Blood of the Chosen: Children of the Prime, Book 3

by T. C. Edge

  Distracted for a mere second, the bearded man of the Cure sees his opportunity, darting at Perses once more with a brutal attack. Against a lesser foe he might just see some reward, but not against the mighty Herald of War. Without even turning to fully face him, Perses drops again to the ground, disappearing beneath the man's attack, and sends a whipping fist right up into his bearded jaw.

  The crack that sounds is almost as loud as the breaking of the tree, hardly dulled by the thick forest of hair that covers his skin and bone. The man's head snaps up, body following suit as it flies skyward, before dropping into the muddied earth with a muted thump. I see his strange blue eyes flicker as he lies there, before rolling over and falling shut, as valley falls silent.

  Perses wanders over, hardly out of breath at all. He looks down at the man with that quizzical look on his face.

  "A rare strength in him," he says, sounding grudgingly impressed. He looks over to a few of the men, gathered to watch their master fight. "Bind him twice, as Herald Amber said," he tells them. "This one will be going straight to the Overseer."

  The men set to their orders as the rest continue to search bodies through the valley, and collect those of our own. Standing alone again with Perses, I stare down at the fallen man, his barrel chest gently heaving up and down, blood dribbling into his beard from the impact. Otherwise, he shows little ill-effect from the bout.

  "He'll be just fine," Perses tells me. "He's a robust sort. Unusual to find one so physically strong in so small a frame."

  "Small?" I repeat, incredulous as I look at the broadly formed man. "He's got to be nearly your height, hasn't he?"

  "A few inches shy, I'd say," Perses says. "But such strength is usually reserved for Titans only. Men far, far larger than either one of us." His eyes sway over to Krun, away through the gloom, gently lifting up one of his deceased brothers into his gigantic paws. "There's a good example. You've seen plenty more."

  "Then...why is he so strong?" I ask. "If he's not a pure Titan."

  "Titan blood in him, for one. Yet there's something more too."

  "Phaser speed," I say. "He moved quicker than a normal man, much quicker."

  "Certainly, but that isn't what I meant. No," he says, shaking his head with a frown. "No, his is something raw and profound, tied to his emotion. I could feel his strength grow with his anger. He is a man who has suffered much. He has been transformed."

  "Transformed? You mean...awakened?" I ask. "He grew more angry when he discovered you were a Herald. He's clearly had experience of one before."

  "Oh, not one," Perses says, sighing. "This is the work of the departed. This is the work of Nestor."

  He steps forwards, bending down to one knee before the unconscious man. Reaching out with a hand, he opens up a single eye, pulling apart his lids and revealing those pale blue irises.

  "I mentioned how Herald Nestor had his own unique ways," he says. "Well, he also had a unique effect on all those he managed to awaken. This right here, these unnaturally blue eyes, are a side-effect of his particular technique. Of that I am certain."

  He spends a moment in thought, before standing and stepping back. From the side, waiting patiently, the soldiers come forward and bind the man once more, wrapping his wrists twice over in chains, and doing the same with his ankles. They draw him back towards the others, adding another unconscious member to their ranks. He slumps against the tree, a pain contorted upon his face. Even unconscious, his anguish is visible.

  What happened to him, I wonder, looking on. What did this Nestor do?

  The next day, as I begin my vigil over him and his allies, I will seek to find out.

  15

  The convoy rolls solemnly through the eastern reaches of the Fringe, its cargo far different to when it set out. What was once a grouping of fifty soldiers and two Heralds - one of legend, the other in training - has become a motley grouping of those living and dead, of gods and mortals alike in mourning.

  At the front, within Black Thunder, Perses gives space for the fallen. His sacred chariot, his steed of destruction and doom, has become a mobile morgue, ferrying the dead to their final resting place within the great walls of Olympus. Behind, tended by those they worship, the women and children taken by the Cure, their husbands, fathers, adult brothers and sons all killed, sit in sorrow and morbid contemplation. Within that carriage, the grief rings out, its passage taking it not to the city, but to neighbouring towns where they can start anew.

