2. Haze
Haze
H ope is a dangerous creature.
It is a disease that slithers into your veins and seeps into your bones, yearning for escape where there is none.
Once infected, it will drive you to the brink of insanity, clawing for any chance at freedom, even knowing each swipe of desperate fingers will only bury you deeper.
I’ve learned to ignore the frantic whispers of hope. The Drak’yn expect obedience.
I follow my squad leader. I fight when told. I am quiet every moment between.
Ivar lifts a fist at the top of the hill, and our small squad halts in unison, boots stilling in the soft mix of dust, dirt, and black sand, awaiting his command.
Nothing here gives the illusion of hope.
Not anymore. The misshapen buildings with doors wide open, some windows smashed, others boarded.
This village was once large and prosperous.
Dozens of cottages are scattered through the area around the town square.
The farmlands are expansive enough to feed a community of a hundred with plenty to spare for trade.
For one moment, I imagine the smell of freshly baked bread, but then the bitter scent of decay assaults me, welcoming me to another grave.
Ivar leads us through the main square. The buildings are not incredibly old, but even so, there is a distinct weight to everything. The thatched roofs bow in from pools of sand; several doors hang crooked.
Wind scatters dark glistening sand, rising up in a tiny cyclone, leaving behind exposed cloth and then the bones of hand.
“May Nihil be pleased,” Ivar says. My squad leader is bulkier than the rest of us, wearing a red hood, where ours are black. Otherwise, we look identical in black uniforms and masks that cover all but our eyes.
We repeat the phrase in unison.
“Famine beat us to this one,” Ronan mutters as he nudges more sand with his boot then shakes the piles of bones, revealing the remains of a woman.
Her brown dress is the only indication of her gender.
Ronan presses the sole of his boot to her skull, and the brittle bone crumbles under the slight pressure.
“And the crows,” Ivar says, looking up at the nearby trees, where the black birds caw in our direction. The body has been picked clean.
The acidic sands have poisoned crops, leading to spreading famine. Since we now control the trade routes through the desert, the remaining villages have little choice—they must flee or starve.
Those few who survive belong to the Drak.
Looking around at this village, it’s clear many chose to flee, likely into the desert, where they were almost certainly swallowed whole by the poisonous sands or beasts eager to devour any and all flesh.
I frown at the crooked wooden door of the apothecary. A stirring in my belly distracts me from my reverie.
Many villages give me these same feelings of familiarity. Every time we enter a new one, I wonder, but I don’t allow myself to look too closely.
I don’t want to know.
I’ve been blissfully absent of the affliction of hope for many years. Though my heart beats, my mind is distant. My soul, an insignificant speck lost somewhere inside the maze of madness.
Memories forgotten. Desires absent.
“Fall out,” Ivar says casually. Maddox, Ronan, and I obey without hesitation.
We split up, each choosing a building to enter.
I skip the apothecary and enter an unmarked building with a wooden front porch.
The air is musty but cool enough to be a relief from the blistering sun.
Wood creaks beneath my feet, blackened and weak.
There are overturned stools and a faded sign that reads “Harrow Tavern.” I shake two barrels but find no weight to either.
I look through a few cupboards but find that anything left behind has been smashed or cracked and long since dried out.
There is nothing worth our time to scavenge here, except?—
A new scent catches my attention. I pause, anxiety and hunger squeezing my stomach at once.
Near the back door, there is a pile of thin, worn blankets. I stoop to examine the nest, wringing the warmth in my fingers.
One long deep breath, then I stand and leave the blankets behind and rejoin my squad in the street. Maddox carries a thick fur and jug of liquid. Mead, if we’re lucky.
Like me, Ronan is empty-handed.
We are not in need of supplies, but where there is something to covet, most Drak take them regardless.
Ivar huffs his disappointment at our empty hands.
Though technically our mission is scouting, and we will come back with information as intended—another town to cross off of our maps—Ivar is zealous. If there are no souls to reap, he is displeased.
