“And a good morning to you as well…”
Two comrades from Zelta Squadron were in the beds to the left of his own; Saniya, the woman who had spoken, and next to her a male, Torjan. Saniya was of an olive skin tone, with light brown hair curled up into dreads. She possessed a scar stretching vertically across the left side of her face from the forehead down into her thin lips. Torjan was an exceedingly large man. Still a boy in fact, Syros had to often remind himself. Torjan was actually younger than Syros, but his sheer size fooled many into thinking him older than he was. He stood at six feet seven inches tall, of black skin, a completely shaven head and an enormous midriff with arms each the size of large ale barrels. Many presumed Torjan fat, but Syros had arm-wrestled his stocky friend numerous times on drunken nights out in the Asterleigh taverns, as well as engaging him in swordplay in the training camps; he was nothing but pure muscle. Both had concern etched across their faces.
Syros wanted to lie and say he was fine, but he knew panic and shock was what he was still unwillingly portraying. He tried to hide the tears as they formed in his eyes. He felt so much anger with himself. He was supposed to be all steel, but steel doesn’t cry. That was something only life forms did. Saniya sat down on the side of his bed and placed a gentle hand on him; her touch was smooth and comforting, much like a mother’s.
“It’s okay, Sy, we all have messed-up dreams sometimes,” she said as she stroked his shoulder back and forth. He considered her bright blue eyes. Without the scar she would be very pretty, he found himself thinking. Within this moment he got an inexplicable urge to kiss her. Saniya was two years older than him at seventeen and had never before shown him any sign of tenderness. In fact, she acted like she outright hated him most the time.
He slapped her hand away, unnerved by the sign of affection.
“Oww!” she yelped. “Sorry I even tried. It’s nice to see you show some emotion for once.”
“What do you care about my emotions?”
“Sometimes you make me so angry.”
“Good.”
“You’re a dick.” She punched him on the shoulder. Despite Saniya’s slim build, the power she used in her punches never failed to amaze Syros. He no longer worried about his fist because now there was a much greater pain. Syros considered whether he was going to hit her back, but before he could decide she stood up from the bed and violently pushed past Torjan, leaving him alone with his heavyset comrade.
They sat together on their beds quietly before Torjan broke the elongated silence with the question, “Want to get some fresh air?”
“Yeah,” Syros grimaced while rubbing his shoulder, attempting to quell the aching.
The two of them strolled out onto the stone-paved streets of East Asterleigh, dressed in the gold-braided purple military uniforms of Zelta Squadron. Syros studied the sky; surprisingly, it was only two nights since one of the worst storms he could remember. He queried it now the suns were out, central in the almost cloudless blue veil. Asterleigh seemed so different on a sunny day, tranquil and peaceful; plants looked to have more life and people walked around with happier expressions. It even appeared as if the great Medzu statue was smiling. Syros had always questioned divine intervention. To him, the idea of enormous cosmic gods dictating all life within the universe was completely ridiculous. However, that was until he moved to Asterleigh and saw the Medzu statue with his own two eyes. As tall as a mountain and resting upon never-moving wool-like clouds, the statue was beyond most people’s comprehension. It had no eyes, indeed no eye features of any kind, but what seemed like an endlessly spinning spiral filling the entirety of its rounded head. It had hands and feet like a human, only much bigger. Its thin body was made up of strange textures and patterns. They’re like diamonds of a deep shade of indigo, Syros thought to himself whenever he saw it, and they’re always shining, no matter what. Throughout the darkest of nights the light of the statue was always emanating, leading even the most stumbling drunkard back home. He often had a small chuckle watching the faces of tourists as they saw the inconceivable statue in the sky for the very first time.
Maybe it wasn’t a statue, many questioned, but Medzu itself sitting perfectly still in the heavens. The statue was too grand to have been made by sentient life – human or other; the body did not seem to be either wood, stone or mineral of any kind. Moreover, why do the clouds never move, no matter if in wind or storm? The clouds around the one on which it sits dissipate, so why not those ones? It must be divine intervention, but if Medzu does exist, where is it? And if it exists does that mean the other gods of legend also exist? A question from Torjan brought Syros’s thoughts free-falling back down to the ground of Vena.
“You off to see your cute florist girlfriend?”
“Her name’s Dashera.”
“Of course. If only you would hold your tongue when talking about her, I could get some rest during the nights.”
“Whatever…”
“I was joking! You know, Sy…” Torjan paused for a moment, considering whether he should continue. “You’re not very easy to be friends with.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because I like you.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Did you go to your grandfather’s farm last night to see Ednon?”
Syros nodded. He was still filled with guilt over how the situation had played out. He knew he must have upset both Ednon and his grandfather with the way he had acted. He was beginning to suspect the horrid dream he had was retribution from the universe for how coldly he had behaved towards the old man. He did not hate Ira by any means and didn’t understand why he said that he did. They just held different ideals. He was wrong to call him a coward as well. If there was one thing Ira wasn’t, that was a coward. His grandfather had been one of the first to voice opposition to the military campaigns and to call for a peace between the humans and the Alpelites. And for doing so, Ira was often scorned and mocked. He stayed true to his convictions no matter how unpopular they were and that was its own type of bravery.
