by T. C. Edge
His eyes are wild. His face is stricken. His voice clatters with an order.
“We have to go!” he calls. “Now…we have to go!”
Now I hear more sounds.
Screaming.
Burning.
The rattle of gunfire from rusty weapons.
The mother stands to her feet, taking West’s hand. She scoops up a bundle, an old sack, and swings it onto her back.
The man stays in the doorway and snatches his own gun from inside. He snatches another, and I see it passed to another child, older than West, barely a teenager.
It must be his brother.
Father and young son aim the weapons out as the mother creeps away behind them, her hand clutched tight around West’s little fingers. From the boy’s eyes, the sight of a village comes into view, somewhere near the coastline on a bed of parched earth.
The heat is intense, the sun burning from above. It’s added to by the swirling flames that now roll from the many huts, the clear sky filling with a thick blanket of black and grey smoke.
The mother runs now, West alongside, as the gunfire continues. I see men swarming into the village, dressed as warriors, metal armour shielding them from the heat and glinting under the light. They pour forward, firing wantonly, killing without mercy, stripping the place bare.
Among them, I think I see a flash of fast movement. Someone surges through the camp like lightning, drawing a cloud of dust in his wake. A Dasher. Can it be a Dasher?
My eyes turn elsewhere, something else that staggers me. As the fire rages from the top of a hut, I see a man approach. He reaches out with his hands, and the fire seems to swirl and change shape, drawn towards his palms.
Then, in a sudden flurry, his hands swing at another shack, yet to be set alight. Until now.
The fire seems to bend to his will. It gallops from the burning hut and straight towards the next, his hands directing its path. West, watching things unfold as his mother drags him along, blinks in astonishment at it all.
And in my mind, I do the same.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never known of anything like it…
West’s eyes are dragged back again as his father and brother retreat behind, protecting them, guns pointing but not firing. They don’t want to draw attention.
I see where they’re headed now: dry tundra, littered with rocky canyons and pockets of bush. It seems a world away from anything I’ve seen. The colours of orange and brown and red dust are so different from the greys and greens that dominate these lands.
Their hut is on the edge of the village. They work themselves away but they’re spotted. Two men come at them, riding an old dirtbike, which buzzes like a giant wasp as it surges over the dirt.
The father has no choice but to fire. His gun crackles in his hands, but the bullets merely deflect off the armour of the men.
The man behind the driver lifts an automatic pistol. Its barrel bursts and bullets come pouring.
West’s brother is shoved to the side as his father steps in front of him, turning his back on the incoming men to protect his son. The rounds cut straight into his body, filling him with lead, killing him immediately.
West sees it all.
He screams out so loud it feels like his throat might split. I feel the terrible pain in him as his brother screams too, staring at his father’s dead body and roaring as he fires at the speeding bike.
His shots are wild, spraying everywhere. One catches the front of the bike, bursting its tyre. It flips forward, tossing the men through the air as they come tumbling down in a heavy heap of metal and red dust.
West breaks his mother’s grip.
He rushes to his dead father and drops to his knees. Cries still gurgle up through his raw windpipe. His eyes are barely able to see anymore for the tears that fill them.
He picks up his father’s weapon, so heavy in his little arms. Through blurred vision he aims at the two men, some of their armour broken free by their fall and exposing weaker points on their flesh.
His pulls the trigger and the rifle comes to life, the kickback far too powerful for the young boy to handle.
He can’t control it as his finger tightens on the trigger. The gun explodes with bullets and he falls backwards, still shooting and unable to see as his eyes blink hard to dislodge his tears.
Another cry pours out.
“Noooo!”
It’s from his brother.
West doesn’t understand what’s happening as the other boy rushes towards him and dives to the floor, pulling the gun from West’s grasp. The firing stops, and West watches his brother stand and move away; only a few metres away.
His mother now lies in the dirt too. Her body is bloodied and torn up.
She, like her husband, is dead.
And it was West’s gun that killed her.
I can hardly stay to watch any more, but can hardly withdraw either. The memory starts to fade, rushing away quickly as West’s brother grabs him and drags him off.
Away from the battle they go. Away from their dead parents. A father who died to save his brother. A mother who died by his own hand.
I feel a huge sense of guilt as I finally slip away, pulling myself out of his mind. Barely a second has passed in real-time as I return to the open plains. I hear the hunter behind me saying: “It’s no use, you won’t get anything out of him…”
But I barely hear him. I just look into West’s eyes and see the pain written across them. Drawn up by the memory I dragged to the surface of his mind. A memory he’s just been forced to see once more as I heartlessly watched it myself.
“I’m…sorry,” I whisper, staring at him.
His eyes don’t change. They merely stare as a single tear gathers in one corner, before gliding down his rough, tanned skin.
Then he turns away from me, and quickens his pace, escaping the terrible things I can do.
And as I’m left behind, I merely whisper again: “I’m sorry.”
166
I feel like the worst person in the world as we near the woods, and I return to the front of the pack alongside Rhoth.
