Delto turns his attention to us, Zifor clawing weakly at his magical prison behind him.

“Make me.” Delto bares his teeth. His hand clenches into a fist, fingernails pressed to his palm. I close my eyes, trying to tune out Zifor’s sounds of agony.

“Cerbera, open your eyes.” Tavarn nudges me with his elbow, the hard rough skin of the joint burying into my ribs. My eyes fly open, in time to see Zifor throw his head back, dark curls falling away from his face, blood in the corners of his mouth, bearing his throat. A sign of surrender.

“If you believe in mercy, Magi, I don’t grant mercy to murderers.” Delto closes his fist all the way. Zifor thrashes, his body the gray moth trapped in a mantis’s arms, struggling to the last breath. I swallow, knowing I’d taken that advice wrong.

Better terrible truths then kind lies.

“Delto, let him go!” I snap, taking a few steps forward.

“Why should I?” Delto glares at Zifor, who hung limp, neck bared, eyes half closed, mouth parted.

“He saved my life. He can’t use magic because he has Ironglass manacles on. You’re Lore. Please, show him mercy.” I don’t like begging, but here I am, pleading for the life of a boy I was ready to kill only days ago.

“Listen to her, Delto.” Tavarn rests his hand on my right shoulder, deep brown eyes drilling holes into Delto. Delto let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. Minutes tick by, broken by Zifor’s groans. Then Delto opens his hand, the green glow in his body dimming, becoming darker until it was no longer there. The tangled green and rust-brown vines around Zifor began to shrink, creeping back into the branch until they no longer existed.

“Thank you.” I breath, letting out the breathe I didn’t realize I was holding until now.

“Don’t thank me. This is war, girl. And there is little mercy in war.” Delto hisses. He stalks over to Zifor, pulling the small boy up by his left bicep.

“Ulg.” Zifor groans, eyelids fluttering. He lifts his head, the green in his eyes duller than it usually is.

“Shut it. Follow.” Delto turns on his heel, creeping over to the rope bridge, dragging Zifor along behind him, his tail a blue banner behind him. “You folks coming?” He looks over his shoulder at us, stopping at the threshold of the bridge.

“We are coming.” Tavarn lets out a tired exhale. I nod, doing my best not to look at Zifor’s battered frame.

We were coming, into Ribena, a hidden village of Lore.

A village that might help us.

Or destroy us.

“Where are we going?” The streets-I guess you could call them streets- of Ribena were narrow, the wooden huts and building on either side of us rose to two stories, tightly packed in this part of the village. Ribena was more of a small town then a village.

More of a stronghold.

“You’ll see.” Came Delto’s reply. Hours ago, he’d given up on half-dragging, half-carrying Zifor. Now the boy walked shoulder to shoulder with me, his head hanging, chin resting on his chest. Dried blood covered him from head to toe, staining his clothes and skin a slight pink. He’d lost so much in so little time. It made the fact that he was still standing almost a miracle itself.

“Not an answer.” I say.

“Thought you liked riddles.”

“I hate them.” I close my eyes halfway, taking in the feeling of the wooden platform beneath my feet, of my ragged breathing, of Zifor’s shoulder occasionally brushing against mine.

“War is hard, Cerbera.” Delto’s voice calls me back. I open my eyes, glancing up to see him standing in the archway of a longhouse, soft orange light glowing through a curtain that hung in the archway.

“I know.” I whisper, reaching up to finger my mother’s pendant.

“Do you?” Delto asks.

“Yes. Do you?” Take the question, answer it, twist it and throw it back at the original asker.

“Of course I do. Why else would I be here?” Delto rolls his remaining eye, his tail curling back and forth behind him.

“Figured.” I mutter.

“What about you, Magi. Do you know war?”

“Yes.” Zifor whimpers. Delto raises a brow.

“Tell me, then.” He says.

“War is hard. It takes you, twists and breaks you, then puts you back together as a new, hardened person. It’s not glorious, it’s not honor-filled. War is bloody and horrible. The people involved with it do horrible, terrible things. Things that change you.” He swallows, wringing his hands in front of him.