Ivar nods, and we follow him up the hill, into the trees, away from the forgotten town while the crows caw overhead.
Soon, we will move south where more villages remain. We will find more unlucky souls to harvest soon.
My eyes flash toward a set of trees at the bottom of the hill beyond the cluster of buildings.
A stomping of hooves. The squeal of old wheels. And a low hush from human lips.
This time, Ivar stops. He’s heard it too.
Ivar is the hunter seeking prey.
I am the hound who obeys, in order to escape punishment. His prey is near. When his chin dips, I know he’s found it.
We are not sly hunters. We are not quiet or subtle.
When our target is declared, we invade, destroy, and take our spoils with ease.
He flies into the tree line with surprising swiftness for a man his size, and the rest of the squad follows with howls of rage and glee alike.
Ivar reaches them first, axe swinging wide and landing a horrific blow to the horse pulling their wagon. Blood splatters. The screech of the dying horse pierces my mind and sends in that wave of blissful numbness.
More blood is spilled, wood shatters, the wagon tips over, and bodies fly into the brush. The screams blend into the throbbing pulse in my mind.
Once again, there is only my place nestled in the darkness and my body mindlessly moving on someone else’s ambitions.
I hate every moment of this existence.
If I never woke up from my short sleeps, it would be a blessing, and yet I’d never been brave enough to rebel through death.
Nothing matters.
Nothing, that is, until I see her.
There are bodies scattered along the path, pools of crimson blood, and her, crouched behind the overturned wagon. Her hair is a mess of bronze curls. Her frame is thinner than it should be, and dirt is caked beneath her nails.
The moment her hard gaze falls on me, a blinding rush of panic floods my body in such staggering agony, I think my heart might stop in an instant.
To my surprise, my knees do not buckle. My heart does not implode.
Those memories, hidden in the depths of my mind, rush to the surface, and I’ve never, ever been more terrified in my life.
Suddenly, everything matters.
Every movement, every blink, every thought is as sharp as cutting glass.
She should not be here.
I hadn’t thought I had anything left to fear. I hadn’t thought there was a reason I continued living. But I was wrong.
I feel every ounce of it right here and now.
Even in the years of my hopelessness, she was there daring me to survive.
My heart continued to beat only because she lived free of this terrible darkness. Her life, so far from my despair, was the one single spark of light left in the ashes.
I continued on in darkness because even though I knew I would never witness it again, she breathed fresh air and planted flowers and sang songs.
Somewhere in this broken world she lived. She was free.
I didn’t think of her often, but I’d never once forgotten.
She spits at my feet with a curse on her lips. She throws a rock in wild rebellion.
My god, she is beautiful.
My gaze flits up to Ivar as he marches forward, blade dripping fresh blood.
Panic pulses behind my eyes.
I take stock of the situation. There are four Drak’yn in our squad—one less than standard after Mikael fell to infection two nights ago. Even down one soldier, we are an impossible foe to defeat. Ivar alone would be a formidable opponent for me, let alone two others.
The girl has no chance of escape. Her fate will be decided by Ivar, no one else.
Her eyes remain hard, but her body reveals her fear, cowering behind the broken wheel. It gives her only a tiny barrier between the four hardened warriors surrounding her. She knows there is no escape.
Yet, she flings a rock in Ivar’s direction. “Monstrous blight!” she screams.
Wrong soldier to target , I reprimand her silently.
Ivar only grins and slowly approaches, his boots sloshing in the mixture of mud and blood in the precious feet between them.
“These the last two?” Maddox asks, as he grabs an older woman by the arm as she sobs.
The girl’s eyes flick to the brush to the west.
There’s a tiny crack of a stick in the forest.
The girl screams and throws a branch toward Ivar as he takes another agonizingly slow step toward her.
“Seems it,” I say, even as my gaze drifts to the forest where she last looked, to a small fluttering out of place in the brush.
Calm realization settles over me.
She’s the distraction so another can escape.
Who is this other that matters more than her own life?