The memory I saw in West’s mind was what made him who he is today. It made him mute. It ruined him, blackened him from the inside out.
The poor boy watched his father killed. He watched his entire village destroyed. He pulled the very trigger that led to his mother’s death.
And I’ve just made him see it all again, so clear as if it was happening once more.
I wonder what else he had to go through. The village looked to be so far away, hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles. A place on the other side of this great patch of earth once known as America, a land just as savage as these woods and wildlands beyond the city walls.
It must have taken them weeks to get here, maybe even months. And at some point on that journey, perhaps as they reached the final hurdle, West’s brother would have been killed too.
I wonder how it happened. And despite what I’ve just done, I can’t deny the urge to look again, this strange addiction I have to know it all, to creep about in people’s minds and discover everything I can about their pasts.
As I think about it all, and wander alongside Rhoth, his gurgling voice calls me out.
“Something’s happened,” he says, looking at me. “Your face is in pain.”
I try to change it, to crack a smile, but can’t.
“I just…I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Done what?”
I look back through the formation and see West, wandering vacantly along, lost in terrible thought.
“I saw into his mind,” I say, shaking my head. “I wanted to find out where he was from.”
“Ah, I see,” he says. “Then perhaps you know more than I do. The boy doesn’t speak much. I know he’s from the western coast. I know he has no family…”
“His home was destroyed,” I whisper. “His parents…died.”
I don’t want to go into detail. I don’t want to tell
him what he did. I shouldn’t even know this.
“Yes, I know. The lands to the west are cruel. All lands are cruel.”
“There were warriors,” I say, recalling it all once more. “They had some Enhanced with them. I saw a Dasher, and more…a man who could manipulate fire. I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“And you’re surprised?” he questions. “With all the things you can do…you’re surprised that there are others beyond your big city with all the lights? Oh, girl, there are many strange people in this world. I’ve seen things, and heard things, that perhaps you wouldn’t believe.”
I’m still shaking my head, trying to work it all out. All I can figure is that the man must have been a Mind-Mover, capable of telekinesis, imbued with the power to move objects with nothing but a thought. Such people are extremely rare, and I’ve never encountered one, but I thought they could only move physical objects.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps other elements can be manipulated by them too. Perhaps this man has learned to move fire, and water, and strong gusts of wind as well.
It’s all I can figure from what I saw.
“When you found him, he was alone?” I ask. “His brother was already dead?”
“He was. The little boy had been alone for days. He was lost. He had given up. He’d seen his whole world burn and die. And then, just when he neared this place, he’d seen his brother taken by a Shadow. It’s a miracle he was alive when I found him, cowering in the trees…”
A melancholy fills Rhoth’s words. They grow softer than I’ve heard them, his own expression curling in pity.
His eyes turn again to this boy, adopted as his son.
“Do you know where he was going?” he asks. I shake my head. He sees without looking at me. “He was going to your city. The great beacon, shining from afar. Many are drawn in by its light. But like moths to a flame, they don’t survive when they get too near…”
“I don’t…understand. People come to Haven from other lands?”
“Oh yes. They come from places like West. From terrible, cursed lands. They break free, and brave the wilds, and hope that they make it through. So many perils they face, and so few get this far. And then, when they do, I’ve seen what happens to them.”
“What?” I breathe.
His bushy brows descend, and his eyes darken.
“What do you think, girl? What do you think the guards on your walls do when they see these people coming? They don’t even have to think. They aim, they fire, and they kill. All some people want is refuge, a place to be safe. They think your city is that place. They don’t know they’re wrong until they’re dead.”
“I had no idea,” I say weakly. “I didn’t know people came…”
“They do. They come. They come and they die,” he says bitterly. “Only those who come through our woods are given a chance. We find them, and stop them, and sometimes they join us. West may have seen terrible things. But in the end, he is one of the lucky ones.”
As he speaks, the edge of the forest approaches. My thoughts tumble with fresh thoughts of the wider world, of the other forces of men out there, of the rumours that must pass from place to place about the city of Haven, a safe place in this otherwise brutal world.
What a terrible thing it is that it’s far from what it seems. That the rumours some people hear are so very wrong. That the one place that might seem safe is, in fact, as dangerous as anywhere else.
Once more, Rhoth’s voice spills into my ears.
“Change your thoughts, Brie,” he growls, inspecting my face. “We are about to enter the woods. You need to focus. Your life may depend on it.”
Then he turns, and a harsh whisper floods out towards his men.
“Tight formation. Watch the trees. You know what to do.”
Then he looks to me again.
“Stay right next to me,” he orders. “Use those eyes of yours, if you can.”
Then, as the clouds continue to sweep down from the mountains, and the air cools with a sudden chill, we step back into the Cursed Woods.
And straight back into the gloom we go.
167
It isn’t as dark as the previous day. How could it be, with the storm raging above and night so near.
