The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  "Please, take her down," he said.

  98

  The gap through the trees revealed a fairly wide opening, an unusually attractive clearing within this increasingly menacing wood. Merk's torch shone through, lighting it up. From one end, a trickle of water came winding through the bushes, dripping down into a large spring, sending ripples off across the otherwise calm water.

  The three had stopped their bikes nearby, leaving them in another little glade. The walk here had been nerve-wracking for the old man, despite how short it was. Around the spring, the woods were almost too thick to drive through, so dense and tangled as to even make walking difficult. It set them all on edge, Merk most of all. Every little rustle of noise had his eyes darting and heart pumping. Then, after thrashing their way forward, they'd reached a dispersal point where the trees opened up and then ended. And beyond, the clearing where the spring was set.

  "OK," said Finn, looking out. "Let's go and take a look."

  He took the lead, and the others followed, creeping towards the edge of the water. All walked with a slight bow, as though creeping to avoid detection. It was odd, really, since the woods appeared to be fully deserted. Yet there was a tension that bent their backs, and set their nerves on edge. This place just felt off, as if it was under some strange spell. The air was thick and stale. A mist hung light in the air, swirling unnaturally given there was no breeze. And the hooting owls and creeping animals among the undergrowth had gone silent.

  Now, the only noises were those they made themselves, and that of the trickle of the stream, cascading gently into the water. They reached the edge, its bank of stone, as if this basin had been artificially designed as a bath. It was rounded, an almost perfect semi-circle, leading to a tiny bank where the water came sweeping down. All over, the leaves and shrubbery hung back, refusing to grow too close to the edge. And around the perimeter of the spring was a patch of open ground, the trees lined up beyond as though respecting the water's personal space.

  The clearing, thankfully, allowed for an opening in the canopy. Above, the stars were visible, though only in gaps through the clouds. It was a humid night, and particularly here, the break in the roof of the forest doing little to cool the air, or disperse the mist that seemed to hang around at their ankles.

  Merk's initial inspection of the place lasted about three seconds. He turned his eyes around before concluding that, yes, it was rather pretty given the intimidating forest around it, but otherwise held little interest for them. His desire to give up the search and go home was, of course, influencing his thoughts.

  The other two took closer stock, Gwyn in particular utilising her augmentations to scan the glade with a more forensic eye. She seemed particularly interested in an area off to the west, where the thick woods beyond were oddly parted, as if walked through regularly, fashioning a path.

  She got the others' attention.

  "Here, take a look at this," she said.

  Finn and Merk gathered beside her, and looked into the trees. A dark route appeared before their eyes.

  "Is it just me, or does it look like someone's walked this way a lot?" she asked.

  Finn nodded.

  "Could be a trail to the spring for animals," he said.

  "Or a person," said Gwyn.

  "Maybe. Let's follow it."

  They did, Merk staying to the rear. It crept forward a little ways before seeming to naturally conclude about fifty metres into the brush. There were footprints and markings in the mud, though an inspection revealed them to belong to animals. Paws and hooves rather than boots.

  "Well, we should get back," said Merk, wishing for the openness of the clearing.

  The others begrudgingly agreed, and back down the path they went.

  For a little while longer, they continued their inspection, the moon passing by overhead and drenching the glade in a soft white glow. To help her work, Gwyn requested for Merk and Finn's torches to be doused. The unnatural illumination, she explained, conflicted with her night vision at times.

  Finn was happy to oblige, Merk less so. It was suggested that he head back to the bikes if he wasn't happy there, an unappealing proposition that quickly led to him flicking off his flashlight.

  The sudden darkness was all consuming, but didn't last long. The natural light above swam down, and the old man's greying eyes began to adjust. Within about a minute, the glade was lit up in a pale silver light. He ambled over to a nearby rock and set himself down, grumbling to himself about just how he'd found himself out here, when there was a perfectly warm, safe, and well lit house just thirty miles away.

  I'll be back there soon, he assured himself. This was a fool's errand all along.

