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This story is a work of fiction. 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, events, or locales is entirely coincidental, and no harm or slanderous intent is implied or intentional.
They came with the dawn. Thirty-six giant floating warships laboured into view of Eastwatch’s lonely naval guard tower as the sun broke darkness’ grip on the world. The small garrison stationed in the backwater province watched with horror as the massive airships inexorably drew nearer, sunlight flashed off their metal hulls and reflected off polished cannons loaded with death.
Eastwatch’s garrisoned officers milled about in confusion. Never had they seen such gigantic airships. Nowhere. Even the Emperor’s fleet of ten would have looked like peas beside the floating fortresses. There was no warning, no demand for surrender, no challenge for battle. Dread filled to stiff morning air as citizens and soldiers alike realized the ships rode on the Grim’s shoulders, but it was too late to flee. As the sun cleared the horizon, the first puffs of smoke from sea were seen, followed by the screaming angry metal shells that fell in a torrent of hellfire, blowing the thin structural supports of the solitary naval tower and its grossly underpowered cannon into molten metal and kindling, before turning their merciless attention to the surrounding garrison and town.
Screaming dead and the roar of flames surrounded a scorched and battered looking Thiian Captain as he fought desperately to free as many horses as he could before the fire could spread to the stables. He was in his bedclothes with dry soap staking a claim to half his narrow face. A soot-stained lieutenant helped him free the last roan who was screaming in wordless agony as lighted bales tumbled down onto him.
“W…who are they…why are they attacking us?” the lieutenant stammered, beneath the soot his face was pale and drawn, taught with fear.
“RIDE!” he grabbed the lieutenant as if he had not heard the man speak and pushed a saddle into his trembling arms and shoved him towards the nearest horse. Blood ran from both their ears, and the Captain needed to shout to be heard over the concussive blasts, his last desperate plea. “THE EMPEROR MUST BE TOLD. WAR IS AT THE DOOR! NOW RIDE!”
***
Boom…booom…boom. The cannons only had one monosyllabic answer to the helpless cries from shore. They showed about as much emotion as the crews that operated them—well dressed officers stood behind their bareback sweating gun-crews bellowing a haunting loop of orders.
“Reload! Powder, primer, pack!” Pause. “Load shot! Run her out!” The trundle of wheels. “Steady…steady…and FIRE!”
BOOM
On the deck of the largest of the attacking ships stood a gaunt man, thin and very tall. The blue tails of his dark overcoat flapped lazily in the slight breeze coming off the great turquoise ocean. In his hands he held an oblong device—a string of glass lenses connected by thick wire mounted on a brass frame. He held the strange device up to his eye towards the shore. When he let the object fall, a slightly shorter man in a similar overcoat saluted sharply at his side; his hand snapped vertically up the side of his face.
“The Pulsifer’s shot is falling wide. Bring her up another two-bolt” the tall man snapped, then resumed looking through his glass.
“Haw!” the officer yelled in acknowledgment. He brought a mouth trumpet up to his mouth and was already shouting up the main mast, instructing the signaller with new orders. New flags would be raised, and the Overlord’s command relayed to the fleet. Someone yelled back down urgently from the mizzenmast. Out of the corner of his eyes, the Overlord watched as the officer approached again and saluted. “Sir! Tower reports men and women fleeing for the hills to the south.”
“So I noticed commandant.” The tall man watched as they scurried from their burrows and shacks and scattered up the hill into the forest. Like ants escaping a burning colony. “Very well, order the Valiant and Shrapnel down the coast, six bolts should do. By noon I want those hills flattened and the surrounding forest a human pyre.” He said in that same emotionless tone, almost as if he were commenting on the unseasonably cool weather.
“Haw!”
The Overlord Renee Deschateaux took one last look at the burning shores before he snapped his strange scope closed, collapsing the lenses together for storage. He turned to another officer on deck, “We’re done here. Give the orders.”
“Haw!” the trumpet was back at his lips. “All Raiders to drop stations! Ivy will advance and land her troops. Glory and honour in death!” A chorus of voices echoed his last words.
The Overlord was frowning at the twisting pillars of smoke rising in the distance as the great steam engines of his flagship rumbled to life. The first of many beacons had been lit…but would they understand the message? When he spoke it was to himself, quiet so his officers standing around him on the quarterdeck wouldn’t overhear. “Now then…what will you do Thiians? Come face me. Come and fight. Come with your armies, come with your swords and your hatred...come and-.” There was a loud crack, and pain shot up through his arm. He looked down with his brow drawn and watched blood seep from his hand, a piece of the now broken seeing glass caught in the wound. He smiled and loosened his grip, letting the remaining shards clatter to the deck.
Come and die.
The ‘Mud Pen’ was exactly what Jaden imagined when Sergeant Bernweld had told him where they would be resting that night before pressing on to Portios the next day. Portios…home…warm steamy food…dry crawler-free beds…
“I still don’t see why we didn’t just ride through the night.” Jaden muttered beneath his breath. He sat at the crowded bar on a stool a smidgen too high for him, as a result his legs dangled and he felt like a child again—not a feeling that really brightened his already grey mood. Where was Bernweld when he needed someone to complain to? He had escaped somewhere while Jaden was occupied with his drink and was now flanked by strangers. The air was rank with their scent.
At first glance the shabby log house had looked more like a road-house than a proper Inn and Tavern, but as night had donned his cloak over the sky, the commons had filled, big brawny miners from the looks of them. Bernweld had taken one look at them and had ordered his men not to start anything they couldn’t finish by themselves. The miners’ earthy sent filled Jaden’s nostrils while their country drawl rattled in his ears unceasingly. His finger dragged trails of condensation across the bar in complicated patterns as he nurtured what was almost passably called ale…it was bitter and sour on his tongue…somehow it suited him just fine. Now if only Bernweld were around…
For a while, Jaden had felt his seat-mate’s attention drawn to him, but he seemed content to just watch, so Jaden hadn’t said anything. That changed when the man heard his mutters.
“Heading into Portios Pass on the ‘morrow?” the short hunched man asked. Jaden turned to eye the man, but his cloak hung over most of his face covering it with shadows the flickering torchlight couldn’t pierce. He felt wrong, out of place in the company of all the burly miners, most with bare chests and bald heads.
“And what are you? The local five-fingers?” Jaden blurted, wishing the man would leave him alone.
