The Enhanced Series Box Set

by T. C. Edge

  The fires continue to flare up, spreading to the nearby trees and forcing some of our enemy to move. We ready to fire at them as they do, but find cover being granted by a sudden barrage. It’s a stalemate that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, all of us entrenched in our spots and unable to advance or retreat.

  Bjorn seems to know it. As a fresh silence falls, his voice lifts, setting a rumble to the earth.

  “Enough of this cowardly form of fighting, Rhoth,” he shouts out across the forest. “It doesn’t suit either of us. Let us fight with blade and axe and spear. This is how we hunt. This is how we should fight.”

  I blink through the smoke and see Rhoth’s jaw clench.

  “Lay down your firearms and step out,” he calls. “Then we will do the same.”

  “Ah, Rhoth, ever the manipulator. We drop our arms and step out, and you shoot us where we stand. How can we trust you, with all these nasty little Roosters dropping arrows into our backs? Tell them to retreat to their pathetic little village, and we will settle this as it’s meant to be settled. Men fighting men, without these squirrels spitting from the trees.”

  The next voice comes from on high, somewhere up in the lofty branches above me.

  “You threaten my village and my people, you dull-witted beast…why should we retreat when we so clearly have you on the ropes?!”

  It looks like Kervan’s fears have abandoned him and been replaced by swaggering bravado. I’m not so sure that insulting the man is such a good idea right now.

  “Stay out of this you tree-rat!” booms Bjorn. “Run and hide like you always do, let the men talk.”

  “Men?! You are not a man, but a monster!”

  Thunder-like laughter echoes from afar. “Yes, a monster I am. You come out from behind your leaves, and I’ll show you what a monster does to a mouse…”

  Kervan’s reply is to send an arrow right for the source of Bjorn’s voice. I see it whistle from above and slip skilfully between a dozen trees, before disappearing into the smoke. A crack of bark indicates that it didn’t find its mark.

  Bjorn’s bellow, however, suggests it got rather too close for comfort.

  “Stop with those little darts, you coward!” he roars. “Rhoth, what say you? Fight like men or let this vermin have his way?”

  I’m so invested that I’m shaking my head, praying for Rhoth to do the same in verbal form and tell Bjorn to stick the arrow Kervan just sent where the sun don’t shine. I look at Zander, standing next to me and quietly studying the exchange, and see in his eyes that he knows just what’s coming.

  “He’s going to agree?” I whisper.

  My brother nods.

  “With such men, a challenge like this cannot be turned down.”

  At that moment, Rhoth’s voice trails down the forested hillside once more.

  “Kervan, head back to the village,” he calls out. “Bjorn is right. This quarrel is between the Fangs and the Bear-Skins.”

  “No…” begins Kervan.

  “DO IT!” roars Rhoth. “If Bjorn should win, he will leave this place and never return. You village is safe. Bjorn, confirm.”

  “I confirm,” calls Bjorn. “I have no interest in your overgrown tree house, Kervan. Go running back home. This is no place for people like you.”

  The jibe must be hard to ignore, but Kervan seems to suck it up. I see him descend suddenly from the canopy above and slip to a lower branch. He guides his eyes straight at Rhoth’s.

  “You kill that beast, Rhoth. Make him suffer. Make them all suffer.”

  With those words hanging quietly in the air, he slinks away through the trees, and I hear a rustle of noise above to suggest the rest of the Roosters are going with him.

  Then, as if some silent order has been given, I listen as guns are dropped to the forest floor, all the way along our lines and in the distance too. The wind picks up, sweeping through the hills, blowing away the gathering smoke as the fires seem to calm.

  In the distance, stepping from behind their trees, I see the Bear-Skins come, drawing axes and clubs and knives from their leather belts and fur backs.

  And in their centre, the towering form of Bjorn appears, standing well over seven feet off the ground. He sets his eyes ahead, marches forward, and Rhoth does just the same.

  224

  The ground between the two tribes is quickly eaten up.

