by T. C. Edge
"Another lookout dispatched to the eastern edge of the valley," he whispers. "That makes four in total."
I look to the man's flank and see flecks of blood upon his razor-sharp dagger. His eyes are similarly sharp, suggesting that he's got more than Phaser powers in his blood. A Farsight, I think, looking upon the multi-gifted young man. Speed and the power to see long distances, and make out the tiniest movements around you. Now that is a potent combo for a soldier, one that I suspect many of Perses's warriors possess.
Krun nods his approval at the assassin, keeping his booming voice to a low whisper as he speaks.
"The entire perimeter has been checked?" he asks, his boulder of a body crouching low.
The assassin nods. "Yes, all lookouts are dead, Captain. All our men are in position."
"Good. Then we wait for Herald Perses's signal. Be ready, men," he says.
We wait, the men around me numbering roughly twenty, all now gathering their weapons and preparing to engage. Their job is to attack without warning, take out as many of the enemy as possible, and draw their attention to this northern side of the camp. It will act as both devastating attack and diversion all in one, allowing another smaller group to help the captives escape, while others still attack from other angles, closing the enemy into a fatal vice.
A minute passes, the enemy still gathering their final possessions, backing their stolen loot into bags. I see several Titans lumbering about, hauling great weights onto their backs, seemingly used as the workhorses among the group. Others zip about at speed, collecting the final trinkets left behind. Over by the slave-pit, several drunken bandits continue to heckle and laugh as they taunt the women and children. One puts an end to it with a few stern words, before dropping in a makeshift ladder and waving for the captives to climb out. They will be strung together, I know. Chained and forced to march with those who took them from their lands.
And still, we wait, no signal given from the other side of the camp. All eyes lock across the small valley and to the woods in the distance, bodies tensed and ready. I notice a few of the bandits begin to move off towards the west, a grouping of at least fifty soldiers impatiently beginning their march. Others start to follow, the dregs of the Cure army beginning to stretch out and thin.
I look to Krun, and see his great frame rise up a little from the earth. He knows it's time to move. The signal is imminent.
His instincts are correct, his experience telling. From across the glade, a glow suddenly rises in the darkness. It's a flash only, hardly noticeable to those not looking for it. The combat robes of Hestia, glowing for a split-second and nothing more. The signal to move. The signal to kill.
Around me, bodies rise, coated in black armour. They move in formation, grouped into teams of two, spreading quickly through the trees ahead and getting into position. I stand too, eager to follow, but stop after taking a single pace. No, this isn't my fight. I must obey the commands of Perses and remain a non-combatant.
I drop again, staying low to the ground as I watch the twenty black-wreathed soldiers moving down the slope. They fade into the gloom beneath the foliage, staying low, dropping into position behind the trees at the edge of the thicket. I wait with baited breath, peering through the darkness. Then, in a coordinated flash of terrible sound, twenty automatic firearms explode into life at once.
Light flares ahead of me, illuminating the bodies of the men as their barrels burst to life. Immediately, I see several dozen of the enemy drop, shot with expert precision through the unprotected parts of their bodies. Heads unencumbered by protective helmets kick back, hauling the attached bodies after them. Those sensible enough to wear armoured headgear grab at their necks instead, their jugulars shot clean through, creating spurts of dark crimson that pulse out between their fingers. Others with full armour find their weak-points targeted, the joints connecting their patchwork protections pinpointed and assaulted. Knees and elbows are hit, severing limbs. Blood quickly flows into the muddy earth, bodies emptied of their life-force, death sure to follow soon.
I watch it unfold in the blink of an eye, a good portion of the Cure's remaining forces cut down by expert marksmen. I think with a foolish sense of naivety as to how I ever queried why firearms were used. Surely no natural, physical gift any of us possess could create such carnage in such a short space of time?
