by T. C. Edge
My first move, as it always is, is to allow my armour to glow with a little more dazzle, a move to intimidate. Like a beacon in the night, my body comes alive, and within my golden eyes, a brighter light shines out. The men, reacting, stop. I count five of them now, Jude's three original attackers joined by two others who likely share in their bigotry.
"Pretty show," one of the new recruits calls out, cementing his place within the herd of morons. He looks to the others, as if for some reaction. He's younger, trying to fit in, seeking validation. He's chosen the wrong group. "Aren't you pretty all lit up."
He chuckles in some ridiculous way, coughing at the end of it, spluttering. A bit of beer spills up from his throat. I merely shake my head and look at them, still wondering just how to handle it.
"So what's that heathen doing in our infirmary, then?" says another of the original thugs. "Oh, yeah, I forgot...we put him there." He bursts out laughing. The others follow. High fives abound, cups of ale spilling.
Still, I stare.
"Shouldn't he be over in his own clinic?" calls another. I recognise this one as the grim-faced man I spotted yesterday, soon before finding Jude, the one who ever looks at me with those hating, intense eyes of his. The bags around them have deepened now, yet the eyes themselves have fallen in a familiar drunken stupor. They seem...lost, these men. Like they don't care what happens to them at all.
He stares at me as before, clearly intensely passionate in his aversion of me. "Not so much a clinic, though, is it? Run by some old fool, could hardly stitch a paper-cut straight. Oh, how's the boy's face, then? He still pretty? Did we not cut him up good enough?"
The others laugh, and though I stay still and calm, something begins to bubble and fire up within. My chin begins to lower, my eyes growing intense. I stare directly at them, but they just don't seem to care.
As their laughing and cackling starts to rise higher, and several more insulting comments come, my lips finally break open with a few simple words of my own.
"Leave," I say, as calmly, yet threateningly, as I can manage. "Go to your carriages, right now. Do that, and I'll forget about all of this."
"Oh, will you now," says their adopted leader. "No, we're going nowhere without that heretic," he seethes. "We are Olympians of pure blood, Children of the Prime. It is our sacred duty to make sure that scum doesn't get touched by one of ours in there. Get rid of him, and we'll go. Take him back to that hovel and we'll leave him alone. And why not do us all a favour, and stay there with him..."
The last remark doesn't lead to laughter. I notice the others glancing through their intoxicated eyes at their leader, wondering if he's gone too far. The man himself doesn't seem to care. He just stares, hoping for a reaction. He seems a man with a death wish.
I shut my eyes, trying to stay composed, to block out the insults and petty remarks. Perses, I think. What would Perses do?
Behind my lids, in the darkness, I hear the man speaking again. "Come on, let's get him out..."
I open my eyes to find them coming towards me, heading right for the carriage. They lumber heavily, the three original thugs, and their younger companion, of regular size; the fifth a half-Titan, standing as tall as Perses. His particular attributes are more obvious to me, the others not so much.
I position myself between them and the carriage behind me, the infirmary ten metres from where I stand.
"Stop immediately," I say, my voice clotting as I try to stay in control. As I try to defuse the situation, handle it as a good leader, a Herald, should.
They don't listen, but keep on marching.
I have no choice but to act.
With a flare and a flash, my flesh explodes, pouring heat towards them. It spreads like a wave, not hot enough to kill, but plenty to cause minor burns and force a retreat. I watch as their hands lift up to protect their exposed faces. Immediately, the kid turns and spins off, ducking and stumbling the other way, realising now that he doesn't want to be part of the gang. He proves he has a few brain cells at least, and shows himself to be a Phaser, stumbling off at great speed, though along a drunken, zigzagging route.
The others stand their ground, the half-Titan attempting to press forward. I'll give him this at least; the man's got heart. With a roar, he heaves against the wall of burning air, hotter and hotter the closer he gets to me. I watch as his arms, his face, any exposed skin upon him, begins to turn red and sizzle, burning as he comes.
