Fohrsdee, the 24th of Harvest, 768 A.E.

  “Anthea?” A voice whispered.

  She felt her shoulder being shaken and sleep began to fade. Her eyes flickered beneath their lids and a soft murmur escaped her mouth.

  “Anthea?” The voice called again, more anxiously and insistently this time. “Come, child, are you awake?”

  Yawning, the girl stretched her arms above her head, the muscles within tightening and then loosening as she let her arms come back to rest at her sides. “What is it, father?” She asked quietly, wearing one of those ‘just awoken from a pleasant dream’ type of sleepy smiles.

  “We must go, Anthea. Quickly, get up and get dressed. I have packed your things already.”

  “Go?” Anthea’s eyes opened up to a suspicious size. When her eyes alighted on the worried face of her father, perspiring nervously around the mouth and on the forehead as he was, her heart began beating faster. “What is it? What’s happened?” She demanded.

  He averted his crystal blue eyes, looking away from her green-flecked yellow eyes. “I don’t have time to explain, Anthea. We must hurry and make our way out. Bedros is waiting for us.”

  “Why? I don’t understand? What’s wrong, father? Tell me.” She pleaded, grasping at his hands as she sat up.

  “Anthea… my daughter, my sweet one. They’ve found out about you. We must flee.”

  Anthea’s chin began to quiver and her lower lip with it. “Found out?”

  “Yes. They know about what you can do. They’re going to take you away from me if we don’t run.”

  Her small hands tightened on his big ones, knuckles white as she squeezed. “They can’t take me. You won’t let them, right?” She asked in desperation.

  “No, dear, not if it costs me my life.” Her father promised her and she believed it with all of her heart. “Now come. We must get out of here. Take only what you can easily carry.”

  She nodded quietly, using his arms as handholds to pull herself out from under the heavy layers of covers her mother had sewn for her Yarres ago. They were one of the few things she had to remind her of her mother; her abrupt and unexpected death had left a void in her life that hadn’t been filled.

  Her father stood, drawing himself to his full height after she’d touched her feet to the floor beside her bed. He gave her a quick hurry-up-look, and then he left her to get ready. He shut the silvery door behind him, its rubber seals whispering shut with hardly a noise. Then she was alone.

  In other circumstances, she’d have been tempted to cry, but she willed herself to be strong. If she fell into self-pity and fear, she’d let her father down, and that was enough to keep her moving.

  Her father’s words to take only what she could easily carry rang in her ears, yet when she looked around, there were too many things she saw that she could not give up: hairbrushes, clothes, shoes, toys, mementos of past memories and of her dead mother, and the odd knick-knacks that any fourteen Yarre old girl accumulates that would probably have no significance or value to anyone besides her. And most noticeable of all, were the dozens of flowering plants hung or strewn about the floor in ceramic pots, each a representation of a different part of the color spectrum and a veritable rainbow when taken all as a whole.

  Sighing, she turned around the room once. Illuminated as it was by the translucent crystal ceiling panels and the energized crystal pods that dangled every so often from the structural braces that crisscrossed the walls and ceiling, it wasn’t hard to see everything. That’s how the Aureans planned it.

  Aureans by nature required light to survive, but there were forbidden whispers of those who claimed it wasn’t always so. A single night without light was enough to make the strongest among them violently ill and three nights in a row would kill them. Because of this limitation, they’d developed ways around darkness. They’d learned to store light in crystals they grew, and their architecture was designed to maximize light, which meant lots of reflective surfaces and see-through crystal ceilings.

  She padded over to her wardrobe, pulled out something sensible for travel, and pulled it on quickly. The thin fabric was spun to keep one cool or keep them warm, depending on the need. In heat it would allow the skin to breath and perspire easily, while in the cold the pores of the material would close to entrap body heat. Over the bodysuit of silky material, she pulled on a serviceable coat, a pair of loose pants, and a pair of dark boots.

  When she was done, she stood in front of one of the half-dozen or more mirrors within the room and stared at herself, trying to detect traces of her mother’s features in her own, drawing from memories long since warped by the fog of time. Here and there, in the eyes, nose, or mouth, she thought she could see her mother’s gifts to her, but her light hair was definitely her father’s, as was her thin build.

