He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. They were right behind him.
The boy sprinted down the alleyway, clutching a half-dozen ripe pepons in his grasp. It was as many as his small arms could muster, but as the shouts behind him assailed his ears, he worried he’d have to lessen the load.
At the next intersection, the boy made a left, turning back toward the gate to the docks. Past passersby, he scampered ahead. As he sped, a lone pepon fell from his clutches, falling onto the cobble street. The boy frantically whirled around and reached with his free hand, but as he did so, he heard another shout. His bright blue eyes shot up.
Coming around the corner, under the shadow of Cephragon’s Crystal Tower, he saw the first guard, clad in the traditional Ardysan armor set. The Opelite guard shoved past the citizenry, flaring eyes fixed on the boy. Two more guards appeared behind him.
“By the order of Ardysan law! Stop! Thief!”
The boy grunted, gritting his teeth as he stretched his arm for the last pepon. With straining fingers, the boy managed to snare the fruit, and he swiped it off the stones, lurching to the side all in one motion – just as the guard closed in. The guard lunged for the boy, but the boy was too swift, and a groan of frustration left the guard’s lips.
The boy rushed down the narrow cobble street, past cloaked commoners huddled in the shade. Past drunken lingerers singing off-tune shanties. Past sailors sitting in circles, gambling with wooden cups and seashell dice. He ran until he came to the easternmost portion of the mahallas, where the blaring spotlight of the mid-afternoon Sun met his eyes. Here, the street opened up into a plaza, lined by run-down lodging houses on either side.
He wasted no time thinking. Quickly, the boy started forward again – his bare, calloused feet clapping against the cobblestone. He made his way east, toward the gate to the docks. Instead of heading straight for the gate, however, the boy fixed his sight on a small pathway in the distance, which lined the outer city wall that ran north to south.
The path was tucked behind the outer lodging houses, running parallel to the wall. Near the gate, the wall was solid, without openings. But farther down the path, the wall lowered a bit, and large arches were etched into the barrier. The boy knew he could drop down onto the docks from one of the arches. Maybe then he could lose them.
The boy reached the narrow pathway, hidden behind the wooden shacks at the corner of the mahallas. He still heard the footsteps of the guards a ways back; he didn’t dare slow down. He turned down the passageway and picked up his speed. Below his feet, cobbles gave way to pebbles and dirt. He ignored the sting of the small rocks.
As he ran, the boy’s eyes darted through each archway for a view of the docks. He kept looking until he saw the northern edge of the pier, and then he halted. He glanced back; the guards were charging down the alley. A gap had formed between them, as the boy was faster and had no armor to carry. But they’d be there soon. He had to hurry.
The boy stepped up into the stone arch and looked down. It was almost a fifteen foot drop down to the docks. It was enough to make the boy pause, but a bellowed command from a guard brought back his focus.
Nestling the pepons between his left arm and his midsection, the boy retrieved a cloth with his right. It was an intricately-woven linen cloth, with the name ‘Heran’ stitched across its length. Hastily, the boy wrapped the pepons inside the cloth and hugged it close to his stomach. Then, without so much as a breath, he stepped off the arch’s ledge and dropped onto the docks below.
He tried to stick the landing, but his left foot slipped on an uneven log as he hit the dock. He lurched to the right and slammed into a wooden post, narrowly avoiding falling into the ocean water. His shoulder screamed in pain. His ankle was twisted.
Grunting, the boy pushed himself around the corner and started south along the dock, but just as he did so, two guards dropped down onto the pier from a nearby archway. They pushed through a small crowd and cut off the boy’s advance.
Frozen, the boy turned around to see that another guard was dropping down from the northernmost archway. Realizing he was cornered, he quickly reached inside his rolled cloth and pulled out a pepon. He took a large bite out of the fruit and started to chew, but before he could swallow, a guard reached him and slapped his jaw. The moistened food sprayed out onto the planks.
Now the guard grabbed the boy’s bulging cloth and tried to wrench it from his grasp, but the boy dug in his fingers. It wasn’t long before his wrap unraveled, and as the boy ripped the cloth away, the pepons all fell onto the dock. Some rolled off the jetty and into the shallow waves.