  It took the others a little longer to relent. Finn found a further print that came under close scrutiny, he and Gwyn taking their time just working out what it belonged to. The result was inconclusive. It had an angular shape that didn't seem natural, but was only partially visible and could well have been a trick of the eye and imagination.

  In the end, there seemed little point in staying there any longer. The three gathered around Merk's rock to discuss their next steps.

  "My view?" began Merk. "Well, it's a spring, a good water source, but only for the animals that live around here. There's nothing special about it."

  "Except the weird anomalies," said Gwyn. "It's...unnatural here. The air doesn't sit right, and everything seems strangely ordered. It's as though someone's tinkered with it, designed it like this. Do you remember what your friends said about it when they came here?"

  Merk huffed.

  "That was decades ago, Gwyn. My recollection is obviously hazy, but all I recall is them finding a clear spring with pure drinking water. I guess, maybe they mentioned something about it being weird, and so it made some mark in my memory. But really, I don't know. It just doesn't seem important."

  "Maybe not," said Finn. "But it's odd for sure. I think we should go back to the bikes..."

  "Yes, now we're talking. And go back..."

  "No, Merk. Just back to the bikes to get some rest. We can have another look at first light, see if the conditions are the same or anything's changed. What do you think?"

  "No point," said Merk.

  "Good point," countered Gwyn. "We're here now, no sense in running off home so fast. Where's your spirit of adventure, Merk?" she smirked.

  Merk didn't smile, but put on an expression of exasperation.

  "Gwyn, I'm in my late sixties. We'll see if you're still adventurous in forty years. And do you really want to sleep on the forest floor with all these snakes around?"

  It was a low blow, and the ripple of worry across Gwyn's face was obvious. She looked at Finn, who shook his head.

  "There won't be any snakes," he said. "Don't worry."

  "Are you sure? Maybe he's right. Maybe those snakes followed us here?"

  Finn laughed.

  "Gwyn, that's absurd. Snakes don't follow people miles through the forest. Look, you can sleep between Merk and me if you want. We'll put the bikes around us too. We'll be fine, I promise."

  Her face didn't relent. It remained as coiled as the snakes that caused her worry.

  "Um," continued Finn, thinking. "OK, I can go one better. I'll gather some sticks and grass and create a little barrier around us. If I sprinkle some fuel on it, no snake will come anywhere near it. Or any other animal for that matter."

  "Is that true?" asked Gwyn, now looking to Merk for confirmation.

  The old man didn't know, but it sounded reasonable.

  "Yeah, it's true," he said, drawing away some of the tension in her face.

  "So, are we good?" asked Finn.

  She nodded.

  "Excellent. Then let's go."

  For the next half hour, they returned to the bikes and set about fashioning a little overnight camp. There was enough space for the three of them to sleep on the floor between a cluster of trees, and Finn took charge of building the barrier he promised.

  To speed things
along, he called upon his telekinesis, drawing in mounds of moss, grass, leaves and twigs, and heaping them around the camp. Then he grabbed one of the small fuel cans affixed to his bike, and dribbled its contents around the little wall of vegetation. Really, he had no idea whether it would deter the local fauna, but thought it would be sufficient to cool his friend's anxieties.

  By the time they were finished, they were entirely exhausted. Shutting off their torches once more, they huddled onto the floor on a bed of soft leaves, the world falling into almost pitch black. Gwyn had brought blankets for this very eventuality, but they went unused given the humidity and heat.

  Merk settled in beside his young companions, listening to Gwyn's stunted breathing patterns as she tried to relax. The darkness was almost overbearing for the old man, and soon enough he'd forgotten whether his eyes were open or not such was the lightless nature of the night. It was eerie, odd, an absence of illumination like he'd never experienced when sleeping under the stars.

  There was an absence of sound too, beyond the breathing of Gwyn and the shuffling of Finn as he tried to get comfortable. He stopped eventually, as Merk lay still, just listening and waiting for the mumbling to start, and Gwyn's breathing to morph into a light snoring.