Instead of anger as Jaden had intended to provoke, the man chuckled—it was high-pitched and bordered dangerously on cackling. The man swivelled, and for a moment Jaden caught sight of one of his glittering eyes beneath his deep hood that looked black in the shadows. “I get that a lot ‘round here. I like you lad!” he said loudly, the rancid smell of spirits drifting out from under his hood to assault Jaden’s nose. He slapped the bar loudly, his long spindly fingers caught the bartender’s attention quickly. “Another round for me an’ the laddy!”
The bartender sauntered over in his dirty white apron and reached under the counter, he pulled a large earthenware jug out and set it down in front of the stranger and growled, “Lets see some coins first, huh?”
From out of the stranger’s sleeve clattered several mismatched coppers, the stranger had barely moved his arm. Alarm bells were going off in Jaden’s head and his muscles tensed. He wondered what else was stuck up the man’s sleeve. A stiletto or simple throwing knife wouldn’t be impossible. Jaden momentarily relaxed as another mug brimming with the bitter ale touched down in front of him, sloshing a good portion of the foam onto the bar, obliterating most of Jaden’s hard work. Jaden was torn between scowling some more and taking another swallow.
“Seen lots ‘o people pass through here I have. Travel a bit meself, here and there y’understand. Ain’t never seen someone like you here though!” The stranger had to pause as he took a long drought. He slammed the mug back down on the bar and sighed happily as froth spilled over onto his fingers, “A’course, I admint I ain’t one to frequent places you yerself might take a liken too. But then we cannot all be little princes…” The stranger trailed off and chuckled again to himself.
Jaden felt a twinge of annoyance twist his lips. Words, words and more words. Why didn’t people just fucking say what they meant? This whole concept of talking like a feather floating in the wind with slick subtleties and meanings within meanings was too much for Jaden. He had never been good at that, much to his Father’s often embarrassment. ‘Say what you mean or don’t say anything at all’. That was the first tenant Jaden drilled into any man that served under him. “If you know who I am thief, then be glad, honour will be satisfied if I don’t take the time to introduce myself before I relieve your frail body from its most burdensome head.” Jaden tried to match the stranger’s actions by downing half his ale with one gulp, he had to stop when his throat protested, coughing and sending bubbles up into his nose.
Laughing loudly the stranger finished his ale with another long swallow. “Ah, you be mistakening me fer some run ‘o the mill hooligan eh? Ah, that’s al’right, its al’right. Doesn’t bother me in the least.” He was nodding to himself now, Jaden concluded the man was mad. “Y’are certainly entitled to yer opinions and me mine. Jus’ like I mighten be deciding that I don’ be wanting to pass on a little tidbit of information ye might be finding interest of.”
Harsh words curdled unsaid on Jaden’s tongue as he ran silently through his list of curses…most of which he had picked up from Bernweld. The battle between dislike of the petty thief and curiosity was short lived, if the man knew who he was, the stranger was obviously well connected in the spider’s web of underground information trade. Leave it to them to find out about Jaden’s supposed secret mission. Jaden compromised by grunting, both in anger and consent. His fingers, slightly numb, slipped into his money belt and extracted several gold coins. He laid them on the table with his hand covering them.
“Talk first, I don’t want slippery fingers getting the wrong idea.”
The man’s hood turned to watch the gold’s under Jaden’s hand, then he shrugged his shoulders. His cackling laughter was an insult to Jaden’s ears and rang foul; there was a strange note in it this time, one that made him want to shift uncomfortably on his seat. “I be thinking you misunderstood me laddy. What I have cannot be bought with grease and a bit ‘o shine, if ye catch me meaning.”
“Then don’t waste my time.” Jaden said then snorted and tried to withdraw his hand, but the stranger was faster, his long white fingers caught his wrist and held his hand fast, his blue veined hands pulsing with what Jaden felt was an odd urgency. Jaden tried to wrench his arm from the man’s grip but he stuck fast, the thin hand was like a vice—inexorably it tightened.
“Wait now…just be waiting laddy. I ain’t not finished yet. No need to be hasty.” His cowled head glanced from side to side, as if worried the noisy patrons on their sides might be listening…but they were safe in the clamour of voices. For the first time since he had sat down, the stranger turned directly to speak with Jaden, the torchlight finally revealing his face.
Jaden shuddered at what he saw. The man’s face was a shade of brilliant white and under the cowl he could see no hair only a large bald forehead streaked with blue veins which protruded from under his paper-like skin and looked in no way human. Especially his eyes! It was his eyes that caused Jaden’s quick intake of breath, his heart increasing its pace. They were white…but not just white outside, but his pupils were white as well. All Jaden could see were small black round rings of his cornea, they stared into Jaden’s eyes and he was suddenly reminded of Sivig’s all black eyes…but…it had to be some sort of coincidence…
Jaden’s wrist throbbed as the man spoke. “I be havin’ urgent news. Urgent, mind ye! It must be reachin’ the ears ‘o someone of import, all I ask in return, is that ye keep me alive for as long as it takes. Take me to yer father, and I be your man the rest ‘o me life. Its all I ask…I beg you” Jaden grimaced as the man’s voice trembled, whether from fury, dedication, or fear, Jaden could only guess. Jaden looked deep into the man’s eyes once more, what he saw impressed him. He felt surprised himself…for he believed this man…the stranger’s eyes made him want to believe him—fanatically so. They shone like stars, they spoke without words, emotions bared. If this was acting, the man was most assuredly in the wrong career path.
“Tell me, does this have something to do with Sivig?” Jaden asked, a sharp edge hardening his voice.
“I…I cannot…not here…” he replied quietly, a note of apology in his unsteady slurred drawl. His hand relaxed enough that Jaden could steal his wrist back, he rubbed the long red marks warily.
A vein of fear was pulsing in time with his beating heart somewhere in his body. The feeling was unnatural, fear and anxiety had never had such a grasp on him as on this night…of all nights. Just when home was nearing. Damn the traitorous Sivig and his plots against the empire! DAMN HIM! All he wanted was to go home and see his family…he had not seen them in a long time. Too long.
A loud ungainly voice broke the silence, and Jaden jerked his eyes away before he got lost in the swirling emotions. “THERE YOU ARE! I’VE BEEN BLOODY LOOKING EVERYWHERE…” Jaden was on his feet, cutting off Bernweld’s loud oafish protests with a quick signal only a swordsman of the sixth tier would recognize—a signal of challenge. The clouds cleared over the large man’s head instantly, his eyes widened and he quickly indicated his withdrawal and submission from the challenge.
Even through the fear a glimmer of triumph was already breaking through. “Good timing Bernweld, where are the men?”
“By the stables about to bed down. I wanted to…”
“Get them up Sergeant and saddle the mounts,” Jaden glanced sideways at the stranger who had risen from his stool, his cloak again hiding his features in dark obscurity, the unasked question hung in the air.
