by Ryan Wieser
The young Hunter was flung back against the bar as two Aren wrestled his strong arms back, a third moving towards him with a blade. Jessop knew she had little time to make her move.
She leaped from her seat, charging swiftly toward the Aren set on impaling the young Hunter. To the cloaked disciple’s shock, she hooked her arm under his neck and kicked his feet out from underneath him. As he stumbled, she wrenched the blade from his grip. With a heavy throw, she lodged the small weapon expertly into the chest of one of the assailants holding the young Hunter’s arm back.
The Hunter tore his surprised gaze from her to the dying Aren clinging to him, gargling blood. He shoved his attacker to the ground before gruffly elbowing the other man holding him, bloodying the Aren’s nose before striking him in the chest. The Aren fell forward as the Hunter grabbed a bottle from the bar and beat it over the man’s head. As glass shattered and liquor spurted across the bloodied floor, Jessop couldn’t help but think him resourceful.
He shot Jessop a grateful, if not confused, glance, before grabbing his blade from the ground and continuing his fight. She watched him as he clashed with the fanatics—he moved with skill and grace, his star glass blade travelling silently through the air. The Hunters’ blades were forged with the pressurized sediment left over from star formations. The blades appeared as glass, each slightly different in color, but were harder than any material found in Daharia. The young Hunter’s sword was entirely transparent, crystal clear from base to deadly tip. It was beautiful.
She kept her eyes on him, while still easily deflecting any attack against her. Thirteen Aren against two Hunters was too many, thirteen against two Hunters and her, was just fine. She grabbed the shoulder of one Aren and quickly spun him around. He stared at her with shock.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer him. To see a woman intervene in an Azgul fight would be a surprise to any. She grabbed his wrist and disarmed him with a forceful twist of his hand. He lashed out with anger, hurling his spare fist towards her small face. She ducked and caught his arm with both hands, twisted at the hip, and kicked him viciously in the abdomen. He fell from her, winded. She knelt beside him and offered a vicious strike to his temple, leaving him unconscious.
She was on her feet instantly, turning just in time to grab the neck of the next Aren. She grabbed his wrist, holding his hand back, and then, quickly, released her hold on his neck, recoiled her hand, twisted her fingers into a fist, and struck back at the exposed flesh forcefully, punching him in the throat. The Aren coughed for air, grabbing at his windpipe. She took a step towards him, darted her arm past his face, and jerked it back, hitting him with her elbow. He fell to the ground.
She stepped over his writhing body and caught the eye of the young Hunter. He too had been watching her. A look of distinct admiration was in his eyes, despite being embroiled in his own fight; it was clear she had impressed him. She turned from him and found the hands of an Aren grabbing at her, coiling tightly around her neck. He lifted her off the ground and slammed her back against the bar. She could hear glasses shattering behind her, stools knocking against her legs and falling to the side.
She brought her arm up and over his hands, jerking downward until she leveraged his grip off of her. She kneed him in the abdomen, and as he buckled forward, she kneed him again, breaking his nose. He stumbled back and she crouched to the ground, spiraling with one leg extended and kicking his legs out from underneath him. She was standing, already in mid-motion for her next assault before he hit the ground. She kicked him swiftly and leapt over his body, her hands landing on the shoulders of one of the three Aren surrounding the older Hunter.
She spun him around and struck. She got his throat and elbowed his cheekbone. Holding his collar as she struck at him again, she looked to the old Hunter. “Get out of here—I’ve got this!” she yelled to him.
His aged cobalt eyes widened with suspicion. “Who are you?” He kicked one of the Aren back, seeming more concerned about Jessop than he was about his attacker.
The guttural cry of the young Hunter drew their attention—the young man was wounded. An Aren fell fatally from the Hunter’s sword, but he had left a dagger stuck in the fair Hunter’s side. The fight had gone on long enough. As the older Hunter ran past her to his wounded comrade, Jessop took a deep breath and closed her eyes; she concentrated on the feeling of electricity running through her, deep within her. The unadulterated power that she had long since learnt how to lose herself in—how to stay safe within the boundaries of.