  Following alongside Zander, I slip right in behind the nearest Fangs and begin to think I’m quite heavily out of my depth. After such a long day, and so little sleep in recent nights, I’ve barely the energy for this sort of fight. And while these large men hold axes and spears and daggers as long as swords, I have nothing but the short, six inch knife I used to dispatch the leader of the Voiceless.

  Really, the only thing that I’ve got going for me are my Dasher powers, and given my state of fatigue, I doubt they’ll last too long. Sure, my brother can go all night, but I certainly can’t. And given my earlier assessment of his own lack of sleep, I suspect his powers might well be muted too.

  He sets his eyes to me as we approach, and can clearly see the many concerns splashed right across my expression.

  “This isn’t the fight for you, Brie,” he says. “Why don’t you return to the village as well? You’ll be safe there.”

  Despite the appeal, I immediately fix a glare to my face and say: “No way!”

  “Brie…I’m serious…” he continues, before being cut off as Rhoth appears.

  “Yes, girl, this isn’t your fight. And it isn’t yours either, Zander. We will fight, tribe on tribe. That is how it must be.”

  “But…you might all die! We can help!” I say.

  “No. Not this time. Return to your people, return to your war…”

  He marches off quickly, re-joining his men. Only about fifty metres away now, the Bear-Skins come, larger and fiercer than the Fangs, a force of beasts who have lured my adopted tribe into a trap.

  “They won’t win, Zander,” I say. “They’ll all be killed.”

  Zander seems conflicted too, yet I know his primary concern here is in keeping me safe, and getting back to the city.

  “Zander, we can’t let them die. We can’t.”

  He lays his hands on my shoulders to calm me, but I thrust them away and set off after Rhoth at a run. As far as I’m concerned, I’m part of this tribe now.

  And I’m going to fight alongside them.

  Zander comes straight after me, pulling me back again. The Bear-Skins are now close, moving through the nearest trees. Spears are being lifted and ready to be thrown. Axes are being threateningly waved.

  I see Bjorn appear through the thin veil of smoke, his large silhouette taking form. He stops, and his men stop too. And so do all the Fangs, lined up alongside each other. Fifty on fifty. As fair a fight as you’ll get.

  Standing head to head about ten metres apart, the two tribes spend a couple of moments glaring at their opposite man. In the middle, the two leaders plant their feet, both standing higher than all of the men under their charge. But it’s Bjorn that cuts the more intimidating figure, standing a foot taller than his counterpart and benefiting from a similar width advantage too.

  “We fight to the death,” booms the great bear’s voice. His eyes sway from side to side, looking upon the force of Fangs ahead. “None of you will leave this place today…”

  As his eyes take us in, through the line of men they stop. Standing behind with Zander still clutching at my arm and willing me to go, Bjorn’s dark eyes catch fire as they find me.

  “So, the girl-cub is here,” he growls. “And what’s this…the famous Zander, the twin. The boy who comes and hunts my lands and takes what he wants with his band of thieves. I knew not to trust you, Rhoth. You are in league with the enemy. And now you will die with them too.”

  “They are non-combatants,” growls Rhoth, lifting an arm to shield me. “This is a fight between tribes, not…”

  “NO, RHOTH!” breaks in the roar. “Your tribe do not deserve the hono
ur of the clash. We give you no such rights. You are a traitor to the tribes, to all outerlanders. You have made your bed with these people, and I will see them burn alongside you. Well…not all. I will take the girl for my own.”

  His eyes narrow and lips thin. I feel the energy in Zander pulse take flight, washing through his veins.

  Rhoth turns to us, and we all exchange looks. Both men draw smiles up their faces, the devilish grins of men who know that their enemy has just made a fatal mistake.

  Rhoth turns back.

  “If that’s the way you want it, Bjorn, then on your head be it,” glimmers his voice. “You are as dull-witted as you look. You won’t live to regret it.”

  Bjorn takes exception to Rhoth’s words, the fury of the Brute blood within him being set loose. He lets out a thunderous roar, lifts his giant battle-axe above his head, and begins stamping forward.