“Alas, me horse be no more among the living…” he said, his voice still heavy from the drink. Bernweld was eyeing the stranger, making no secret of his dislike for the hooded figure underneath his great frown.
Urgent indeed if he had ridden his horse to death! Jaden felt his mind clearing as blood pulsed through his body, sharpening every sound, every scope of his vision. He adjusted his short-sword at his waist so it hung within ease of grasp. “As well as an extra.” He held up his hand when Bernweld’s mouth opened in protest. “NOW SERGEANT! We ride on for Portios with no time to waste. Make haste!”
***
Time had no more meaning for Rory, not when he finally felt he had a task that only he could do. It was to be Rev’s first lesson today, he had asked the boy to gather the necessary tools they would need before dawn, so no-one would inquire why Rev, who was banned from sparring with other swordsmen, would need such equipment.
Rory sat beside Disel, to Sir Edmund’s right. He was shovelling the hot, moist oatmeal down his throat as fast as he dared without choking. Rory didn’t taste any of the meal though, he was too busy planning exactly what he would do to try and break Rev before he rebuilt from a more solid foundation. His mind kept wandering in circles…it might be that the only solution would be to use that. Rory was weighing the positives and the negatives as he ate.
“I’ve heard of eating quickly Rory, and I’ve certainly seen some fast ones in my time…but that porridge of yours that you insist on having will still be warm whether you take a few moments to eat, or a quarter of the morning.” Lady Worchester was what Rory had always imagined a classic sort of beauty to look like. She wasn’t tall at all, but her presence towered over even her husband’s at the long glossy table, set only with places at one end. Her majestic blue eyes were always full of passion for everything she said and did, and only seemed to emphasize her locks of long blonde hair, tied tastefully up behind her head. How she managed to have her hair so tidy made Rory wonder how early she had risen with her maids.
Rory paused, his spoon half-way to his mouth and swallowed hard, he felt his ears flush under her gaze, “Sorry ma’am, force of habit. When you grow up with two older brothers, you learn to eat quickly or you starve.”
Lady Edmund’s lips spread in a wide smile, conveying her amusement and understanding. “You seem different as of late. Are you finally getting used to the manor?” Her hands worked delicately as she sawed through one of her breakfast sausages, eating only the smallest of pieces at a time.
“Yes ma’am, I suppose I am. I’m heading over to the stables today…I met someone very interesting the other day. Well…interesting for a Thiian I suppose.” Edmund’s wife blinked several times, but if she was offended, she didn’t let it infect her warm smile. She turned to her husband, who had just dismissed the bulky advisor who was dragging rolls of parchment away with him.
Edmund sighed and prodded his food, “Ah, the Emperor sure makes a fuss when I come here for a rest. Sends me twenty rolls of vellum for everyday that I’m away, the spiteful old bastard.”
“My Lord!” Lady Edmund muttered reproachfully, “You’re lucky he’s away or he’d be throwing a steel gauntlet through your breakfast.” Sir Edmund was in the middle of one of his sausages and didn’t reply, although Rory thought he caught a wince as the man chewed. “And by and by, don’t you have anything for Rory to do? Hanging out in the stables is not exactly what you had in mind was it dearest?”
Edmund took a swig of a light morning beer to wash the remains of his breakfast down. He shot Rory a knowing look, then shrugged at his wife. “What should I do, ban him from the stables? Rory was a horseman back in his homeland, I’m not about to keep him shut in his room. Besides, we can’t do anything else with him until he gets home.”
Rory had stopped eating; his narrowed eyes found Sir Edmund’s. The man was laughing at him! They always did this at meals, make vague references to some person who would not be returning for months yet, but someone who was to play some sort of integral part in Rory’s future. The expectation was like an itch that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t scratch. Rory did the next best thing, he tried to ignore it.
“Is a horseman like a Bern’alad, in your tongue?” Rory asked instead, resisting the urge to ask the expected question.
Edmund looked up, “No, not quite lad. Our horsemen are nothing like the lonely riders of the North. Will this be your first visit to the stables? Or have you been there before?” His mouth full, Rory stuck up his index finger. “First time eh? Well, do me a favour and tell old Winthrop there that I sent you, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have some more help. You won’t miss him, he’s the hostler there, got a great scar down one side of his face, with only one eye. You should ask him to tell you that story too, its one of the betters I’ve heard.”
Rory grinned and set his spoon back onto his plate. A watchful maid was already beside him, clearing his dishes. It startled him. In the North you took care of your own plate. Rory still hadn’t acclimatized to all these strange Thiian traditions. “May I go now then?” Rory was about to rise, but a small hand restrained him. Disel was blushing furiously as she looked in silent appeal to her mother.
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten!” Lady Edmund said, she raised her eyebrows at her daughter. Disel was rummaging around in a small bag on her lap, after a short search she looked back at Rory.
“You can’t laugh!” she said solemnly. “If you do I’ll take it back, and your ears will freeze come winter!” Her hands were partially hiding something within their small grasp. Curious, Rory was quick to assure her just as solemnly that he would never laugh at something that was so important.
With a deep breath, Disel unfolded the most unusual piece of knitting he had ever seen. She handed it to him with a grimace, and for a moment, Rory couldn’t quite figure out what exactly it was supposed to be.
“A hat!” Rory exclaimed too loudly, his lips creasing in a smile that came easily to his lips. It was red and slightly lopsided and very thick, with small round earflaps and string to tie under his chin. In some parts the stitches were loose and uneven, but Rory donned it right away and enfolded the squirming girl in a quick hug. “Why its absolutely marvellous! I shan’t need to worry about losing my ears come winter. Thank you!”
“I know its bad, but I did the best I could…” Disel said apologetically, throwing her mother a murderous glare when she noticed the older woman was hiding a grin politely behind her hand. “I tried making mittens but…mother said I should work on my embroidering before I did that.”
“Embroidering is more lady-like darling. You could always let the maids make mittens…”
The wool was soft on his ears, not itchy like he had feared it might be. The gift made his insides suddenly warm. It wasn’t as if the hat was anything to brag about, but the idea behind it, and all of her hard work made it one of the best gifts he had ever received in his life. Disel was flushing from Rory’s exuberant reactions. When she and her mother finally left the table to go to her lessons, she was grinning ear to ear none the less, pleased that her gift had been such a success.