The guards did not hide their animus – but the chase was over. One guard gathered the remaining fruits off the boards. The closest took a step toward the boy and grabbed his arm.
“Back to the mahallas with you,” the guard growled. “Maybe one of these times, you’ll learn.”
He started to tug the boy’s arm, but the boy squirmed free and shoved the guard aside, then spat in his direction. He turned and tried to run, but the guard grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him back. Now the guard dragged the boy back toward the northern edge of the docks, and the others followed.
Once at the unoccupied northern edge, the guard threw the boy down next to a stack of crates. Somewhere on the way down, the boy hit his head. Disoriented, he tried to stand, but before he could, the guard sent a kick into his midsection. The boy crumpled into a ball, and the guard kicked him again. And again. And again. At first, the boy cried out in pain, but after the fifth kick, it was too painful. He laid on his side, breathing through strained inhales. His eyes started to close.
Only when the boy was defeated did the guard stop. He scowled at the boy, while the other two guards loomed behind. The guard turned, giving the boy one last glance.
“Slimy gutter rat. Do us a favor and roll off the dock.”
The guards left, and the boy lay alone, clutching his ribs. The ripples bubbled beneath the pier, and the waves hummed down the coast. The sound drowned out the howls of his stomach and lulled him to sleep. Afternoon turned to evening. Evening turned to sunset.
At twilight, a lone fishing canoe approached the dock, porting at the isolated northern edge. The boy felt the vibration of the boat’s hull against the planks. He opened his eyes just enough to see a silhouette standing from the canoe, shakily heaving himself onto the dock. The silhouetted man pulled a small sack from the canoe and started for the pier. It was then that he came into the lantern light, and the boy saw his face through tired eyes.
He was an older man, with once-golden skin that had since gone dull. His hair was a loose, graying blonde, and he was frail and thin. The man’s eyelids were heavy, and well-defined bags lingered under his eyes. His face was empty as he walked onto the pier, half-empty fishing bag dangling from his fingers. He had already started to turn left, ready to make the long walk back to the main gate, when something caught his eye.
The old man turned to see the boy, lying against the stack of crates. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. The old man stood still for a moment, frowning at the boy, as if conflicted. But as his eyes observed the child, he began to feel sorrow. The boy was covered in dirt and grime and tattered rags, and his limbs were wiry and fragile. His brown hair was matted over his face, and from where he stood, the old man could hear the boy’s stomach. His pained breaths.
After a moment, the old man turned and made his way toward the boy. He knelt down beside the child and set his fishing bag on the wooden dock. Without saying a word, he overturned the bag and poured out its contents. Five fish spilled out onto the planks, long dead from suffocation. The boy was tired, but upon seeing the food, he instinctively reached for it. He grabbed a raw fish and quickly bit into its skin. Now the boy slowly sat up against the crates, and continued to eat. The old man watched him as he did so.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” The old man said quietly, thinking aloud.
The boy froze and stared at the man, startled by his voice. The old man swallowed a lump in his throat. It was then that he saw the bruise on the boy’s face. He took a deep breath.
“Go on,” the old man said. “I won’t hurt you.”
The boy eyed him for a moment longer, then went back to his meal. The old man continued to watch him.
“Do you have any parents?”
The boy did not acknowledge the old man. After a spell of silence, the old man nodded to himself. He tried to force a small smile.
“Sorry there wasn’t more,” he muttered with a weak chuckle. “Old Pyn’s been playing with the currents. I know that sounds like an old fisherman’s excuse but… well, that’s only half-right.”
The boy kept chewing and started to gnaw around the bones. The old man grimaced, then took another deep breath.
“If you come with me, I can prepare and cook these,” he offered. “Get you a proper meal.”
The boy stopped and looked at the old man again, eyes wide with some mixture of fear and intrigue. He set down his meal and wiped his face with his forearm. It was silent for a few seconds after that. Then the boy spoke – his voice low and timid, and his words segmented.
“I’m not an animal.”
