No Man's Land Read online

  He always let Kepp go.

  Now history was repeating itself as he’s snapped back to the present.

  Kepp rages in anger. His eyes dart to Eldowyn’s. “You say I’m second? That I’m worthless? Nothing?” Kepp punches Eldowyn in the face, a hard hit, sending him stumbling back. In another moment Kepp connects his foot to Eldowyn’s stomach, doubling him over, bringing him to his knees. Flashes of the Kawa come to him. Him storming out of Kera’s and his room, sword in hand. Breaking into Eldowyn’s room, tackling him, stabbing his chest. He nearly died, that day. Kepp got out without a scratch, but Eldowyn nearly perished.

  Kepp kicks Eldowyn again, reveling in making him weak. His foot connects this time with the elf’s chin, sending him flying onto his back. “There are no guards to save you this time, brother.”

  He kicks him again and again, bloodying the porcelain skin. Kepp bends over him. “You know I’ve tried to pretend. I’ve tried for a long time. I’ve fought, I’ve cried, I’ve been forgiven. But it’s all for nothing!” Kepp slaps his brother’s face. “Or maybe it isn’t? No, I’m not nothing. Not anymore.”

  Kepp grabs Eldowyn’s neck, pulling him to his feet, slamming him against the nearest wall. “I’m powerful, Eldowyn. I may not have elf magic, or enhanced abilities, but I have a power that no one else has.” He strengthens his grip, Eldowyn’s muscles tighten, his hand gripping Kepp’s wrist, his feet trying to kick his legs.

  “Revera. I have the sorceress on my side. I realized long ago that I was never going to be you, Eldowyn. I knew it when I was very young, in fact, but it only caught up to me when father left me to die in the ring of fire! He left me, Eldowyn. To go looking for you.” He slams Eldowyn’s head against the wall.

  “Now, how do you think that made me feel, huh? Huh? I was humiliated for trusting you. For trusting father. But I stopped, oh, I stopped trusting anyone the moment he chose you over me. When Revera whisked me away, I knew I had been freed. I had my family at last. And there’s more of us, you know. More of us who have aligned with the sorceress. We’re going to destroy every last one of you, and by doing so, we are going to save Ardon. We may be written as villains in history, but I promise you, we’ll be heroes.”

  “Brother,” Eldowyn struggles, tears flowing from his blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Kepp’s brow creases, relief, guilt, anger, and resentment all flooding his senses. “I know you are.” He squeezes harder, and Eldowyn falls into a sleep that isn’t quite death.

  Kepp inhales a heavy breath. “Not yet, Eldowyn.” He stares down at the limp body, tears of finality and relief in his eyes. “And don’t ever call me brother again.”

  Chapter Six

  “Get off me!” she’d yelled, fighting against the hold of the man, but his grip only tightened. His large dirty hand had clamped over her mouth, keeping her quiet. The foul taste of his skin against her lips disgusted her, and in an attempt to free herself, she’d ignored the flavor and bit him. Hooking her arm around his shoulder, she flipped him, slamming him onto the ground. But it didn’t do much good, as another ensnared her neck, choking her. She’d kicked back, a snap of bone, a loud yell. But the chokehold didn’t relent. Gasping, she’d clawed at his arm, digging her nails into his skin. He’d groaned, but in another minute, there was a harsh blow to her temple, and she’d gone limp.

  When she’d woken up, she was shackled to a post, five others shackled beside her, a row of dead-looking people. There were dwarves, humans—no elves that she could see. She was the only one. Her eyes darted to see where she was, and the thought instantly came to her: the Slave Markets. The illegal ones. She was going to die. It was about time. But she didn’t really want to die. She did deserve to, but not like that. She was going to have to be a slave first. Shackled. Beaten.

  The next few minutes were a blur. Names being called. Someone had grabbed her. Then screams. Lots and lots of screams. She remembered looking up, two, ice-blue eyes looking down at her, a crimson smile. And then nothing.