  "You will be well tended," Perses promised them personally before they climbed aboard, the night still thick with gloom and dread. He crouched before them, descending to their height, speaking with such tenderness and kind-hearted compassion. "We will help you restart your lives, and give you all you need to move through this terrible nightmare. That is the promise that I, Perses, Herald of War, make to you all."

  They looked up at him in wonder at that moment, all tears dried, entranced by this great divinity that so many pray to each night.

  It will, I hope, help to sooth their pain, give them some comfort at the losses they have suffered.

  The third carriage of the convoy of six contains soldiers of our own, Krun among them, the fourth and fifth the same. The remainder of our own troop, shorn of a great portion of its number.

  I know that men of war aren't meant to hurt. That if they do, they aren't supposed to show it. Yet you don't need to see tears or hear wails of pain to know just how such a man is feeling. You can see it in their eyes, deep behind the strong, stoic facade they hold. You can hear it in their voice when they speak, deflated, lost of its energy and vitality. You can sense it in their posture, their movement, the sad aura they present.

  Oh, such men suffer just the same as the rest. They cling to that pain and hurt. They bottle it, use it when the time comes. And perverse as it is, it often fuels the deep vein of power inside. Often, it makes good soldiers better.

  The final carriage is attended by the smallest contingent of the living, barring Perses and his lonely journey accompanied by the dead. Within it, I sit, watching over the five captives set to endure a terrible interrogation. None will live long, I doubt. They will be forced to give up all they know, and then suffer the consequences of their dreadful, evil crimes.

  I find myself interested only in one as the hours pass by, all of them bound heavily and, in some cases, still unconscious. Over the course of that first day of the return journey, when breaks are had to stretch legs and empty bladders, I've had to contend with several heated onlookers, a small but particularly vexed portion of the troop keen to enjoy some 'personal time' with the captives, despite Perses's orders.

  I can understand their desire, and might harbour the same myself where it someone I truly cared for lying dead in the bowels of Black Thunder. Yet in truth, I know that none would subvert their master's orders. That the idea, even, of being alone with the prisoners is enough to keep their bloodlust in check. And those dark stares, send through the carriage windows, helps to give them some form of cathartic release.

  One of the culprits, to my surprise, is Hestia herself. Though a woman who appears to actively rage against personal relationships and interaction, she nevertheless possesses an uncanny respect for her fellow soldiers and their duties, and seeks revenge and retribution above all others when they fall. I've seen it myself already, and am seeing it once again right now.

  Each time she gets a chance, she appears at the carriage windows, precipitated by a glowing red light, and sends those darkened eyes at each prisoner, one after another. I allow the indulgence, feeling completely out of place denying her, or anyone else, that right.

  "How can you sit with them, hour after hour like this, and not want to roast them alive?" she grumbles. I watch as she lifts a hand to the window, clicking a button on the wrist of her combat robes to light a flame - unlike me, Hestia cannot manifest the flame herself - and then twirl the fire menacingly between her fingers. The prisoners - those still conscious, at least - shield their eyes concernedly
as she does so. It seems even the cruelest of men can still feel fear for their own mortality.

  "Hestia," I say firmly, lowering my voice, finding my authority. "That's the third time today. Enough's enough, all right?"

  She scowls and shuts her fist pointedly, putting out the flame. "Maybe I'll get my chance soon enough," she grunts. "And you as well. This lot will be ripe for public execution. If the Overseer finds that they fear fire the most, we'll be up on that stage again real soon."

  I stare at her, a recollection that has somehow grown faded in my mind, lighting up bright once more. Raymond. Poor Raymond...

  "I'd rather not," I tell her bluntly, my mind flooding with that morbid memory.

  "Really? You seemed to enjoy melting those guys down in the valley. I saw you, Amber. I saw how you took them down. It was...beautiful." A rare smile simmers on her face, the words delivered with an almost lustful sigh.