“Oh…” The old man trailed off. “I know… I just…”
“Then stop talking to me like one.”
The old man furrowed his brow and leaned back a bit. His pondering gaze drifted out to sea. But it wasn’t long before the old man shook his head, and a small smile formed on his face. He looked at the boy again, with charming sea green eyes.
“I know a way we can fix that,” the old man said. “What’s your name?”
The boy looked at the old man, confused – as if it was an unfamiliar question. Then, after a moment, he answered, his voice not any louder than before.
“Heror.”
The old man’s smile widened. He held out his worn, leathery hand and nodded.
“Heror. My name is Ucankacei.”
Now the boy met the old man’s eyes, and his gaze fell down to the man’s outstretched hand. The world seemed to freeze as the boy thought to himself. The ocean waves slowed to a stop, and the winds fled, and the stars darkened, and the torchlight was swept away, until there was nothing but the old man and his hand.
Heror took the old man’s hand. And then he jolted awake.
An eerie silver-blue light met his eyes, and he blinked, clearing his vision. He lifted his hair-matted head off of a moss-covered log, breaking a stream of drool. He spit, expelling grains of tree matter from his mouth, grimacing until his gums were clean. And as his eyes rose, he took in his surroundings.
He was in a dense forest. A sea of trees extended in all directions, covered in snarling vines and sprawling overgrowth. A thick morning fog had already settled in. From the canopy above, he heard the foreign call of a strange bird.
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Trembling, the young man rose to his feet. His boots sank ever so slightly in the lush forest soil. He glanced over his shoulder and saw footprints in the mud and dirt, leading to where he’d lost consciousness. He didn’t remember anything beyond his escape. All he knew was that he’d ran, and kept running.
He brushed the dirt off of his cloak and winced when he felt pain just under his right arm. He looked down and saw an open wound under his armpit, from his fight with Oranthei. Part of it had scabbed over, but a small section still bled.
Heror winced again and gently brushed the area clean, then wiped his reddened hand on a tree. The moss on the tree was a strange blue-green color, different from the brilliant, emerald verdure he’d known in Ardys. The events after his escape slowly returned to Heror, and at that moment, a realization came back to him.
He was in Mide now.
Heror’s pulse started to elevate, as he stood frozen in an unfamiliar place. A fear crept into his mind – the kind of fear he hadn’t felt since he was a child – but he tried to shoo it away with a shake of his head. He clenched his throat and took a deep breath. Then another. Then a third.
“You wanted this to happen,” he insisted, trying to calm himself. “You wanted this to happen.”
He inhaled and exhaled slowly, then nodded to himself.
“You’re free.”
The words didn’t give him the joy he’d expected them to. This was what he had wanted, but where had he intended to go after this? The answer eluded him, lost in a haze. It wasn’t until he reached inside his armor pouch and pulled out a small linen cloth – until he opened that cloth and spread it in front of his face – that he remembered his destination.
The image quickly rooted in his mind, like the sharp imprint of a burning sun. Rolling waves along the edges, jagged cliffs to the left, and on those cliffs, a lone wolf releasing his cry into the skies. The name ‘Heran’ etched in the center. And the Kingdom’s name came back to him. The great mountain Kingdom. To the north of Mide.
Pylantheum.
Heror rolled up the cloth again and slipped it back inside his armor pouch. And then, after wiping his face clean of grime and sweat, he tried to reorient himself. His eyes rose, and he searched for the sun through the leaves and the fog. But it soon became clear to Heror that he was too deep inside the forest to see the sky. The only sunlight that appeared trickled in through cracks and crevices in the tree limbs, distorted into a cool blue.
Heror knew he needed the sun to reorient himself. But from where he stood, he couldn’t tell which way was east. After a moment of indecision, he let out a frustrated sigh and glanced back at his footprints. Seeing that the prints were more or less straight – at least until they disappeared beyond – he decided to pick up where they left off, and started forward again.
Each footstep rippled in the uneasy silence of morning, echoing in Heror’s ears between pounding pulsations. The forest was overrun with mosses and vines and curling roots, but as he made his way through, Heror found that there was surprisingly little wildlife on the forest ground. He could hear strange cries in the canopy far above, but on the forest floor, it was eerily quiet.