  A frown crept over her face as she stared at her lithe, almost scrawny, figure, barely noticing anything that would denote her as female rather than male. She longed to have her mother’s gentle curves and womanly grace, as much because she had found her mother beautiful as because she missed her mother and sought something of her in herself. Her face had not yet lost the flesh around her cheekbones and chin that would define her features in a more feminine manner when she was older. Still, she was not entirely displeased with what she saw. There was a radiant beauty, albeit girlish, that she exuded. Most of it came from her dazzlingly bright eyes, two green-flecked-yellow emeralds that shone beneath the fine light hair of her eyebrows.

  A rapid double-knock at the door and her father’s voice brought her out of her revelry. “Anthea, hurry. We must be off.”

  “I know. I’m nearly ready.” She called in return, clipping her hair back with a pair of silver pins behind each ear.

  “We leave in three Mynettes.”

  Footsteps heading away from the door negated any need for a reply. Sighing, she grabbed a bag from one of the drawers in her wardrobe, and she began stuffing all her favorite clothes into it even though her father had said he’d already packed for her. Before she was finished, a few random baubles and inexpensive pieces of jewelry found their way onto her fingers, around her neck and wrists.

  By the time the next set of knocks came, she had filled her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and given her room a long hard look. It was a last look she felt, and it saddened her to be leaving so much behind. Part of her, the young immature part she struggled to suppress, wanted to scream and yell and stay to rail against the world’s unfairness for making her go. After all, she was happy here. Wasn’t she?

  This was a troubling thought.

  Who would she really be leaving behind? Mother was dead; father had always hidden her away from school, so she really had no friends other than Bedros, the Ox-Man. He was a silly man and he smelled funny – like the stables – but he was gentle, strong, and caring. She could always see concern and protectiveness for her in his big dark eyes, each the size of a saucer plate.

  No, if they were going, father and Bedros were all she’d need. There was no one else she’d be leaving behind.

  She opened the door, finding her father still standing there with his arm extended to rap his knuckles a third time. His distracted expression turned to a slight smile upon seeing her ready to leave.

  “Good. Let’s go.” Her father said, his own shoulders both laden with baggage.

  “Alright.” Anthea replied, falling in behind her father when he turned to leave.

  They passed half a dozen doorways as they walked, but at the last one before the great room that opened at the termination of the hallway, father paused. To Anthea, he appeared worried and confused, as if he were about to cross some line that he could not go back over once it had been done. Precipitous events were about them.

  “What is it?”

  Father turned to regard her with his azure eyes. “Wait here.” He said, and then he opened the door.

  She moved into the doorway to watch him as he entered the room, one she’d rarely been in. It housed her father’s personal things, and he didn’t much care for her snooping about them. It had taken only a couple scoldings and spankings before she realized that he was serious about that, and he would not bend in his strict expectations of her in regard to that one room, even if he usually gave into her about most everything else if she worked on him long enough.

  Her father strode over to the tall cabinet in the corner that had never been unlocked as far as she could recall, not since her birth. He pulled a key out of his shirt; it was tied to a finely wrought platinum chain. The key clicked loudly in the lock, disturbing the silence in the house. They both released heavy breaths when the doors to the cabinet swung open.

  Anthea could not see past her father’s shoulders as he dug into the cabinet and pulled out something. But when he turned to her, she saw a curved handle sticking out of a scabbard half as tall as she was. It was an arc-sword, the weapon of Aurean Guardians – the protectors of the city.

  “Father?”

  Seeing the questioning look in his daughter’s eyes, he held out the blade, still in its scabbard, to her. On it there were only two engraved words: Guardian Orestes. Orestes was her father’s name. The sword was his she realized in surprise.

  “How?” She asked, wondering how he would come to have such a thing.

  “I gave up the sword long ago. I was forced to I suppose.”

  “Why?”

  “You. They saw you as something wrong, and not the product of love I had for your mother. That’s why we go away from here, dearest. They won’t ever take you from me. You’re all I have left.” The words came out so easily for him that he blinked in surprise when he had finished speaking.

  Here he had been trying to ease her concerns so she could pass easily from the city, and he had just laid out his entire plight before her. She stared at him dumfounded. He had given her too much to digest and no time to do so.

  Then the lights flickered, killing any questions that wanted to creep into her mouth. They both looked up, each in surprise, as the lights flickered again, and then guttered out to the point that it seemed complete darkness for a moment. A shriek came unbidden to her mouth, piercingly loud in the darkness.

