Eleventh Cycle (Mistland, #1)

by Kian N. Ardalan

“Once she is on your side, there is nothing that can’t be achieved.”

Was I truly just hiding behind my fear? Bearing my fangs like some wounded dog?

if I were observed now, Ievarus would find a frightened mutt hidden underneath all that anger?

I shook the childish thought from my mind, a thought born from all the years I fantasised meeting him as my father and having him take me in, pretending he was proud of me. That was all this thought was; a way for me to keep the musing alive.

The man at the centre spat harsh words in heavy akar, sounding like a chisel chipping away chunks of a mountain.

This was it, a company of my own people. I realised then how ridiculous my disguise was. They would see right through me. I consider jumping in front of them, telling them of my intentions and the truth. They could take me to the rest, to Muktow. I would provide them with the information they needed. Certainly I was invaluable. The information I had could better serve their assault.

I was happy to have found some yimroot, a plant growing close to the ground and always at the base of a tree where its deep roots attached itself to its overbearing protector.

I took the leaves and also managed to find hayreem, the plant of a vine growing close to the tree.

Another one of Mother Margaret’s teachings came to me: telling people what I was doing would help calm them.

“They believe a weapon that can be used to kill you is a traitor in waiting. A weapon that is part of you, however, can never betray.” Nora chimed in, slightly distanced from us but still leaning into our conversation. “Wise words,” she said. “But that’s not all. They take part in ghastly rituals to kill their prey.”

“Most wood would snap underneath the weight of akar strength. The knowledge to craft such a bow which withstands akar strength… Only one tribe is capable of it. The Kinitari; it means ‘hunters’.”

I began to realise something as I looked at the fallen akar. I had to make sure I wasn’t just imagining it. More and more, the evidence began to present itself. “The Kinitari and the Masakansie are solitary tribes. They keep away from the affairs of other akar.”

“I was like you once,” she continued. “I believed myself unstoppable, for if someone doesn’t fear death, then nothing can stop them. But there is more than one type of death. I know that now. I went to that place and managed to return. Shame: shame can be far worse than death.” Nora now placed the sharp edge to the akar’s right shoulder and applied just enough pressure to draw only a bite’s worth of blood.

For whom are these tears I unknowingly shed? Searching my mind where broken mirrors ‘flect, Their name eludes me; it has suddenly fled, Lament the memory plucked from my head. —Stolen Memory, by Tracey Winterwood.

Ievarus shadowed me; I couldn’t remember the last time they hadn’t. They observed and preyed on my sorrow. It wasn’t done in some malicious and questionable way, but rather in their own scholarly pursuit.

A part of me died again, chipped away like the other pieces; a cracked fingernail kept scraping at the dried paint.

Yet, unlike the fire, Ievarus’ curiosity seemed bottomless.

I considered the feeling. “I feel light. Not because some weight had been taken from me, but rather as if I have been hollowed out.” I looked at the dreary world and then the sky. “I feel as if a simple gust of wind could pull me from my feet.”

“But what are we going to do? Fight the Elders? Please. Human history across the entire existence of Minethria has been filled with tyrants and lords. The difference is that our oppressors now live upon their mountain without getting involved.”

“Empty… I guess that’s the best word I can find. Like a part of me, a part of my life was robbed, and I forgot how to breathe, how to stand, how to laugh.”

“As I keep saying. There is power in suffering.”

“Mother told me stories about it, a weapon so strong it could cave in mountains. With each strike it gains weight, but also power, making each consecutive blow heavier.”

“What happened to Sun’Ra?” “He eventually had his revenge, killed the usurper in his sleep and paraded his body through the camps. There were many tribal wars in the past years, but Sun’Ra is a calm and decisive leader, greater than even Muktow. Our last failed attack took far longer to return from.

“People see me as unrelenting, unwavering. Think that this new body of mine makes me even stronger than I was before. They’re wrong. Every day is a mixture of pains and aches, feeling my new limbs press into my soft flesh. Each step forward, I have to swing my hips, move my torso just so my legs obey me. I have to focus with all my strength to avoid breaking underneath my awkward grip. My wrist didn’t even allow me to wield a sword, nor can I run like I used to.”

“A warrior doesn’t fear death,” he said. The words sounded almost like a promise as he looked me deep in the eyes.

It is said that the flame knight and frost knight were twins in their mortal days. Now, as Elder Knights, they share such a bond where upon their union, their kindling brings forth a power to be reckoned with. —Tales of the Elder, by Nuniya.

Chroma laughed more heartedly. “I was. I secretly hoped you died so I wouldn’t get a scolding.” Again, I started to laugh, and this time, Chroma joined me with just as much vigour. When our moment finally died down, Chroma returned to more pressing matters. “Nora, there is something I need to tell you.” I gave him my ears; he had earned them. “When I climbed up the mountain and killed the last akar, you were unconscious at the time, so you didn’t notice. But the akar army is already on the move.”

On that very morning, an emergency meeting was called, and General Commander Orson promoted me to Commander of Greyhill; my position was now made official.

“You’re right,” I continued. “I am broken in a lot of ways. I suppose I see the likes of Cassidy leeching off of their birthright like a breastfed parasite, and I dread becoming like that, too. If I can make a difference, then why shouldn’t I? But more than just that, I wish to make my father proud. To live up to the name of White-Hawk and stand alongside him at Mount Morniar. Even if it doesn’t happen with the akar defence, it most certainly will once I help Ievarus slay the Evil.”

I fail to grasp why being open and vulnerable is something frowned upon amongst people of your station. Consider this: go too cold and you turn into your mother. Bottle it all up within and perhaps at some point it becomes too much to handle.”

