by T. C. Edge
And Tomahawk was just the same.
But she had no choice now but to focus on her fight. If she was to lose, and die tomorrow, she'd go down fighting. And if she somehow summoned all she had, and managed to win? Well, that would give her precious days to figure something else out.
Whatever the case, she had to set aside everything else in her mind. Dom, her friends down the passage, the fate of the household and the city, and her war back home. All noise related to such concerns needed to be dialled down and ignored. Her focus needed to be complete and total, and set only on defeating Tomahawk.
So she sat that Monday night, entering into a trance of sorts as she imagined the fight, over and over, playing it out in her head. She considered the fastest friends and foes she'd ever encountered, from Shadow here, to her friend Zander back home, and Beckett, the commander of her rebel forces. She thought of those with supreme accuracy with throwing weapons, those with tremendous visual and ocular acuity. She painted a picture of Tomahawk in her mind, determining from the resources in her head just how he might fight. What tricks he might employ to defeat her.
She knew he had pace, sight, and hearing to match or better her, most likely the latter. She would enter that arena as the underdog, but knew the crowd would be on her side. It could give her a kick, the swelling voices of thousands calling her name serving to fuel her, light a fire within. She'd burn like a furnace, combustible and wild, and strike hard and fast when he least expected it.
Her strategy would be to surprise him. Lucius would no doubt have done his homework. She'd be expected to hold back as she usually would, play the defensive role and look for weaknesses. She had to exploit that.
She had to come out firing before Tomahawk could warm up.
So she sat, and formed her strategy, and mentally ran through the bout over and over until she'd fought it a thousand times. She made every move she could think of, working out just how Tomahawk might react, defending or switching quickly to attack. For every strike move she could conceive of, she considered the possible drawbacks and counters.
Would she leave herself open somehow? If so, she needed to be aware of the possible attack, and back up her strike with a defensive manoeuvre.
Might she telegraph an attack before she even made it, letting Tomahawk react before she could strike? If so, she could bluff, draw him in, and then make her move. But what if he saw that coming too? Well, a double bluff then, or a triple...
And so Kira's mind worked, on and on, hour after hour. She sat, stiff, as though in suspended animation, entering a deep state of meditation. Such was the depth of her reverie that she lost all thought of time, and didn't even know it when she'd fallen asleep, her cognitive thought giving way to dreams, where the fight with Tomahawk continued.
When the transition took place she couldn't be sure. Yet she woke with thoughts that she'd done all she could. Now, all she had to do was put her mental rehearsals into practice.
The sand was calling her again, and the city was brimming.
The quarter finals were set to begin.
101
Merk woke with his body locked in place, and his back up against a solid stone wall. He looked immediately to his left and right and found Gwyn and Finn to his flanks, chins against their necks and eyes shut tight.
His first instincts were to reach out to them, but his arms wouldn't operate. His legs were paralysed too, every part of his body immobilised but for his neck and the muscles within his face.
There were no restraints on him. No ropes or chains clinging to his legs and arms. He was entirely free of any such physical bonds, his body merely sitting there against the rock, unshackled but unable to move.
He flashed his eyes all around, taking in his surroundings. He was in a well lit cave, clean and tidy, with little tables and chairs, fashioned from wood set about the place, partitions suggesting the framing of a residence with a number of different rooms beyond. He could smell cooking, a faint scent of fish stew drifting from over the barriers. And within his ears, the sound of whistling drew up, echoing around the cavern.
His inspection took a moment only. Then he tested his voice to make sure it still worked. A whisper split from his lips.
"Gwyn! Finn!" he hissed, craning his neck left and right. "Wake up! Both of you, wake up!"
He got no reply from either of them. They were entirely stationary but for their smooth, controlled breathing, lifting their chests up and down in unison. Gwyn's snoring was absent. So was Finn's sleep-talking. This didn't seem like a natural rest at all...
"I wouldn't worry about them," came a loud, low voice.
