by James Hunt
"Fuck me," Ut'van breathed, equally flabbergasted. "No wonder they hated you." Katral slapped him upside the head.
"We were hunted." Eola said breathlessly. "To extinction... I..." she took a deep steadying breath, swallowed her painful past and her fears so she could continue. "I've lost many friends and children to Lunarin arrows over the centuries. The poisoned arrows kill too quickly to cure, and we are never given a chance to flee." she said, darkly bitter. An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. No one dared speak after that. Those Lunarians present were clearly shamed by their shared history.
"It used to be a beautiful ceremony," Eola said wistfully. The anger, fear, and grief over the past was eventually replaced with fond remembrance. "Kin surround you. Wish you well, make their apologies they did not have time for, some might even confess an unspoken love." She smiled longingly off into the distance. "Then they would leave, lock me inside with the deceased. I would take care to clean the bones properly so they could be laid to rest peacefully. When I finished, I would knock thrice, the door would open, and as I left the wishers would lay a hand on me as if to say Thank You without a word before they tended to what remained." The mood had turned somber, and most gathered were looking at their cups or at the ground. Kelria rolled over, hugged onto Eola's leg for support and said rather drunkenly.
"You have my permission to eat me." She managed with some grace. Laughter returned with some uncertainty. Even Ranyen stood and lifted his cup.
"With the alternative being that I might drive myself mad with all that I've done and be forced to walk the earth forever as a Wraith? Aye! My Lady, please eat me too!" He toasted with a sarcastic laugh. Slowly one by one the few other Lunarians humorously raised their cups.
"Eat me!" they laughed.
"Eat me good!" they chuckled.
"Eat me down to the last drop." Their lewd joke now apparent. Eola's sad expression turned to indignation and she crossed her arms over her chest in a huff.
"Harump!" she mocked them. "I have standards!"
Tamain smiled softly, as only he could hear the barely contained whimpers of sad joy hidden behind that curtain of indignation.
Forgiveness. It was about bloody time we got it started.
*****
For the fifth time that night, her hands drifted to his cock and started to play with it. Trent grunted and rolled away from her. He wanted to sleep, and she was insatiable. But the moment he did so, his half asleep mind regretted it, as another pair of hands drifted to his cock and picked up where the others had left off. Groggily he sat up, managed to crawl out of bed from between them, found his robe in the darkness, and pulled it over his head.
"trouble sleeping?" one of them said with a hint of mischief in her voice.
"...piss." he muttered, lying. "have fun without me." He opened the door before the two twins could protest. Not that they would, they were all too eager to entertain one another. This had been going on for a couple of days, and he was getting too sleep deprived to indulge their desires anymore. What had started out as a slut's wet dream made reality was becoming a curse and souring his mood more than usual. Two Zeks was too many. Two too many, he was coming to realize.
Trent made his way down the footpaths to the latrines, finished his business, and wander out into the middle of the training yard. The moon was half full but bright, his sleepy eyes could adjust and make out the ground, sand, grass, dirt, stones and all. The air was cold. Dawn would come soon. He slowly raised his arms up, spread his feet, and fell into a bare handed fighting stance. He maintained his form and posture until the weariness of his back and shoulders abated. The cold air made his breath float about in the air. Trent shut his eyes and ignored the rest of his senses...
A hand tapped him on the shoulder and his body jerked suddenly. Trent opened his eyes to a bright morning sun and the chirps of birds. Garen was standing beside him dressed in his training trousers and vest. Trent closed them again with a grunt of annoyance. Slowly, Garen circled Trent, watching him, looking at him, waiting for something to happen that never did. When he came back to the place he was standing when he first woke him, he struck.
Trent deflected the punch for his face with his arm and countered with his own open palm strike to Garen's chest. It connected. Garen gasped more in surprise than from the force behind it, countered by grabbing Trent's wrist and spun around to throw the man over his shoulder. Trent's body went limp, and he soared gracefully over. The instant his feet touched the ground, his whole body curled into action using the momentum to pull Garen over Trent's shoulder. Garen landed with a thud and a grunt, but recovered by sweeping his legs around in a circle to knock Trent off his. He was too slow, and Trent was out of range, poised for another strike just as Garen rose to his feet.
Fully awake and aware of each other's readiness, they circled one another, waiting for the right moment to strike. Garen broke first, striking his fist at Trent's face. Trent threw an arm up and blocked it, following it with a counterstrike at Garen's elbow, but Garen countered. The two men exchanged blows back and forth, each equally matched at dodging, blocking, and counter-striking, and neither landed an effective hit.
Garen's traditionally disarming smile was absent from this fight. His countenance was utterly serious, and for the first time since they began Trent was wondering why they were fighting. Such sparring sessions were common, as were ambushes. But something about this felt off.
"You've gotten better." Garen commented, slightly winded. Trent was calm, eerily calm. "But it's not the training. You haven't had any new lessons. Just chores, and practice." Garen changed his stance to a wider step. Trent recognized it as one of the weapon styles, but Garen was unarmed. He watched one of Garen's hand go behind him to the small of his back. Trent knew then that he was armed. The weapon would come out when he struck, and not before.