  I sigh in return, though in a more conflicted, disquieted way. Yes, to a part of me, it was beautiful. To the inner flame that yearns to feast, it was perhaps the most wondrous moment of my life. Yet, the rest doesn't feel so strongly on the matter. The rest sees death and killing as a necessity, not something to yield joy. Just as Perses taught me.

  "It was instinct," I say eventually, caught between a smile and a frown. "More would have died if I hadn't acted."

  "Many more," she says, eyes caught in a distant, earnest stare. "We might have been overcome if it wasn't for you." She turns her eyes down the line of carriages. Outside, the noise of bodies climbing back aboard the transports begins to sound. "If Perses wasn't so busy protecting those Devotees, maybe he could have ended the fight sooner." She delivers the accusation with a grim tone, an insult to both the great Herald himself, and those he was fighting to protect.

  It's too much for me, a line crossed. I reach out of the carriage window and grab her by the shoulder, forcing her eyes back on me. "What did I tell you about changing your opinions about the Devotees?" my voice rumbles. "And don't even think about questioning Perses back there."

  "Why not?" she retorts, betraying herself and our mutual ranks. "It's because of him almost half of us are dead." She seems to realise her error immediately, grunting in self rebuke and shaking her head. "I didn't mean that," she says, speaking to the ground. "I'm just tired and pissed off. Don't listen to me."

  My hand, still on her shoulder, weakens its grip. I slowly withdraw it as she takes a step back from the window.

  "It's OK, Hestia," I say, "but just make sure you don't speak like that again. And don't come to this window to ease your own anger either. I've had just about all I can take of that." The words come unexpected, though feel strangely natural coming from my mouth. And Hestia's reaction, bowing her head and meekly nodding in submission, satisfies me too.

  "Good," I go on. "Now it sounds as if we're moving off. Let's not keep the convoy waiting."

  Raising a single brow, she trots off, leaving me feeling quite satisfied with my assertive performance. To become a good leader, it's something I need to work on. Hestia, due to nothing more than circumstance, will make a good training ground for me.

  The convoy begins moving again, and I sit back, not exactly smug, but feeling a little more natural in my new position. Clearly, given Hestia's testimony, my bout with the Wind Elemental has been viewed with some merit. Even Perses claimed that few could have bested the man as I did.

  It's hardly becoming to think it right now, not at a time like this, but it all fills me with an invigorating, almost euphoric feeling of pride and power. And at the core of it all, it's a sensation of belonging that engulfs me. A feeling that I am needed, that I am doing good. That I have found my place in this world, and have discovered something that I can truly excel in.

  It just so happens that that thing is death.

  I hardly even remember that I have company in the carriage when a gruff voice interrupts my self-satisfied thoughts.

  "You think it's fun to kill, do you?"

  I turn my eyes down to see the bearded man finally waking from his enforced slumber, his wildly blue eyes filled with a network of broken capillaries. With some effort, he manages to lift himself from his curled up position on the floor, sitting on the bench ahead of me on one side of the spacious carriage. The four others appear to be still unconscious from the bout, or otherwise sleeping.

  I find myself unable to answer the question immediately as the staggeringly strong man heaves his body up before me. With wrists and ankles heavily chained, and those chains fixed to the carriage's interior, I have little fear that he'll try to assault me. I do wonder, though, if I'd be able to fight him off if he did. So quick and strong a man might just be able to snap my neck before I could roast him.

  "That's telling, you know," he grunts, staring at me, eyes looking like he's just come off a three day drinking spree. "How can a girl as young as you take pleasure in it. What have they done to you here?"

  "I..."

  "They killed my wife, you know. They killed my sister. They killed almost everyone in my village, save those they wished to torture and transform." His blue eyes darken to a thick, deep navy. Lips curve up in anger from within that bushy, blood-encrusted beard. "I came to seek revenge for what they did to me. And here I am, captured once more. Babysat by a child who takes pleasure in death."

  "I do not take pleasure in death," I say, my voice managing to rip free of its constraints. "And whatever happened to you doesn't give you the right to act the same. Massacring villages. Murdering the men and the elderly. Taking the women and children as slaves. You sound like nothing but a hypocrite."