Merk swung his eyes deeper into the cavern, spying through the strange collection of wooden dividers and walls. They looked to be fashioned from the forest, though some were embellished with drapes of various colours that had clearly come from the city. He peered around one and saw the shadow of a man, stretching out across the rock floor.
His pulse spiked at the sight, but there was something warm and friendly in the voice. It wasn't the same as the man at the spring, the one still whistling away in the distance. This was the other man. The man who put him to sleep.
Merk drew up his words, his heart rattling hard. He watched the shadow closely for movement, waiting for it to come forward. It didn't, not for a time. Not until he spoke.
"I...I know who you are," called out Merk, his voice jittery.
The shadow swayed a little.
"Oh? You do, do you?"
"We...we came to find you," stammered Merk. "You're...you're Polus. The great telepath."
"Hmmmm, great. Yes, yes I like that," the voice hummed.
The form moved now, inching forwards. Merk's neck had to turn sharply to the right to see him come, walking calmly and yet powerfully towards him. He appeared from behind the barrier, and Merk's jaw fell slack.
"It's you," he whispered. "It really is you..."
Polus stepped out into the light, his chin garbed in a salt and pepper beard, though primarily consisting of the former, and his hair of pure grey and swept back over his head in abundant, flowing waves. His eyes were as Merk remembered, shining so bright even from a distance. They were as pools of water at the top of a bottomless well, the depths of his mind endless and vast.
Around his body he wore a simple cloak of muddy brown and dark green, stitched and restitched over the years and added to by the forest. His frame remained powerful, tall and wide at the shoulder, and his face had taken on a craggy complexion that did nothing to spoil his handsome, masculine looks. He was a few years Merk's junior, but looked to be a decade younger at least. The comparison between the two men was not a favourable one for the old caretaker.
He gazed upon him as he strolled out, seeing his hero come to life. He couldn't quite believe it was happening. That his theory had proven correct. That their little bit of detective work out in the woods had borne such considerable rewards, and fast.
It was so unbelievable, in fact, that he concluded that he must still be dreaming. He blinked hard and opened his eyes wide, and even bit down on his lip to prove it, foolishly expecting no pain. The nip was too hard, and he drew both pain and blood. It wasn't a particularly apposite way to introduce himself to a man of such greatness and legend.
Polus chuckled as he wandered towards him, before shaking his head and rolling his dulcet tones out into the cave.
"Oh, my dear man, what are you doing?" he laughed. "You really thought you were still dreaming?"
Merk raised his eyes. It had taken only a glance, a split second of eye contact between them, for Polus to read his thoughts.
"So, my friend, tell me just who you are and what you're doing all the way out here?"
Polus took a chair from the wall and sat down in front of Merk, reclining comfortably and crossing his legs with a flexibility that Merk certainly didn't possess.
Merk paused before speaking. Then he asked, "Don't you already know?"
He looked at Polus and saw his eyes chang
e, something lighting behind them. The look had Merk trying to glance away, before Polus burst out laughing.
"Oh, dear man, you have me there! Bravo!"
He clapped his hands firmly, and from the depths of the cave, a second applause echoed.
"Ah, you're wondering who my companion is, aren't you?" asked Polus, seeing Merk looking towards the network of rudimentary wooden partitions and walls.
Merk shook his head.
"It's Cicero M. Herma. Your best friend," he said. "But...you knew I knew that already too, didn't you?"
Again, Polus' lips spread into a smile. His teeth had stayed in fine shape out here, straight and well ordered and quite opposed to the oddly arranged configuration of Merk's own crooked, yellowing smile.
"I guess there's no tricking you, Merk," said Polus. "I know who you are, and your two young companions too. I know how you got here, and why you came. I know you are good folk and you're just trying to help. Oh, I know it all."