She slowly exhaled. And with expert skill, she snapped the neck of the Aren before her, opening her eyes as he hit the ground.
She flicked her cloak to the side and found the hilt of her weapon. She drew the blade from its sheath and spun about, skillfully wielding the sword. The lethal piece was beautiful. Made of star glass, it was the only one of its kind—forged to be entirely onyx in color; the blade was black as night. She ducked low and spun on her knee, moving the sword around her in a circle, and came up behind an Aren attacker. She struck him down and stood as he fell from her weapon’s lethal edge, slicking the sword with his crimson blood. She bent her knees and quickly jumped atop the bar, dancing over glasses as she made her way towards the Hunters.
She flipped from the edge, curving her blade out as she spun in the air.
She landed on one knee, the Hunters safely behind her, the Aren before her. She remained crouched down as she brought her weapon’s point up into the diaphragm of the next assailant. He stumbled towards her and she spun on her knee out to the side, liberating her weapon from his dying body as she stood. The two remaining Aren descended upon her swiftly. She twirled, her cloak flying about her as she landed a roundhouse kick against one. He fell to the ground as the other, with surprising might, grabbed her from behind. His strong forearm locked around her neck and pulled her back tightly. Her leather boot slipped in a thick pool of blood and she struggled to regain her footing as the other Aren recovered, steadying himself before her.
She backed into the man holding her and thrust her sword outward, connecting with the second Aren’s side just enough to sting. He lunged at her, snarling wildly. She leaned back into her captor and kicked at the wounded man. She got his chin and forcefully sent him flying onto his back.
The silvery glint of the dagger caught her eye just in time.
The Aren holding her held his weapon high above her; ready to bring it down on her chest. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the energy between them—on her power—and, just as she had anticipated, the Aren shrieked in agony, dropping his blade to the ground, loosening his hold on her neck. Jessop snaked her sword about in her expert fingers, curved her body to the side, and thrust her sword inward, past her hip, into his abdomen.
She spun out of his grip, pulling her blade loose. He coughed, blood dripping from his lip, pooling in his gut. She remained in position with her sword extended out, perfectly parallel to the ground, her feet steadying themselves in the still-warm blood of her slain victims. She stood at the ready in a circle of the dead or dying. None of the attackers moved and she took a cautious breath, mentally assessing her body for injuries—she was mostly unharmed and the battle was over.
She cleaned her blade swiftly on her cloak and sheathed it before turning to the Hunters. The older was supporting the younger, applying pressure to his wound and they both stared at her with wild-eyed confusion, though the young one looked on through fluttering eyelashes.
The blue eyes of the old Hunter narrowed on her. “Tell me who you are,” he ordered.
She looked away from him to his wounded companion. She could see the blood shining over his leather. His paling face and slowing breaths were poor signs. “Your friend needs treatment,” she advised.
The silver-haired Hunter nodded, more concerned with his young friend than her identity. “Then help me get him some, girl.”
Jessop
flinched at the word, but nodded. She took a step towards the Hunters, and eased the young one’s arm over her shoulder, slowly pulling him away from the bar. It was only once she was close enough to support his weight did she understand why his skin seemed to shimmer like silver to her—he was covered in hundreds of scars.
“You saved us,” he whispered, his hazel eyes studying her. She smiled tightly at him, uncertain of how to respond, and then watched as he lost consciousness; his heart slowing caused her own to speed up.
* * * *
“This one,” the old Hunter barked, practically dragging them towards what Jessop believed could quite possibly have been the oldest Soar-Craft she had ever seen. She had no time to question the safety of the ship, as the silver-haired Hunter had already begun to push his wounded comrade into the vehicle.