Torjan slapped him on the back. If it had been anyone else Syros wouldn’t have minded, but his friend had hands the size of small boulders and enough strength in them to carry one twice the weight of him. So, try as he might, Syros couldn’t prevent himself from giving a small yelp.
“Cheer up, Sy!” Torjan roared from his belly. “Suns are out, you’re off to see your cute florist girlfriend, and in a month or two we’ll probably both be dead, killed by some pissed-off Alpelite. Life’s not that bad, eh?”
Syros thought this over and gave a rare smile. “That’s if Saniya doesn’t kill me first.” And they laughed. Other Asterlieghians looked over towards them, wondering what the commotion was.
“I hope I didn’t upset her too much.”
“Well… ” Torjan beamed from ear to ear. “I think she becomes sensitive with things concerning you.”
Syros understood what his friend was getting at; the thought disturbed him, not because he found Saniya unattractive, quite the opposite. He had always considered Saniya to be a close friend, for joking, drinking, war fantasies and wrestling – most of the time, he completely forgot she was a girl at all.
“What about you? She’s single and you’re single.”
“She’s not my type.”
“Why? Even with the scar she’s still very pretty.”
“Yeah, I know… she’s just not my type.” Nervousness had appeared in Torjan’s voice. “I’ve got to go, Sy. I’m spending the day with my Ma and her husband. Say hello to Dasyian for me.” He ran off down the street, the ground practically shaking underneath his sheer weight.
“It’s Dashera!” Syros shouted after him.
Left alone to his own devices, and without the distraction of his loud, ever positive friend beside him, Syros sunk deeper into anger. The thought of that night many years ago, still playing through
his head, allowed darkness to enter him. He now could not wait for his first battlefield, to swing his sword and take an Alpelite life. The thought of doing so almost made him salivate. He pictured piercing his blade through the heart of a cowering Alpelite begging for forgiveness, then soaking himself in its blood. He snickered gleefully as he walked through the marketplace. Soon, after all these years, his fantasies were going to become a reality.
He became so excited he kicked viciously at a fruit stand, causing it to collapse and all the produce to flow into the streets. The owner, an elderly woman, made a motion to shout before quickly stopping herself after noticing Syros’s military uniform. All the other civilians glanced away nervously. There was a growing voice of discontent at the heavy toll of death and the taxes needed to fund the state’s expansionist policies. Views led by men like Syros’s grandfather, longing for change in the make-up of the military state led by a single person – the Supreme Leader.
Syros had never seen the Supreme Leader; he didn’t know if they were male or female or what skin colour they had, and he did not even know their age. All he knew was the last name – Gibbon. Syros often made enquiries about them to his superior and captain, Lars Raynmaher, who shook his head each time Syros brought it up, saying, “I don’t know anything. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” He did get the information about the last name on the night of Sechen’s passing the previous year when he, Torjan and Saniya had found the General of the Eastern Border blacked out drunk in Mundie’s Tavern. After promising to buy more pints of ale, the three of them together managed to prise the information out of him.
Dashera was in the midst of opening her flower stand. There were many different flower stalls within the marketplace. Syros had often suggested she should try a change of product to gain more of an income; the best suggestions he could usually muster ranged from an open-air tavern to an arm-wrestling stand, where people would be able to see if they could best Torjan. Dashera normally shot him down with an angry glance, telling him to “Shut up.” Tall and slim, she was five years older than Syros at the age of twenty, with long blonde hair, pale white skin and bright green eyes. He reached out and groped her backside, but was unnerved to see her recoil away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sensing what was going to come.
“Why did you kick over that old woman’s stall?” she said angrily. “Why would you do something so heartless?”
“Not sure,” he said, with a devilish grin. “I guess I must be excited.”
“That’s psychotic,” she said, while organising the sunflowers, zinnias and orchids into their respective pots. She sighed to herself. “Tonight’s the night… the night you leave on military duty?”
“Yes, does that make you feel pride?”
“No” she responded sharply. “No, it doesn’t… why do you have to go, Sy?”
He felt his blood boil once more. Why did they all ask him that?
He considered her bright green eyes. “You know why…”
Dashera had a pained demeanour as she returned his deep stare. “I felt so much sorrow for you, you know, when you first told me what happened to your village and your parents. I cried so much for you… I thought I could help your hatred, I really did, but it’s only grown over time. Truth is, you scare me, Sy. You’ve always scared me…” She finished apprehensively, picking up a handful of red tubers before placing them in their designated area.
Scare her? “You will be thankful for my hatred one day. Hatred isn’t a curse, it’s a gift. The only thing stopping the Alpelites from destroying our way of life is the hatred we have for them, giving us the strength to fight back.”
“So, hate once again fights hate. For how long have we tried that?”