  It took a while, but eventually it came. Finn's habit of talking in his sleep was an unnerving one for anybody in his presence, particularly out here in these dark woods. As Merk began to drop off, he found himself regularly waking as a mumbled word spread loudly through the forest, kicking the old man back into consciousness. Each time, however, Gwyn stayed asleep, her snoring a relentless drone, on and on, only halting briefly as she shifted position, before starting right up again.

  Merk drifted away once more, falling into his subconscious, dreams of dark shapes in the forest assaulting his mind. He was drawn further in, the world around him feeling so perilous and sinister, frightening forms lurking around every bole and trunk, the canopy above giving refuge to the sparkling eyes of birds and bats, glinting down like a sea of stars.

  Deep in his mind he fell, tumbling away to places he hadn't been in a while. There were times in his life in which he'd fear to fall asleep, knowing what awaited him. Behind the veil of his waking mind he was vulnerable, all manner of terrible memories lurking beyond the curtain. Memories of happier times, of his daughter, Attia. Of her beautiful smile and effervescent spirit. Of the way she used to make people laugh, pulling faces and acting parts, completely unfazed by public performance in a manner Merk could never understand. She loved to sing and dance. She loved to give people joy. And in Merk's dreams she came often, leaving him feeling hollow and empty upon waking.

  Her death was tragic and unforeseen, the sort that could befall anyone. It was a chunk of meat that killed her, lodging itself in her throat and refusing to budge. She'd been doing what she did best, making people laugh, when the meat slid down her neck and ended her life so prematurely.

  For a long time, she came to Merk in his dreams, making him happy again. Only in his sleep could he find her, his waking life a misery, the nighttime giving him some joy and respite from the terrible pain. But gradually he began to forget where to find her, and their visits became fleeting. Now, it was so rare for him to see her down there, hidden away in the shadows of his mind.

  But that night, she appeared again, coming to him as though through a fog. She danced her way forward, spinning and pirouetting, her cherubic face lit up in that smile Merk missed so very much. He sat up from his bed of grass and leaves and reached out towards her. She stopped amid the trees, giggling and floating within the mist, gesturing for him to come forward.

  He stood to his feet and followed as she continued to spin, drifting away now into the wood. He called out her name as the distance between them grew. "Attia, Attia..." he cried. But she didn't stop or slow, fading faster now as he hurried forward.

  He reached out as the mist enclosed her, consuming her limbs and slight frame. Then the fog burst apart, spreading off in all directions, leaving nothing behind but the sound of her laughter, echoing through Merk's head.

  She was gone.

  He tumbled to the floor, dropping to his knees. His chin fell to his neck, and empty sobs ran through him.

  And then, the white mist turned black, and his eyes opened wide.

  Merk woke from his dream to find himself alone.

  His eyes blinked in the low light, the sun now starting to climb. The birds were chirping, the sky was blue. He stood to his feet, frowning as he brushed the twigs and leaves from his body. Turning back, he could see a roughly hewn path through the undergrowth. Had he sleepwalked here?

  He shook the cobwebs from his head, and set about moving back to the camp. He made it two paces and stopped abruptly.

  He could hear something behind him. The shuffling of feet and the splashing of water. He turned and ducked low on instinct. Then a whistling lifted, a sound the old man was so familiar with. It began blowing a tune he knew, an old melody he used to use to send his daughter off to sleep.

  He was drawn forward by the sound, so carefree and merry, working as silently as he could through the brush. Within just ten or so metres he reached the edge of the clearing, and peered through the leaves towards the spring beyond.

  A man was there, crouching down by the water's edge. He had two buckets with him, one full of water and to his side, the other in his hands and dipped beneath the surface. Merk looked at his face and saw the wrinkled skin, his lips tight as they pressed together, whistling the cheerful tune. His hair was grey and thin, his arms wiry and body dressed in rugged and worn out robes.

