CORDOLIUM - Opening Chapters - REVISED!

After so much teasing, here is the revised opening to Cordolium. I started writing this book during the Covid-19 lockdown, and first shared these chapters with you all in August of 2021. So, nearly 5 years later, I’m happy to see how far I’ve come. I won’t give up on this story, and I hope neither will you…

Prologue:

Scars are a funny thing, these marks across our skin. Your finger traces the line of the knitted skin, feeling the pain of the past as if it were recent. To touch a scar is to open a book right in the middle, right where the spine is creased, and know that this is important, that it shaped them, even if you don't know how. 

And Emma Hughes and Oron Barnes were certainly shaped by their scars.

Even less visible scars can shape a person, change the story. The pain of heartache for instance is a slow wound that can crinkle the pages and smudge the words. Maybe you’ve pushed something away for so long that those feelings have nowhere to go and they begin to form cracks. It’s still the same story, the same person, but it’s been through so much.

And then you notice how many more pages are to come and you wonder, how much more can they be molded? How much more can they be cut? After enough scars, can they still be seen the same way?

But you owe it to the scars to find out. 

Because scars are not just pain.

They are healing. 

And stories are not just beginnings.

They are middles. And endings. And every twist, and turn, and paper cut along the way. 

So maybe it’s better to start with the scar, than to start with the wound. 

My master has built his life around healing others. He’s known the world over as a healer, and he uses that prestige to advocate his belief that in order to heal, to grow, a person must first learn to accept what hurt them. That’s the only way to fight the pain; the only way to heal the scars of heartache. He would always say, “You cannot appreciate the good around you if you deny the darkness you had to wade through.” 

Perhaps that’s why he has such a soft spot for Oron and Emma. 

Those two, like him, were plagued by the scars that people can see and the scars that they cannot. 

Oron and Emma faced a lot in their time together, but they both harbored emotional wounds that had never healed. Wounds from their past. Wounds from their hidden feelings. Wounds that they tried to hide from the world. And wounds like that can crease the spine of a book. They can leave scars. 

CHAPTER 1

She dreamt of him. He asked:

“What is it like to live in everyone else’s world? Have you found yourself yet?”

CHAPTER 2

He dreamt of her. She asked:

“What is it like to live in the shadow of others? 

Have you learned to love yourself yet?”

He awoke.

CHAPTER 3

An ache in his chest stabbed at Oron, so deep and fierce, he felt the burning in his lungs before he even opened his eyes. 

Flames licked through his veins, and his limbs screamed in protest before he even moved. His shallow breaths did little to dull the lingering buzz just beneath his skin. 

Everything hurt. 

It was familiar in sensation, but his foggy head could not find the memory of it.

He struggled to open his eyes. Visions of his dream and the girl from his dream danced and blurred out of his mind. The light of the room blinded him for a moment, forcing him to squint to adjust. His mouth felt like a desert, like a parched land that had not seen rain in a long while. 

He tried to sit up.

Pain stabbed through his chest again, white-hot, piercing, and sudden. Then something else struck him. His wrists. Straps lashed around them. The weight of his body pushed back as he struggled to sit up. The sting of his chest sucked what little air was left in his lungs. 

Panic flared. A hoarse whisper escaped when he tried to shout.

His eyes adjusting to the light, Oron scanned his surroundings. It looked small. Sterile. There was only a dresser, a mirror, and the bed he was in. A simple room that meant nothing to Oron. Once more, his foggy mind struggled to find anything other than how to move his body. Nothing felt right about this, from the coarse feeling of the straps on his wrists to the oppressive silence around him and the stale taste of the air. And while his mind was still muddled, it knew enough to tell him that if nothing felt right, then nothing felt safe. 

In pain, in an unknown room, and tied down, Oron felt fear creeping in. His mind was a sea at storm and everything felt like it was lost in the mire. He breathed, hoping to steady himself. Where was he? 

