Leah Larke

Chapter 1: Lost

The sickly, sour stench of decay slammed into her nose, seasoned with smoke and gunpowder and chased by the tang of blood. The familiar bouquet of death and violence beckoned for Cyra’s unconscious mind to rejoin the waking world. She resisted, but it was a losing battle, throbbing aches pecking at her muscles like carrion birds, unwillingly sharpening her senses.

A weight pressed down on her chest, straining each pull of breath as her eyelids lifted, vision filled with a gray, swirling sky. Dread crawled through her veins as she mentally prepared to greet a cruel, unwelcoming reality. And what surrounded Cyra was both cruel and unwelcome.

A blanket of dead unfurled in all directions. Hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies lay across a wide field rimmed by forest. Blood drenched bloating corpses, many missing limbs, their ashen faces eternally frozen. Cyra wasn’t dead, but she had woken in hell. And with each forced blink and labored breath, the devastation seared more unforgettable savagery in her memories, adding to that already overcrowded corner of her subconscious.

A gasp slipped through her lips when she finally dragged her gaze downward and found a blank face she recognized. “Dag,” she breathed, a sob clotting her lungs. Her hand rested on his back, a cold stickiness oozing between her fingers—Dag’s blood. She fought the burn of tears, forcing herself to take in the present hellscape a second time, trying to puzzle together what horror show greeted her this miserable morning.

A battle, her brain unhelpfully provided, the answer painfully obvious given the surrounding slaughter. Cyra scoured her memories for more information, but only saw jarring flashes of violence. She recalled the ear-splintering booms of cannon fire, the screams of the wounded, of the dying. It all left one question—had Castoria won?

Bang! The jarring sound echoed over the open field, disturbing a murder of crows feasting on the dead. They took to the wing, cawing disapproval at their interrupted meal.

Gunfire. Cyra’s pulse skittered as a well of panic opened in her chest.

Firearms meant two things. One: Castoria had definitely lost the battle. Two: if she didn’t drag her sorry butt out of this wasteland of doomed souls, she’d soon join their ranks.

A fly buzzed past her face as another loud bang echoed. The gunshot sounded further away. She needed to go. Now.

Forcing a ragged breath through her terribly dry mouth, Cyra gingerly pushed away Dag’s stiff body, ignoring the sharp pang at abandoning her fellow ranger. Another friend lost to this cursed war. Left to rot on the battlefield of who-gives-a-fuck-anymore.

Why were they still fighting?

It was a question plaguing Cyra too often lately. If the Clovian colonies wanted their freedom so badly, perhaps it was time to just let them have it. This fight wasn’t worth it—not anymore. Not after four bloody years of war. A war the Kingdom of Castoria was losing.

The pain in her side cleaved through her lingering guilt and confusion, reminding her she had more immediate concerns.

Curses spilling through thinned lips, Cyra wobbled to her knees and found a telling patch of dark red seeping through her hunter green ranger’s coat, the wet stain a few inches above her hipbone. Just great.

She gritted her teeth as more flashes from the battle jabbed at her mind—the memory of locking eyes with a familiar face during the mayhem.

Fate was a vindictive bastard for creating that chance encounter. Of course, Adonis North couldn’t resist a grab at revenge. The moment his scarred face had emerged through the smoke and haze, she knew he’d claim her life. The obnoxiously handsome prick had the audacity to smile just before he fired at point-blank range. The wound in her side a fuck you, signed Adonis North. The fiend’s second shot had killed Dag, who had jumped into the bullet’s path, saving her life before the smoky chaos of the battle swept them away on its tide.

Cyra’s throat thickened as she settled a last look on her friend’s face. “If I ever see that asshole again,” she rasped, “I swear to all the Divine Ancients, I’ll give him a matching scar before sending him to hell.” With this promise, a wave of determination burned in her blood.

Dag had saved her life; she wouldn’t waste his sacrifice.

Sputtering profanities, Cyra fought through the pain, clumsily finding her feet, before forcing one foot in front of the other. She held her breath until trees surrounded her on all sides, only then allowing a long sigh of relief. She reached the woods without collecting more bullet wounds. A small victory. Still, the effort cost.