  There was a brief noise of metal against leather as the arc-sword was drawn, and the room was bathed in the sword’s amber glow. “It’s alright, Anthea. This is planned. It is to cover our escape. Friends of mine have arranged this, but now we must hurry. Bedros awaits us at the cliff path.”

  “The cliff path? We’re leaving the mountain? Leaving Cenalium?”

  “Yes, we’ll go into the lowlands. It’s the only place we’ll be safe.”

  “But the light.” She protested. “We’ll die in the night.”

  “Child, your father is not stupid. Trust me a bit more.” Orestes said testily. “I have already thought of this and planned ahead. We will be fine. Now come.”

  He brushed past her, securing one of her hands in his as he led the way through the dark house with the arc-sword extended in front of him. The house looked stark and alien in the soft amber glow of the sword. Usually, it was bright with the light of the crystal pods, but those were hardly more than dots of yellow light hidden in the dark recesses of the dark room. In the dark, those narrow points of light took on a sinister appearance, like eyes of strange creatures.

  The double doors of their house opened before them, and they were out into the streets of Cenalium. On this night, the crown jewel of the Aurean people was rife with terror and the panicked screams of men and women alike came unbidden to the ears of the two refugees as they fled through the streets. People stumbled out of their houses in droves, desperate to find a lighted place, worried that something had failed and it would plunge them all into a permanent darkness that would doom them all within a few nights.

  But then the eyes of the people, wide with fear and apprehension, would fix on Orestes’ arc-sword, and they would charge at him like animals and try to take the glowing blade that seemed to offer respite from the darkness. Anthea’s father drove them back, unleashing arcs of current at whomever got too close. Often, they’d be too mesmerized by the blade, which seemingly moved of its own accord in the darkness, that they’d step into shock without even trying to avoid it.

  “Go to the inner city.” Orestes’ voice called out as he jabbed the sword into the air, pointing it to where lights were still on.

  All it took was an idea, and a glimpse of promised light greater than the puny light the sword offered, and the growing mob headed en masse to the inner city. They called out to one another, reassuring each other that the light would save them as they fled toward it. Others heard the calls and joined the crowd, swelling the number of people until it choked the roads and walkways.

  Amidst the chaos, Orestes and Anthea pushed for the outer rim of the city, totally oblivious to the wonder of a city that had always been lit now dark for the first time in Hectoyarres.

  At the edge of Cenalium, the carefully smoothed stone walkways and meticulously tended patches of gardens and grass ended. In its place stood a wall of stone that had been superheated, shaped, and melted so that it was in reality a sheet of dark glass as tall as three men standing on each other’s shoulders. There were only a few entrances in and out of Cenalium, and soldiers with arc-swords and arc-lances guarded each of them heavily.

  Bedros waited at one such entrance. The guards cast him wary glances from time to time, but they mostly ignored the stupid creature, figuring it had wandered away from its worksite and couldn’t find its way back. Whatever the creature’s story, it was beneath them to try to communicate with the brutish animal and hold its hand while walking it back to where it belonged. Eventually the owner would look for it, but if the owner didn’t, well, the next shift could deal with the problem.

  Bedros bided his time, sitting with his back to the wall. His master’s supplies lay beside him on the left, and one of his massive hands clenched around the handle of a giant mallet with a head the size of a watermelon. His big mahogany eyes swept across the gardens and streets before him, and he waited as he had been for over an Ouer.

  Ox-Men were known to be notoriously patient, able to wait for extensive periods of time for even necessities like food or water. When the lights went out, he knew it was finally time to go. He drew himself up along the wall, leaving his master’s baggage for the time being, and he walked over to the gateway. There was no subtlety in this plan, only brute force.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The guards ran back and forth in the sudden darkness, confused and struggling to light backup lamps that hadn’t been used in generations. The crystal pods had never failed, and so a backup wasn’t of much use if there was nothing that needed to be backed up. Or at least that was how the popular line of thought among the people of Cenalium went. So, it wasn’t really a surprise to anyone who really thought about it at a later point in time when the backup lamps didn’t work because of poor maintenance.

  That didn’t stop the guardians from trying though, and in their distraction, they didn’t see that the Ox-Man had moved up the stairwell with surprising swiftness and silence until it was too late. He suddenly stood among them, and they did little more than stare as he began to swing his terrible mallet, crushing bone and armor alike with an efficiently lethal flurry of blows. Even when they tried to bring their arc-lances to bear on him, the shocks that struck the Ox-Man with did not seem to slow him down.