Although Rory desperately wanted to head off to the stables right away, he got a slight prickling feeling on his arms that made him stay at the table. Just as Lord Edmund was finishing his meal, an official looking page opened the door. He took a step inside the ornate wooden doorway and flourished a bow. Shivers ran up and down Rory’s arms and the elemental ambiance shivered right along with him. Something was wrong. For weeks Rory hadn’t felt the slightest ripple in the elemental plane, Lord Edmund seemed not to employ men and women who might disturb the ambiance, whether by chance or by design Rory wasn’t sure.
“M’Lord the emissaries from the eastern Elementalist Coalition have arrived to see you. They await your pleasure, although they claim their time is pressed.”
Rory’s head jerked upwards. Elementalist Coalition? His father had once mentioned something of the like…Thiians felt the need to register powerful men who could touch the elemental plane. It was yet another thing the North would never stand for. Men should be free, not tied by invisible ropes.
“M’Lord?” The page essayed again. Lord Edmund seemed to be lost in thought. At the page’s summons he wrenched himself back to the present.
“What? Oh, of course. Give me time to get to my study in Eastwing, then bring them to me.” Edmund sighed and stared daggers after the retreating page, his nose crinkled like he had just caught a good whiff of a skunk or something that smelled equally distasteful. Edmund turned and his eyes found Rory’s, a faint smile graced his stark features before it was gone.
“Well, be off with you! I’m sure you have more exciting things to do than sit and treat with magisters.” He stood and took his exit, grabbing his velvet cloak from a peg by the door on his way out and throwing it over his shoulders. It was only the second time Rory had ever seen the man angry…although he hid it well.
Rory opened his mouth to speak then closed it as the door thumped gently in Lord Edmund’s wake. Should he have said something? It wasn’t often that the plane and Rory’s sensitivities plagued him like they were now. The whole room seemed to shake and shivers were running up and down his arms as if he were in a cool brisk breeze, setting gooseflesh aflare.
The feeling seemed to chase him wherever he went. He strode briskly off down the corridor, passing ignorant servants busy with the days’ cleaning routine—dusting statues, mopping marble floors, emptying chamber pots—Rory also passed several green kilted swordsman like Janna—he had asked Sir Edmund about that earlier—it was his house guard’s colour. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…but he had never in his life felt such strange ripples. Normally the only ripples in the ambiance were gentle ones, stirred by base human emotions and desires—Rev was good example: The boy excelled at shaking the ambiance with his quick volcano-like temper. This feeling was different though, but Rory dared not investigate, he would need somewhere private to do that sort of work. Even then, he might accidentally give himself away, especially if there were other sensitives nearby.
The stables were located on the town side of the sprawling manor estate. To get there Rory’s steps took him out into the main reception foyer. It was filled at this time of the morning with all sorts of people from many of the walks of life that filled Portios. There were black-clad slavers sometimes accompanied by chained men and women, haunted looks filling their eyes. Merchants in rainbows of colour marched up and down the hall, asserting their rights to sell to Sir Edmund’s household. Peasants and farmers also seemed to have a place, they were lined up to one side of the hall, waiting for the morning’s appeals to Sir Edmund’s courts no doubt—petty disputes about land, grazing rights, Edmund’s house took care of them all—Rory had his doubts about whether Sir Edmund even heard about half the disputes, Thiians had a way of avoiding unpleasant responsibilities…even Sir Edmund, who Rory thought was rather respectable for a Thiian, did it.
Rory had to be especially fleet of foot to navigate his way through the humming press, several times he was almost knocked over by fast moving merchants or scribes carrying stacks of paper, but not entirely unexpectedly they all took one look at his hair, then his bright yellow kilt and hastily bowed and practically leaped through the next opening in the crowd to escape the strange Northman.
“That boy…but it couldn’t be… Edmund would have had to report him to the Emperor’s court.” A croaky voice filled his ears suddenly from behind, and Rory turned to face two men in purple robes, a simple silver circle emblazoned on their chests. They looked almost identical, save the one Rory presumed to have spoken had only a ring of hair topped by shining skin, both had thick, luxurious oiled beards that drooped beneath their chins in oiled locks.
“There see? See how he pales. He can feel us.” The balding man said excitedly.
“Don’t be rude Dethser,” the second replied, a sharp edge to his kindly voice. He raised one bushy eyebrow at Rory’s hair and his get-up and his voice softened. “Who’d have thought we’d meet a Northman here! What’s your name boy?” Rory tried not to shy away from the glare…but his insides were a mess; his stomach was twisting unpleasantly and he felt like hurling his meal at the Elementalists’ feet. But these men weren’t the source of Rory original discomfort…the ripples in the elemental plane. The urge to take a peek at them in the plane was almost overwhelming, as it was with all men with the gift. If Rory had been in the North they would have been sizing each other up already, meeting strength with strength until they were satisfied knowing who was the stronger, but an oath he had taken long ago prevented him from doing so now with these Thiians. Rory tried to calm his insides. He bowed, well…half-bowed…his back didn’t seem to want to bend quite right. The balding man looked slightly annoyed, his lips pursed with disapproval, and appeared that he wanted to strangle Rory, the other looked on, impassive.
“Good day Sirs,” Rory said tentatively, unsure of how he could extricate himself from this mess. “They call me Rory Sirs, is something wrong?” His mind was still whirling, if these elementalists weren’t the source of his unease then what was? The feelings seemed to intensify with each passing moment, as if whatever it was, it drew nearer with every passing moment.
“Needs some manners…” the bald one started, but he was hushed with a glance from his companion.
“Good day to you as well, Rory is it? Odd name that one. Never been to the North myself, they don’t like us up there. Imagine my surprise when I had heard that Sir Edmund recently personally went to purchase a Northman slave, but to be frank I thought it was hearsay, peasant’s gossip. Now that I find proof however, I find myself intrigued.” The man took a step forwards; his hand strayed to his beard without thought, stroking it as he examined Rory closely. Rory tried not to sway as the man took not just a look at him, but probed him in the plane as well, it took a huge amount of willpower to resist the urge to swat those prying, invasive fingers which pulled and tugged at his very existence. His stomach did a couple front flips before the man released his beard.
After a tense moment where Rory was sure they had discovered him, the man sighed and turned back to his companion. “No, you were wrong. Not sensitive at all. That should have sent him to the floor screaming if he was.”
“He’s hiding it then! I’m sure I felt him touch the plane when he saw us! I’m sure Ephram! Let me have a go…I’ll prove it.” The man took a zealous step forwards.