Cyra leaned against a tree, hissing more expletives at her agitated wound. She raised her right arm so the cuff of her coat slipped toward her elbow and analyzed the leather bracer bound to her forearm. A single red crystal glinted in the forward slot—the other ten were empty. She scowled at the lone elemental crystal, invaluable in combat but useless for healing wounds.

She scoured her belt for extras, adjusting her coat to check every possible slot.

Empty.

She muttered a string of curses for not checking Dag or any of her fallen comrades before running for cover. This is amateur, Cyra. You’re a ranger captain, not a thick-headed cadet.

She scanned the woods, finding several bodies splayed amongst the scattered trees. None were Castorian. To heal herself, she needed an evolution crystal, but she dared not risk returning to the battlefield lest she meet a sharpshooter’s bullet. She had already fulfilled her moron quota for the morning. Suck it up and keep moving. You’ve survived worse . . . probably. Think.

Where would General Theodor Vance retreat the Castorian forces?

South, then west toward the kingdom’s border and reinforcements. The gunshots had sounded from the south, so that direction was a no-go. West it was.

Cyra shed her outer coat before producing a dagger from her belt, cutting several strips from the hem. She pressed the material against the wound, adjusting her belt so it applied pressure. A breath of relief passed through her lips, and she was about to reposition the now ripped and bloody coat, then hesitated. The Castorian-green military coat identified her as a royal ranger, the gold facings and epaulets marking her rank as captain.

The uniform screamed: Yes, please capture me, a wounded officer all alone—easy pickings. Eyes shifting over the forest floor, Cyra honed in on a dead man. He wore an ankle-length leather duster over a Clovian-blue waistcoat and tan breeches. A wide brimmed rancher-style hat sat amongst the leaves near his face. Clovian militia. Perfect.

Cyra ditched all her obvious Castorian identifiers before shrugging on the dead man’s coat and securing the hat over her long chestnut-colored hair. At a distance, she might be mistaken for a Clovian militia soldier. She hoped—really hoped.

Twenty minutes into her trek through the forest, she stumbled upon two more gifts from the Ancients—water and a riderless horse.

“Champion cheers to you, Cyra.” She smiled at the spotted gray stallion drinking from a small creek flowing at the base of an embankment. By the ornaments and saddle, the horse belonged to a Clovian cavalry soldier, but the rider was nowhere to be found.

She inched her fingers around the loose reins, drawing the animal’s head away from the water’s edge. “Listen,” she whispered, patting the animal’s cheek. “I need you to save my ass right now. Whatever you want, it’s yours, my honor as . . . whatever I am, this time tomorrow.”

After scooping several handfuls of water into her mouth, she quickly filled the canteen attached to the horse’s saddle. Grimacing through the fresh spiral of pain, she hoisted herself onto the stallion’s back before digging in her heels. “Time to go.”

***

By mid-morning, the trees thinned, yielding to rougher terrain of rock, shrub, and brush. To her right a well-beaten dirt road emerged, her eyes snagging on a stone mile marker.

She nudged her mount toward the marker. “One hundred and eighty-seven,” she read aloud. One hundred and eighty-seven miles to the royal border. Gaze dragging west along the empty road, Cyra spied the border mountains in the far distance. Somewhere west of those giant peaks was the Kingdom of Castoria, her home.

Home. The word brought her little comfort. It hadn’t for some time. Regardless, she never expected to see it again. To survive this fuck-mire of a war.

Maybe she still wouldn’t. 

Cyra steered the horse along the road. This route was a gamble—faster to the border, but far more exposed. With her injury and lack of supplies, there was little choice. She was not a religious person, quite sure the Divine Ancients did not exist—the pantheon of gods a remnant of the Old World, their true names lost to time, but still worshiped by many. Despite her disbelief, she sent up a prayer now. A prayer for luck. A prayer she wouldn’t die out here alone in the wilderness.

The chilly gray morning yielded to a chilly gray afternoon, offering the extra special bonus of a light drizzle of rain. That night she camped near a rocky outcropping off the road, dining on a few sticks of jerky tucked away in the pocket of her waistcoat, stored for dire situations.

Well, the situation was turning pretty fucking dire, Cyra mused as she tore away a chunk of dried meat with her teeth, attempting to warm her hands against the small campfire—a risk, given the situation. But with her wound and the dropping temperatures, a bullet was preferable to freezing to death. Maybe; probably. She didn’t really know anymore. She hadn’t expected to survive this long. She’d already escaped death far more times than she deserved.