  He crushed every last one of them – all six. This was another first on this portentous night. It marked the first occasion of an Ox-Man ever killing an Aurean.

  With a single huff of disdain, Bedros set aside his mallet and gripped the lever that would open the gate for his master and his daughter to pass. Until they were safely beyond the city, he would not move from this position, no matter what came at him. While he waited, he rubbed his broad bovine nose, trying to brush away the smell of his own burnt fur.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Orestes and Anthea came down the walkway just a handful of Mynettes later. That was just as well for Bedros. Even if he’d have waited all Dee or all Wayke for them, he preferred to be as far from the city as possible when the lights came back on. Bedros knew his master and his daughter by their scent long before his eyes told him who they were. The Ox-Man allowed himself a brief smile, a strange expression on an Ox-Man, one filled with many flat and yellowing molars.

  “Where’s Bedros?” Anthea demanded as they approached the wall. Her voice carried to Bedros’ ears. “You said he’d be here.”

  “He is. He’s on top of the wall.” Orestes replied.

  “On top? Why?”

  “To open it. Why else?”

  “Won’t the guards stop him?”

  “Don’t worry about them, dear. Bedros will open it, one way or another.” Orestes said, hurrying his daughter along and through the gateway.

  There was a finality to the way her father said this that bothered Anthea. Something told her that something bad was happening, but she knew better than to ask. Truth be told, Orestes was just as bothered by it as she was. In the past, he would never have thought of raising his hand against his own people or even ordering his loyal servant to do so. But in these last few Dees, desperation had become a constant companion, and he knew that he would kill in an instant to keep his daughter safe.

  They passed beyond the thick, glassy, stone wall ten paces later, and Anthea knew her first breath of air outside of Cenalium. There was no real reason for it to be so, because Cenalium had the same air as this air outside the walls, but to her the air tasted fresher and felt more energizing than the air within.

  “We’re gone, father. We’ve really left. I cannot believe it. Us. Leaving.” Anthea announced euphorically.

  “Yes, but we have far to go, and the lights will be back on soon.” Her father warned her, urging her to continue.

  “But Bedros…” She began, but a huff from behind her drew her attention.

  Bedros lumbered over, his heavy hooves grinding in the gravel. He had a great mound of baggage strapped to his back and his mallet gleamed in a way that seemed dark and wet to Anthea, but she couldn’t figure out why it would be so.

  “Bedros!” She cried in surprise, launching herself at the Ox-Man. He grinned down at her as she attached herself to his side, pressing her face against the coarse fur of his chest. When she released him after her father made an impatient noise, she explained, “I didn’t want to leave you behind.”

  Bedros tilted his head and nodded briefly, but then he pointed toward the rough trail ahead of him where her father was starting to move ahead.

  “Oh. Right.” She laughed, hurrying to catch up.

  Three Ouers later the morning sun was cresting over the horizon. The lights had come back on in Cenalium a little less than two Ouers past. Even from above, the ambient light of the city once more lit up was enough to light their way as they negotiated their way down the ill-used path. This was at once good and bad. Good because the light of the arc-sword was failing from overuse, and bad because it meant may be people looking for them soon.

  As self-sufficient as Aurean settlements tended to be, there was never any reason to go down amongst the lesser folk who lived in darkness in the depths of forest or in their disease-ridden cities that clung to the coastlines. The paths they tread on were a remnant from different times, and it was in a state of ill repair. More than once they reached spots that seemed nearly impassible.

  To Anthea, it was an exhilarating trek down the mountain. Spread out before her were pillows of clouds that stretched for Kilomes, and below them was uncharted land as far as she was concerned. Maps might have names of places labeled on them, but she had never seen beyond Cenalium. For now, though, all she could see were the snow-kissed peaks of grey and purple, other arms and branches of the mountain Cenalium sat atop, that pushed out of the clouds below them. Cenalium was on the highest peak in the range, and it usually stayed above the cloud line. The sun brushed across the wispy tops of the clouds, giving them a more substantial look than they would have normally had, like golden tips of meringue on a baked pie.

