Excerpt: Anya's Story

“Whew! That was close.” Sam looked beyond pale, his golden brown eyes wide with a mixture of relief and residual fear. For a moment, Sam the warlock was gone, and Sam my old buddy from school was back. It was as if all those years of anger and estrangement had never existed. But still, I felt a pang of sadness as I realized that this camaraderie would not last. As soon as we were both out of danger, we would go back to being enemies—he on the side of the witches, I on the side of the Valdensi. There could be no turning back of the sun—we had each chosen our roads, and set our feet upon them, and each step brought us farther and farther away from each other and from the friendship we had had as children.

“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling as stunned as he looked. I tried to put all thoughts of the past out of my mind. Suddenly, I realized something.

I turned frantically around, trying to find my friends amidst the heat and the fury of battle.

“Hey, wait. Where is everybody?” I asked. Sam did not answer, nor did I expect him to. “Soren?” I called. “Nathan! Joshua?”

No answer.

Feeling a bit panicked, I spun away from Sam and ran towards the spot where I had last seen my friends and my brother.

“Hey…!” Sam started to call in alarm, then the warning died on his lips. I was reminded once again that we were now supposed to be opponents, not friends—his warnings, his former concern for my life, ought to be useless to me now. And we both knew it. I had new friends. Except I seemed to have misplaced them.

I wandered a little farther, and at last I spotted Soren, engaged in mortal combat with someone dressed in enemy clothing, only twenty paces from where I stood.

“Soren—!” I started to call, remembering just in time to keep my mouth shut so as not to distract him. His opponent seemed lithe and agile, and was desperately fighting for his life as Soren came after him with his sword. I feared that if I distracted Soren even for an instant, his enemy might find the opening he needed, and drive the lethal weapon into my old friend’s ribs.

On the other hand, Soren didn’t look like the kind who could be distracted—not now, not while he was in the heat of battle. Even from where I stood, I could see that he was fighting with a sort of dead calm, mixed with animalistic fury, that drove him to block and parry and attack, and attack, and attack. Soren quite obviously had the upper hand in this battle.

There was something frightening about the way the remaining Luverdi twin fought. It was almost as if he had grown absolutely callous and heedless of human life. Soren burned with a rage that was inescapably visible in his eyes, which glowed almost red—like the ember of a fire. I watched as he fought his opponent, deliberately and systematically driving the other soldier back against a tree. And that, I knew, would be the end of the adversary’s life.

Suddenly, when they were only three feet away from the tree, and Soren’s enemy still had no idea that he was walking into a death trap, Soren smiled. It was a look of such glee, such unbelievable cruelty, that I shuddered. Who was this boy? Where had the old Soren gone?

I realized to my dread that Soren’s opponent was no veteran of war, no well weathered middle aged man in his prime. Instead, the hapless fighter was only a boy himself, with sweat dripping off his pale, white face. It was obvious that he was only minutes away from death. And he knew it. Terrified, he backed away even faster from Soren’s advancing sword. He was only a hair’s breath away from the tree, and, once there, there was no possible way on earth for the child to hold out longer than a minute against the better trained, larger sized Soren Luverdi.

This was wrong. This was all wrong. We had gone into this battle to fight for our people—to fight for their safety. Soren, we knew, had gone into this battle to avenge his sister. Perhaps he was a bit too eager and too bloodthirsty for us to be completely comfortable with the idea, but knowing his complete and utter devotion to his twin while she was living, none of us thought it strange that he would want vengeance upon her death—especially when she was killed in such a brutal and unjust manner by such evil people.

But this wasn’t right. Soren had lost his head—he wasn’t attacking his sister’s murderer, or even his sister’s murderer’s accomplices. The person he was fighting was a mere child. A boy, just like himself. Only, crazed with anger, he did not see it. This was not the Soren I knew. This was not the Soren who saved my and my brother’s life once upon a time. This was a barbarian, an animal, a crazed devil thirsty for death and blood.

The boy was now pressed hard against the tree. I could read the utter and complete despair in his face, a face totally devoid of hope. He was fighting like a rabid wolf, this young boy. Fear had leant him a strength and agility he did not demonstrate before while dueling Soren. Like a small furry animal cornered by a larger beast with razor sharp teeth, the child fighter was giving it one last shot—one last all out effort to save his life, which was already forfeit.