  The heavyset man laughs quietly to himself with a breathy huff. He shakes his head, eyes hunting me down as the carriage begins to roll on. "I can't control what these men do. They are nothing but barbarians," he growls, looking towards the other captives. "I never did anything to your people. I never raided a village or took life. I came for one reason, and one reason only. To get revenge on those who destroyed my world."

  His words are delivered with a powerful sense of righteousness, an earnestness I find it hard to ignore. I regard him without eyes of rebuke, but a desire to hear what he has to say. He seems a man resigned to his fate now, fully aware of what will befall him. A man with no reason to lie.

  "It was Herald Nestor, wasn't it?" I ask him. "He did this to you."

  The man visibly shudders at the name, thick shoulders rippling and drawing in. A wave of pain washes over his eyes once more. A pain still fresh, still new. That of losing his family and people. That of seeing his world destroyed.

  "He came with his soldiers," the man whispers. "He took those he wanted and killed the rest. Murder. Sacrifice. All in the name of this Prime." His eyes sink away, his voice taken with it. For a moment he falls into the abyss, accosted by those dark recollections. I give him time to break free, to lift his eyes and speak again. "The men and women he captured were taken to a fort." His voice is cold now, distant. "We were told we had divinity inside us, something that needed to be awakened. But no one survived the process. No one...but me."

  His eyes sink again, trying to compose himself. An urge takes me to step across towards him, to try to comfort him somehow. He seems a man utterly broken by what he's been through. A simple man drawn into a frightening world, his body awaking with powers he never knew he had. And in him, a see a dark reflection of my own experience. I feel a flutter of something, some awful shame, begin to build inside me.

  Have I lost myself entirely? Can I now condone the actions of these people, the methods they employ to discover those worthy of ascending to Olympus?

  I look at the man again, and realise that that was to be his path too. To have survived the process of awakening would make him worthy of joining the Children of the Prime. Would he have become a soldier, perhaps, a weapon to use in war? Would his mind, his memories, have been altered by the Overseer to make him more compliant?

  Just as you've been, a voice inside me calls out, somewhere st
uck deep within, locked away in the depths.

  I frown as the words flutter through my mind, echoing up from below. And then, a bright light swarms my head again, driving off the darkness, filling it with a sense of joy and relaxation, a sense of purpose and righteousness in what we here are doing.

  "You have suffered terribly," I say gently. "I can see that. And I...I have no words to sooth you. All I can tell you is that Herald Nestor doesn't represent our people. I have been told that his methods are brutal and cruel. I am sorry you had to go through that. Please, do not tar us all with that same brush."

  He regards me for a long moment with eyes I find hard to read. I feel, somehow, that I might be getting through to him. That my words might be having some effect. I manage to raise a smile, sympathetic and sweet, as the fog outside of the carriage begins to grow thick. Through the Fringe we have gone. Onto the Sacred Plains we ride.

  "You seem a pleasant girl," he says eventually, staring me in the eye, his own turning to a cooler blue once more. "But you sound naive. You sound like you've been brainwashed to see such things as normal. You tell me Nestor doesn't represent you, but that isn't the truth. He came preaching the word of your Prime. He has power and influence among you, I have no doubt about that."

  "He among many," I counter. "The very man you fought yesterday is nothing like him, nothing at all. He has a good heart, and only wishes to protect his people. He isn't like Nestor. He doesn't torture people to awaken their power. He merely uses his own power to protect innocent life. And that is all I aim to do too."

  "How noble," the man says with a light tone of mocking. "But I heard whispers when I was a captive of your people. I heard of plans to conquer other places, other lands. The soldiers there weren't speaking of protecting what they had. They were speaking of taking what wasn't theirs. Just as they took me, my family, my friends. They, you, are a plague. And one day soon the cure will come."

  "The Cure," I frown. "The Cure have been destroyed. The last remnants of their barbaric army have just been annihilated."