By now, he’d lost his sense of time, and he didn’t bother keeping track. His legs pressed on in a mindless rhythm. Left, right, left, right, in the dense forest mud. For seconds, minutes, and miles.
No matter how far he went, the forest never broke. Roots and vines slithered onward in every direction, as far as the eye could see. Heror almost thought the forest’s tendrils would close in on him at some point, wrap around his limbs as if snakes, and disincorporate him, causing him to be lost forever. At first, Heror brushed the fear away. But as he glanced back and forth at the vines around him, he became convinced that something was moving. Hysteria crept in; he picked up his pace.
Some time later, Heror stopped, only for a moment, to catch his breath. Out of stubborn hope, he turned his gaze upward again, trying to pick out the sun through the trees. But it was no use. The canopy blocked out almost all of the light, leaving only dim scraps to pool along the forest grounds.
Heror shook his head and let out a maddened grunt. He took an abrupt step forward, but as he did so, he stumbled and froze. He started to feel dizzy, and as more and more feelings came to the surface, through exhaustion and dehydration, he felt a pain in his side again. Lifting his red cloak, he saw that the cut beneath his armpit was now discolored. He shoved his cloak back down and wiped a layer of cold sweat off his forehead. He forced himself ahead.
A few more hours passed before Heror finally saw light ahead. It was dim and distant, constricted by endless tangles of vines and roots. But even through tired eyes, Heror could see the white light of the midday sun through the trees. He hurried his pace when he saw it, using the trees around him to steady himself. His footsteps were wobbly and off-balance, but he pressed on. He was getting closer.
In minutes, the light widened, and Heror saw a patch of blue sky amidst the canopy. He approached the thread of daylight. The vines of the forest slowly receded, their numbers thinning. The roots of the trees no longer stacked and twisted around one another, and as the trees spread out, Heror quickened his steps. It wasn’t long before he reached the edge of the forest and met the light. He shielded his face as his eyes adjusted. Then he lowered his hand and surveyed the landscape ahead.
He had wandered into the Midan highlands. He stood at a steep cliff face, which fell into another endless sea of green and pine far below. For miles and miles, thick forests overlaid rolling hills, to the tune of wind and wildlife. Above the land, great mounds of cumulus drifted across the sky in isolation, casting shadows over the low mountains below. Just before the horizon, tucked behind two overlapping hills, Heror could see a lake, shimmering.
Now Heror’s eyes lifted. He found the sun at the pinnacle of the sky, preparing its descent. Lifting a hand over his face, Heror judged the tilt of the sun’s position, and followed it to the leftward horizon, which he deemed as west. He then slowly turned back around until he was facing the hills again. He estimated that he’d been tracking northeast through the forest, and marked the lake in the distance as north. For a moment, he stood in the sun, listening to the steady, subtle hum of the Aelyum. A wave of dizziness came over him again, and so he sat down, crossed his legs, and waited for it to pass, catching his breath.
When he was ready, Heror set off. He followed the ridge down an incline to the east, and when he reached the base of the valley, submerged into the forest depths once again, he turned left, to the north.
By now, he was dangerously dehydrated. His mouth was dry, tongue grating against the back of his gums like sandpaper. His stomach howled at him as he walked – a hollow growl that rattled between the ribs. But Heror pushed himself to keep moving. Before, it was the thought of freedom to the north that kept him going. Now, his thoughts were fixed on the lake. Water.
But the lake had appeared closer than it actually was, and the forest stretched for miles onward, in an endless expanse of cool green. Heror kept his eyes ahead at first, hopeful that he’d see the water’s shine again. The forest, however, enclosed on him as if a tunnel. As his legs continued their unconscious rhythm, his eyes started to drop. His eyelids grew heavy.
The light that snuck through the canopy soon took on a golden hue, and in the forest depths, darkness started to pool. The daytime calls of the birds above began to fade, and a fragile silence settled in as dusk swept over the woods. In the distance, strange howls could be heard. Not even a gust of wind broke through.