I step back, and withdraw some of the fire in response. Any closer and his flesh will never recover. The decrease in temperature, however, only serves to hasten his attack. I create a Fire-Shield around me in response as a precaution, though feel it won't be needed. I've faced down before against three full blown Titans, back when I was hardly trained at all.
This man is no threat to me.
I do, however, want to avoid causing any long term damage. Already his drunken belligerence, his bizarre eagerness to get to me, is leaving his skin in a state that might scar. I lower the temperature further, and draw a swell of fire to my right hand. Closing it in within my fist, I rush right towards the towering man, driving myself forward with a sudden burst of fire. His eyes widen with the speed, and I launch my first right into his solar plexus, connecting with one of the weak spots I'v been taught to target in physical bouts. He has no time to avoid the connection, my fist, powered by the fire within, landing with a blow of violent force.
Though far, far larger than I am, the man is cut in half by the impact, bending at the waist, and toppling to the floor like a sapling felled with a single swipe of the axe. He wheezes there, mumbling weakly, struggling to catch his breath. He'll be like that for a while. His hangover tomorrow will be the worst of his life.
And very well earned.
I look up, now, the defeated man at my feet, enjoying the flow of fire as it courses through my veins. A tingling sensation takes over me as I look at the three thugs, the three cowards who put Jude in the infirmary, the fools who think they'll be able to get him out.
I drop the wall of fire, looking at their red faces, hair wet, bodies perspiring. They're not godlike, these men. They're hardly even men at all. Beyond the enhancements written into their genes, they are ugly inside and out, weak, clinging to something so commonplace and calling it divine. More people than we probably know have enhanced genes. These three aren't special, but run-of-the-mill.
Completely and entirely forgettable.
But me...I'm different. I'm rarely one for egotism and bluster, but I am a rare breed. I am memorable.
And these pathetic fools know it.
They stand, unsure, realising they have no chance. It seems that the wall of heat I sent towards them has singed their blood of the alcohol, sobered them up. They glance at one another, as if trying to build the courage to attack, but only see weakness in the men they look at.
I know it. And I make sure I tell them so.
"Look at one another," I say to them, fire tinging my breath, spitting like that of a dragon. "You are pathetic. An insult to this army. An insult to Herald Perses who leads it. You're an insult to your people."
My words hit them hard, the last ones in particular.
"At least...at least they're our people," stammers their leader, his face reddened, steam rising from his clothes. "You're nothing but a mutt. A half breed freak. You're just being used by the Prime. You think you'll be a Herald for long. Bah! You're a weapon. Expendable."
The others are energised by his insults. They cut deep, driving into me like a knife, opening up old insecurities, laying bare my mistrust and doubt.
"Yeah, you know it's true," he goes on, sniffing some weakness, some insecurity, within me. "Look at you. You're in chains and you don't even know it." He begins laughing, and his two cackling companions follow.
My fists tighten, flames squeezing out between my fingers, like worms up through the mud.
"Go on then," the man goads. "Burn us. Kill us. Do what a good weapon does."
"Asher, no, wh
at the hell are you saying?" says one of the others, looking over in alarm. "He doesn't mean it..."
"I mean it," growls the man named Asher. "We might die tomorrow anyway, or the next day after that. Go ahead, lose control like you did back home. Kill us like you killed those innocent people!" His lips snarl up, his eyes blazing with hate, pain, loss...
"He's not in his right mind," calls the other man. "We...we're sorry. We should have..."
"Go," I growl. "Just go before I do something I won't regret..."
The two men, standing either side of Asher, don't hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity. They dash off away from us without a second's hesitation, disappearing into the darkness, fully sobered up by the experience.
Asher doesn't look either way. He just stares right at me. "Cowards," he whispers. "I don't care like they do. What's the point, anyway. All this?" He looks around, breathing heavily. "What's...what's the point?"