Legend says of a warrior riding down from the heavens upon a yellow steed. From their yellow bow, they fire the embodiment of lightning itself. —Tales across Minethria lost to time. An anthology.

“Mother Lucia sought a safe haven for girls like yourself. Girls who were exposed to a life where they were no longer their own masters. She had good intentions. The real reason you came here is for me to tell you that you made the right choice.” I felt lost. “Didn’t I?”

“Mother Dalila, I assume you came here for comfort. Well, I offer you truth instead. I speak what I see. If you decide I am wrong, then so be it—I am wrong. But all I see is a woman too scared of returning to her parents. Not to protect them from herself, but to protect herself from disappointment.”

“At the time, you probably felt like you had to do something. You acted doing what you thought needed to be done. There is something pure in that kind of conviction, even if others may frown upon it.”

“And if I was wrong? If I sent someone to their death?” “Then you make the best of it. Make amends. Sitting around in self-pity doesn’t change the reality of things,”

“Avoiding your fears and running away simply because you are scared of the consequences won’t help, either.” “There is power in suffering.” I echoed Brother Clemence’s adage. A thought came to me. Perhaps Father Maurice was cruel in his statements, but once again, I found that the wizened man struck a truth I hadn’t considered before.

“Mother Lucia was a good soul, but her fanaticism for these remnant truths made her frightening. If she was the killer, her motivations may have been misguided, but I have no doubt they were always pure.” I nodded. “Do you still think my suffering beautiful?” “In a tragic, melancholic kind of way. Like warm honey spilt over frozen water. It thaws the ice and draws in a sense of tragic suffering. Like ‘The Futile Resistance of Mellezi’.”

That kind of hurt doesn’t go away by itself, definitely not when you are alone. You left your family, your parents, and went on to live by yourself. You can’t process that kind of hurt without aid.”

Within the wide spread history of humanity, the reason behind Museya’s divide with Cleria has been lost to time. Some foundations are so old, that they become lost under layers and layers of history and are never to be found again. The layers cement into culture and tradition and nobody cares about its buried foundations. —A treatise on why Museya and Cleria have divided, by Sulivan Sentu.

“I heard it, never did see it. But that was enough: the tremor of earth as a great force marched through the lands. I sensed it; the air itself was alive with the promise of conflict, as if the forest was rising up. I could hear their war drums in the distance. It sounded like the beating wings of a mountainous locust, each powerful and sonorous. I rushed as quickly as I could, but I don’t know if it was enough,”

I inspected our defences and had all the captains report to me. Our own force hadn’t been twirling their thumbs, either. We had amassed a swollen body of ten thousand men, though many of the glancing faces were new and inexperienced recruits with fear clearly etched. It

could practically feel the agitation all about me, trying to seep in through my pores. Fights would break out among our troops as the waiting turned maddening. The turgid air flayed against our sanity. Again and again, war room meetings were held to go over the plan, the defences and the training of recruits reminded of their duties. All of it done to repress the knotted sense of unease within. Thus, when we heard the sound of the enemy marching in during the afternoon, all of our bodies tensed simultaneously. I could feel it, the way our gazes wordlessly danced from one to the other. The sound of a distant tree groaning as it was

Then the drums started, a soft and foreboding thrum like that of an awakening beast. The rhythm fading softly with each consecutive strike before bursting to life again.

Their leader was not stupid. The cover of trees, the drums, the marching of their feet. They wanted us to think their army was larger than it already was, to truly make us afraid of an outright attack. Except for a slight, audible shuffling, the silence gave birth to chirping crickets and the crackle of flame from torches. “Steady!” I roared into the swelling night, my voice trying to instil bravery in our men. Or maybe they truly were so large and were trying to make me doubt it? Elder-damn. Regardless of which it was, we had no idea as to the true number of their forces.

Somebody roared a command in akar. In response, the forest came alive with such a deep and ferocious bellow that the ground beneath our feet shuddered and flocks of birds burst from the canopies. But not just birds. Suddenly, arcing way up into the sky, came a rain of javelins just like before, but not just javelins. There were arrows in the mix this time. I shuddered, thinking about the implications of their utility. My heart went worryingly still for a moment until the spears and arrows either recoiled or splintered upon colliding with the invisible wall. I could breathe again; the archmage wall was holding.

More of the projectiles arched and rained down, colliding against nothing. There were defiant and impatient growls from within the shadowed treeline that vibrated against my skin. But then it stilled. The silence was an unsettling one. It suggested a sort of ordinance, discipline in the face of someone. This silence did more to unsettle me than the entire horde of akar roaring in unison. Out from the shadows stepped a familiar figure—the ostensible leade...

There was a sharp and twisted intelligence in the akar’s eyes. His midnight hair was long and draped about his shoulder. His body was clustered with even darker tattoos and his face was decorated with bone piercings. He walked with such a confident gait while the restless horde shifted among the trees. He wore a large, circular shield on his left arm, and in his right hand there dragged a black cudgel. The weapon was carried with effect, with intent. He wanted our gaze to shift to it, for it to ensnare our a...

He stood there alone, one man upon desecrated soil. Soil which had tasted blood countless times before and knew of nothing else.

Finally, the akar came back to face me. He was young, perhaps no older than Chroma. To have garnered such a loyal following and turn these war mongering tribes into one single force; my fingers tightened about Zephyr’s reign. He could sense my unease, and it infected him. Maxin was right, this akar knew how to put on a performance.

Again the thing struck, and there was a crack in the ethereal fabric. The laughter died, deflated into a whimper. Fear spread through our men like a fire. The akar picked up where we left off, not with chants or jeering of their own, but with the beating of their war drums from within the forest. It was the beating of a heart which spoke for them—the heart of an animal.