“Okay, let’s say we give the Alpelites what they want.” He motioned with his arms. “Their land. What do you think will happen? They will let us move to some other distant part of this world? No, they will slaughter each one of us, because they hate us, and that’s only natural.” He pointed to her flowers, which she had sorted into bunches. “We remain in packs always – it’s the way of all life and nature. The Venians are together in the forests, the Willtors in the underwater kingdoms and the Alpelites occupy the mountains. It’s the way of life to stick with one’s kind. There is no natural home for us on this planet so we must fight for one.”
Unlike many of the staunch members of the military, Syros was of the belief human beings had not originated from this planet. With that, he held one thing in common with the pacifists. He had read enough evidence in books to see humans were not a part of Vena’s past. However, although he acknowledged that humans may have done the Alpelites wrong by unlawfully taking their land, this did not make Syros feel any sympathy towards them. You must take what is necessary for a species to survive. Survival is the only thing that matters in life whatever the cost – that does not make you evil or unique, it merely signifies the fact that you are living.
“The Alpelites are not the enemy…”
This infuriated Syros, who was looking at her with nothing but hatred. They weren’t the enemy? He had never heard anything so ridiculous.
“What do you know? The Alpelites are nothing but savages. I’ve witnessed it with my own two eyes. All you’ve ever known is the safety of the capital and your fucking flowers!”
A crowd was circling around them. Wrong time to do this, he thought to himself. It was surprisingly warm and sunny, plus the first day of the New Year was always the busiest in Asterleigh. There must have been hundreds of people walking throughout the marketplace.
“I feel for you, Sy, I really do. I hope you don’t always remain so full of hate…”
Her condescending pacifistic nature was the last straw for Syros. He struck her across the face as hard as he could, causing her to fall back into her stand.
The crowd that had been drawn by the noisy bickering let out a collection of gasps and shouts. An enormous stallholder from a neighbouring stand, almost the size of Torjan but twice his age, came running over and laid a heavy punch across Syros’s head, making him stumble backwards in a daze.
“You military dogs,” the man snarled. “Thinking you can always act as you please. Come on, punk, why don’t you test yourself against someone who will fight back!”
He was sizing up for a fight, which Syros normally would have accepted as he was always up for a good scrap, but the powerful blow had caught him off guard. He felt as if he were about to lose consciousness.
Stumbling back and forth, Syros went to his sheath and withdrew his sword. The crowd that had circulated around them quickly dispersed, with startled yells of “Mad man” and “Monster.” He had completely lost control. He was going to do it; he was going to cut the man’s head off and show it to the crowd.
“Stop!” Dashera had risen to her feet, the right side of her face beginning to visibly swell. “Go home, Sy, and not to the military camps, but back to your grandfather and brother.” She sounded genuine in her care.
Syros stopped himself, cursed at her, before placing his sword back into its sheath, and then stumbled his way through the crowd who were separating to make a path. He felt all eyes staring at him, passing their judgement, but he did not care, because deep down he knew he was better than each and every one of them. He knew they also felt this – So keep on fearing.
“You’re a real killer,” hissed a cold voice.
The words came from Mercivous, one of Syros’s comrades of Zelta Squadron. He had chalky white skin and sunken eyes with constant black bags; his chin and nose were pointed and sharp, and his long hair silver, despite his young age. Usually ever silent, Mercivous appeared to have lost all humanity many years ago. The only time Syros ever saw his ghoulish brother-in-arms express any emotion at all was when he witnessed violence or was administering it himself. He was leaning on the wall of a nearby alleyway, soaking in the entirety of the whole crazed pantomi
me.
“I could tell when I studied your eyes, the first time I saw you.” Mercivous gave an unnerving smile. “You’re just like me.”
Syros kept silent, unsure of how to respond. He had lost all previous indignation; it was now the sensation of fear that overtook him, coursing through his very being.
“I look forward to sharing this upcoming campaign with you. I believe it will be most interesting…”
I’m nothing like you, Syros thought to himself, watching the icy cold figure of Mercivous as he slowly immersed himself into the shadows of the alleyway. I’m not a monster. He questioned this again, with the events that had just transpired, and Dashera’s warm, beautiful face that he had only moments ago bruised.
“I’m not a monster…” he whispered, experiencing a feeling as frosty as winter form inside his stomach.
3
Phantom in the Library
“What are you doing?” A high-pitched voice pulled Ednon out of his trance. He opened his eyes to see his next-door neighbour Amelia peering at him inquisitively.
“Meditating.”
“Why?”
“Ira tells me to do it every morning,” he paused and smiled at her. “He told me it improves my attention span while helping me forge a deeper connection with the universe.”
The suns were beaming down upon them. Ednon was sitting in the middle of the open fields surrounding his farm. He came out here every day, once in the morning and once again at night. Ever since he could remember, Ira had always taught him the benefits of taking time out of the day to create a mental state of nothingness. His grandfather had also tried to teach Syros the same lesson, but his brother grew weary of such incorporeal exercise and stopped. He once stated to both Ednon and their grandfather that he no longer wanted to waste his life with “nothing” and would be putting his time to better use, which usually involved finding a makeshift punching bag or sharpening whatever objects he found lying around.
To Tame the Sentry Being Page 3