“Desther…” the second man’s voice plied with patience, he stopped the man in his tracks. “We shall be late for our audience.” He turned and nodded to Rory, “It was a pleasure young man, please forgive us, you must think us mad talking about all these strange things. Prey, forgive us.” With his hand firmly pulling Desther along, Ephram started up the crowded hall, but not before Desther had turned back and sent Rory a chilling glare—one that gave Rory a sense of foreboding and the promise that he had not seen the last of the strange balding elementalist.
***
“A Northman…a real Northman in my stables. Well I’ll be a rotting bag of produce. Who’d have thought you’d show up here!” The old Hostler stared at his red hair muttering to himself, a sense of awe filled his broad face. He had gained Rory’s affection as soon as he had laid eyes on the man’s heavily scarred face. Rory had to restrain himself from demanding to know exactly how Winthrop had earned such a deep and fiery scar. That wasn’t the real reason he was here. Although now he wished he was.
“Actually, I know we’ve just met, but I wanted to ask you a favour.” Rory said quickly, interrupting the man’s inner monologue.
“Favour?” The man’s eyes darkened, but only briefly before he shook his head. “Depends what sort of favour this mighten be.”
Rory took a deep breath, “Two things actually. I want to borrow Rev until noon.”
Winthrop’s eyes narrowed and he pulled a strand of straw out of the feed cages absently, sticking in the corner of his mouth. “That brat? He’s useless with swords, and just as useless with horses. What in the four mounts do you want with him?”
“I can’t tell you…and…if you could keep this a secret from anybody else it would sure mean a lot.” Rory watched the man carefully, wary for the first sign of an explosion, but his fears were in vain. Winthrop grinned and spat the straw back onto the floor.
“Don’t ask for much do ya?” He chuckled quietly. “OK, I’ll play your little game. If Sir Edmund trusts ya, I guess I mighten as well.” Rory grinned, but the hostler hadn’t finished. “But fair’s fair boy, I scratch your back you scratch mine.”
Rory frowned. “Your…back itches?” What an odd request. Rory’s back was fine the way it was. He told the hostler as much. Winthrop blinked for a while before he drew another piece of straw and stuck it into the side of his mouth, shaking his head.
“N…no. That’s not what…Never mind. What I meant was, I’ll let you have Rev in a little while, if you’ll help me a bit.”
Rory scrunched his forehead. “Then why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
The hostler opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it. He chewed thoughtfully on the piece of straw before he walked over and grabbed Rory’s arm and pulled him deeper into the dim stable. “Right, just what I need. Two kids who think they’re Thefrir reborn and stubborn as bedrock.” Rory couldn’t help but grin at the man’s indignation. Thiians were a lot of fun once you knew which strings to pull. “You’re one of them lone horsemen ain’t ya?” Winthrop continued pleasantly as they passed stall after stall in the cavernous building.
Rory took the time to take a measure of Winthrop’s face before he answered. He was looking for some sort of deception or plot the man might have…but his face held only a native curiosity if anything at al l. “I was Bern’alad if that was your question. ‘Lone Horseman’ is as good a description as any I’ve been given I suppose.” Rory, paused briefly as he remembered some of the names they used to call him back home, “…and more flattering than most.”
Winthrop stopped and his hand dropped away. He nodded to himself as if Rory had just confirmed something. “Knew it I did! Usually the horses go wild when they catch a new scent, I ain’t heard one of these beast utter a sound.” As he spoke he walked up to an empty stall where a thin tremulous voice was keeping a steady stream of curses going. He peered into it as did Rory. Both started laughing at the same time. Sitting on the ground in breeches and a brown leather smock was Rev. Right in the middle of a pile of… Rory hastily tried to memorize as many of the curses Rev was going through. It was a long and detailed list that started to include both Rory and Winthrop and just what exactly they could do with themselves and their laughter.
When Winthrop finally could control his breathing again he fixed Rev with a stern glare. “Alright you useless lout, get yourself outside and cleaned off. Jake will have some clean britches for ya.” Still shaking his head he moved on, Rory on his heels. “Of all the useless help to send me…I heard he’s being punished for something but he won’t tell me a word of course, the little savage. Got lots of other things to tell me though, none of them fit for a lady’s ears.” He said with a grimace. “It’s more like punishment for the both of us if you ask me. I get less done around here with him helping anyways. You’ll be doing me a favour to take him off my hands at any rate. Bloody brat. I mean, can you believe it? A kid like that afraid of horses.”
Rory couldn’t help grinning at his words. So…Rev had other problems as well. What a strange kid. “So…what did you want me to do exactly? Nothing like cleaning stables I hope.” Rory crinkled his nose at the thought.
Winthrop laughed as he caught sight of Rory’s expression. Then he shrugged and pointed to an inconspicuous looking stall and stopped in front of it. “Actually, I need some help with her. Something’s wrong and she won’t let me near her. That’s lady Worchester’s horse, and I’m at a loss to explain what’s gotten into her. I’ve tried every trick in the book, but she’s as skittish as a mule and about thrice as stubborn. I’ve heard tales though…” Winthrop trailed off, looking a little sheepish. “Well, I heard you folk were a mighten better with horses than normal folk. I’d be obliged if you might have a look.”
So even Winthrop had ‘heard stories’ about him already? Rory had half a heart to ask exactly where he had heard such things. Someone was spreading rumours about him, and they were getting too close to the truth. Rory took a step forward towards the stall. The mare, her brown coat sleek with sweat, nickered uncertainly at his approach. Rory met her eye with a steady and firm stare of his own. “There lady, I don’t mean any harm.” He reached out with his hand slowly and let her snuffle it curiously. She whinnied this time around and bunted it. Rory quickly undid the latch and slid inside the stall, closing the door behind him. He scratched her forehead and just let her get used to his smell for a while.
“Well I’ll be!” Winthrop hadn’t moved an inch since he had stopped. He just stared at Rory with wide eyes, one wider than the other due to his scar. “I tried that this morning and she nearly killed me.”
Rory grinned and didn’t mention his other talent that might be viewed as cheating in the old hostler’s mind. Rory’s attention turned back to the mare. She was snuffling and whuffing happily enough as he scratched her, but something was definitely not right. He moved to her side and ran a hand down her sweat-soaked flank. He prodded and felt around a bit…but there didn’t seem to be anything obviously wrong with her. Time to cheat again. He opened his barrier just a touch, not enough to alert any other sensitives, and sent a reassuring and calming surge towards the mare. Then he delicately extended his probe, trying not to scare her. If he had done this to a human, they would know…but animals weren’t the same. He could probe and feel the animal without them feeling pain. To a human it would feel like a red hot iron swirling around in their innards. Not exactly the most pleasant feeling one would normally wish for.