He needed answers. He needed to move. Pushing past the pain and confusion, Oron allowed instinct to take over. He tried to pull his hands free but the bindings held firm. Jerking his arms up, he gritted his teeth through the burning pain and pulled. Whoever tied him down clearly didn’t think Oron would try and break free. 

The knots held at first, but they were loose and easy to twist apart. Oron struggled, rolling his arms from side to side until one of the knots finally came loose and he freed a single hand. His mind was blank, but his body seemed to remember enough.

He untied the other strap and forced himself upright. His body groaned like old wood, like it had not moved in forever. Dressed in cheap linen pants and no shirt, his skin, slick with sweat, shuddered when it hit fresh air as he sat up. Reaching for the pain in his chest, Oron noticed the bandages wrapping his center. He froze and his breath caught. What was it covering? A scar?

‘When did I get hurt?’ Oron thought, trying to remember. 

Oron lifted a hand to the bandages, but paused when he saw another long scar on his forearm. He had no idea where this one came from either, but it worried him. 

‘How many more scars did I have?’ 

He pulled himself from the bed and walked, shaky and soft, to a mirror in the small room. Shadows claimed the corners and his vision adjusted to the dimness as he moved. 

Braced against the dresser, he stared into his blue eyes, peeking out under wavy black hair. His normally tanned skin now looked ghostly. Unrecognizable stubble poked out on his chin and along his hard jaw. He pushed the shock aside and looked at the bandages around his torso.

‘How did I get here?’

 But every question only gave him a headache; he had a hard time remembering anything. Perhaps his scars would tell him a story, even if it wasn’t a happy one.

Afraid to peel it back, he instead pressed his fingers to the fabric. His chest was sore. The ridges of his pecs were familiar, but there was something else. Something was missing. Oron felt the shape of a deep cut in his chest, and when his fingers grazed over it, a deep sense of hollowness struck him. 

Piercing pain spiked again. His mind raced. The image of a face fluttered behind his eyes. It was not his face. His memory was only in bits and pieces, and Oron wasn’t sure why he remembered what little he did. He remembered a fight. He remembered screaming, and pain. Everything else was blank. No past. Only the fight and then... her. 

He remembered her.

Emma.

“Where’s Emma?” he blurted out, his heart racing. He caught himself, and held his breath for a moment to make sure no one heard him, but only silence greeted him. 

He needed to find Emma. Where everything felt blurred or hazy in his mind, an image of Emma’s face came into view, crisp and clear, like a work of art, and snapped him into focus. He needed to find her. Whatever had happened, she had been there. Before. She would be there now. She had to be.

Seeing Emma’s smile in his mind, brought Oron the first moment of peace he’d felt since waking in this place. If she was all he could recall, so be it. He would not leave her face to wallow in the same confusion he woke up to. Finding her gave him direction. He would not leave her behind. It felt like his duty. 

Now was the time to move. 

He quietly slid the door open. Oron stumbled out of the room and peered around the corner to find an empty hallway. 

Barefoot, he crept forward. Oron felt the wooden floorboards bend beneath his weight, but he was slow and steady enough to avoid any creaking sounds. The lights in the hall flicked on in response to his motion and Oron jolted, ready for anything. Still, only silence greeted him.

A glint of light from the window caught his attention. He crossed the hall and looked out, getting a better sense of where he had woken up. 

Peering out, he saw the building he was in sat in the middle of a wide compound. Buildings with shades of gray and green on the exterior made the place almost blend into the trees around them. 

Surrounding the entire estate was a sturdy iron wall. Slabs of dark steel rose from the ground, at least fifteen feet tall, preventing him from seeing anything of the world beyond other than the tops of trees. For some reason, the wall gave him a sense of security. He welcomed it.

A gate by the garage hinted at a way forward. A way to leave. Yet it was manned by a set of guards. They wore sleek outfits with armor on their chests and carried lever action rifles. 

Oron studied them for a moment. They seemed young. Their rifles slung loose and the two chatted with a slow pace.

‘They’re not worried,’ he thought. ‘They don’t think anyone’s waking up today.’