  That was fourteen months ago. Now, she’s safe. Breathing in, she nestles under the warm blanket, the chaise lounge under her a comfort. She only remembers this warmth back home, across the sea. Not in the lands that most think of—Altare. No, she comes from the western lands, across the ocean, a continent not affected by what her people call the War of Mortal. She misses her home but knows what she’s doing here is noble and right. She’s saving the world. Her brother will finally be at peace.

  She sits up, realizing she isn’t tired, and sleeping is a waste of her time. She needs to be doing something. Anything. Maybe Breel wants to spar? The elf isn’t back yet, neither is the mistress. She’s utterly bored…

  Standing, she heads out of the room into a larger one where the ceilings, floor, and walls are all made of black marble, twists of metal here and there, little silver tendrils dancing in the stone. Her eyes land on the balcony, beyond which she can see the Black Mountains, and not quite as far, leaning against the railing, head down, is the tall, sinewy, brooding dark-skinned Breel.

  “Do you dream of the savannah or the taste of human flesh?”

  “Soldiers do not eat the sacrifices, we are to remain pure for battle.” His Trad accent she finds adorable.

  “So it’s the savannah, then?”

  Breel looks at her, brown eyes dark. “Only the High Priests are allowed to release the souls of the sacrifices through devouring their earthly bodies. They are chosen by the gods for a reason, the rest of humankind aren’t worthy.”

  “Are elves?”

  “You believe in the Spirits. You’re unclean.” Every word he speaks, he seems to believe with every fiber of his being.

  She smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It’s the furthest from one.”

  “Sarcastic, Breel. I’m being sarcastic.” She sighs, leaning against the rail. “I’ve heard Trads say they eat human flesh. Not all of them do?”

  “The ones in Poy don’t. Naroe and some of the smaller villages disobey the High Priests by indulging in their sickening appetites. Bodies should be treated as shells, only embodiments. Only by eating the physical form can the true human—the soul—be freed. The blasphemers who do it out of sheer entertainment or hunger should be burned on a pyre.”

  “I struck a nerve, it seems.”

  “You always do, Kell.”

  “Na-kelle. We aren’t at the ‘Kell’ stage yet.”

  “What is this stage? Has a theater been named after you?”

  He might as well have three heads the way she looks at him. “Yeah, okay.” She pivots on her heel, looking out on the valley. “Did you ever think you’d be here?”

  “No. I thought I’d fight for Terandore my whole life, die, have my body burned with my fallen brethren. A noble death, a noble end.”

  “You think this isn’t noble? We’re going to save the ones we’ve lost, Breel. My brother can finally be at peace if—when—we succeed. Your parents can be at peace.”

  “My parents were abusive traitors, selling human meat to the outlying villages. They can rot on the Isle of the Dead for eternity, that is not why I am here.”

  She tilts her head. “Why are you, then?”

  He looks at her, eyes intense. “I needed something to believe in again. This is as good a cause as any. While I do believe those who die are dead for a reason, I don’t believe they should have to suffer after their time comes.”

  “Was the noble fight you grew up in not good enough for you?”

  “It was. It still is. But the fight may have…there was a High Priest. He was corrupt. Soldiers are considered to be fighting the gods’ fight, but many of us stopped after we were ordered to start bringing our own children to the slate. We stopped after our children had their hearts torn out. We had never sacrificed our own, only those of lesser races that we found while on missions outside our homeland. Many of us left. A lot were killed for being traitors toward the gods, but we weren’t. We were disobeying man, not the divines.
It only stopped when the High Priest was killed by one of our own. He wasn’t a soldier, but he was a good man. He died trying to save foreign sacrifices who didn’t deserve to be on that slate.” Breel exhales. “I left, after that. And I found something to believe in.”

  Nakelle nods but voices her concerns anyway. “Do you think Revera will hold up her end of the bargain? That she’s really doing this for the greater good, and not for some secret self-gain?”

  “You shouldn’t doubt her.”

  Both Nakelle and Breel turn at the familiar yet terrifying voice.

  Karak looks at them. “She could hear you.”

  She swallows, and they both straighten as the Last Lieutenant approaches, gait like a snake and eyes trained on them.

  “My Lord.” Kell lowers her head in a bow, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees Breel doesn’t do the same.