Merk was half unnerved and half in awe. The man before him had staggering gifts, and any telepath was always someone to be careful around. He'd sent Merk off to sleep with nothing but a glance, and had probably garnered half his life's history with the same. Though Merk had spent plenty of time around Dom, he knew his master didn't use his abilities often on his subjects. It was an odd sensation, knowing that a stranger knew as much about you as you did yourself.
Merk looked again at his companions, still sleeping silently on either side. Despite seeing Polus as a friend, he couldn't be certain what his intentions were. After all, it seemed as though he'd been out here for quite some time. Living in such conditions could do odd things to a man.
So Merk asked, "Are they...OK?" But he really didn't need to. It was clear that Polus was aware of the question before it even fell off Merk's tongue.
"They're just fine, Merk. Or would you prefer it if I call you Atticus?"
Merk recoiled a little. He hadn't heard the name in some time.
"Oh, I do apologise," said Polus. "Yes, I see now that you abandoned your real name some years ago. It's so tragic what happened to you and your family. I'm so very sorry, Merk."
"I...um..."
Merk could hardly summon words. It was so very strange, seeing the true pain and sympathy in the man's eyes. He could feel Merk's grief. His words of condolence were so entirely genuine.
"And, I must apologise too for the nightmares," Polus added. "I've had to take precautions out here, and have developed a certain, how should I put it, relationship with these lands. Anyone who ever ventures here tends to leave quite quickly. I've made sure of that."
"They're haunted," Merk whispered, as though to himself.
Polus smiled.
"Oh no, it's just a few tricks of the mind," he laughed. "Your perception of this place has been somewhat influenced. The woods aren't quite as dastardly as they appear."
"You mean, you put spells on it?"
"Um, well I suppose that's a decent way of phrasing it," beamed Polus. "It must seem as magic to you. But really it's just mental trickery. These woods, as you well know, Merk, have long been thought to be haunted. I've merely made sure those rumours hold fast. Suffice to say, I don't like visitors."
Merk looked again at his friends.
"How long have we been out?" he asked tentatively.
"Oh, not too long. It's mid-afternoon. I suppose it must be Monday."
"Will they wake soon?"
"Soon enough," said Polus. "I wished to speak with you alone, my friend. The paralysis is only temporary, a security measure if you will. I didn't want you all waking and falling into a panic. However, there's no such need now, I can tell."
Before Merk knew what was happening, Polus' gaze was intensifying, only briefly, as he locked eyes with the old caretaker. The reaction of Merk's body was immediate. His limbs all fell suddenly loose, as if all the invisible shackles had been removed. It was an odd and yet highly relieving sensation.
"Better?" smiled Polus.
Merk stretched his legs, arms, and aching back. The old, incessant pain that was ever present within so many of his joints reappeared, an unfortunate side-effect of his returned mobility.
"Yes, thank you," said Merk, marvelling at the man's powers.
"Go ahead, stand up and have a good stretch. Cicero's cooking some stew for us. Let's join him."
Polus stood from his chair, and Merk from the rocky wall. He performed a few stretches to warm his muscles, glancing over the little residence as he did.
"So what do you think? It's kind of cosy, isn't it?" asked Polus.
He began leading Merk through the various interconnecting rooms, passing bedchambers, sitting areas, what seemed to be a working restroom with rudimentary plumbing, and even a library fitted with an array of shelves and books.
It was quite staggering, really, and cosy was the word. The earthy colours and materials gave the place a living, rustic feel, the natural elements added to and decorated with various furnishings and amenities brought from the city. Merk wondered whether that had been down to Cicero.
"Ah yes," said Polus. "He's been my closest friend for all the years I can remember, even since my exile. He splits his time between Neorome and here, bringing me such things as I can't make myself. With all that's going on right now in the city, he's become more of a permanent resident."
"I see. Isn't that dangerous?" asked Merk. "Hasn't anyone come looking for you over the years? I'd assume that speaking with Cicero would be a good place to start."