“Good. Seems you understand,” Delto pulls back the beige curtain in the doorway, throwing warm firelight on us. “You convinced me. Now you have to convince them.”

We entered, entering a long room that smelled of smoke and pork, the air cloudy with the warmth emitting from the fire that roared in the center. Three people sat on the fire’s other side, the flames flickering and popping, their bellies blue and yellow. Tavarn stood to one side, arms crossed over his chest, the fire turning his skin spice-red. Delto touched his fore and middle fingers on his right hand to his lips, then to his forehead, before bringing them out to the three people seated next to the fire. I did the same, my rough fingertips a stark contrast to my chapped lips and sweat covered forehead.

“Zifor.” I dug my heel into his ankle, hissing his name under my breath. Zifor jumped, hands flying up to his head.

“What?” He hissed back. I did the gesture to him. Two fingers to lips, then forehead, then outward.

“Do it. It’s a sign of respect.” I whisper. Zifor nods, turning to the three seated Lore. He does it, though I notice that his arms and hands are shaking.

“A Magi and one of our own.” The voice belongs to the Lore in the middle, a male who towers above the other two.

“Ku’yu Xandyr, this is Zifor and Cerbera. They have a tale to share.” Tavarn says. I twist slightly to see him out of the corner of my left eye. We have no story to tell these people.

“Ku’yu,” I bow my head, keeping my eyes focused on my feet, the wooden floor, and the sheepskin rugs on said floor.

“Lore bow to no one. Rise, girl, and tell us your tale.” When Xandyr speaks, his voice rings with power. Power and wisdom. A shudder passes through me.

Power and wisdom.

Something all Ku’yu, chiefs, hold.

I peer over my shoulder at Zifor. He gives a slight nod, clenching his jaw, glaring into the depths of the fire. Silence falls over the room, save for the snarls from the hearth.

“Go on.” Tavarn breaks the silence with his gentle words, snapping me out of a trance.

Right. Tell us your tale.

I could do that.

I did, spinning it so thick that when I was done, there were tears in the corners of Zifor’s wide green eyes. I felt tears in the corners of my own.

“If Randor is-was- using Magi to advance his plans, then we’re doomed.” The person on Xandyr’s left speaks, standing.

“Precisely.” Delto says. He crosses the room, standing next to me. I come up to his shoulder, the tips of my horns at the slanted angle of his jawbone.

“Arck, how is the, er, catapult coming along?” Tavarn coughs into his fist, giving us a guilty look, the corners of his eyes pinched.

Arck blows a raspberry, counting on her fingers, “‘bout as good as it can, considering the course of the trajectory and the-” She’s cut off by Xandyr pushing himself to his feet.

“Arck, get the catapult working.”

“Aye, sir!” Arck runs out of the longhouse, her long red tail waving along behind her like a flag.

“Delto, Tavarn?”

“Yes?”

“Operation Minx. Understand?”

“I-what?” Delto shakes his head.

“Very well. And the children?” Tavarn says. Xandyr turns to us.

His skin is white with patches of dark gray and black on it. All that’s left of his horns are two dark brown stumps on the top of his head. His hair is jet black, hanging to his shoulders on one side and cropped close to his scalp on the other. Eyes the color of murky pond water, an algae green with hints of jade and teal sprinkled in with crow’s feet at the edges. His tail was gone, probably nothing more than a stub at the base of his spine.

“I have plans for them.” Xandyr answers.

“What kind of plans?” Zifor swallows, lifting his head up a tiny fraction of an inch. Xandyr raised one of his thick, heavyset black brows.

“I need the two of you for something that I’ve been planning for a long time.”

“Which is?” I venture. Xandyr fixes his gaze on mine, those murky eyes of his staring right into my soul.

“Why, dear girl. I need you to kidnap a certain someone.”

“Who?”

“Prince Skylar of Argona.”