His muscles moved on their own, guiding him to stay low and find a way out. He was wounded, and weak, but he had surprise on his side. If it came to fighting his way out, Oron would thrash about with tooth and nail. 

They were not ready for him.

“Find a way out,” he murmured. “Steal a ride. Leave through the gate.” He looked back at the empty hallway. “But not without Emma.”

With no idea where to find Emma, he knew he needed to start somewhere.

He went to the first door and, slowly and methodically, searched the other rooms on his floor. Finding nothing but empty spaces and dead ends, Oron pressed on. 

Eventually, he made his way to a set of stairs. From below he could hear voices while above there was only quiet. He darted up the steps and checked his blind spots to make sure he was in the clear. 

If trouble reared its ugly head, Oron would need to be ready to act. He needed a weapon. Once again he felt instinct pull at him. He thrust his hand forward as if to grab the air. As if to grab a weapon that wasn’t there. It was like he was calling to something. 

Nothing appeared though. 

He shook the tension from his hands and kept moving; standing still had left him open. 

The higher floor had several empty rooms. A small study with books and knick knacks on the shelves, a room filled with glowing glass screens and boards covered in writing, and other bedrooms. Halfway down the hall though Oron found a room similar to his. All the trappings of a bedroom, but no signs that anyone was using it. 

Except on the bed there was a body.

Her body.

There was Emma.

Emma lay motionless on top of the covers. Her arms were strapped down just like Oron’s had been and her bright, platinum blonde hair lay sprawled out on the bed. She was shorter than Oron, by at least a foot, but she was still taut and fierce. Looking at her now you wouldn’t think it, but a true warrior lay before him. Noble in every way. 

Gently, Oron brushed his fingers against Emma’s cheek. Comfort rippled through him at the touch. It wasn’t that she was alive, it was that she was real.

She looked almost peaceful, but her hands were bound, and while she was wearing a loose buttoned shirt, Oron could see she had the same bandages wrapping her chest that he did. 

Something had happened to them. 

Oron’s mind was fuzzy, still missing pieces, yet the looming sense of danger did not need an explanation. He crouched down beside Emma and undid the straps.

“Lady Emma,” he whispered, the honorific coming from some deep corner of his mind that felt natural, nudging her shoulder. She did not move. “Lady Emma.” He shook her a little more. “Emma.” 

This felt familiar, somehow. Oron was used to waking Emma from a deep sleep. It took a few more jabs to bring her back to life. She shifted her body, groaned in pain, and then her eyes darted open. 

Emma saw Oron crouched next to her and let a startled yelp escape her lips. Oron clamped his hand over her mouth to stifle the sound and Emma responded by jerking one of her arms up so fast she smacked Oron in the jaw. They both reeled in pain.

“Shit, Oron,” she groaned. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“My Lady Emma, please, be quiet,” Oron whispered, already sore enough. 

Emma met his gaze and then looked around the room, grasping the situation. Studying her own body, she raised an arm to cover her somewhat exposed midriff. “What’s going on?” Her voice was sharp but soft. She pulled her legs in, but a wince in her eye gave away the pain she was in.

“I don’t know. I just woke up. This place is,” Oron stumbled over his words, “new.”

“What happened to us?” Emma saw the bandages on Oron, the wrappings that matched hers, and reached out to feel them. Her fingers hovered just above the fabric wraps. Oron looked away from the gentle touch and Emma pulled her hand back.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t good. We were tied to the beds.”

“What?”
“I had to wiggle free. I untied your straps.” Oron held up the leather straps on the side of the bed. “They didn’t want us moving around.”

“Well, they should have used chains,” she whispered.

Emma swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. When she stepped forward, putting her weight on her feet for the first time, her knees buckled. She fell forward and Oron caught her in his arms. 

“You okay?” Oron steadied Emma, but she tried to break away and stand on her own.

“I’m fine,” she huffed. She tried to take another step, but couldn’t support her weight. She tumbled and Oron caught her again. This time, Emma dug her fingers into him to hold on. He shot a glance at her and Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m fine.” Oron knelt and attempted to grab Emma’s legs, but she pushed his hands away. 