  She had no idea what the future held for her, and that was strangely exciting, instead of scary as she had thought it might be. Gone were the limitations of just one city, no matter how beautiful it was or how comfortable and luxurious it could be to live there. Instead, the protective walls that she had once thought held out potential invaders began to seem more like the walls of a prison cell. The look on her father’s face showed he wasn’t quite as optimistic as she was, but that was of no matter.

  There were many narrow spots on the path. One they had just crossed was a particularly narrow spot where Bedros had a particularly hard time crossing because of his bulk. He had nearly fallen to his death when the rock beneath one of his feet crumbled away. Had Orestes not grabbed him, which allowed Bedros a moment to shift his weight back toward the cliff wall, he likely would have toppled over the ledge.

  They were just beyond that tight spot when they heard a low mechanical whine approaching. It grew with the passing Mynettes, until a dark shadow fell over them from above. It was a long machine, perhaps fifteen Mayters long and all glinting in the early morning light.

  Energy collectors on the thin shell of metal that enclosed the vessel gathered the sun’s rays, which in turn powered fans that allowed the vessel to stay aloft. The crystalline collectors powered massive fans that spun so fast that they appeared to be solid disks instead of many-bladed fans mounted on pins in the wing structures. They also powered a trio of heavy arc-lances that were mounted under the nose of the vessel.

  “It’s the Guardians. They’ve come for us.” Orestes announced grimly.

  “How did they know where to look?” Anthea asked.

  “I don’t know.” He replied stiffly, but he did know. He’d been betrayed, and there was only one man he thought would have done it, Corydon, his oldest friend even if they’d fallen on hard times, but also a man who had much to gain from betraying him.

  Three pairs of lines dropped from the Flier, uncoiling at one end to fall all the way to the rocky pathway. Guardians began to rappel down immediately, wrapping one leg around the rope to slow their descent as they lowered themselves hand over hand. Their bronze armor glistened in the sunlight, making them glow like the arc-swords they carried.

  “What do we do?” Anthea asked worriedly, hiding behind Bedros’ considerable form.

  Orestes looked from the Guardians to his daughter. “You run. I stay and hold them off.”

  “What? How? How can you hold them back?”

  “Child, do as I say! Now go.” Orestes yelled over the whipping winds and the whine of the Flier.

  “But…”

  “They want you alive, Anthea. They’ll kill Bedros and me to have you. Now flee while you can.” And with these words, Orestes gave Bedros a look, and then he drew the arc-sword once more.

  Bedros grabbed Anthea around the waist and hefted her over one of his massive shoulders, understanding the cue he was given. He turned and ran then, carrying Anthea away from her father, despite her protests and cries to do otherwise.

  Sobbing, Anthea could do nothing to fight off Bedros and go help her father. He was too strong and big, and she was just a young girl. A grown man could not fight off an Ox-Man with mere muscle, so how could she of all people hope to? He was gentle enough, despite being firm in his grip. She bounced around very little on his meaty shoulder as he ran. The winds whipped at them, tearing at her hair and Bedros’ fur as he hurried away from the battle, but it was her heart tearing that bothered her most.

  All she could think was how pitifully dim the light of her father’s arc-sword had looked when he squared his shoulders to defend against the Guardians arrayed against him. Then, they were around a slight corner, and she could see him no more, but the clang of metal against metal rang out against the mountainside. As long as she heard that, she knew that her father lived.

  Mynettes later, she could no longer hear the noise of battle. She dug her hands into the thick fur of Bedros’ shoulder, keeping her curses silent and inside her. There would be time enough for that later.

  After a time, the whine of the Flier’s fans grew in their ears once more, growing nearer with each pace of Bedros’ long gait. The gravely path crunched beneath his fleet steps and the wall of the mountain beside them scrolled by dizzily, but he could not outrun the Flier. It came at them from around the mountain, swinging around the mountain like a weight at the end of a string, its tail always pointing outward as it rotated around. As it moved, the nose with its trio of glinting arc-lances remained trained on them.

  When they reached a long straight stretch, Anthea cried in alarm. There were three Guardians approaching from behind, though one limped badly and struggled to keep up with the other two. Aureans were a fleet footed people, and Bedros was carrying a good deal of baggage and tiring.

  Just then, an item amongst the baggage that Bedros carried caught her eye. It was a colorful and expensively made box of crafted silver and encrusted with gems of varying hues of green. It wasn’t much more than a hand’s span on a side and therefore rather cubical, but what was inside it was important: flowers.