  “You’d be wise to follow in her footsteps, Trad.”

  “Why? Are you king?”

  “No. I’m just the man who can rip out your soul. And I know how important souls are to your people.” He flutters his lashes, smiling. “So. Bow?”

  “No.”

  He tilts his head. “Ouch.” He turns his gaze on Nakelle. “At least one of you knows how to show respect.”

  Her brow dents, and she looks up at him. “This isn’t respect for you. It’s respect for your ability to kill me, and I don’t want to be a Dalorin, or if your arsenal is specially equipped, then I don’t want to be a ghost on the Isle.”

  Karak looks at her. “Blunt.” His eyes narrow, the corners of his lips twitch. “You remind me of someone I know.”

  “Who?”

  He studies her, as if wondering if he should say. But he doesn’t, merely smiles, blue eyes slightly chaotic. “We should train. Revera will be back soon. She’ll want to know if her Knight’s Regiment are up to what she has planned.”

  “And what does she have planned?” Breel asks.

  “Apparently the only one who knows is that nephew of hers.”

  Nakelle shifts her gaze to the wall at the mention of Kepp. She hasn’t seen him since she left on a mission for the elven sorceress months ago. She had completed it, though. Her mission had been to recruit another soldier for Revera and she’d managed to recruit Breel. They’ve been getting to know each other since, but he doesn’t share much, and she has nothing to share. She knew Kepp better within the span of three months than the entirety of her knowing Breel—five months. It took a while to find someone desperate enough to ally with the sorceress…

  I wonder what that says about me? Nakelle runs a hand through her long hair. Kepp scares her actually. Winning this war isn’t an obsession for him, it’s possessing him. His hatred for his brother—his entire family—is so great it makes his eyes go dark whenever he talks about them or someone mentions them. The only one he can stand is Revera, it seems.

  Acting has taken a toll on him, Nakelle can tell. He’s tired, exhausted, and she knows it’s only a matter of time before he breaks and lets the charade break with him. He’d be revealing his betrayal, but he won’t care at that point. She isn’t sure he cares about anything anymore.

  It had filled her with jealousy, when she learned he had to cozy up to Kera, the leader of the Kawa. She isn’t proud of it, but she’s a jealous person. She doesn’t know for sure if he liked Kera, but she doesn’t care. The thought of that girl even looking at him makes her want to strangle him. She often finds herself wanting to wrap her hands around his throat. But she also knows, that once she lays eyes on him—when he finally returns to his true family—she’ll wrap her arms around him and never let go.

  They didn’t part on good terms. They hadn’t said anything about their feelings at that point, but she knows they both felt something. Maybe he doesn’t anymore, but for her, it’s only grown stronger. They had a fight before she left. He’d called her a hybrid. For her kind, that’s one of the highest insults. It doesn’t sound bad to most, sure, but Ether elves are often looked down on by other races of elves because they don’t have special abilities. They are humans with pointed ears.

  But they are more than that, and when he looked down on her that night, she’d hated him. And hated that she felt things for him, was angry, and detested how she couldn’t stay hating him. She would get over it because she had fallen for him. Dishonoring her own pride in doing so, and the pride of her people. Nakelle isn’t sure which is worse.

  “Elf, are you still listening?”

  She looks to Breel. “What?”

  “Karak said Revera should be back soon.”

  “Oh…” Nakelle’s brow furrows. “Back from where?”

  “When do we ever know where she is?” Karak says flatly, sarcasm and noticeable spite in his voice. He sighs. “Nakelle, make us dinner.”

  She crosses her arms. “Why? Because I’m a girl?”

  “No, because I don’t know how to cook, and Breel burns everything.”

  “I haven’t cooked since I was… I’ve never cooked.”

  “Then you’ll be trying something new. I’m starving. Get a move on.”

  Her lips tighten. “Fine, but I hope you like raw steak.”

  “Never tried it.”

  Nakelle rolls her eyes, and heads into the black room. I should feed him raw chicken instead, see how he likes that stomachache. Or maybe I should just poison the elf blood he drinks. That’s just sickening. It’s like living with a cannibal that wants to eat you. She shivers. At least he’s not like the creatures in the stories that suck you dry from your wrist. Actually, they can be killed. That would solve a lot. She closes her eyes. She just needs to be patient. This war will be over soon, she hopes. And when it is, she can drive her blade through his heart herself.