His posture, so upfront and aggressive, starts to deflate. His head drops a little as his eyes shape to the floor. I see a slight tremble to his lips, a damp in his eyes. Right there before me, burgeoning tears begin to come.
My anger, my hate, is quelled by the sight. It draws back in, taking the fire with it. This man is truly broken, fuelled not by alcohol, but by something far worse, something deep within. The alcohol, I see, is a tonic for his pain. And I begin to fear that I know the cause.
A wife back home, I idly wondered yesterday, when I saw him and his companions sitting by the fire. Perhaps once there was, but no longer. A wife, or a sister, or a brother, father, mother. He's lost someone special, someone important, and it's pushed him over the edge.
I step forward a pace. His eyes remain down. I see him blinking quickly, trying to dismiss the tears, clear his vision, fight away his pain.
"You've lost someone," I say quietly, knowing. His eyes dash up, face turning from pain, to anger, to hatred and back, as though unable to decide which emotion to portray. But I see them all, each one brief and yet so pronounced. I see them, and I know. "It was me, wasn't it?" I ask him, sombrely. "It was me who killed them during my purification."
He stops, and stares at me, expression a mix of it all.
"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head, my mind filling again with that terrible day. "I'm sorry that people died. I will regret it my entire life. And I know you'll probably hate me for it forever, but there's nothing I can do to change it now." I take another step towards him, growing ever nearer. "This army needs every soldier it has," I say. "Don't lose yourself now, Asher. Don't give up. Things will get easier, I promise. Let go of your hate...it will only destroy you."
Slowly, surely, that anger, that hate, upon his face begins to melt away. Only pain is left, the profound pain of loss. He looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to figure me out, trying to forgive me for something that, really, was never my fault. Can he see that, or not? Can he detach himself from the pain, see the truth of what really happened that day?
His eyes suggest he can, or will be able to at least, in time. And as I look back at him, a part of me works to forgive him too. Forgive him for what he did to Jude. Forgive him for his insults. See him only as the man he is, broken by a loss, lashing out at who he sees as the culprits.
A long silence permeates the air as we stand there, face to face. It's deep, almost suffocatingly so. It sounds like the calm before a deadly storm.
And then, from the corner of my eye, I see a light bloom in the darkness. It grows bright, lighting up the side of Asher's face, glinting off the tears still staining his cheeks. He turns, as I do, to stare at the source, and those eyes of his, showing pain, hatred, anger, grow wide with a single emotion.
Fear.
There, out in the depths of the woods, a great light explodes, orange and red, hues so familiar. And with the light comes a flood of fire, rising up high into the heavens.
And then, as a wave of hot wind comes pressing towards us, the silence ends abruptly, interrupted, broken, by a great, earth-shaking rumble.
As the forest is engulfed in flame.
82
I instinctively fly into action as the wall of hot wind hits, rushing straight past Asher and towards the woods. The blooming light of the inferno continues to swell in intensity, forcing even me to squint as I rush onwards towards it. It comes from deep into the woods, rising high above the trees, spreading quickly out in all directions.
Our men are in there, I think. So many of our men...
Driven forwards by burst of flame, I skip along the earth, passing by hundreds of soldiers as they watch on, stunned, not knowing what to do. Among them, little lights appear, moving as I am towards the action. They're grouped together, led by one at the front. I glance across and see her; Hestia, leading her troop. Fire-Bloods rushing to their element.
The other soldiers have no such protection, the flames still churning, eating through the forest as they come. "Take cover," I shout to them as I pass, my combat armour flaming, singing the earth at my feet. "Protect yourselves from the fire!"
They react quickly to my orders for once, understanding that this isn't a fight they can win. They rush backwards and hunker down, seeking whatever protection that can as the flames rush onwards. Some, I know, will be wearing fire-proof armour, as with those who I fought in combat during the trials. Yet even those suits have their limits, capable of withstanding certain temperatures only, and not built to deal with a sustained assault.