Trent dove forward with his arm thrown back to strike, Garen brought the knife out in one fluid motion meant for Trent's neck. The punch was a feint, Trent had his weight on the wrong foot when he was within range, and was able to duck under and sweep Garen's knee at the same time. The kick met with little resistance, as Garen turned his body at the last moment to minimize the impact. Trent's free hand had caught Garen's blade hand at the wrist, and he snaked the other under Garen's chin until his elbow was under it and he pulled hard, arching the man's body backwards. The danger to this move, was that he was locked into it until Garen passed out from blood loss to the brain, and until the he was at the mercy of Garen's other hand, even if it was mostly out of range.
Garen jumped. Flipped his body over, breaking the hold, and dislocating his shoulder in the process. And with his free hand picked up his knife and took a more deadly stance. His intentions were deadly serious, this was not a sparring session. Trent backed away uncertainly, but kept his confusion and concerns out of this fight. Garen had started it, and Trent would end it.
"So what has changed?" Garen asked in all seriousness, expecting an answer. Trent reflected for moment. He had gone through some changes ever since she came into his life.
"I stopped feeling safe." Trent answered. Garen relaxed, put away his weapon, and stood up.
"Good." Garen said. He grabbed his lame arm by the bicep, twisted and yanked in one precise movement until there was a loud pop, followed by Garen's grunt of relief.
"Are we done here?" Trent said irritably.
"No. The Father summons you. Come with me."
"Shit." Trent muttered and reluctantly followed his senior, albeit at a respectful distance now.
Master Conner was waiting for them outside The Father's study. He looked none too happy to see Trent, but he knocked once on the door before opening it. The three men filed in by rank. Trent respectfully closed the door behind him. The room was small and sparse, a long writing table sat in the middle of the room, wooden chests with numerous drawers sat waist high and symmetrically along both walls. There were no chairs, as this room was designed in the old ways of the T'ien Lun
monks that first founded the Monastery, and not the Greiggor Kingdom that had later taken over the land. Whatever business The Father did in here, he had put it all away and cleaned the room for whatever ceremony or event that was now about to take place.
Three pieces of parchment were placed at three positions on the table opposite The Father. A writing brush and ink stone accompanied them. The Father did not look up at them, but stared blankly at the table lost in thought. Conner took a seat on the floor before the first blank parchment. Garen followed his lead, and Trent sat down last. Only once they were seated did The Father look up.
"Write for me the T'ien character for Cha." He instructed. Conner and Garen immediately took up the ink stick and began grinding the ink stone in the stone well into a powder. Trent followed their lead. When they realized there was no water to mix the powder with, Garen drew his knife, sliced his palm and let the blood drip into the mixing well on the stone. Conner did the same. Trent spit into his. Yet The Father did not reprimand him. All three wrote the character flawlessly on their paper.
"Write for me the T'ien character for Jhun." The Father instructed. "Place it before Cha." Writing backwards was unusual, but after all three did so, they looked to the writing and realized it spelled something unexpected - Hyan-Gyarr.
"Written this way, Char becomes Gyarr, and Jhun becomes Hyan." The Father explained, but all three had already understood this. This was clearly becoming some sort of ceremony to Trent. He wasn't sure what this was for, or why he was even here sitting next to two Masters, while he was a lowly initiate. "Gyarr. 'Chaos'." The Father read. "Gyarr. 'Person responsible for."
"We, the Huangard. Take our namesake from this meaning. What does this word mean to you, Master Connor?" The Father asked.
"A person who causes change." Connor answered.
"What does this word mean to you Master Garen?" The Father asked.
"A man who brings equal calamity and prosperity." Garen said thoughtfully.
"What does this word mean to you Initiate Trent?" The Father asked. There was no scorn in his voice, and that made Trent even more uncomfortable.
"A disruptor." Trent said plainly. He thought he saw The Father's eyebrow twitch angrily, or maybe it was surprise. "I read it as a person that causes disorder. If I wanted to imply great calamity I would have used a different symbol."
"Oh? Such as?" The Father indulged him.
"Shen, Fyo, - 'earthquake'" Trent said offhand and started to wrack his brain for others but the look in the Father's face told him to immediately stop there.
"Trent has been chatting with Rad it seems," The Father said sternly as his tranquil brow turned to a dark scowl. "Normally I would kill him for disobeying me, but it seems it has paid off and he has learned something important. We are also known as Disruptors. And that was pretty smart, boy. But reckless. You almost had her killed"
"Gotten her killed?" Trent said confused.