  “We can’t outrun them, Bedros.” Anthea said firmly, just loud enough that he could hear it in one of his large ears over the noise of wind and Flier alike. “We make our stand here, like father did. You handle the three Guardians behind us, and I will deal with the Flier.”

  Bedros’ left eye rolled toward her to regard her in surprise. He made no effort to slow down as she had asked. In fact, he seemed to redouble his effort to outpace the Guardians, but even with all his stamina, Ox-Men are not fast over distances, only for short spurts of time. His push only managed to buy them a few more moments of time before they had to confront their pursuers.

  In that time, the Flier sped ahead of them, as if looking for something. Anthea lost sight of it, as she was still facing backward. There was a loud crack, like lightning from ahead, and Bedros skidded to a stop, nearly dropping her as abruptly came to a halt.

  He set Anthea down then and grabbed for his mallet, which was across his shoulders. She looked ahead, her light hair blowing across her face as she shielded her eyes from the dust that blew at them from the shattered pathway in front of them. They’d blown apart a twenty-foot section of the pathway and there was nowhere left for them to run to.

  “The flower box, Bedros. Give it to me.” Anthea ordered, a hint of regality in her tone.

  This time, Bedros did as she asked. The flower box looked tiny in his massive palm. She took it, and he immediately lifted his mallet in both hands. As he moved forward to face the two Guardians and the laggard that dragged himself behind the pair, Anthea finally realized what the dark splotches on the mallet had been.

  That Bedros had already shed blood for her only strengthened her resolve. If he could kill for her, and if her father could die for her, then she would exact revenge too. She would cost these men their lives, and she would live free.

  A deep bellow of rage erupted from Bedros’ lungs as he swept his mallet across the path in front of him, warding off the Guardians. It was the noise of a cornered beast that was going to defend itself. The Guardians quickly danced back, sending jolts at the Ox-Man from their arc-swords. The smell of burnt fur wafted back to Anthea as she dug through the flower box, looking for the right flower.

  A scream of a man sent tumbling from the ledge interrupted her concentration. She looked up briefly, saw that Bedros still lived, and then glanced back at the Flier, which was closing in, its trio of arc-lances looking like a bee’s deadly stingers.

  She scowled and pulled out a delicate purple blossom. She had grown this one herself. It was rare and hard to grow, but she had more than her share of the Aurean gift with plants. Her father had once said she could grow an orchid in the middle of an ice storm, and it wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

  She smiled grimly, held up the blossom to the morning sun and spread her arms wide. She released the blossom, and the winds caught it, holding it unnaturally in front of her face. Her eyes rolled back as she stared at the blossom, and words began to flow from deep within her consciousness, crawling out of her lungs in a fluid stream.

  Flower from on high, cloud over this patch of sky;

  Hide sun from sight, of this thing of wingless flight.

  The wind around them died and the blossom disappeared in a bright flash of light, like a miniature star erupting and popping before fading out of existence. A wordless scream tore out of her lungs, chafing her throat raw as it exited her. The scream accompanied a mental burst of energy that shook Anthea’s slender form, rattling her teeth in her jaw and causing her nose to bleed.

  The skies began to darken. Threads of clouds from many Mayters below darted up toward them like writhing snakes called to a charmer’s flute. The clouds coiled up, encircling the Flier like a living beast, constricting the air and sun allowed to reach the Flier. The Flier’s fans struggled to push out the thickening air and the mass of water vapor that choked them. The collectors ceased drawing in any energy as surely as if they had been cloaked in Mayters of thick fabric.

  Then the fans whined to a stop, and there was nothing holding the Flier aloft anymore. It plummeted, spinning and tumbling wildly as it fell. Twice before it disappeared beneath the cloud cover the Flier hit the mountain wall and pieces snapped off the thin hull. After that it was simply gone. They didn’t hear it hit bottom.

  Anthea fell then, lying limply on the pathway. She panted and tried to keep her eyes from popping out of her head like they felt as if they were wont to do.

  “What has she done?” One of the remaining Guardians cried in horror and disbelief. “She’s destroyed the Flier! She’s been touched by Porceth!”

  That distraction was all Bedros needed to crush the man’s head down into his spine, shattering the man’s spinal column and ribs as his body compressed like a boneless bag. The last Guardian – the wounded one – tried to run away. Bedros hurried after him.