Yet still, there seems to be a murk here that cannot be penetrated, regardless of the conditions beyond the thick foliage above. The leaves, so tightly wound together on tangled branches, rise up, layer upon layer, blotting out the natural light. After only a few minutes, I find my Hawk-eyes becoming useful, their ability to suck in all available light giving me an advantage that others don’t have.
These men, however, have something different. They have experience, their senses attuned to these conditions. They may not be able to see as far as me, but they can still search for movement, spot the tiniest flutter of a leaf above, or the rustle of a bush on the ground.
They can smell the air like I can’t. The scent of the various beasts here is familiar to them. To me, there’s just a musty, pungent odour in the air that I attribute to the thickening mist. To them, each individual smell is clear and distinct. Without the dripping rain from the previous night, the creatures that dwell here won’t be able to creep up on us so easily.
The sounds of the forest, something else that seems to merge together into a great, wild cacophony, is also decipherable to many of their ears. A cracking twig or the low hum of a growl, or the steady, seemingly silent breathing of a lurking beast, all seem louder to them than they do to me.
In the end, with such a band of them, someone will always know what’s coming.
The focus of the group is clear. Their eyes narrow and all conversations cease. Working through the tight jungle, not a word is spoken as the hunters move in a protective, watchful formation, every single degree of forest around us covered by at least a few sets of eyes.
We seem to take the same path as the previous night, although are able to rush along a fair bit quicker. Yet there’s a limit to how fast Rhoth will move, a fine line between haste and the sound that such speed creates.
Too slow, and you may linger here longer than you should. Too fast, and you may make too much noise, drawing in the beasts, and disturbing your own ability to hear them coming at the same time.
With decades of experience in such places, Rhoth leads the party with consummate skill. A deep silence pervades us as we trek, not a single man willing to lose their focus, even for a second.
It seems to work. We move through the trail like ghosts, swift as the wind and quiet as the night. An hour passes without intervention, the halfway point through the matted, twisted trees reached.
I begin to notice things on the path, gruesome remnants of our previous journey. I see blood, red-black and sticky, splashed against trees and fused in with the mud. I see bits of torn clothing, scattered here and there as they were ripped free from the bodies dragged away into the mire.
I expect to see more: flesh, body parts, perhaps, away through the trees, but see nothing of the sort. Such things don’t go to waste around here. Even the sight of blood is a rarity, yet to be discovered and licked away by some bloodthirsty fiend.
We continue on, and the tension levels seem to go up a notch. Muscles coil and tighten. Eyes narrow to squints. Nostrils widen and ears prick up, desperate to catch the slightest smell or sound.
I don’t know why the tension builds. I want to ask, but my voice won’t creep. Rhoth himself appears to hunch, his finger refusing to leave the trigger of his pulse rifle. He slows the pace and the troop fall in with the same step.
The bare whisper of noise we make dulls to nothing. The woods seem to lock in time, not a birdcall or buzz reaching my ears.
All goes silent. Rhoth stops.
I stand beside him as his spare hand lifts. Behind, the rest know the signal. Eyes stare and noses flare. Weapons hover towards the trees.
My heart is the only thing I hear. It’s so loud I assume the rest can too. I glance down at my chest and see it pres
sing out and in, throbbing. I try to take a deep breath to calm myself but don’t want to break the quiet.
I try to suck the breath in slowly, silently, but my pulse is too fast. It forces me to take a gulp. The sound seems to echo off into the trees, and with my Hawk-eyes I scan through the mist and murk and search for something, anything. Some reason for this sudden, inexplicable standstill.
And then, the answer comes.
It comes as a voice, drifting through the trees. A whisper from the distance that sounds like it’s right next to my ear.
“Rhoth…” it comes. “What are you doing in my woods?”
All eyes seem to spread to the source, just off to the right. As we turn, however, a series of clicks sound all around us, dozens of them filling the air at once. I recognise them immediately as the clicking of guns, a sound to intimidate, to tell us we’re surrounded.
The hunters turn back to their positions. Guns point out into the darkness. I strain my eyes and see faded shapes, hidden behind and within trees, and up in the branches above.
“Rhoth,” comes the voice once more. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”
It’s loud, or seems to be so. Perhaps only because of the sudden lull. I can’t see the source, and know it must be hidden away in the brush. Yet it comes so cleanly on the air, sweeping towards us from powerful lungs.
I look to Rhoth, who stares right out. He recognises the voice. His mouth curls into a snarl, angry perhaps for the predicament we’re in.
“Show yourself,” he says, his own voice different. It’s a growl, guttural. The one from the trees booms smoothly. “I know it’s you, Bjorn,” continues Rhoth. “Step out here where I can see you.”
There’s a short delay. All eyes continue to search for our enemy.
“I have a gun on each of your men,” comes the voice of the man called Bjorn. “And I have three on you. Order your men to lower their weapons and toss them to the trees.”
A round of looks are shared. The Fangs don’t want to submit. I search their feelings and a sense of dread engulfs me. Every man I look at believes to lose their weapons is death.