It was then that Heror’s mind started to leave him. Only the primal need for water kept him on his feet, in a zombified trance. His head was heavy with fog, and even in the chilled night air, he was sweating from head to toe. He shivered as he carried onward, struggling to piece together even simple thoughts. Even the image of the lake was fading. And as the darkness thickened within the forest, his eyes were urged to close.
Heror’s balance started to wane. His legs grew light and liftless, and his limbs began to tingle, as if his entire body was falling asleep. He stumbled into a tree and clasped it with trembling hands, as his heart began to race. Falling to his knees, he swallowed a lump in his throat. His eyelids begged to sink. He almost let them. But as he stopped moving, and as the silence deepened, he heard something. A familiar sound from his days on the docks.
Water.
Heror rushed to his feet and hurried after the sound, trudging through the thick forest grass and detritus. He brushed past several smaller trees and stopped to listen again. And as quickly as it came, the sound of water was gone – taunting him. Heror sulked – his breath short and heavy, hair plastered over his temple in grimy wisps. And then, in the silence, he heard the sloshing again. He jolted forward.
After taking over a dozen frantic steps, Heror felt the cold rush of water as it seeped inside his boots. He took another step, and the water rose to his ankles. He looked down, and in the last fleeting light of dusk, he found himself standing in a small stream, which ran from farther up the highlands.
Heror let out a weak, quiet laugh in relief, then sank to his knees. His hands plunged into the cold ripples and scraped the slick muck below, and then he cupped his hands in the water. He lifted a handful and doused his face, letting the jolt bring him back to his senses. He did this twice more, and brought the third handful of water up to his mouth, drinking it without a second thought. The sour, pallid taste of dirt and particulates hit his tongue, and Heror hacked and sputtered, sending the water out as quickly as he’d brought it in. He erupted into a coughing fit, plunging his hands into the muddied dirt to prop himself up.
It was then, mid-cough, that he heard something.
It was another howl, lonely and monotone. Closer this time. He froze at the sound and trapped his cough with a tremble. His throat quivered, but he dared not make another noise. His eyes went to the west, where only the orange glow of the dying sun remained below a canvas of black. Between the trees, against the afterglow, he could barely make out a shadowy figure farther up the stream, walking soundlessly through the trees. A large, canine creature lurked alongside the figure, its head low to the ground.
Heror stared, eyes transfixed. The figure walked adjacent to him, traveling down the tree-covered hillside. The figure disappeared and reappeared between trunks as it walked, but Heror couldn’t tell if it was getting closer. After a moment, the creature made another noise, and Heror saw the figure turn toward the stream, silhouette squaring its shoulders in the moonlight.
Now Heror felt his heart pounding. Quietly, he stepped back, letting his foot drift in the stream. He didn’t lift his foot out of the water, but instead waded toward the water’s edge. He took another step back, and felt his left boot gently rise back onto the streambank. Now he stepped out with his other foot, and silently shifted behind a nearby tree, hugging his back to the tree bark. He only exhaled when he felt the bark’s rough texture against his shoulder blades, but hearing another twig snap in the distance, his heart kept its pace.
Frozen, Heror stood with his back to the tree. He tried to let his ears work. He could hear the figure’s movement not far off, but it was quiet – footsteps dulled by woodland debris. He strained his hearing to see if he could gauge its direction, but he could not. One moment, it sounded closer. The next, it sounded farther away. Until finally, after a minute or two, it stopped.
A new silence settled in. Heror took a mute breath, as an uneasy feeling wrenched in his stomach. He dropped a quivering hand toward his sheath, grasping for his blade. He did so for several seconds, before it occurred to him that his sword wasn’t there; he’d left it at camp, back past the Ardysan border.
Now Heror lifted his head and curled his lips in frustration. If he could speak, he would’ve cursed. He still heard nothing, and for a moment, he thought that maybe the figure had left. It took another minute for him to gain the courage to move. With caution, he took a step to the left, keeping his back to the tree trunk as his chest heaved. Ever so slowly, he took one more step, sliding his back against the bark.