  “Wait!” Anthea called, rolling over and pushing herself up off the pathway.

  Bedros cast a fiercely protective glance back over his shoulder at Anthea and continued after the man.

  “Wait, I said. We need to ask him about my father. Don’t kill him.” Then she added in a wry voice, “Yet.”

  Bedros heeded her order once again, standing three of his large paces away from the Guardian, who was standing very still. Anthea approached shakily, her legs wobbly and her knees like rubber.

  “My father.” She demanded. “Where is he?”

  “Mistress… I am sorry to report...” He swallowed heavily and trailed off, his pale eyes shifting back and forth under his bronze helm. “Your father, he fell. He and another man tumbled from the cliff. I doubt they survived.”

  Bedros’ lips pulled back to expose his flat teeth and emitted a sort of growl. His heavy hands tightened around the heft of his mallet’s handle, and he drew back to crush this man as well. The Guardian stood there in resignation, too ashamed or afraid to move anymore. He closed his eyes and waited for the killing blow to land.

  Anthea eyed the man, taking in every aspect of his being. She had killed to defend herself, but could she stand by and let this man be murdered in front of her? Assuredly he would tell others of what happened and more would come after them. What they had just done could never be forgiven.

  “Do you have a family, Guardian?” Anthea asked.

  “What?” The Guardian asked in surprise, opening his eyes.

  Bedros grunted, his arms frozen in a position of readiness to crush the man to death.

  “A family. Do you have a family?” Anthea repeated, snapping her words at him in a manner that caused him to flinch.

  “Yes, a wife and a son. He’s two Yarres of age.” The Guardian replied, his voice cracking.

  “Would you like to see them again?”

  “Maletos willing, yes. I would do anything to see them again.”

  Anthea habitually touched her forefinger and middle finger from her right hand to her forehead upon hearing the mention of the Goddess of the Sun, the central figure in Aurean religion. She and her husband Haestos, who was ruler of the Moon and the Firmament, ruled the celestial bodies that gave life upon the Aurean people.

  “Then you will do what I ask, and we will spare you.”

  The Guardian fell to his knees, lowering his head to the ground. “Anything, mistress. Anything you ask. Just tell me what you need.” His voice trembled and his words poured out from him.

  “Your arc-sword. I need it. My father’s is lost to me.”

  The Guardian lifted his head, unbuckled his sword belt, sheathed the arc-sword, and pushed it across the ground toward Bedros’ feet. Then, sensing that this was not the end to her requests, he asked, “What else?”

  “Go home.” Anthea ordered, looking past him to the winding trail where her father fell. “Report to your leaders what happened, omitting no detail. Then you will retire from the Guardians. You will pay any price or do what they ask so that you are released. Then you will live the rest of your Dees with your family and never raise a weapon against another man, woman, or Ox-Man again.”

  The Guardian nodded repeatedly, repeating her words as she said them. “I do not know why you do not ask me to tell them to say you died too, but I will do as you ask.”

  “They would not believe that I was dead I think.” Anthea replied. She began to turn away then but turned back at the last moment. “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your name. What is it?”

  “Vitalis.”

  “A fortuitous name, Vitalis. Go and live in peace. Remember your pledge.”

  The Guardian stood, weak from his injuries, but energized by his new lease on life. “Thank you, yes. I will not forget you, your brave father, or your protector. I will tell my family of you, that they too will not forget your mercy.”

  “Go then.” Anthea ordered, pointing back the way he’d come.

  Vitalis hurried off, limping as he went.

  Bedros huffed disappointedly and finally lowered his weapon. As he stooped to pick up the arc-sword Anthea had requested, he heard a thump behind him. Mallet in one hand, and undersized – for him anyway – arc-sword in the other, he turned to see Anthea lying unconscious on the pathway amongst the few possessions she’d managed to carry with her to this point.

  After seeing that she was just exhausted from her efforts, he picked her up and put her over his shoulder once more. He picked up the precious flower box and the two weapons and made a running leap across the gap in the pathway. It was a long leap, but then, he was quite tall and rather powerful.

  He pushed on tirelessly until he reached the base of the mountain, drawing on the reserves of energy that Ox-Men are famous for. Yet even with his boundless energy, he was exhausted by the time he reached the bottom of the mountain, and he pitched off into a fitful sleep beside Anthea. It was Ouers after that before she came awake again.