A thrill presses through my blood as I watch the next phase. Alerted to the threat, the enemy now begin to react, doing so with a cohesion that I hadn't expected given the state of their camp. They display the instincts of men used to the perils of combat, ducking quickly behind whatever cover they can find, moving in small units and returning fire as they go. They disperse, ungrouping, spreading the battlefield as much as they can. Those with Phaser speed, of which there are many, speed off quickly towards the nearest patches of woodland. Some make the mistake of venturing south, right into the snare where Hestia, and others, hide.
They won't be seen again.
It all happens with an alarming speed, the world erupting into a terrible violence the likes of which I've never seen. By instinct I crouch lower as the bullets begin to fizz and rip around me, some hitting the trees where I hide, crunching and biting into the bark. I feel my blood boil in response, the fire raging, my combat armour following with a crimson glow. I duck lower, trying to control myself, to stop the heat from spreading and setting fire to the vegetation around me.
And then I realise the true power of my armour, holding back the flame, locking it within to be used only when I choose to release it. I smile at that, and intensify the blaze, watching my hands as they glow a deep shade of orange and red. Flicks of fire ripple between my fingers, zapping like darts of electricity. Yet my body itself does no damage to the ground, the heat contained within my armour and set to be unleashed only when I desire.
My eyes turn up again, the glade a cacophony of noise and blood and violent death. I look to the rear edge of camp and see that the men who'd been taunting the captives are dead. A figure of staggering might stands above them, a large dagger in his hand dripping blood. Perses, hero of the people, has taken it upon himself to see to the safety and release of the women and children. With several soldiers behind him, hauling the captives from their pit, he stands like a totem of power, protecting their escape, zipping left and right to swiftly dispatch anyone daring - or stupid - enough to get near.
I watch in awe of the great man, this god to the people come to save them, and see his eyes divert off to the far edge of the camp. Even from here, I can see the shape of his brow furrowing as he stares. I turn in the direction in which he looks and feel my chest tighten.
There, growing as if from nothing, I see a wild vortex of swirling wind begin to appear, building into a tornado localised around the shape of a shadow within.
The shadow of a man, an Elemental of fierce and staggering power.
The cyclone brings with it a roar of noise, gathering up the attention of the soldiers around it. I watch on as men from both sides begin to get caught in its grip, snatching at whatever they can to try to stop from being sucked inside.
I switch my eyes back to Perses, a conflict seeming to rage inside him. He takes a few speedy steps forward, ready to strike, ready to engage, before several enemy soldiers rush right at him again, drawing away his attention.
Knife in hand, he surges back into battle, becoming a whirlwind of his own as he fights off the attentions of three knife wielding Phasers, and a great Titan of the Cure. I blink, watching, my heart flaring as the valley falls into a terrible carnage.
Nearby to where I hide, a thump comes down from above, and I turn to see one of our own men dropping to the ground, sucked in and spat out from the mouth of the vortex. I look into his desperate eyes and see his broken body, and crawl quickly over towards him. By the time I get there he's already dead, eyes flattened out into an endless, eternal, skyward stare, back snapped and contorted at a terrible, unnatural angle.
I gulp down the urge to vomit and dr
aw back the urge to cry. My fists clench tight, the flames spitting from my fingers, sparks dancing towards the leaves around me, singeing them black. I place my hands to the earth and feel the mud begin to boil. Everything inside me shudders and shivers as I turn my eyes back down to the battlefield.
I'm greeted by a sight of utter carnage. Soldiers continue to fight, battling both the pull of the tornado and the men around them. Bullets flash and fizz, lighting up all around me now. Others fight face to face in brutal, bladed combat. Towards the rear of the camp, the remainder of our forces enter the conflict, the sight of fire beginning to rage now as Hestia's robes light bright, a shield of fire surrounding her.
And there, in the middle, I see several of our own telekinetics, those called Earth-Shakers, trying to hold back the storm. They are a type of Elemental capable of moving matter with their minds, just like the Forgers who built Olympus, only specialised for battle and war. I see three of them standing around the storm, trying to stifle it, to battle back the staggering, weather manipulating power being exhibited by the enemy Elemental.