  His men come with him, those with short range weapons pouring from the trees as the lingering smoke whirls around their bodies. The Fangs with long daggers and blades do the same. Those with spears lift their arms and thrust with alarming efficiency and precision. Before the Bear-Skins even make it a half dozen metres forward, several have been struck through the neck, gurgling as they drop to the forest floor, clutching at the lances that impale them.

  A return volley of spears comes from the other side, but the Fangs are too swift. Their smaller size and more nimble skills have them moving around trees, shifting and shaping through the fog as they seek to outmanoeuvre their opponents. Those who have thrown their spears seek to retrieve them, drawing sharp knives from their belts as they surge into the centre of the battlefield to meet their enemy.

  It all happens so fast, and with such brutality, that I merely stand and watch and feel too frightened and awed to engage. My eyes stick to the centre of it all, where Rhoth and Bjorn size each other up like lions hunting their prey. They seem to have eyes for no one but each other. As Bjorn hurtles forward with impressive speed for such a beast, Rhoth lifts his spear and sets it loose. The big man is just quick enough to lift a mighty paw in front of his head, the tip of the spear embedding itself into his forearm.

  No bellow of pain leaves his chest. He draws his arm down, reaches across, and rips the lance from the bone. Dark blood mingles with dark hair, trickling down his arm and into his palm, before dripping from his fingers and into the dirt. His eyes blare with freakish intensity and he sets his tongue to the blood, smearing it across his lips and face in a manner that mimics the wild savagery of the feral denizens of these woods.

  Rhoth appears slightly cowed by the scene, perhaps expecting his skilled and accurate throw to make its mark. The speed of Bjorn’s reactions, however, is enough to have the great Fang stopping in his tracks and drawing out another weapon; a ragged-edged dagger about two feet long. He takes a breath and presses on, as Bjorn lifts his mighty axe aloft, ready to strike.

  I’m unable to do anything but gaze upon it all, until suddenly I feel myself being dragged away towards the safety of a nearby tree. A spear comes hurtling at where I stood, Zander seeing it early enough to move us away to safety.

  “Stay here, Brie!” he says. “Please…”

  I try to struggle off, but am held back. Then, with my attentions elsewhere and defences down, he sets his gaze on me, darts into my mind, and spreads an order through my consciousness.

  I’m unable to repel it, the order so simple and effective.

  Go back to the village. Now.

  He holds my shoulders firm against the bark, waiting for the order to fully set. Then, releasing me, I find my legs working me back up the hill, away from the battle, as my brother surges in the opposite direction.

  The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I can feel the order inside me, feel it forcing me to act against my will. My legs move without my input, dragging me north, but my head swivels around and looks upon the battle as I go.

  I see Zander spread into the action, a force of nature even among such people. With two knives set in his hands, he zips from one Bear-Skin to the next, slicing and dicing and stabbing each of them a dozen times until they’re unable to fight back.

  It takes more with these men than others. The thick fur and pelts that cover them are like armour. Their skin is tough, their reactions quick, their bodies thick with protective muscle. Zander aims for their necks, the weakest points he can find, slipping around backs and thrusting blades beneath the base of their skulls.

  I watch, and I know that Bjorn made a terrible mistake goading Zander to the fight. But then, as my legs draw me further away, and the thickening smoke and darkening skies begin to obscure my view of the battle, I see something that sets my heart aflame.

  My brother’s fury fades. His movements slow. The power of speed that imbues him only takes him so far, and with his focus on one man, another appears behind. I watch in horror as the hunter approaches with a tooth-encrusted club, and swings it right down on Zander as he puffs and pants and tries to dodge.

  The club connects, ripping into his shoulder and tearing at his flesh. The force is so powerful that he plummets across the battlefield, sending old leaves and twigs flying as his body slides through the scrub. The man with the club stomps on, standing about as tall as Rhoth and quickly covering the ground as he heads straight for my brother.

  He looks dazed, confused. He shakes his head of its cobwebs and tries to get to his feet. He staggers and falls backwards, hitting the turf once more.