Perhaps fate and luck were finally opting out of saving her ass.

By the look of her oozing wound, Cyra all but concluded that fate and luck had indeed washed their metaphorical hands of her bullshit. “I didn’t want to live past twenty-five anyways,” she muttered, before resecuring the belt with fresh cloth.

Sleep was patchy, the pain in her side denying anything restorative. Even when she finally succumbed to the black, her dreams shattered any hope of peaceful oblivion—visions of men and women screaming, whinnying horses bolting into the distance, smoke and haze only partially obscuring the violence as she fought for survival.

None of these visions stirred her completely awake, save one—the vision that awakened Cyra most nights. The one in which she stood in a desolate wilderness, watching furious flames devour a barn as she screamed.

The next morning her body was sluggish, her head cloudy, energy at a trickle. The too-salty jerky had left her mouth dry and her hunger unsatisfied. After resuming her journey west, she faced a new challenge—staying conscious.

She thought of her mother’s mortification if she died here, her body left as roadside chum for worms and scavengers. It would be a disappointing end, but rather fitting for her role as the disappointing daughter. The macabre musing elicited a low chuckle even as her head lolled sideways. She wasn’t sure when she had nodded off, only felt a surge of panic when her eyes finally snapped open, instincts preparing for catastrophe. Her mount was still moving, and amazingly she remained in the saddle. How long had she been unconscious?

The question went unanswered as she blinked furiously, her racing pulse beating sudden alertness through her veins. It all hardened into icy dread at what she saw directly in her path. The road sloped downward into a small valley. And intersecting the opposite upward slope stood a makeshift barricade. Cyra spied five armed men around the barrier. Clovian Infantry, by their cobalt-blue coats and unit insignias. And they had already seen her. Son of a feckless turd.

She couldn’t turn around—not now, not already halfway down the slope in full view of the enemy. Gritting her teeth, she cursed herself a few more times—each new, self-flagellating expletive more ridiculous than the last. But Cyra wasn’t laughing. She was a decorated royal ranger, for fuck’s sake. Riding directly into an enemy checkpoint, wounded, armed only with a single elemental crystal, and no clue how many casts it had left.

This little pickle might be the idiotic epitome of her entire career as a Castorian warrior.  “Ancients, you deserve to be shot,” she grunted under her breath, finishing off her scolding tirade. The soldiers might be fooled by her own imbecility—what brainless dumbass rides straight into a crew of five armed enemy soldiers? A fool or a friendly?

Perhaps she’d play both: a friendly fool.

A confident smile expanded across her face. Please be more dimwitted than me.

One of the men marched forward, his back rigid but expression not overly alarmed. “Destination, rank, and unit.” Though none of the soldiers had yet raised their long rifles, they looked alert, ready to unleash deadly fire should she present a threat.

Cyra ignored her thundering heart, so loud surely one of them could hear it. “Not a soldier, sir,” she answered. Female Clovian soldiers, even in militias, were far less common than in the Castorian military. Suspicions would only pique should she claim to be a soldier. “The coat is my brother’s. He’s dead. I’m headed toward a small outpost nearby.”

Even in her battered and beaten state, Cyra had possessed the wherewithal to remove the horse’s cavalry indications the prior night and had reluctantly discarded her bracer.

The forearm sheath of buckled leather, designed to hold casting crystals, would give her away as an enemy soldier instantly. Instead, she had secured her lone red elemental crystal to her wrist with a bloodied strip of cloth. If asked, she’d pass off the odd detail as an injury to her forearm, and hope no one probed. Great plan, Cyra, working swimmingly.

“I see,” said the soldier, somewhat skeptically. “There was a battle near Willowwood Creek a few days ago. We are looking for scattered royal soldiers. The main Castorian forces retreated south toward Red Hawk Canyon, but deserters or stragglers may venture this way.”

“I haven’t seen any,” Cyra said, hoping her natural olive complexion didn’t appear too abnormally pale or sweaty. “May I pass?”

The soldier opened his mouth, a nod tipping up his chin when another man stalked forward, a foreboding sour look twisting his roughly hewn features.