  Pure evil seems to wash over him as his feet hit the black ground. The smog impedes his vision and muffles his hearing, even clouding his mind, making it hard to breathe. He squints, the gritty fog stinging his eyes, though, that could be the toxic air he’s breathing.

  All around him eyes glare, suffocate him, even as the fog clears, and he steps into the slightly less smoggy valley. He takes a deep breath as he inches past the large, muscular beasts. Some of them are smaller, inching all the way up to him, smelling him and nickering incomprehensibly. Then there are the screaming demons. They’ll take your soul with one touch.

  When he approaches the door, the surety he felt walking into this sticks with him, even when he lowers his clenched fists to his sides. He doesn’t regret this. This is his life, and where his family is. He hears a shuffling of footsteps. Boots on metal. The creaking of locks, then the high screech as the door opens. He looks up at the familiar face, one that he never wanted to see again.

  The man lifts his brow, blue eyes clearly amused. “Well, this is a surprise.”

  “Can I come in or not?” he asks quickly, not wanting to be in the valley any longer.

  The man smirks. “Depends if you’re here to kill me or to talk. Because I’m really not in the mood for talking.”

  “Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not here to talk with you. Where is she?”

  The man smirks. “I have no clue who you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not in the mood for games,” he snaps.

  “Temper, temper.” The man tilts his head, then opens the door.

  He enters the tower. The man climbs the steps behind him. He feels his cold stare on the back of his neck. When they reach the top, it only takes a moment for him to see the unfamiliar man sitting at a table, a measly supper spread out over the tablecloth. He’s slightly surprised not to see the stark gray eyes of the she-elf, but marginally relieved. Also, a little disappointed. He doesn’t really know what he feels.

  “Where’s Revera?”

  Karak looks at him. “Out. She’ll be back soon.”

  “Right, right.” He walks over to the table, grabbing a piece of bread, the too salty flavor overwhelming. It makes him miss the onion broth Saine called soup. He looks at the dark-skinn
ed man. “And you might be?”

  “Breel Vobath.”

  “You’re a Trad?”

  “Yes. You are?”

  “Kepp Starborn, Elven Prince of Radian.”

  “You’re Kepp? I’ve heard many things about you.”

  He scoffs. “Bad things, I presume?”

  “Your aunt speaks highly of you, Karak never mentions you, and Nakelle—”

  Kepp’s eyes dart over to Karak. “Oh, so she’s back, is she?”

  “I didn’t even know you two knew each other.”

  “We’re Revera’s servants, of course we know each other.”

  “You didn’t know Breel until a minute ago.”

  “Forty-eight seconds.”

  Karak and Kepp look at him.

  “You’ve been in this room for forty-eight seconds,” Breel repeats.

  Kepp’s eyes narrow. “Okay.” He looks back at Karak. “Where is she, then? How long has she even been back?”

  “A while.”

  Kepp winces. “Where is she?”

  “In her room—or, your, room, I guess. It’s hers, now.”

  Kepp presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Well, I guess now’s as good a time as any. Standing, he tosses the piece of bread back onto the plate and brushes his hands off. Taking a deep breath, he walks over to the door where his room used to be. He opens it and finds no one.

  Very funny, Karak. Very funny.

  A hand grabs his wrist and the next thing he knows he’s on the ground, a knife to his throat, and two, stark gray eyes glaring down at him.

  “I knew we left things badly, but I didn’t realize they were this bad.”

  “Stop talking.” Nakelle hauls him to his feet and kisses him, the knife dropping to the ground. His hands move to her hair. Spirits, he loves her hair, smooth and the color of dark chocolate. When she pulls away, he sees her intense eyes. They aren’t silver, like some Radian elves. But a cold, medium gray, the color of dark rain clouds. Her bronze skin reminds the world that there are many races of elves, the Ether elves in particular are unique, as their eye, hair, and skin color ranges from the fair to dark.