"A fair assumption," said Polus. "However, I've installed a complicated matrix of security within his mind. His loyalty to me is without question, but of course there are other telepaths who might read him quite easily. I've ensured such invasions will yield no fruit. In any case, I doubt anyone cares about me anymore. I've long since been forgotten."
Merk imagined that Polus knew that wasn't true. After all, he'd come.
"The people remember," Merk said, stopping beside a bedroom with a sizeable and very comfortable looking four-poster bed, built from pine and tangled with winding green vines. He glanced at it, amazed by the pretty carpentry work. "Theories about you have been abounding for years. Decades."
"Ah yes, the theories," hummed Polus. "I hear them from Cicero often. My favourite is that I'm an underground cultist, building an army to destabilise and overthrow the evil Empress." He smiled and gazed longingly through the wide cavern. "It's an appealing thought," he grinned.
Merk's heart lifted at his words. He'd come to seek Polus' aid after all in that very matter. Just imagine what Master Domitian would say if he were to bring him home...
"I have to say, I liked that one too," said Merk, nodding. "It's got a certain ring to it."
"Well, the people seem to be rising up against Vesper without my influence right now. But, of course, I don't need to tell you about that. Now come, let's eat. Cicero prepares a fine broth."
They continued through the camp as the smell of stew permeated the air, wafting up Merk's nose in thick bursts. Cicero's whistling came again, a mirthful tune flowing happily from his lips. Rounding a final bend, they appeared within a natural nook, chiselled by time into the rock wall, and fashioned into a fairly sophisticated kitchen.
In the centre, above a fire, a large pot was on the boil. And sitting beside it on a little stool, the wiry frame of Cicero came into view. He turned his pleasant eyes straight for Merk as he entered.
"Welcome, Merk," he said, smiling. "I trust you're hungry after your long rest?"
Polus laid his hand upon Merk's shoulder, and guided him into the warm chamber. He drew him to a little table to one side as Cicero began ladling heaps of stew into pottery bowls.
"Take a seat, Merk," said Polus. "Would you like a drink?"
"Um...water would be just fine."
"Nothing stronger?"
"No...just water, please."
Polus smiled, wandering off, and returned with a flask and three simple cups. When he poured, Merk noticed th
at the liquid was red, and clearly wine.
Polus handed him his cup.
"Merk, you're just being polite. Your words aren't enough to hide your true desires from me. I'm quite aware that you wish for wine. And I can't blame you for that. You never truly expected to find me, after all. This must all be quite surreal for you."
Once again, Merk was bowled over by the manner in which Polus spoke, making declarative statements about Merk with utter confidence. There were certain sorts of people who liked to speak for others. Parents talking for their children, or dominant husbands for their wives. But this was different. This was Polus telling Merk what he really desired, and not to assert power or control, but merely because it was the truth. And he could see it all.
Cicero came over, and placed down the hot bowls of broth. He took up his wine and raised the cup.
"To our guests," he said.
Polus did the same, and Merk followed nervously, the three clinking their goblets and taking a swig.
"So, where are the other two?" asked Cicero, digging into his food.
Merk took a spoonful, blowing it cold before having a taste. It was delicious, fresh and seasoned to perfection, with just the right consistency. Merk wasn't a hard audience to please, but still...
"They're still sleeping," announced Polus, slurping away. "Those two are gifted warriors, particularly the boy. I thought it prudent to speak with Merk alone first of all."
"Polus, you're not concerned are you?" smirked Cicero. "Are you worried the young-uns might not take kindly to this kidnapping."
"Oh, don't tease, Cicero," said Polus. "This isn't kidnapping. Don't say such a thing in front of our guest."
Cicero turned to Merk.
"I'm just playing," he told him. "We haven't kidnapped you at all, don't be concerned. It's just...this is a secret place. So, anyone stumbling upon it needs to be properly managed..."
"No, no, we didn't stumble upon it," said Merk suddenly. "We came here specifically to find you." He turned his eyes to Polus, who was already quite aware.