Rory’s eyes widened with shock at what he sensed. He paused and made certain about what he was feeling before he turned and grinned at the hostler. Rory patted the mare one more time and earned a contented whinny before he jumped over the stall rail and back to face the bewildered hostler. “Does she have a name?”
“What? Oh, yea of course. Her name’s Gwen.” The Hostler’s eyes were set on him and his frown was one more of disbelief than disproval. He was…jealous. No sense beating around the bush. Rory walked down a couple of stalls before he stopped in front of a huge black stallion. His presence felt vaguely familiar. A perfect match. A warhorse if he ever saw one. It bared its teeth and tried to snap at Rory when he neared. Winthrop was beside him, as confused as ever.
Rory pointed, deliberately just out of the lippy stallion’s reach. “And this one? What’s his name?”
It took a moment, but the piece of straw Winthrop had been chewing finally fell limply to the floor. He spoke in a gasp. “No… impossible! She’s not showing at all yet…I checked!” Uncertain pause. “How do you know?”
Rory grinned and turned from the old hostler and left him with his thoughts and his curses.
“Know? Know what?”
He found Rev back near the entrance. The boy had changed into a ratty set of britches that had holes over his protruding knees. He stood facing one of the many stalls his hand outstretched tentatively towards a towering gelding. The black horse snorted with contempt at the boy’s shaking hand and shied away.
“Now that was a mighty poor first impression to give someone.”
Startled, Rev jumped backwards, lowering his hand. His powerful scowl turned to confront his accuser and faltered when he glimpsed Rory’s freckled face grinning at him. “I didn’t see you there. What’s the big idea sneaking up on me like that?”
“Sneaking?” Rory snorted and tromped loudly up to the gelding and rubbed his forehead. The gelding whuffed once and then allowed himself to enjoy the rub, his eye rolled over to watch Rev warily. “I don’t sneak anywhere. I made as much noise as I possibly could without breaking the floorboards, you were just too occupied to notice anything. What were you doing, if I may ask?”
“I need to move him,” he said, pointing at the gelding accusingly. “But he’s not very friendly…”
It was Rory’s turn to roll his eyes. He turned back and grinned at the gelding who looked about as threatening to Rory as a flower might ever look. “You’re not so scary are you fellow?” The gelding bunted his hand playfully when the fingers stopped scratching his forehead.
“Well, if you’re quite satisfied making fun of me, could you move him down there?” Rev said, pointing to the stall he had just finished cleaning out. “I’m done after this so the faster you do…” Rev’s mouth snapped shut when he caught a look at Rory’s face. Rory arched his eyebrows and shook his head.
“Oh no. Uh uh. Not a chance. You move him. Consider this lesson one.” Rory walked and grabbed Rev’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You know what I heard from master Winthrop over there?” Rory said, pointing down the row to the hunched man who was rubbing his head and contemplating the big black stallion, his words were all a jumble as he muttered loudly to himself. “I hear you’re afraid of horses. You? I couldn’t believe it! I mean, I can’t believe you’re afraid of horses. How are you supposed to become of swordsman if you become terrified of your partner? That’s just what a horse is, not just an animal, but your partner. If you’re lucky and your horse likes you, he’ll be more faithful than most men you’ll meet in life.”
A dark red suffused Rev’s cheeks. “Shut up! I’m not scared of horses, they just don’t like me much, that’s all.”
Rory had already considered that possibility before, but had discarded it out of hand. He had never met a person who could not get along with a horse if they would just apply themselves. Rory stuck out his hand to Rev. Rev nearly leaped backwards with surprise, then he just eyed the proffered hand suspiciously. “C’mon Rev, grab it. Shake my hand like we’ve just met.”
“Why should I have to…?” Rev’s face had turned sullen, the anger that usually graced his eyes was starting to kindle.
“Just do it.” Rory said as firmly as he dared, hoping Rev wouldn’t shut him out again. Luckily, his determination hadn’t faded since their last meeting. Rev said something beneath his breath that sounded to Rory’s sharp ears like “Northmen” before he grabbed the hand and shook it firmly. Rory tightened his grip so the boy couldn’t pull back.
“There now that wasn’t so hard was it? It you acted like that when you first met a horse, they’d like you a lot better.”
Rev pulled his hand back as if scalded. He rubbed it thoughtfully, his mind working it out. “That’s good advice…if horses had bloody hands.” He said finally, missing Rory’s point completely.
“You rock-head. Putting out your hand for a horse to smell is exactly the same idea. How comfortable would you be around someone who shook your hand with a clammy and trembling grip like that? If it were me I’d think I was shaking some urine smelling coward’s hand, and I wouldn’t like that person no matter what they were really like. Its true with people and especially true with animals, a first impression and a scent is everything!”
Rev stared back blankly for a moment and Rory had to resist the urge to duck under the nearest stack of hay bales and avoid the lightning bolts that were sure to follow. To his surprise, Rev just turned and walked back towards the gelding, holding out his arm like Rory had. This time Rev didn’t blink, he just stubbornly stared at the gelding with eyes of icy-fire. Rory could almost feel the adrenaline pulsing through the boy as he stared the gelding down.
The gelding snorted contemptuously at first to the offered hand, but when the horse realized Rev wasn’t going anywhere he snorted in annoyance and reluctantly took a sniff of the boy’s hand. He whuffed peaceably enough, dipping his head a fraction to Rev. Rory stepped up beside him and put a hand behind the gaping swordsman’s neck and shoved him forwards.
“Go on, touch his head now, let him get used to your scent.” Rev hesitantly stroked between the gelding’s eyes and down his head. The gelding, forgetting his initial wariness, bunted his hand and tried to lift his head to nibble on the scratching fingers. Rory quickly grabbed Rev’s hand as he tried to jerk it back and put it firmly back on the horse’s snout. “And no jerky movements. Animals get frightened easily when it comes to dealing with humans…remember that. And don’t freak out when a horse tries to nibble your fingers,” Rory said and released Rev’s hand, which to his surprise was only mildly sweaty. “You should be flattered! A horse’s bite is actually a sign of affection, not one of malice. If a horse is ever mad at you…”
“What? What will it do?” Rev asked quickly, trying to avoid letting the horse get a handle on his fingers. Annoyed, Rev pushed the horses head away as its big tongue snaked out to try and sneak a taste of the swordsman’s hair.
