No Man's Land Read online

  No Man’s Land

  C. D. Beaudin

  Contents

  Map

  Forward

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other books by C.D. Beaudin

  No Man’s Land: Mortal’s End Trilogy: Book Three: C.D. Beaudin

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  ASIN:

  Editor: Meg Amor

  Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill

  Published in the United States of America

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Forward

  For those who fight and win, and for those who try.

  Introduction

  In the Land of Mortal, battle cries were heard,

  Upon a blanket of bloodstained snow, a war was conquered.

  Her crest has been adorned in the crown of her mother,

  But her soul has been broken by the will of another.

  The sorceress’s reasons for this war are unknown.

  Lies have steered those who resist her, but her path is steady.

  Will she relent and let the world survive?

  Or will she only be a hand for the evil of old to once again thrive?

  Even while the people of Mortal repress the inevitable war,

  The armies of this once great land will come together in desperation.

  Enemies will fight as allies, and allies will become enemies.

  But are they willing to let their lands fall to ruination?

  The balance of Mortal is unbalance,

  Ever since Idies won the war.

  The sorceress’s weapon is the destined,

  And Mortal’s savior is the doomed.

  Our heroes are locked up, conflicted and cruel.

  Will they save the land they love?

  Or will their lives be lost and darkness rule?

  Prologue

  Year 76, Second Age

  Lanterns hang from the tree branches, squares of red, violet, and yellow lighting up the glowing forest. The river that flows is illuminated all on its own, and the violet-blue crystalline flowers that dot the woodland floor sparkle like fairies.

  The Festival of the First. A beautiful celebration, when the Everstar is at its largest, the moon its fullest, and the stars their brightest. A celebration that has gone back millennia, to the first nine elves. Music floats through the treetops, songs of the first elves on the winds of the night.

  History and legends all say the same. Narsia was the first elf. She was created by Sericia, a beautiful creature of light. In the Spirit’s own image, she was perfect, but she grew lonely. Sericia couldn’t bear to watch her creation in sadness, so she created an elven lord for her. And Narsia loved him. But when they both grew lonesome, she created seven more elves, perfect creations that the original two pulled from the first Light Pool.

  A beautiful story to inspire beautiful customs and traditions.

  But they are flawed more than the old poems or songs could ever know. Elves are creatures with darkness inside them, but they hold themselves higher than the Sanarx and the Dark elves of the west, writing them in history as villains and abominations.

  But Radian elves, and even the Light elves—the highest of them all, the first race of their perfect species—are nothing but lies. Stories are stories. Songs are songs. And poems are poems. They portray elves in some high manner, but they are no better than the foible mortals. They have greed and selfishness and lust. Drunkenness and conceit.

  They are flawed.

  And yet they are so perfect.

  “Why do you always brood during Her Grace’s parties?”

  Revera looks up as Rowan sits down on the stone bench next to her. His long brown hair is braided at the side, and his blue eyes carry their usual defiance that never quite escapes him. “It’s a perfect place. Everyone is too drunk to notice.”

  Revera smiles softly. “But not you it seems.” She looks down at the stone in her hands. It is a rarity for Radian elves to drink in excess, but the Festival of the First is the exception. The river in front of her flows at a gentle speed, and she’s enchanted by it. “And what of Raea? Is she drunk too?” She looks up at him.

  “Your sister wouldn’t be caught dead with a cup of anything stronger than Caltha’s honey-syrup tea.”

  Revera laughs, a sigh escaping her lips. “Yes, well, that definitely sounds like my sister.” She lifts the rock up, the smooth amber surface glinting in the light. With a light huff she tosses it into the flowing river.

  “What is she up to, then?” she asks.

  “Probably fussing to her father about—”

  Revera’s gaze interrupts him. Rowan looks away, and she nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “That’s how it always is.”

  “I’m sorry, Revera.”

  She stands. “No, it’s fine, truly. I’m rather used to being disowned. Father has said it too many times to count.”

  “Your father loves you.”

  She truly laughs at that. “Don’t be a fool, Rowan. I’m not even second anymore.” She turns. “Now I’m nothing.”

  Before he gets a chance to say anything, she walks away.

  Radian Forest darkens as she gets farther and farther away from the city, the light of the festival disappearing and only her inner anger flaming her triste.