I think again of those in the woods, many of them our finest soldiers. How many of them are wearing proper protection? How many of them might already be dead?
The Heralds and the Chosen, many of them are in there. Perses...Perses is there...
I rush on, driven forward by need and desperation, the flames still coming, converging with the other Fire-Bloods as they head right for the woods. I hear Hestia shouting orders over the wind, calling for her troop to spread out, hold back the firestorm. It inches ever closer, roaring louder as it hurries towards the edge of the forest, ready to explode out into the camp, consume everything that lies before it. The carriages, the men, all the Fringers brought here to help. Every one of them might be under threat.
I reach Hestia's side, the two of us moving towards the centre of the troop. To our left and right, the other Fire-Bloods spread, holding their hands ahead of them, palms facing out. We stop, the inferno galloping right for us, a stampede of death destroying everything in its path.
"Wait..." shouts Hestia. "Wait..."
The fire marches on, twenty metres away.
"Wait..."
Fifteen.
Ten.
I glance to Hestia, her eyes intense, reflecting the flame. "NOW!" she roars.
With the order, comes our response, a host of Fire-Bloods repelling the charge. We press out with all the energy we can muster, forming shields of our own to halt the coming flood. The inferno rushes, smashes, crashes against us, battering our barrier like a flaming tornado. The flames stop, swirl, try to rise up above us, like a great wave hitting a coastal wall, eager to leap over and continue its charge.
Together, as one, we extend our reach upwards, lifting the shield, stopping the flame from getting through. It comes, assaulting us with an immense power, the heat enough, almost, to cause some of the Fire-Bloods to falter, unable to withstand its terrible charge. I see them weakening, and Hestia does too. We glance at one another and double our own efforts, pressing back with everything we have.
Once again, my purification rises to my mind, when I lost control and exploded upon that stage. The Fire-Bloods that day, Elian and Hestia included, had to work hard to control my power. Now, here we are, side by side, doing the very same. Yet that day, people died. I know, right now, that today will be no different.
That whatever this is, the war has truly begun.
The blaze continues to charge for a few more moments, several more of the Fire-Bloods beginning to weaken. It leaves Hestia and I alone with only a few, standing tall, blocking
the gates.
Then, suddenly, the fires begin to drop, easing up as a great, powerful wind flows from behind us. I glance backwards in surprise, and find Herald Gailen, a man who they say does his talking on the battlefield, flying towards us in the heart of a whirlwind, his arms outstretched, as ours are, pressing a great wind against the oncoming flame.
It weakens, falling, retreating as he comes.
And a few moments later, the wall of fire is gone.
We drop our shields, and drop to the floor, the Fire-Bloods panting, hands in the earth, exhausted. Though not Hestia, and not me. We stand, side by side, ready for more, watching as Herald Gailen dismisses his whirlwind, dropping right there to the floor ahead of us in a smooth and graceful descent.
"Thank you, Herald Gailen," I say, nodding my respect, looking at the man in wonder. "It was looking rough there for a second."
I look again to the camp, double checking that it's OK. Gailen's eyes follow mine, before returning back to me. He nods, his usually soft visage tightened up by the sudden attack, clean-shaven jaw locked tight, as it always is. I've never heard him talk, of course, owing to the loss of his tongue, but I don't think I've ever even see him part his lips either. He speaks through action, and the staggering aura that hums from within him. It's the first time I've seen any display of his power, and quite the introduction.
The man, I think, quite amazed, can fly...
"We need to get in there and help," Hestia says, turning around to her troop, trying to get them up. Though the fire has been halted here, it still burns in large patches through the woods, smoke quickly rising up from it in vast, chugging columns of black smog. Between the burning trees, and the stumps of those already eaten away, little can be seen save the swirling mass of smoke, the earth belching up black, suffocating ash.