When my gaze shifts back, her rage-filled eyes meet mine and stay with utter defiance. Her nostrils flare. No longer is her ire set on Ivar. It’s on me.
Me, because she knows what I saw.
She charges me with a ragged piece of rusted metal in her raised hand. A surprised chuckle escapes my chest. She is so unbothered by her own looming death. She only cares about survival of her companion.
Her makeshift weapon swings in my direction with every ounce of force she can muster. I grab her wrist and twist. With almost no effort at all, I pin her arms and pull her back against my chest. She squirms and bucks and roars in rage as my large arms envelop her, leaving her utterly helpless.
My heart’s rapid pace is a distraction. Her smell is heaven.
“Drop the weapon, Dove,” I mutter in her ear. She shivers against me, knees buckling.
I can feel the moment her defiance runs out, the moment her hope flees leaving only space for terror.
Every small town trembles in fear of catching our attention. Any night could be their last before they are taken by our priests, their fates decided by our draken.
She struggles against me, shuddering with whimpered sobs.
“She’s a feisty one,” Ivar says, his eyes sharp with interest.
“She pretended to be. All in vain, though,” I say, voice low. I have become good at pretending.
He chuckles. “True. I will be curious to see how strong her spirit remains.”
My heart slows, eyes narrowed on my adversary. His interest in her cannot remain.
I consider my options, though there are few indeed. But before I can muster up any possible solution to our dangerous predicament a whistle rings out through the air.
The wind stills, listening. Maddox and Ronan pause.
The next whistle is smoother and long. A call into the depths.
The hair on my arms stands up straight. Ivar’s lip curls in incredulous rage.
This sound means our death.
There are few things we Drak warriors fear. The creatures slumbering in the shadows, woken only when called, are one of them.
“No,” the girl in my arms whispers.
My heart rate slows as clarity settles my anxious mind.
It appears the one she worked so desperately to save is willing to do the same in return. Calling the monsters from their slumber is a desperate, foolish attempt. One that would normally assure her death and do nothing to aid her.
Ivar’s chin dips, eyes still pinned to the woman in my arms. “There is another. I want them both.”
I frown. Surely he doesn’t mean to ignore?—
“What in the hell does that mean?” Maddox exclaims. “The shadowscelp is coming, now, as we speak!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ivar barks out. “We take them first.”
I stand up straighter. “He thinks he can defeat it.” My voice is calm. My mind is sharp. I see my path forward.
His foolish confidence will be his defeat today.
“Without our beasts?” Maddox asks, eyes wide.
Questioning our squad leader is rebellion enough, but then Ronan spits at Ivar’s boots and it sends delirious hope flooding my veins. It’s a drug, and its high is delicious.
A fight within our squad will have catastrophic consequences, even without a monster able to tear us apart on its way.
Catastrophe is exactly what I need.
I could carry the girl with me and reach our drakai in time to protect us.
Or…
I take one final breath of her bright scent, and I release her.
I push her behind me, toward the fluttering of fabric I saw between the leaves, and I retrieve my axe from my belt. I don’t swing, not yet. But my cutting glare at my squad leader is enough to make my point clear.
Ivar roars in rage as the girl scrambles through the brush behind me, but Maddox steps up beside me, followed by Ronan.
The old woman, now released from Ronan’s grip, watches in horror as we challenge our leader.
Ivar swears, eyes stuck to where our captive flees into the brush. He could accept our challenge and obey, or he could doom us all by attempting to solidify his leadership.
His ego could cause our deaths here and now.
The scelp will arrive soon, and if we have not moved out, we will surely perish. We have mere minutes.
Ivar is angry, and we will pay the price in the coming days, but he finally accepts temporary defeat. “To the cave.”
At his command, we release a collective breath and then flee to the shadows to hide from the monster that is set to arrive in moments.
I send a silent goodbye to her, the girl who will continue to haunt my dreams. The girl whose freedom is all the light that is left in this world.
My hope. My disease.