“A variety of things I guess, he’ll rear up on his hind legs as a warning. But if a horse is ever beyond angry, he’ll kick you good and hard…and believe me…those legs of his won’t just hurt, they’ll maim. But don’t worry,” Rory had to say quickly, as Rev’s face was rapidly draining of colour, “contrary to what you may believe, a horse is not a creature of malice. They’re clever and deserve your respect, but you need to be firm with them or they’ll go wild and never listen to you. Be watchful, but never timid. That’s a good rule to always use around horses…especially a stallion. Mares and geldings you don’t need to be as cautious with, easier to break in and they won’t fight with you as much.” As he spoke about horses Rory’s mind again began to drift through a sea of memories. He remembered well the first time he had ridden a stallion. It was a great black one, with a diamond shaped spot of white on its forehead. Windbreaker they had named him, Rory hadn’t understood the name until he managed to convince the stallion to sprint. He would never forget that feeling of helplessness as the wind tried to tear the hair from his head and the ground rushed past all in a blur beneath Windbreaker’s pounding hooves. At that moment, he had felt like he could fly.
Rory was brought back to the present as Rev led the large warhorse out of the stall. He was shooting Rory an unreadable look in between fending off the gelding’s inquisitive tongue, and Rory blushed as he realised he had been staring off into nowhere, lost in thought. A cramp of longing was in his stomach again, but he tried to ignore it…focus on something other than himself. It was too painful to remember any longer—to remember home. Rory followed Rev’s path down the row to the stall he had cleaned out earlier that day.
“You talk like you know a lot of stuff.” Rev said as he closed the door and brushed past Rory on his way back to the dirty stall. He grabbed a nearby wheelbarrow and shovel and trudged back to the open stall, a grimace never far from his lips. “So where on the four mounts did you manage to find that ugly rag you’re wearing?” He said as he entered the stall and shoved his shovel into the muck and soiled hay with a splurch. Rory glanced down at the dull yellow swordsman kilt he wore and the matching black and deep yellow top he wore.
“Sir Edmund lent them to me. He said they used to be his when he was small. He said I could have them when I complained all I had were fancy clothes I couldn’t dirty.” Rory could still picture the wide smile underneath that great white moustache of Edmund’s as he stood tall beneath Rory’s squall of complaints. Rev just grunted as he threw another shovel-full of the muck into the ‘barrow. He was panting slightly and beginning to work up a sweat. Rory jumped up on the stall door out of the way and just watched as the boy efficiently cleaned out the stall. From the way he worked, Rory gained the sneaking suspicion that Rev had been doing a great deal of work in the stables as of late.
A sudden thought occurred to Rory as he looked on. “Did you manage to find all the stuff I asked for?”
Rev sighed in between breaths and looked up with a scowl. “Are you just going to sit there and keep bothering me? Or would you get off you’re ass and help me?”
“Answer my question, and I’ll think about it.” Rory replied with a quirk of his lips.
Rev shoved the shovel back into the muck. “Yea, ‘course I did. I said I’d do it so I did. I hid it all around the back of the stables behind the wall of pines, should be safe enough there. Now get down and help me.”
Rory spread his arms wide for balance and rolled backwards, with a whip-like motion in his hips, he landed nimbly on his feet outside the stall and started to walk away. Rev’s quick footsteps headed for the stall opening. “Hey, you said…”
“I said I’d think about it,” Rory cut in, he turned and winked back at Rev, pretending to scrunch his forehead in deep thought. “I’ll think real hard, don’t you worry. Just think of it as part of your training!” Rev’s curses chased him from the stables.
By the time Rev had finished and joined him behind the stables, the sun was well up into the eastern sky. The tunic Edmund had given him was already sticking to his chest and back even though he hadn’t been doing much of anything aside from waiting. Rev stood in front of him, sword lowered a look of pure scorn set on his lowered brow.
“I’m not wearing it…I thought it was for you! That’s why I brought it.” Rev said, pointing accusingly at the thick leather padding.
Rory grinned, he had ignored the other sword Rev had brought along and instead had picked up a long piece of wood, a ‘long staff’ Rev had called it with a sneer. “That’s fine, I won’t be needing it…the way you are now…a Northman not even out of diapers could defeat you.”
Rev brought the blunted practice sword up, he glared suspiciously at Rory, waiting. Rory just stood at ease, one end of the long stave stuck in the ground so he could lean on it. “Well?” Rev said, impatience making his voice crack slightly. “Is my form OK?”
Rory blinked several times before he looked Rev up and down. His legs were spread and bent, distributing his weight evenly across his lithe frame. The sword he held at the ready, pointing slightly below Rory’s feet, his outstretched arm locked. Rory took all that in before he spoke. “How the hell should I know? If you ask me you could be doing anything with a stance like that. Dance for one…the same two step jig…over and over…and over…” Rory stopped when Rev’s face coloured.
“Y…you’re…making fun of me.” He said through gritted teeth.
Rory hunched around the stave and grinned at his annoyed pupil. “Not at all. I really couldn’t tell the difference between your stance and a dance…I’m no expert in either one!”
The moment Rory had been waiting for arrived. Rev relaxed slightly, his anger overriding his alert stance. He threw up his sword in supplication, “Then why did you say you could help me you stupid…”
Rory whirled as he moved forwards, bringing the stave up as he came on. The Stave whistled as it passed through the air not a hands breadth away from Rev’s wide blue eyes. His hands froze as the underside of his chin was raised forcefully by the end of Rory’s staff. “I’ll ignore that last comment.” Rory said cheerfully, his arms taught as he held the longstaff beneath Rev’s thin neck. “I never said I would help you fight like a Thiian. I told you, in not so many words, that I could help you with your problem. Right now your problem has nothing to do with Thiian techniques and forms. Its this that’s the problem.” As Rory finished he eased the staff back to its neutral position on the ground and stepped forwards, putting a finger to Rev’s chest. “They taught you how to think like a Thiian and a swordsman, and now I’ll teach you how to fight like men were born to fight.”
Rev looked on the verge of walking off. His posture was stiff, and for all Rory knew he was still frozen from having a stick a hairsbreadth from crushing his throat. Rory took two steps back and began his planned performance. His arms flexed and the longstaff whizzed through the air towards Rev’s head. That snapped Rev’s attention to Rory, his sword came up in a blur of dull grey iron.
“Hey what the hell?” Rev protested, his arms shivering with the impact. “That could’ve killed me!” Rory said nothing, and brought his staff back, holding it at the ready out in front of his body, one end nestled under his arm the other spread out in front as if to ward off any counter-attacks. With a surge of energy, Rory leaped forwards again, his staff coming down over his head with the full force he could exert. Rev’s eyes widened before he brought his own sword up and tried to slide sideways. He was only partially successful, the staff caught the sword near his hands and it thumped to the ground in the opposite direction Rev had leaped, the staff continued downwards catching Rev’s thigh on the ricochet.