“You are not going to carry me, Oron.”

“You can’t walk, Lady Emma. We have to move.” Their eyes locked and each held their ground. 

If Oron remembered anything, it was that it didn’t matter what Oron would say to Emma, she would have the final word. She was his Lady after all. Oron relented and presented a compromise. He turned and knelt down, holding out his arms to his side. 

Emma stood still, refusing at first to accept the offer. Finally, she sighed and lowered herself onto Oron’s back. She had always been light. Strong, but light. Even so, the lingering pain that spread through Oron’s body caused him to buck at first. His legs burned and his chest felt tight. But Oron bit his lip and pushed off the ground. Emma felt the strain ripple through his back.

“You okay?” Emma asked.

“Peachy,” Oron grunted. “Just need to adjust.”

“You got weak.” A sly grin crept across Emma’s face. 

Oron let out a soft chuckle. “Look who’s talking.”

Emma eased into him. 

Oron crept down the hall and then the steps, careful to not topple over. Emma pressed against his broad back; the pressure on their wounds left them short of breath. 

He made his way down past the floor he woke up on and approached the ground floor, gripping the thick, wooden railing for support. Voices got louder with each step. It sounded like three, maybe four people somewhere below. 

Oron hesitated for a moment. He tilted his head back but Emma tapped his shoulder, urging him on.

At the base of the stairs, the floor opened into a large foyer that led to a set of double doors bathed in the glow of sunlight. Through another doorway, Oron and Emma could see bodies seated around a table sharing a meal in a dining room. One lanky man, one figure with deep umber skin, and an older man seemed to be lost in conversation. No one was looking toward the hall. 

Oron had a narrow opening. He crouched low and shuffled past the dining room opening and through the foyer. Now inches from the door, he felt some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate. 

The voices of the figures carried bits of their conversation to Oron and Emma’s ears. “We haven’t heard from Revkah or Ingrid yet,” a young voice said.” But I bet we will get something from them in a few days.”

“Do we send Ezra and Alma out again?” Another voice, soft and gentle, responded.

“No.” This one was aged and tired. “We need to keep them close. We just have to hope the others wake up soon.” 

“Do they mean us?” Emma whispered directly into Oron’s ear. Oron shrugged. It was hard to say, but right now Oron did not want to linger. He reached for the doorknob and found it unlocked. Tension eased in his shoulders and he breathed. 

“Hold on,” the gentle voice cut in. 

Oron’s breath hitched as the stranger’s tone shifted. “Something’s off.”

“What do you mean?” the young man replied. 

“When was the last time we checked on them?”

“This morning. I changed their bandages.”

“And they were still out?”

“Yeah. Galen said it would still be a few days before they woke up.”

“I assumed,” the older voice chimed in.
“Well.” A chair scraped back. “I don’t know if that’s the case anymore.” Footsteps made for the doorway, but Oron didn’t wait. He clutched Emma’s legs and flung the doors wide. 

“Hey! Stop!” The voices shouted. Oron did not look back. Hot air slapped him in the face as he started running outside. “Somebody stop them!”

“Frankie, you stop them!” The young man shouted as he gave chase.

“I need a clear line of sight and they keep moving!”

Oron could feel the bodies chasing them. Outside the grounds were wide and open. Not many places to hide, but not many obstacles to stop them. He spotted the gate and the guards he noticed before and turned to rush at them.

Confusion flashed across the guards’ faces as Oron ran at them. But neither reached for their rifles. They hesitated and Oron took the opening. 

“Can you forge?” Emma asked, hearing the doors burst open behind them. Without thinking, Oron held out a hand like before. Still running, and carrying Emma, he tried to calm the storm of anxiety in his mind. He reached out into some spiritual realm but couldn’t grab on to anything. His chest hurt. He faltered.

“No.”

“Dammit.”

“Stop!” one of the voices from behind called out. Oron picked up the pace again, charging through the pain.