  And all the while, my legs continue to drag me away.

  A fear presses through me unlike any I’ve ever felt. A fear of loss that would cut me down and destroy me. My brother lies defenceless, his gifts subdued. If I don’t do something he’s going to die.

  I shut my eyes, slip into my mind, and bellow in the darkness with a hidden rage. I rip myself from the shackles that my brother placed upon me, and feel my legs begin to slow and suddenly stop. I fill my lungs with a breath of smoky air and close my fists with such force my nails slice skin.

  I open my eyes. My body is free. I turn, and see the club-wielding beast hovering over my brother. He lifts the weapon as Zander drags himself away, set to send the heavy wood down on his skull.

  No. Not today.

  With a strange and sudden calm, the noise of battle seems to fade. I press the air slowly from my lungs and feel time begin to slow. My muscles vibrate, and down the hill not far away, the swinging club of the man begins to decelerate to a gentle pace.

  Drawing my knife, I run. I run at full speed amid a world in slow motion. All around me, a strange, otherworldly spectacle appears. Knives cut slowly into flesh. Faces contort in anger and pain, features wrinkling and changing shape in almost comical fashion.

  I see Bjorn and Rhoth still raging in their battle, the smaller man dodging beneath a swinging axe and preparing to counter with his blade. I see bodies lying amid the dirt, half-hidden within the mist and smoke. Bodies of Fangs and Bear-Skins numbering in the dozens, the battle quickly seeing an end to the two tribes’ weaker warriors.

  I see it all in a flash, because that’s all it takes for me to arrive at the man I’m here to kill. I draw close and realise how large he is, a mighty warrior with an aged face and scars beyond counting covering his face and forearms.

  As his club falls, my knife rises. I reach high and press it beneath his chin, and push as hard as I can to ensure it finds his brain. His eyes turn inside out, losing their life as they glaze to black pebbles, and as I pull the knife out, I finally take a breath and feel my power being to fade.

  The noise of battle returns; the clashing of metal and roaring of men. The man with the club collapses, his frame now a heap of dead flesh. I turn from him with no feeling at all and kneel down to my brother. His shoulder is cut up from the fangs of the club, his eyes still blinking and trying to regain their usual form.

  “Zander! Are you OK?”

  He begins to work through the shroud, and I coax an arm over my shoulder, lifting him to his feet and
helping him a little up the slope. I keep a watch on my surroundings as I go, but note the altering form of things. The Fangs are winning, their enemy now out numbered. What was once a one-on-one fight of fifty against fifty has become far more advantageous for my friends. Many little clashes now involve two of their number against a single Bear-Skin.

  And still, Rhoth and Bjorn’s battle goes on.

  I set my brother against a tree, just as he did me. He seems capable now of speaking, his faculties slowly returning.

  “I can fight,” he says, trying to push away from me and move back into the maelstrom.

  A strange swap has taken place. I press him firmly against the bark and say ‘no’ with a firmness that tells him he needs to stop here and rest a moment.

  “Stay with me,” he says, conceding.

  I shake my head and turn back to the fight.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” I say.

  I leave him there and re-enter the fray. I leap over bodies and with a surge of adrenaline begin to utilise the gifts given to me by my father. My eyes catch sight of any zipping spear or throwing knife. My speed lets me avoid all threats.

  I head for the nearest Bear-Skins I can see, and note that it’s West he’s in combat with. The young Fang swerves with skill and grace, his dagger flashing and cutting as the bigger man tries to cleave him apart with a thicker blade. I arrive to help but realise I’m not needed. With a quick dodge and thrust, West sends the dagger through his enemy’s chest, cutting through fur, pelt, flesh and organ.

  The Bear-Skin reaches for his stomach and looks up at West as he sinks to his knees. I see a strange appreciation in his eyes, as if he’s acknowledging that he’s been met by a better fighter, before he flops like a dead fish and breathes his last.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask my new friend, sliding in alongside him.

  He turns his gaze across the slope as Rhoth slips and slides, sniping at Bjorn like a gigantic snake.