He could not do it. With a contemptuous swipe, Soren swept the boy’s sword out of his grasp and pinned him with a wordless growl to the unforgiving hard trunk of the tree.

“You cretin!” He snarled, spitting the word “cretin” into his victim’s face. “You and all your people will pay for what you did to my poor sister!” Soren drew his sword arm back, about to deal the killing blow.

“Mercy!” Begged the unfortunate, terrified soul, trembling from head to toe. “M-mercy! Mercy!”

“Mercy?” Soren scoffed, allowing the death blow to be withheld—but only for a moment. “Did you show my sister mercy? Did you give her a chance to turn around and defend herself when you snuck up and stabbed her from behind? Did you feel anything when you saw her innocent body lying there in a pool of blood? Did you consider that I, her only brother, would not let anyone go without punishing them to the utmost extent?”

“But…but that wasn’t me. I—I didn’t,” the unfortunate boy wailed. “I didn’t kill your sister. I didn’t kill anyone in my life… please don’t hurt me! Please!”

“Lies!” Soren snarled, grabbing the boy by his shirt front and slamming him so hard into the tree that the branches above shook with the force of the blow, and leaves fell, scattering to the floor. “You lie! Just like all of them! You killed my sister—and if not you, then one of your cahoots. I don’t care who it was. You will all die! Every single last blasted one of you! I’ll see to it myself!”

I was stunned by this strange behavior from Soren Luverdi. What had happened? The war lust and the desire for revenge had infested my friend and rendered him completely inhuman. I had never seen Soren so cruel before.

I had to stop him.

“No!” I yelled. I was on a slope, and the wind was blowing on my side. It seemed as if someone or something was adding power to my legs as I half stumbled, half ran down the hillside. I was faintly aware of Sam trotting after me—he had nothing else to do, I supposed, but did not give it much thought. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Soren had drawn his arm back again and was about to deal the final death blow when I finally screeched to a halt before him. Seeing that there was no time to argue with him, I impulsively ran the last few steps forward and threw myself between the sword and the victim.

“No! Stop it, Soren!” I screamed as the sword swung forward in a deadly arc. “Don’t do this! Please don’t do this! It’s wrong—completely wrong…think of Serra! How would she feel if she saw you now?” I begged him with everything there was in me to beg.

But it was far too late. I saw the sun flash once against the blade, and I closed my eyes. This was stupid. This was fatal. I knew I would be dead within three seconds. And yet…and yet I could not just stand by and allow Soren to destroy this ignorant civilian youth who was probably only fighting in this battle because he had been duped—fooled by the very same witches who I knew were behind the unprovoked attack on Soren’s beloved twin sister, Serra.

Nothing happened.

Cautiously, I opened one eye and peered at Soren. Why wasn’t I dead yet?
To my surprise, he was standing in front of me, still as a statue. The first thought that ran through my head was: the witches. They must have…must have frozen him, somehow—they must have caused him to become immobile.

But then I realized how implausible that would be, and at the same moment, I noticed that Soren was still breathing—rather heavily, in fact. The sword, clutched tightly in both hands, was still right above my head. I looked at it rather nervously, for if Soren suddenly lost his grip, and the heavy steel blade fell down, I, and the boy I was trying to protect, would be dead within a minute. Soren did not look as if he wanted to kill anymore—the blood lust had gone completely out of his eyes, which had seemed so mad and crazed only an instant before. But that sword, hanging over both of our heads, still posed a danger.

Soren was quiet, his face drained of all blood. I was afraid he was going to faint.

“Soren?” I whispered, afraid to disturb him too greatly. That sword, after all, was still casting a shadow over the crown of my head. Slowly, painstakingly, I moved away from the boy, who was also frozen with terror, cowering against the tree. With wide, easy, but deliberate movements, I reached up, took the sword gently with my own hands, and lowered it to the ground. Soren made no resistance.

“Soren. Soren?” I prodded, laying a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were staring past me, at the boy who was plastered against the tree. He looked stunned, as if he had just awakened from a horrible nightmare. I suppose he had.

At last, he turned his head with great effort and looked at me.

“Oh, Anya,” he whispered in anguish, his voice hoarse with bottled up emotions. “What have I done?”