Arms outstretched, they work as one, much as Elian, Hestia, and the other two Fire-Bloods did to douse the raging fire-storm that I unleashed during my purification. And around them, several of our best warriors look to watch their flanks. I see Krun among them, his great weight keeping him stuck to the ground as the whirlwind tries to suck him in, exhibiting an alarming speed as he hauls his great axe from his back, crushing and decapitating any enemy who gets near.
Several heart-stopping moments pass as I see the vortex begin to wither. I feel a surge of hope swell inside me as it tightens up, its wind less intense, its roaring din less violent in my ears. All over, bodies lie in the muddy earth, many toppled by gunfire and blades, others sucked in and flung from the tornado itself. Most are those of the Cure, yet some are of our own men.
None of us will die tonight, Perses had said. It seems the great Herald was wrong.
Another soon follows, one of great import. I watch in horror as one of the Earth-Shakers in the glade is suddenly overcome by a surge of enemy fire. Bullets rip from nearby cover, hunting him down. He tries to stop them, hold them back, lift grit and mud and soil from the ground as a shield to block their path.
It's not enough. One gets through, finding a fatal route towards his neck, lifted high and unprotected. Blood spurts and his hands rush to stem the flow. His concentration lost, further bullets hunt him down. And with his loss, the other two Earth-Shakers struggle to stem the tide.
The enemy Elemental finds his second wind, exploding from his shackles, the cyclone around him firing up anew, and even more violently than before. Men rush from the tempest, struggling to escape its deadly grip. I turn my eyes in fright to the other edge of the camp once again, and see Perses still locked in combat, the final captives being hastily drawn to safety.
Suddenly, a violent ripping sounds around me. I feel the pull of the tornado beginning to suck against me, even from up on the hill. My eyes flash back and find the source of the noise; trees, uprooted from the soil, begin to rip into the air, flung off in all directions. I lower my body further as I watch on in horror, shutting my eyes, praying for it all to end.
Then, nearby, a great crashing sounds. My eyes tear back open to find the thick trunk of a pine tree splintering against the ground, colliding with the woods around me. I startle, my gaze drawn up by something out of the corner of my eye. Another pine, launching into the air, guided like a missile right in my direction.
I press back on instinct, hitting a tree behind me. The impact rumbles through my body, slowing me down. The flying pine continues to come at pace, only a second or so away. I have no time to duck or move. I have no choice at all.
The fire inside me takes over. From within, the rivers begin to flow unfettered, unleashing the destructive power that so longs to be set free. My combat armour lights up bright, glowing red amid the darkness. My hands lift up, palms open, facing the missile coming my way.
The fear departs, quelled by a thrill.
And from my hands, the fire pours.
Like gushing water from a hose, the flame surges forward. It connects with the pine as it approaches, mere metres from impact. The tree combusts instantly, eaten away, bursting apart as black ash and charred splinters of wood drop and settle to the earth before me. Either side, the trees in which I hide catch fire, the thicket becoming an inferno, spreading through the glade.
And through that inferno, I fix my eyes forward, and walk into the battle, wreathed in flame and crimson armour.
57
I step down the hill, a single target in my sights. Around me, pockets of fighting continue to rage, obscured now by smoke and dust rising from the thickets and burning trees. A strange sense of calm engulfs me as I go, a sense of purpose and fate. I feel no fear for the enemy lurking all around, my armour enough to repel their bullets, a force-field of fire melting anything that comes my way.
I sense movement to one side. The great shape of a Titan, nothing but a shadow in the gloom, materialises before me, accompanied on either side by soldiers decked in patchwork armour. They come at pace, hunting for prey or trying to escape I cannot tell, and spin to a stop as the see me.
For a split second they stare in awe and surprise at my flaming, golden presence, before quickly lifting their firearms up to shoot. I don't turn to face them, but merely raise my right hand in their direction as I move down the hill. With no feeling of guilt at all, I unleash a terrible spout of molten fire, continuing on my path as their bodies combust into blackened flesh and bone, quickly melting into nothing but oozing tar that seeps into the black and bloodied mud at their feet.