Rev’s groaned and fell to one knee clutching his thigh as it cramped. Rory shook his head sadly and retrieved the boy’s sword. When Rory threw it at his feet, Rev looked up, hate brimming up and out of his eyes as if they were simply funnels. “Again” Rory said in a fakehigh alto voice, his voice full of scorn. His consciousness reached for the plane then, just a small touch, like letting loose fingers drag through rushing water. He nudged a thread of fire towards Rev.
Rev grabbed his sword and struggled to his feet. This time Rory didn’t let him settle before he swung the staff quickly at eye level, spearing for Rev’s eyes. When Rev blinked and tried to raise his sword to ward off the imaginary blow Rory brought the other end of the stave up and around, cracking Rev’s wrists and sending his weapon to the lush grass again. Rory wasn’t finished though, he stepped inside while Rev was backing away, who was holding his wrist tenderly and landed a blow with the tip of his staff. Had the end been pointed it would have travelled clear through the thin boy, as it was the blow emptied Rev’s lungs with a sickening wheeze. The boy fell to his knees with a wet chocking sound and fell forwards. His hands clawed the grass as he fought desperately for breath.
Rory paused and surveyed the prostrate swordsman with a grimace. He went and retrieved the sword and flung it back down beside Rev’s outstretched arms.
“Again!” Rory snarled, “Come on, get up lordling! Or is this the extent of your skills? To be thrashed by a Northman and a twig?” Rory laughed, the wall of trees sheltering his voice from the rest of the world. Again he wove a thread of fire, a bit larger this time, encouraging the anger. “I can see now why your father would dump you here alone. Out of sight out of mind right? That’s how you Thiians would say it eh?”
Rev took a long time to get to his feet again, Rory watched impassively and waited. Rev’s eyes were smouldering now, the rictus of a snarl etched onto his lips. Rory grinned at the panting and coughing boy as he slowly raised his sword. Rory gave him five heartbeats before he struck again. With a flash of metal, Rev met the staff with his sword and a wordless yell. Then he was pressing, his sword and Rory’s staff a blur in the warm morning air. Rory had to take several steps backwards until Rev ran out of gas, the blow to his torso was still giving him breathing problems, Rory struck again brushing Rev’s sword aside he rushed the boy and knocked his feet out from under him with his foot and slammed his open palm into his chest. Rev hit the ground hard, flattening the grass underneath. Rory raised the staff and stabbed downwards.
Rev stared up at Rory, his chest heaving as he panted, sweat soaked him thoroughly; it ran off his forehead down into his eyes causing him to blink rapidly. Those blue eyes of his stared in horror at the tip of the staff which had smashed into the ground beside his ear, a long line of blood suddenly appeared on his cheek where the stave had narrowly missed smashing his jaw and crushing his throat. Rory bent over so Rev could see his face and grinned.
“Hey, that was pretty good…you might even give my six year old sister a run for her money if you fight like that all the time!” Rory watched as fury eclipsed every portion of Rev’s being. “Oops? Sorry, did I hit close to the mark there? Is that what your Father kept telling you? That you fight like a girl? C’MON! Show me how it made you feel.”
Rev yelled then, a cry from his true self, his eyes flashed like Rory had never seen before. Rory found himself rolling to his feet after Rev had shoved him off. The sword was back in his hands and a dark cloud hanging from his shoulders. Rev, at that moment, wanted to kill him. Rev lunged, his sword a blur so quick Rory barely dodged out of the way, he tried to bring his staff up for a quick feint but Rev ignored him completely and unleashed a brutal horizontal swipe. Rory jumped backwards, Rev on his heels. It was all he could do to fend off Rev’s inhuman blows that were raining down from seemingly everywhere—just like Rev, he never struck from the same position twice, his legs were a blur as he lunged and swiped, dodging in and out of the staff’s range with quick easy movements. There was no form, no technique to follow, just his sharp reflexes and his iron will and raging fury.
There was a dull crunch when Rev’s sword glanced off of Rory’s left shoulder. Pain rippled from it, and Rory quickly shut it out, letting his senses focus on Rev’s startlingly different movements. Desperately, Rory kicked Rev in the shin on his next lunge, hoping the pain would distract the boy long enough, but Rev’s eyes were completely shrouded with hatred, every pore in his body was screaming for Rory’s blood. For the first time in a long time, Rory felt thin tendrils of fear wrap around his heart. The urge to reach into the ambient plane nearly overwhelmed him at that moment.
No, focus Rory! He told himself angrily, there is no way Rev could get so good so quickly.
Rory was again moving backwards, giving ground under Rev’s furious assault. Bruises and welts formed where the blade found skin, glancing blows all of them. Rory stumbled against a protruding root, falling against one of the pines Rev followed up with a downward slice that was meant to burst his head like an overripe melon. In an act of sheer desperation, Rory dropped his staff and flung himself forwards, his now bruised and battered arms clamped desperately around Rev’s chest and bore him to the ground the sword fell from his grip.
“Rev…REV!” He yelled desperately as the boy tried to claw his eyes out. Rory grabbed his arms and pinned them on the ground. “Rev, STOP! You did it! You did it, enough!” But the fury that had risen had also blinded the swordsman. All that anger he had kept to himself, all the self-hatred and feelings of inadequacy, his pain and failings washed through him. He would not listen. He squirmed and wriggled, trying everything to throw the battered Northman to the ground. One of his arms got free and he punched Rory as hard as he could before Rory got it pinned again. This was going nowhere. His arms were at their limit and he saw stars in front of his vision.
It was the ultimate hubris, Rory suddenly realised. What had he been thinking? He had known nothing about Rev. All this anger and fury…it should never have been released all at once like this. Rory was suffocating under it, he tried to close it off, but it was too much…too much for him. What had he done? The tiny tendrils of fire he had woven had turned into an emotional funnel, draining every corner of Rev’s emotions. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not like this!
There was no other way. Rev was going to kill himself. Rory, with his last bit of strength did the only thing he could possibly think of at that moment. He reached into the elemental plane, he tugged and wove two thin tendrils of earth and water in an intricate pattern that stretched from him into Rev. He gave up on Rev’s hands and grabbed his head with both hands and lowered his lips until the connection was completed.
The tiny lines of earth and water flared brightly before his eyes. As his body surrendered to its exhaustion he felt Rev go limp underneath. Horror was the last emotion to well up and flood Rory’s mind. Revulsion and regret, he felt sick.
What have I done? Were the desperate thoughts that chased him from the bright morning.
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |
| Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 |
| Chapter 9 |
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