  Merk hovered in the shadows, watching him fill the bucket. His hands were trembling with anticipation. He blinked several times, wondering if he was still dreaming. And in that moment, the man's whistling stopped, and his voice took its place.

  "You do know that it's rude to spy on people," he said.

  Merk stiffened. The breath in his lungs was snatched away.

  The man at the water's edge chuckled.

  "Come on out," he said. "It's OK. Don't be afraid."

  The man by the water stood and turned, right to where Merk hid. He smiled, a friendly shape to his eyes, and Merk thought he knew the face staring from the bank.

  He stepped forward from the edge of the wood, brushing past the final trees. And as he did, he felt something fall onto his shoulder. A hand.

  He turned, eyes blaring, and found another man, taller and broader, staring right into his eyes.

  And at that moment, his mind shut off.

  99

  Dom sat fastened to his chair, ankles and wrists red and raw. The rope around them had been continually tightened to ensure it didn't fall loose. The blood to his hands and feet was often so badly constricted Dom wondered if he might lose them, his fingers whitening and toes probably doing the same inside his sandals.

  His mouth was dry, only rarely wetted by the violent and haphazard manner in which Cranus watered him. He didn't lift his chin and poor the liquid down his throat. He merely splashed it upon him, laughing as Dom opened his mouth and tried his best to collect as much of it as he could. The remainder drenched his clothes, the moisture tantalisingly close and unable to be reached. He'd tried on several occasions to grab his robes between his teeth and suck, but found the fabric just beyond his grasp.

  No food had been brought, yet Dom's state of hunger wasn't yet a serious problem. His stomach had grumbled violently as it might after going unfed for a day or so. That wasn't too long ago, suggesting to Dom that he'd been locked in this room for two days only, and probably no more.

  It was a guess, but an educated one. And here, his mind was all he had.

  The greatest problem assaulting him, however, was the pain in his back. The cuts inflicted by Cranus had been fairly shallow, and though several more had since been dispensed, they didn't cause Dom much concern. Of greater issue were the painful scars crisscrossing his spine like tracks upon a rail. His pain medication had long since worn off, an
d Cranus hadn't taken kindly for a request for more. Several of the fresh slices upon his flesh were testament to that.

  It hadn't taken long, but Dom had learned to keep his mouth shut when Cranus was in the room. He was a wild, disturbed man who was praying for Dom to react. Any time he did, he leapt upon him with his knife, pouring his hot, stinking breath at him as he drew close. Dom's eyes were always averted, and his lips fell to silence. Like a beaten dog, he merely prayed for his jailor to step back and leave him alone.

  In his solitary musings, Dom had time to consider what was happening. Yet it wasn't who had taken him that he queried, or why. He didn't wonder so much what his fate would be, whether Cranus' threats, telling him he'd never leave this room, were true or not. He didn't spend time with fearful thoughts of what might happen if the leash was dropped, if whoever was holding Cranus at bay allowed the mongrel to fulfil his full desires.

  No, such questions and concerns were superseded by others. By introspection. By the silent, self-rebuking review of a man looking back upon his life, and wondering if all of this was exactly what he deserved.

  For years and years Dom had been on the other side of the door. He'd wandered the globe, heartlessly capturing the free and turning them into his slaves. He'd left behind sons and daughters, husbands and wives. He'd destroyed families, left villages unprotected, stolen the most powerful hunters and warriors from tribes.

  For every person he'd taken, how many lives had he left ruined in their wake? When he took a boy like Finn from the village he protected, did he sign the death warrant of an entire people? When he took someone like Kira from her war, did he take away the card that toppled the stack? Did her absence from the conflict turn the tide for her enemy, dooming thousands?

  Every person he'd stolen had a life, people who relied on them, who loved and needed them. And even those who didn't, the loners who wandered the earth by themselves, who chose a life of solitude above one of family and community, deserved to see that choice fulfilled. Dom had no right to come and draw them here, to this nest of injustice, and profit from their death.