A dull feeling of purpose is all I feel at their demise. I take no joy in the act, only a feeling of necessity, accompanied by a strong, primal sense of power at the savage, devastating things I can.
I carry on, moving at a little more pace, feeling the pull of the vortex begin to suck me forward. I tense my limbs and pulse out the fire, burning off the wind itself as it tries to grip at me. Through a channel of clear air I walk, right towards the tornado, my eyes guided up as I watch the trees and rocks swirl, the bodies, dead and alive, spin about up there at the summit. The roar of the tempest grows soft in my ears, distant. I stare through the storm, down the channel, at the Wind Elemental at its core.
He appears as a blur, his body warped by the wind and debris rushing about around hm. His arms reach high, held aloft, swirling with the winds and pulling more trees from the earth. He seems to be able to control their path to some extent, launching them out in all directions and peppering the battlefield with deadly projectiles.
Then, suddenly, he sees me, his body twisting on the spot and dark features taking me in. I stop, no more than ten metres from him now, the world quiet and obscured around me. The fighting beyond the veil continues as a muted din of gunfire and clashing steel. I lock eyes with my quarry, flaming hands held to my sides, and revel in the face-off.
For a second, he merely stares at me, as the others did, baffled by my presence. Then he reacts, drawing down his swirling hands, pressing them right towards me instead. I feel the wind pressing harder, flowing in my direction, the shape of the tornado changing as it funnels right towards me. The sensation is powerful, my feet slipping in the dirt. Above, projectiles of man and tree and rock alike come flinging down, some spiralling over my head and crashing into the hillside, others coming right at me, trying to knock me off course or worse.
I respond in the only way I can, raising my hands in his direction, firing waves of fire from my palms. The winds and flame clash in a burning, broiling cloud of smoke and condensation, igniting all projectiles that come my way. Bodies and pine trees burst into flame, rocks turning black as they hurtle towards me. I hold firm as the deadly rain descends, focusing on the force field of flame that wraps around me tight. And when the missiles strike, they merely bounce off me, ricocheting away towards the ground even as they reduce to ash and smoke.
And within that black smoke, I hide, crouching low now, dousing the colour of my armour to black. A grin of defiant pleasure crawls upon my face as I sense the time to strike, imagine my enemy searching for me through the void, wondering if I've been defeated by his might.
Gradually, the winds buffeting me begin to cease, my own flame held within my palms, my fingers clasped to conceal the light. I stay low, lying in wait. And just as I expected, with a sudden rush of wind, the black cloud of smoke around me is brushed aside, and ahead I see my enemy once more. He stands in a state of imminent victory, tall and proud, perusing the site where he believes me dead.
And then, he sees me.
Crouching low, my body darkened as if by magic, the light of my flame only visible between the cracks between my fingers. His face contorts into a sudden panic and rage combined, and the winds begin to swirl about him once again as his hands rise to fire against me.
Not this time.
In a sudden motion, I stand, and let the blaze swarm over me again. I light up, a beacon of wondrous gold and crimson, hair radiant, armour glowing red, hands reaching out and opening up. My fingers splay wide, revealing the blinding, terrible light within. And from them, the firestorm erupts and comes forth, bathing the Wind Elemental in a fatal embrace.
A shriek of violent anguish and pain shoots up from his throat, so quickly cut off as his body convulses and shuts down. For a moment, he just stands there, flaming, his flesh consumed as the winds of his creation die down. And then dropping to the earth as a steaming heap, I see the battlefield around us grow clear in all its terrible glory.
A hush descends as I turn and look across the camp. No gunfire sounds now. No clashes of metal clang into the night. I see black-wreathed bodies standing as they look at me, dozens, hundreds of dead at their feet. Spread across the small valley at the bottom of the slope, our enemy lie defeated. And among them, many of our own men join them.