  Her blue dress rips and dirties as she stumbles through the forest, drunker than a dwarf on her sadness and loathing. Eyelids heavy and breath heaving, her arms flail as she stops suddenly when she gets to another branch of the glowing river.

  The sapphire water glimmers, and the trees around her are aglow. She lifts her face to the stars above, a wind brushing her skin. Tears start to well in her eyes, and she can’t contain them any longer. Revera falls to her knees, her self-pity, sadness, fear, and anger all bleeding from her eyes in streams of icy tears.

  I know I’
m not the daughter you asked for…but why can’t you accept me anyway?

  She clutches her hands to her heart, closing her eyes, tears dripping onto her dress. Her black hair shields her from the rest of the world, a wall to let her cry freely, and her crimson lips act as the mouth piece of the sorrow she feels inside.

  “A daughter of darkness isn’t a daughter at all. But an abomination.”

  Her eyes shoot open as she hears the familiar voice in her head. Brow furrowed, she tucks her thick curls behind her ear.

  Mother?

  There is no answer.

  But then there’s a burning sensation in her chest, and she falls asleep.

  Her body jolts and flails. An ache rushes through her, bolting through her head and through her arms. It’s like she’s been riding for days, maybe even weeks, without rest, without fail. A cold wind penetrates, seeming to pierce through her skin, like it’s made of the thinnest silk. She feels a harsher ache in her forehead, and the crack of dried blood when she wrinkles her brow.

  What…? Thinking is hard, fuzzy, an ache in her pounding brain. What happened?

  She feels drunk, like she’s been drowned in liquor, and she’s walking away into the night, the world obscure and the sounds incomprehensible. Her movements are that of underwater, and her breathing is a hammer to her chest.

  Reality comes more into focus when she feels the horse move under her. So, she is riding. But why? And to where? She tries to open her eyes; a caustic action as whatever light enters her vision blinds and makes her head hurt even more. Wincing, she forces her eyes to open a little wider, to get a good picture of where she is.

  Skies grayer than her world view. The ground below her is rocky and jagged, stones and dirt crunching under the horse’s hooves.

  It’s just like the dream I had.

  Her eyes widen as a shadow passes along the ground and she yelps, falling off the horse. The rocks cut into her skin, scratching and stinging her palms and arms. Wincing, she struggles to stand, her leg collapsing under her. She looks in the direction the shadow went—the path they must have come from—a narrow trail between the mountains.

  Was that a—? She looks to her other side and is shocked at what she sees.

  Mountains—blacker than onyx. They jut out of a valley as far as she can see. Vegetation is non-existent, only rocks and hills of stone. There are narrow pathways here and there, shadows in the rocks that might be caves, but other than that...it’s barren.

  Kuzakai. The Black Mountains. She looks to the west. In the far distance is a towering wall of mountains, the border of the most feared place in all of Mortal—perhaps in all of Ardon.

  Kahzacore.

  Fear starts to cascade over her, a waterfall of terror. She whips around, two horses are standing, and a man watches her. Her eyes are wide and her heart shrinks as she realizes what’s happening. But she needs him to confirm her suspicion, or it won’t be real.

  It can’t be real.

  “Aiocille…what—?” her voice cuts off when she sees the dagger in his hand.

  But that doesn’t make any sense. Why take her all the way out here just to kill her?

  “I’m sorry.”

  She swallows. “What for?”

  His eyes are truly sorrowful. “Your parents no longer think it wise for you to stay in Radian.”

  Revera straightens, her eyes pricking with tears, mouth dry, but she refuses to let him see her like this.

  “You mean they no longer think it wise for me to have ever existed?”

  He doesn’t say anything, but when his gaze avoids hers, it says all she needs to know.

  She glowers. “Well, you can tell my parents where to stick that dagger!” She turns from him, no longer able to force back her tears.

  “I’m not here to kill you, Revera. I’m a captain of the Radian Army, not an executioner.” He holds out the dagger to her. “This is for your protection.”

  She stops shaking and ceases crying. A newfound clarity washes over her. Slowly, menacingly, she turns to him, fury blazing inside her.

  “Against the Dalorin? You know as well as I, that no blade can kill those that hide

  in the dark. My parents sent me here to die…and die I shall.”

  “Revera, you mustn’t give up so easily—”

  “Easily? Aiocille, you can’t begin to know of my struggle. I have nothing more to live for, nothing left as a reason to fight for my life.” She huffs, turning back toward the valley.