After this second step, Heror turned his head and carefully leaned past the trunk. At first, there was nothing. But as he leaned farther out, the shadowy figure suddenly came into view, not more than twenty feet away. A hound-like creature stood next to the figure, leashed on a chain. As Heror peered out, the hound’s yellow eyes shot toward him. For a terrible second, they made eye contact, and the hound let out a high yelp.
Heror hid again in a rush, and the footsteps started again – closer, and accompanied by the rattling of the beast’s chain. The hound crept toward him from the left, and Heror rotated around the right side of the tree. As it grew ever closer, another sound entered Heror’s periphery: A strange, constant huffing of sorts. It was tracking his scent.
With his back flat against the trunk, Heror frantically reached down and grabbed the metal cuisse around his left thigh. With shaking fingers, he unstrapped the armor piece. And then, as quickly as he did so, he heaved it to the right with force. It wasn’t long before the metal piece clacked against another tree in the distance, and the hound let out another wail. Heror heard the creature’s feet start off in the direction of the noise, and the figure followed. The chain lashed away.
Now Heror hurried in the other direction. He leapt over the stream and sprinted into the forest, whizzing past trees and limbs in the dark. He thought he heard the chain whip back around behind him, but he didn’t dare check. He sprinted through the woods, swatting at drooping branches and vines that blocked his path.
It wasn’t ten seconds after Heror started running, however, that a stray root caught his foot, and he tripped and fell, rolling down a steady incline. He tumbled through the underbrush until he hit a wooden structure. He felt weak planks crack and collapse underneath his weight, and when he came to a stop, lying on his back, he looked up and saw that he’d crashed through a crudely built fence. Now his eyes shot behind him, and he saw a small forest cabin just thirty feet away, beyond what appeared to be a quaint garden. A door sat at the back of the cabin, with strange streaks of red running beside the handle.
Heror barely took in his surroundings before he heard the chain again. Hastily, he flipped onto his stomach and crawled forward, hiding behind an intact portion of the wooden fencing. He slid up against it and wrestled with his breath, and he went to peer through the slats – when an orange light emerged from the cabin. He whisked around to see a lantern in the window, and then the garden door opened, and an elinji stepped out.
The elinji was tall and burly, with dark skin and darker fur. A thick beard hugged his jaw, and a dark brown mane streaked down his neck and over his ringed ears. In one hand, Heror saw the bull-person was carrying a second lantern. And in the other, a notched crossbow.
Almost immediately, the bull-person saw Heror, and Heror’s heart caught inside his chest. Heror started to squirm, when he heard the chain of the tracker just beyond the fencing. He turned to see the tracker coming over the hill, illuminated faintly by the cabin’s lantern light as it flooded into the woods. The hound-like creature led the way, nose still pressed to the ground as its spiny hairs stood on end.
The tracker stopped just outside the fencing, and now Heror looked back at the bull-person, eyes wide. The bull-person seemed to observe him for a short moment, and then his brown eyes went past Heror, to the tracker. The elinji advanced through a small pathway in the garden. Heror heard the tracker’s voice, raspy and thin.
“Varsa!” the tracker hissed from beyond the fence. “Woh kuin sa lal! Ti-aybrok!”
Heror shrunk against the fencing. The bull-person glanced at Heror one more time, then turned back to the tracker and spoke.
“Esey sa hel kehn tuig ton gol kapitanhi,” the bull-person said in response, the tenor of his voice lower than that of his counterpart. “Id shiam caeo wal sungo.”
The two kept talking. Heror sensed agitation, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Their voices were fast and pointed, different from the slow, indulgent pace of conversation he’d come to know in Ardys. For a minute, they went back and forth, and then – to Heror’s surprise – the tracker turned and went back the way he came, disappearing over the forest knoll. The clinking of the chain faded.
Once the tracker was gone, Heror turned back around and saw the bull-person, still staring at him. The elinji took a step toward him, eyes scanning the wounded stranger. Heror lifted up a shaking hand. His adrenaline started to wear off. Dehydration and exhaustion settled in. He opened his mouth as if to plead, but before he could say anything, his body went limp, and his eyes fell shut.