“Open that gate,” he snarled. His booming command startled one of the guards, who reached out for the control panel on the gate, but the other guard smacked his hand away. 

Oron stopped about ten yards short. He had no weapons other than his fists, and he couldn’t risk hurting Emma. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Keep going,” Emma barked, assessing the moment. “Don’t look back. One of them needs to see us.” Oron followed her order and kept going. 

A leather cord snapped at Oron’s ankle and wrapped around, tight. Already in motion, Oron couldn’t stop before the cord snapped taut and pulled his leg out from under him. He held up his arms to shield Emma as he slammed into the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and Oron looked back to see who had caught him.

Two figures he had not seen in the house stood next to the group from the dining room. One was a tall, strong woman, with wavy brown hair and a scar on her cheek. The other was a lean man with white hair. His hands were on the handle of a whip, the cord of which was wrapped around Oron’s leg. 

Oron rolled over and tried to tear the whip off him, yet the man jerked the whip back and pulled Oron’s leg dragging him over the rough ground.

“Let him go, you asshole,” Emma shouted as she caught Oron’s shoulder and tried to pull him free. Anger was building inside her. 

“Frankie,” the white-haired man mumbled. “Any day would be nice.”

“I’m trying,” One of the figures stepped forward, hands held at their temples. “They’ve always been stubborn.”

“I’ll show you stubborn!” Emma let go of Oron and smacked her hands on the ground. She reached down deep inside herself, past the fiery rage and into something different. Something that they could not fully remember, but was as much a part of them as their blood and muscles.

Oron knew it hurt her, pain pulsing through her body, but Emma eventually reached a chilling sense of cold at her core. 

Emma took a breath and accepted the cold within. She felt a chill crawl up her spine as frost sprawled out on the ground around her fingertips. 

Her body was so sore that it hurt to form the ice. Emma didn’t know why she was in so much pain, and Oron saw the struggle in her emerald eyes. Yet, Emma never backed down. She gritted her teeth and shouted through the agony.

A wall of ice burst upward, rising around Emma and Oron. 

The ice grew as Oron watched Emma smirk at the shock of their attackers. But the victory was short lived. As the ice rose, Emma felt a searing pain tear through her body. 

She pushed herself. Bigger. Taller. Thicker. The more ice there was, the more safety they had. She kept shouting, her voice growing ragged and turning to a scream.

Oron watched as Emma poured herself into her ice wall. The fury in her pushed her to keep going. But her face was turning red and blood was beginning to drip from her nose. If she kept pushing like that, she could break herself. 

“Emma,” he called out, reaching for her, “stop.”

The scream in her lungs died out as the wall of ice reached its peak. A curved barricade of ice cut off the guards and the others from their position. Still, it had taken more out of Emma than she thought. She slumped over, her hands sliding across the ground and her face buried in frosted grass. Oron tried to crawl to her side. The cord of the whip was still wrapped around his leg though, with the whip now frozen in the wall. He stretched his arm out to Emma. She was only a few inches from his reach.

A chunk of the wall exploded and a mist of cold shrapnel rained down on Emma and Oron. Oron shielded his eyes. A hole had been punched through the ice. Another explosion and another shower of ice shards. The head of a large warhammer broke through the ice. 

The brown haired woman pulled the hammer back, having beaten an opening in the wall large enough for someone to crawl through. Oron glared at her. The woman only shrugged and stepped back. The one they called Frankie ran forward and shoved their face through the hole. 

“Let us go,” Oron snapped.

“Oron,” Frankie ordered, “you have no idea what’s going on here. Sleep.”

The word hit him like a commandment. Oron’s eyes grew heavy. He felt his body buckle under his weight, and he laid down in the cool grass next to Emma. Emma looked like she was already out cold, and it took everything in Oron to keep his eyes open. But once he closed them, it was impossible to open them again. He fell asleep in a strange place surrounded by people he didn’t know. 

His last thought, as his head hit the ground, was how he had tried to save Emma but couldn’t. He couldn’t save anyone. He had failed.