“I say we search her for weapons first. Then we let her pass,” he barked.

Huffing a sigh, Cyra didn’t bother hiding her annoyance. Dare she bolt for the hill? Or let them search her, hoping they missed her wound and hidden crystal?

 Making the more cautious decision, she dismounted before opening her long leather coat, careful to hide the wound with the gathered material in her hand. “No guns, just a dagger and water canteen. May I pass?”

“Remove the coat,” said the sour-faced soldier.

Cyra bit back the choicer words rising to her lips, instead calmly muttering, “Is that really necessary, sir?” She blinked her large pale-blue eyes, conjuring her best I’m-just-a-harmless-damsel face, but was pretty sure she looked more manic-waif than innocent bystander.

“Corporal,” said the soldier who first questioned Cyra. “I think we can let the lady pass.”

Sour-Face was unmoved, however; a dark gleam edged his eyes as they worked over her body. “Take off the coat, or we will remove it for you.”

Cyra glared at the man. You want to play? Fine.

Taking a large step back, she turned around, shrugging off the oversized coat. The heavy material pooled around her feet. With each stalling move, her heart quickened, adrenaline ushering a storm through her body—readying for a fight.

When she turned back around, her right arm shot out, passing the point of no return with her next move. An action that would proclaim herself as the enemy, and a threat to be eliminated.

Cold raced down her arm, the magic energy amplified and channeled by the power she siphoned from the crystal tied to her forearm. The strapped stone pulsed with a red glow against her skin as if the crystal possessed its own heartbeat. Frigid air coated the entire limb as energy gathered in her palm. She aimed her wrist like a gun, ready to unleash her killing power.

With years of practiced skill, she conjured shards of ice just above the space where palm met wrist. Razor-edged, they cut through the air in deadly silence, flying nearly as fast as bullets, with enough speed and force to slice through flesh and injure bone.

The first shard hit Sour-Face in the neck, the attack so fast and vicious the others did not immediately react. Their mistake. Before the Clovian soldiers raised their rifles, Cyra’s ice shards attacked in all directions—deadly points striking each man, tearing through their wool coats, one going through an eye.

“She’s a Syphon!” cried one of the soldiers just before a shard sliced through his ear.

Too late. The trained ranger inside Cyra took control with merciless efficiency. Within seconds, all the men were dead or wounded, the latter scrambling for cover behind the barricade. One, however, raised his rifle, muzzle taking aim.

A well-timed ice shard collided with the weapon, pushing the fired shot wide. She focused on conjuring more ice, her element of surprise dwindling with each passing second.

Her luck emptied completely when her next cast yielded nothing but a puff of cold air, red dust leaking from the tied cloth around her forearm. The crystal was spent. Shit.

Gritting her teeth, Cyra raced to her mount and yanked herself into the saddle. Kicking with all her strength, she steered the animal around the barricade, veering north.

Shots clamored at her back just as she crested the hill. The sharp sting of a bullet grazed her left arm. She ignored it, concentrating on the steady pound of galloping hooves timed with the hammering beats of her own heart.

Relief only came with distance. Echoing shots faded to nothing. They would not follow her, not with their injuries. A small victory sprinkled over her state of otherwise completely fucked—wounded, unarmed, and riding in the opposite direction of Castoria’s retreating units.

Just. Great.

When she finally made camp, she slept worse than the prior night, her everything a blend of cold and pain and discomfort. Her chances of survival dwindled by the hour, her dreams echoing that grim conclusion by supplying a fresh flurry of doom-filled images, always ending with the burning barn and her own screams.

Progress the next day was a hard-fought battle, the hilly terrain yielding to dense forest. By early evening, Cyra stopped, exhaustion sapping her final wisps of strength. After a wobbly dismount, she barely stayed on her feet, offering the horse a triumphant smile. “Not out yet.”

Wrong. Her knees buckled, blackness shrouding her vision as her body crumpled to the soft earth—her last glimmer of energy winking out.

So, you’ll be food for worms after all. The defeatist thought lingered as her consciousness drifted away. Maybe this was the end she deserved—dying in the middle of nowhere. Alone. “Ancients forgive me,” Cyra breathed her final words before surrendering to the black. At least, wherever she was going next, she would have plenty of company.