She crawled over the door and into the back, trying to avoid the precarious metal prongs poking through the old vinyl seat cover as she awkwardly continued to help support the weight of the Hunter. The older man pushed his unconscious body at her gruffly, and she coughed as his young heavy frame collapsed against her, pinning her down. She freed her arms from underneath him, readjusting her sheath before fixing his head against her shoulder and pressing one hand against his wound. His hair had fallen loose from its knot and covered his face like a veil of gold. Without thinking, she stroked it back, smoothing it away from his soft skin. And then quickly retracted her hand.
She forced her attention onto the older Hunter as he leapt into the control seat. He fiddled with a compartment door and when it wouldn’t give under his rough grab, he let his hand hover slightly above it, and then—like magic—it popped open.
Jessop took a deep, controlled breath; this was her cue to confirm her beliefs about the Hunters. “You’re one of them?”
“Yes, I’m one of the Hunters of Infinity, girl. Can’t you see our sigil? Now here, take these,” he barked, tossing a pair of worn out leather goggles at her. She pulled the goggles over the young Hunter’s head, securing them over his closed eyes. The older man handed her a second set, and despite their frayed leather and browned screens, she pulled them on. She studied the sigil on the leather vest of the unconscious Hunter—she had seen the mark, she knew it well.
The older Hunter hit a button on the dash several times before another compartment opened up and a yoke ascended from it. As he grabbed hold of the yoke, a blue light emitted, scanning his hands.
“Welcome back, Hanson Knell,” the automated Soar-Craft voice crackled.
Jessop had heard the name many times before and she was actually somewhat shocked that of all the Hunters for her to have found, it was Hanson Knell. And if he was Hanson Knell, she could be certain that the fair, scarred young man lying unconscious in her lap was his mentee Kohl O’Hanlon. She could have mused over the knowledge further, but now was not the time—she was a nervous flyer in the safest of ships. She anxiously looked the vehicle over, and squeezed against Kohl O’Hanlon a bit tighter under the sputtering of revving engines.
“Is this thing sky-worthy?” she yelled up to Hanson Knell.
“It’s been safely navigating the Daharian skies since before you were born,” the old Hunter called back. He pulled on the yoke and the Soar-Craft began to shakily hover off the ground.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she grumbled, closing her eyes as they took off at a surprisingly quick speed for the old machine.
Hanson Knell navigated the Soar-Craft through the underground maze, where those who wished to go to such a bar had to park their ships. It didn’t take long for the old machine to gain a terrifying break-neck speed and soon they were whirring through the dark space, taking sharp corners and diving down steep descents. Jessop held the young Hunter tightly, pushing her cloak against his wound.
As they finally emerged from the labyrinth, the unmistakably red sky, where hundreds of other Soar-Craft zipped around them, blinded Jessop. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the unfamiliar crimson atmosphere of Azgul.
She wasn’t from Azgul, though she had been there for several days, preparing for this moment, where she would find the ones like her. She couldn’t help but think, as she looked down at the young Hunter’s blood, staining rivers into the lines of skin on her hand, that with all the violence that had already ensued, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
As quickly as the sense of certainty materialized it had disappeared, wrenching from her gut as the Soar-Craft dropped some sixty-feet in the sky to undertake a row of oncoming ships. Hanson Knell was either a brilliant or superbly dangerous pilot. He tore the old machine through the skies, weaving through organized lines of Soar-Craft, cutting off other pilots, making unsanctioned cuts and dives around Levi-Hubs, where other pilots, busy recharging their ships, yelled and cursed at them. Jessop didn’t care about the dangerous flying, the precarious Soar-Craft or the angry slurs of other pilots—all she cared about was the direction they were travelling in. She had confirmed who they were and she knew they were going to a place she had envisioned entering for many years.
Jessop could see it nearing in the red horizon, the building that mirrored the crimson light of the city, refracting red rays in every direction. The building that appeared like a needle in the skyline; slender, tall and reflective. The Glass Blade was the training center and home to all the Hunters of Infinity there had ever been, and all the Hunters of Infinity there ever would be. She narrowed her eyes at the architectural spectacle that she had only ever known through the thoughts of others and she wished she could remove her stained goggles to get a clearer look. The sickly sensation of fluid slicking her fingers drew her attention away from the nearing Glass Blade and back to the wounded Hunter.