"Yes," The Father said condescendingly. "Without you around to keep her occupied, do you think the rest of us would tolerate a Zek?" The old man snorted derisively. He cleared his throat loudly and looked to the other Masters. "This paper is your writ to take the last trial. You will either succeed or die trying. Your days of training are over." The Father said getting back on track. "Take it with you. Ready yourselves. At noon be at the chapel. Helrith will open the catacombs for you. Your trial lies at the bottom. Now go." He bowed his head ever so slightly and stayed there. Both Masters bowed theirs lower, and Trent was forced to slide back from the table so that his forehead could touch the floor without first hitting the table. Garen and Connor rose to their feet and. Trent stayed behind.
"Father, may I ask a question?" He said respectfully and meekly. This honor was not meant for him and he did not know why he was selected.
"Trent, I'm weary of you disappointing me. This trial is meant to kill you and get you out of my hair. Now go." The Father waved his hand dismissively at the young man. Trent bowed again and left without another word.
The rest of the morning was a nervous, anxiety filled blur as he walked the grounds in thought. The piece of paper was still clutched in his hand. He was not a Master. He did not have their experience and training. He could fight, but nowhere near as well as a Master. Is there any reason he could see this as anything other than a death sentence?
"Why not just kill me?" Trent muttered out loud. He froze in his steps and looked around to see if anyone had heard him. None had. No, he was right he realized. This was too expensive a death trap to waste on him. Surely there was another Master ready to take the trial? So why him? Trent decided it was The Father's way of giving him one last chance to prove himself. He didn't feel like proving himself anymore. He didn't even want to be a part of this place. But, there was no other choice. Escape was impossible. If he went anywhere near the walls, even if he managed to get over one it would be a dead run for many long minutes to make the tree line outside the Monastery. He would have been run down and killed by one of the Masters on guard duty. Ever since The Mischievous freed her sister from Helrith's clutches, the wall guard had double. Damn her. Everything was fine until she showed up.
Trent sighed the moment he thought it and knew he was wrong. Everything wasn't fine, he was just oblivious to the evil around him. It was because of her that his eyes were now opened to it. He owed her. If he was going to die in a few hours, he should say his goodbyes and tell her to flee.
Trent found one of The Mischievous still asleep in his bed. He decided not to wake her. But instead changed out of his robes and into his training clothes. She roused from the slight noise he made. After a long happy purr while she stretched, during which she showed off her curvy dark skin and full breasts, Trent found himself wanting one last hard fuck from her. But he knew better. He was tired enough as it was.
"They're sending me to take the last trial." He said, turning away from her as he pulled on his clothes. She propped herself up on one elbow and ran her fingers down her side and over her hip, trying her best to compel him to cease what he was doing, reverse course of action, and join her. "It's a test only the Masters can take. For some reason they picked me this time. The Father thinks it will kill me and rid him of my inconvenience."
The Mischievous sat up and look away as she processed this. Her mind worked in dark, devious, and dastardly ways, and sometimes she uncovered secret intentions that Trent missed. But this time her deliberations lasted long enough for him to finish dressing and pull his shoes on.
"They need you to become stronger than you are now. They need this now." She finally said, trying to give him hope. "If the Father wanted you dead, you'd be dead. He has no need to hide it. If Helrith wanted you dead, you would be. No, you..." she paused when she caught sight of something. She rose to her feet, letting the rough blanket fall to the floor and walked to him. She touched his arm and examined the deep bruises forming down his forearm. "You were already tested, and you passed."
She smiled. It was a genuine smile. And it was the first time Trent had seen that. She touched his cheek and drew him down for a loving kiss. That too, was a first. Trent wanted to throw her against the wall and take her in all kinds of different manners. But the surreality of her tenderness had the effect of a splash of cold water. This was how she showed that she was worried for him. Or worse, actually loved him.
"If you're going to leave, do it now. Don't wait for me. If I survive this, I'll be right behind you." he finally mustered the courage to say.
"We'll wait until tonight." she said and bid him farewell in Zecairin fashion. Trent had to push her away, before she pulled him in. But The Mischievous would not be denied and took his hands from her shoulders and squeezed her breasts with them.
"We'll do that, and lots of that, after we're free of here." He said out of breath from her passionate lip-lock. She certainly knew how to get his blood boiling.
"Good. Keep that in mind when you fear the worst." She said seriously and turned away from him. "Use that as power to ke
ep you... hard." she said with a knowing glance down at his bulging trousers. "We will have our escape route mapped out when you get back."
Trent turned and left his quarters in a hurry. He still had plenty of time before noon, but if he stayed in that room any longer with her, he would end up being late.
When the appointed time came, he found Helrith waiting for him near the stone altar on the dais in the back. Only the alter had moved aside revealing a dark staircase into a cellar. Helrith was grinning from ear to ear when he saw Trent approach.
"The others are ahead of you," The fat sorcerer said. Trent shrugged at him.
"Does it matter?" He asked.
"No," Helrith almost laughed. Trent didn't understand his meaning.
"Do you have any advice?" Trent asked as his bravado wavered but for a moment.
"No!" Helrith did laugh. And Trent left him laughing behind him as he made his way down the stairs. Torches at regular intervals lighted his path; all of this had been arranged a head of time it seemed.