  Drops of rain start to hit her head, and the black water drips along her skin, piercing and frigid.

  “Fifteen. Fifteen…and I’m sentenced to die.” In this very moment, she feels her heart harden. “Aiocille, tell me. What did my mother tell you after she poisoned me?”

  He sighs. “Revera—”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “That you are no better than the shadows that dwell in the Black Mountains. Nor any better than the Sanarx.”

  Revera nods, lips tight. “A daughter of darkness isn’t a daughter at all.” Her eyes narrow, turning to him. “Then you tell my mother that this daughter of darkness is going to destroy her—and everything, everyone, she loves.”

  Chapter One

  Calzack hobbles toward the dock of the Tanea, the blanket of night covering his movements from the Tanean guards. A black cloak drawn over him, he’s just another shadow in the dark, and when his feet hit the creaky wooden dock, he’s lucky his short and stocky frame doesn’t have any weight to it—wizard magic has its benefits.

  A wind brushes in and rushes through him, as if he was only a ghost. Well, he is. At least he’s becoming one. While magic has kept him disguised for the past five years, it is also turning him into a phantom. It’s why he’s returning to his mentor. He needs the spell removed or he’s going to disappear forever.

  Though, at the rate Mortal is falling…that might not be such a bad thing.

  The boat keeper’s black eyes are just as cold and unwelcoming as they were five years ago.

  “Arin, lovely to see you again.”

  Her blank expression doesn’t change.

  Okay, then. He drops into the boat, the wooden vessel unmoving. This is when the slightest hint of emotion enters her eyes.

  “You are deteriorating. Disappearing from this world. Your true form is leaving you.”

  “Very insightful, Arin.” He’s very aware of what he risked when he took this assignment. He was close to being rejected by his mentor. Training had been hard and being known as reckless wasn’t the best reputation he could have had.

  They’re silent for the rest of the journey across the strait, so Calzack takes this time to look out onto the water, the usual blue blackened from the cloudy night above. Even the Everstar can’t be seen—a bad omen his kind has feared for many centuries.

  The Everstar. A symbol of Mortal, a symbol of hope. It is where the Spirits Sericia and Zyadar were born, though, not many remember that fact of Ardon’s history.

  The beginning of the legend always starts the same—Sericia and Zyadar were born in the Everstar, then spread out and created the other Spirits. Of course, there is more to the story, but the old legends and poems have bored him since he first started his training.

  Much to his mentor’s dismay.

  When they get to the island, Calzack steps off the boat, and breathes in the dead air. He hobbles off the dock and spies the light of a fire in the distance.

  “My brother and your mentor are waiting for us to return.”

  “Nice to see you too, Arin.” He tilts his head. One good thing about Arin is that she doesn’t talk much. A nice change from the sorceress.

  They make their way up the ashy beach and into a forest of dead, black, twisted trees. Calzack jumps when a scream cuts through the eerily still air, but there are no ghosts anywhere. No souls to be seen.

  “They retreat into the air when night falls,” Arin starts. “Soul-eating beasts roam during the night.”

  Calzack nods. “No k
idding.” His eyes dart as he hears another scream, this time followed by a roar. He picks up his pace.

  “They cannot hurt us. He has cast a spell to protect us from their gaze and bite.”

  The beasts she speaks of are no Dalorin, he remembers this much from his lessons. He just doesn’t remember their name. But they are much fiercer and more terrifying than a mere Dalorin. Their touch doesn’t ice over one’s skin and eyes. They don’t just consume one’s soul. No. These beasts burn it from within. They’ll set someone on fire. Cripple them. It’s harsh and cruel. Excruciating. And part of Crozacar’s soul that has kept these poor dead on the island.

  They hide in the dark.

  When they get to the cabin—a hut inside the forest that looks out on the ocean—Calzack can feel relief wash through him. He’s almost himself again. Just a few more minutes of being this disfigured malcontent.

  Arin goes in first, then Calzack follows, the light hurting his droopy eye. He’s a hobbled, scrunched, hunchback figure—and he can’t wait to be free of it.

  “Sister.”

  Before him another black-eyed, black-haired figure stands, this time a male. Arin approaches him, and they stand next to each other—the Awh twins—the Keepers of the Souls on the Isle of the Dead.