Young Writers Society

Many died that night.

Liren, the young boy who played the flute on their long journeys, and Mira, to whose cooking pot men stood in long queues. Alistor, Isia’s grouchy husband and the father of three, and Evan, one of the eight who had rescued Nuad and kidnapped her, Aine, so long ago. Agius, Errin’s Shield, and Tain, Captain of her brother’s guard. Zoltan, the guard who had once been stationed at her door.

They died, as did countless faces and names which meant nothing to her. Anonymous fighters, with or without family and friends to feel the loss. Some, breathing their last breaths, had frozen in surprise expressions, while others had unbelief scribbled over their faces as their lips parted slightly, mouthing noiselessly their last words. They died, young and old, fierce warriors and those who should have never had anything to do with battle.

They died, no matter if they were Lyssenian or Yerrida.

Aine tried to tell herself that it was not her fault, that it could not have turned out differently, but with every next vision of a rider toppling down, and arrow sporting through his back or a sword in his chest, the small voice in her head said that yes, it was her fault, grew louder and louder. Her conscience shrieked out the words, and they banged across her skull, giving her no rest.

She had tried to make it right; she had tried to stop the bloodshed. But she didn’t, and if she did do anything, it was ruin any possible chance of - of what? Peace?

Her shoulders sagged, her hands crossed over her chest as she hugged herself. She realized that she was shaking, and that she was trembling not only because of the sobs. A laugh, a harsh, mirthless laugh, one without any joy in it, escaped her lips. She could hear the note of hysterics in it, but did nothing to contain herself, and soon the laughter filled the whole tent, echoing back toward her with twice the force. Aine clenched and unclenched her fists, not really knowing what she was doing; blood oozed down to the ground when her fingernails cut through the skin of her palms.

Blood was pounding in her ears, and the reddish-white mist in front of her eyes was making her dizzy, but Aine made herself watch. Screams and battle cries echoed in her head, and so did the clang of sword against sword and sound of arrows, hundreds of arrows, being notched. It made her feel nauseous, the blood and urine, the expressions ranging from panic to resent, and the weapons lifted high up to strike-

Myvan rears, and his forelegs kick at any unfortunate enemy in the nearest vicinity. The first drops of sweat appear on his shoulders, and Arriessa whispers consolingly into his flattened ears, leaning over so that her face was almost hid in the war-horse’s thick black main. Her sword fights of any other, and Myvan slams into another horse in an attempt to break enemy lines.

Aine flinched, hugging her knees. She was crying, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs because she did not know whether to hope that the blood on her friend’s yellow robes was her own or a Lyssenians.

She prayed, prayed as never before, and prayed to both Yerrida and Lyssenian gods. Prayed for the safety of her friends, of those fighting under her brother’s banner and those under Sacheverel’s. She prayed and promised more that she could give.

Aine returned to the clenching and unclenching her fists, and started pacing around the tent. For a moment she froze, still as a statue, her eyes fixed in the air before her.

It wasn’t her fault; it never was, and she would not let them make her think it was. It was their, the Yerrida’s fault. It was they who condemned themselves, kidnapping her from her home so long ago. If they hadn’t had, she in return wouldn’t have thought to do what she did. She wouldn’t have even turned up in this cursed land, were all wells were dried up and were all greenery ceased to exist.

Or was it? Aine bit her lip, hard, to the blood.

Nuad hollers something into the air, and the wind takes his orders far out into the battlefield. A Lyssenian Captain takes advantage of a split second moment of inattention, and, just a step behind him, prepares to strike.

She screams at him, screams at Nuad to watch out, to turn around, even though she knows that he will not hear her. But the Captain’s blades makes contact not with Nuad’s flesh, but with another sword. Kersey, mounted nearby, plunges his weapon through the Lyssenian’s back, and for a second their eyes, Nuad’s and Kersey’s meet, but in the rage of the battle there is no time for anything other than saving and taking another’s life.

Aine’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the tent, and she thought wryly that maybe Nuad and Kersey will be friends once more after all. But it was only a small glimmer of hope, seeing that if they did come out alive, she was still there to remind them of the reason of their argument in the first place.

Aine brooded over her own stupidity. There was never any chance of Errin and Sacheverel ending the feud. Both were too proud to admit any mistake from their side, and both much too aware of what had happened in the previous years.

And now? What was now? Two armies, once considerably smaller than the other, fighting in the Plains, and her here, in the cursed tent, with two sentries posted nearby. This did not concern them, Errin and Sacheverel, anymore. They were resting in their graves, rid of human problems, even though it was their names that the men who not so long were under their command shouted.

Aine though, miserably, of her brother. She thought of the one form her childhood, the caring, humorous one, and the haunted wreck of a man that she had found four months back. And she thought of Sacheverel, the arrogant, hated by her for so many years Sacheverel, who was as good a man as Errin.

“Idiots,” she murmured through tears, hugging her knees again. The melancholy left her, anger having taken its place. They could have changed it! She knew they could. They could have controlled themselves, controlled their men! They could have stopped all this!