She cautiously drew her cloak back and pulled at his leather vest. His tunic was saturated with dark blood. She pulled the hem up, narrowing her eyes on the injury as the wind whipped around his garments. The sheer amount of blood made it difficult to assess the actual injury, but with focus, she could see the small pocket of a wound, tucked in between the mounds of his red-stained muscular ridges. It amazed her how humans, Hunters or otherwise, were kept safe by the integrity of this fine skin, and one small slice was all it took…
The wound was bad, the blood loss potentially fatal. She covered the injury back up, pushing a handful of material hard against it. The abilities of the medical team at the Glass Blade were renowned, known of even where she came from. If anyone could save the young Hunter, it was the team residing within his own home. As if on cue, the gleaming reflection of the red sky against the glass-paneled building nearly blinded her and she looked down to the pale face of the Hunter, silently willing him to hold on just a little bit longer.
She looked ahead as they sped towards the glass, with no signs of slowing down, and no visible entrance. She knew the Hunter trick, but she could not pretend she was not put somewhat on edge by the nearing building. As her heart sped up, the old Hunter threw his hand, fingers extended and palm out, in front of him, making the mystical mark in his palm visible to the glass walls. And just like that, the glass seemed to melt, rippling as though burning, and a black hole, barely large enough for the Soar-Craft to fit through, opened up to them.
With a sudden sickening drop, the Soar-Craft ducked into the mystical entrance, enveloping them in darkness. The preternatural mark, burnt into the hand of the Infinity Hunters, was the only way to gain entrance into the Glass Blade. A building that housed the protectors of Daharia, and the Blade of Prince Daharian, or the Blade of Light, as they called it, needed such security measures. Although, Jessop knew, such measures had only been put in place after what had happened with Falco Bane all those years ago.
They soared down a pitch-black tunnel and it was clear that Hanson navigated the ship through such darkness by memory alone. Jessop, on the other hand, pulled her goggles off, able to see in the darkness just fine. She had been raised in darkness. It was more so
othing to her than any source of light could ever be. Just as she thought it though, a light did appear. A white glow in the distance illuminated a docking bay. Hanson zipped the Soar-Craft forward, bringing them in for an abrupt landing on the parking zone. Almost immediately, a team of white uniformed techs and engineers began yelling, angry, as they circled the ship.
“Knell, if we’ve told you once we’ve—” one began, but froze, his voice caught in his throat, as he saw Jessop and the fallen Hunter.
Hanson leaped from the craft, wrenching open a side door so that Jessop nearly fell out onto the hard floor. “Help me get him inside!”
Hanson and a group of the white uniformed men lifted the young Hunter from Jessop and quickly began to haul his unconscious body down the bay, leaving her, bloodstained, in the back seat. She quickly leapt out of the ship and ran after them, barely getting through the sliding automatic glass doors in time. She stared as Hanson Knell watched over his young mentee with fear, applying pressure to his wound and whispering under his breath to him. She could feel the combined concern of all of them, who clearly knew the wounded man and feared for his life. The second thing for her to learn about the young Hunter was that he was clearly beloved. The first had been that he was a half-decent fighter.
But her attention was torn as she lurched forward, unsteady on her feet as the floor beneath her began to rise. The steel metal platform on which they stood flew up a transparent chute, travelling through the Glass Blade, like a bead in a crystal clear tube. While she dug her heels in, the surrounding men seemed quite accustomed to the force.
They passed floor after floor of training rooms, engineer docks, labs, and workplaces, each one containing groups of men, all in the same uniform—black if they were a Hunter, white if they were not—all conducting different business. After several more levels were passed in which Jessop had seen a handful of young boys, some barely old enough to talk, undergoing martial training, the glass bullet came to a sudden halt, opening its doors to a medical floor.