She hid her face in one of the embroidered cushions, muffling her own sobs. They could have, but they didn’t, and it all turned out as it did-

Slightly above the battlefield, hanging in midair and oblivious to anything happening below, are the ones whom steel cannot strike and whom arrows can not touch. They are a mixed group, young and old, the dazzlingly beautiful and the uglier than night, but all with their allegiances clearly set.

Both sides have calm, almost indifferent expressions, befouled only occasionally by a faint twitch of a muscle. The wind whips against the hems of their robes, and the setting sun shines into their eyes, but they do not as much as blink; they do not move at all, still as statues.

Suddenly Katia, yellow robed Katia, starts screaming, and it is because of those screams that the head of all the sorcerers snap towards her, and there is a slight change of position. On the Yerrida side, Vemad places a hand on her shoulder, and Sahana, Waif and Ihar move closer. Tishan and Ahren grab each others hands. Lenore sits down in midair, a slight moan escaping her lips though she does not appear to be doing anything. Behind her and the stoically still Hadar, Casper and Liliana shuffle towards them, while Avin stays put where he is. The last five, sent by the Empire, do not appear to be the least perturbed by Katia’s yells.

Aine did not know what they were doing, whether Katia doings are a good or bad sign, and, to tell the truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But she had more sympathy for Katia, who had always been good to her, than to the hollow-eyed Lenore, and Vemad, however eerie, was better than the traitorous Hadar.

She thought, and thought intensely, about what they might be doing, but when a wave of indifference overcame her, she just stopped caring. The idea of the Desert parting into two at Katia’s command did, however, make her smile the tiniest of smiles; for a second her face lightened, but when the reality of the tent dawned onto her once more, her features had already retreated into a sour, uncaring expression.

She was tired, so very tired, tired of everything, Tired of the Yerrida, tired of the Lyssenians; tired of wars and of battles, and she wanted them to end more than anything, just for the peace of her mind. The harboring of a headache pounded against her forehead, and Aine discarded the soaked with her tears cushion, and reached for a new pillow, curling under a blanket.

But sleep, and with it sweet forgetfulness of what was happening, did not come. For a second or two she was even grateful, thinking of the nightmares that had evaded her, but when images portraying everything what had happened in the past few days, years, slipped in and out of her mind, making it impossible to think of anything else, the gratefulness evaporated. Deep in black thought, she almost did not notice when the earth started rumbling. But she did, and, sitting bolt up-

Katia's screams are, if anything, shriller and more intense than when Aine had last heard them. She feels goosebumps appear on her skin, and is almost sure that the rest of the assembled sorcerers have them also.

Those standing around Katia are no longer calm and hold no signs of previous indifference. Vemad and Waif are muttering furtively under their breath, eyes closed in concentrations and hands reaching out in front of them. The sitting cross-legged in midair Sahana seems to be doing nothing, but her knuckles are white, clenching her knees, and her breathing is ragged. The hovering next to her Ihar is shouting his lungs out, though not in the monotone way Katia is, and is considerably quieter. Tishan and Ahren are still holding each other’s hands, chanting in low voices; words could be made out if one had enough patience to listen closely.

On Hadar’s face there is a faint smile; he is standing directly in front to f the Yerrida, a bit farther than his mages. Lenore, the blonde beauty Lenore, is almost on her knees, and Avin is keeping her upright, sweat on his forehead not only because of the weight of his burden. Liliana and Casper, off to one side, are singing in musical voices.

Tension hangs in the air, and the ground moves under the fighting armies’ feet. For a moment, Katia‘s bloodcurdling screeches stop, their echo fading away in the new found silence. While the rest of the sorcerers continues their incantations, Katia descends to the earth, to a spot from which the fighting seems to stay well away from.

Robes flutter around her, her feet touch the soil; the earth rumbles again. Blood pours from her nose and mouth in streaks, but when she raises her hand to wipe it away, her hand stops in halfway.

Aine resists the temptation to call out to her, to warn her that Hadar has his eyes on her, and that he is condemning to failure whatever it was that the Yerrida is doing-

But what was it that she wanted to do? What? And was Hadar, Lenore and the rest strong enough to stop her? If so, was that a good thing? Questions, questions, so many questions with no answers… Aine didn’t know; she did not want to know.

The rumbling grows louder and-

-and louder, and the earth seemed to moan and groan. Aine panicked, and it was not only because the ground was moving, but because of the air. It was stifling, thick with magic, powers that she did not understand. Aine stood up, trying not to topple over. On wobbly legs, she managed to reach the far end of the tent, and take a step out.

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First of all, I wnat to thank you fro reading. Thanks for the patience and determination.

Secondly, I would like to say that this is a scene of my current writing project, a book called "The Yerrida", something I have been working on the past few months. To tell the truth, the book is being written in scenes, as the one above, and not even a tenth of them is yet written. Only the first three chapter are whole, the rest is either still in my head, or scattered in my computer.

Ch. 1, Ch. 2 and the Prologue are on YWS, though I admit, the whole conseption of the book changed since I posted them, and they were a bit changed, especially the Prologue.

Thanks for reading!

Elein

P.S. This is the edited version. Lol, probably not the last!