by Ryan Wieser
The Aren holding her held his weapon high above her; ready to bring it down on her chest. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the energy between them—on her power—and, just as she had anticipated, the Aren shrieked in agony, dropping his blade to the ground, loosening his hold on her neck. Jessop snaked her sword about in her expert fingers, curved her body to the side, and thrust her sword inward, past her hip, into his abdomen.
She spun out of his grip, pulling her blade loose. He coughed, blood dripping from his lip, pooling in his gut. She remained in position with her sword extended out, perfectly parallel to the ground, her feet steadying themselves in the still-warm blood of her slain victims. She stood at the ready in a circle of the dead or dying. None of the attackers moved and she took a cautious breath, mentally assessing her body for injuries—she was mostly unharmed and the battle was over.
She cleaned her blade swiftly on her cloak and sheathed it before turning to the Hunters. The older was supporting the younger, applying pressure to his wound and they both stared at her with wild-eyed confusion, though the young one looked on through fluttering eyelashes.
The blue eyes of the old Hunter narrowed on her. “Tell me who you are,” he ordered.
She looked away from him to his wounded companion. She could see the blood shining over his leather. His paling face and slowing breaths were poor signs. “Your friend needs treatment,” she advised.
The silver-haired Hunter nodded, more concerned with his young friend than her identity. “Then help me get him some, girl.”
Jessop flinched at the word, but nodded. She took a step towards the Hunters, and eased the young one’s arm over her shoulder, slowly pulling him away from the bar. It was only once she was close enough to support his weight did she understand why his skin seemed to shimmer like silver to her—he was covered in hundreds of scars.
“You saved us,” he whispered, his hazel eyes studying her. She smiled tightly at him, uncertain of how to respond, and then watched as he lost consciousness; his heart slowing caused her own to speed up.
* * * *
“This one,” the old Hunter barked, practically dragging them towards what Jessop believed could quite possibly have been the oldest Soar-Craft she had ever seen. She had no time to question the safety of the ship, as the silver-haired Hunter had already begun to push his wounded comrade into the vehicle.
She crawled over the door and into the back, trying to avoid the precarious metal prongs poking through the old vinyl seat cover as she awkwardly continued to help support the weight of the Hunter. The older man pushed his unconscious body at her gruffly, and she coughed as his young heavy frame collapsed against her, pinning her down. She freed her arms from underneath him, readjusting her sheath before fixing his head against her shoulder and pressing one hand against his wound. His hair had fallen loose from its knot and covered his face like a veil of gold. Without thinking, she stroked it back, smoothing it away from his soft skin. And then quickly retracted her hand.
She forced her attention onto the older Hunter as he leapt into the control seat. He fiddled with a compartment door and when it wouldn’t give under his rough grab, he let his hand hover slightly above it, and then—like magic—it popped open.
Jessop took a deep, controlled breath; this was her cue to confirm her beliefs about the Hunters. “You’re one of them?”
“Yes, I’m one of the Hunters of Infinity, girl. Can’t you see our sigil? Now here, take these,” he barked, tossing a pair of worn out leather goggles at her. She pulled the goggles over the young Hunter’s head, securing them over his closed eyes. The older man handed her a second set, and despite their frayed leather and browned screens, she pulled them on. She studied the sigil on the leather vest of the unconscious Hunter—she had seen the mark, she knew it well.
The older Hunter hit a button on the dash several times before another compartment opened up and a yoke ascended from it. As he grabbed hold of the yoke, a blue light emitted, scanning his hands.
“Welcome back, Hanson Knell,” the automated Soar-Craft voice crackled.
Jessop had heard the name many times before and she was actually somewhat shocked that of all the Hunters for her to have found, it was Hanson Knell. And if he was Hanson Knell, she could be certain that the fair, scarred young man lying unconscious in her lap was his mentee Kohl O’Hanlon. She could have mused over the knowledge further, but now was not the time—she was a nervous flyer in the safest of ships. She anxiously looked the vehicle over, and squeezed against Kohl O’Hanlon a bit tighter under the sputtering of revving engines.
“Is this thing sky-worthy?” she yelled up to Hanson Knell.
“It’s been safely navigating the Daharian skies since before you were born,” the old Hunter called back. He pulled on the yoke and the Soar-Craft began to shakily hover off the ground.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she grumbled, closing her eyes as they took off at a surprisingly quick speed for the old machine.
Hanson Knell navigated the Soar-Craft through the underground maze, where those who wished to go to such a bar had to park their ships. It didn’t take long for the old machine to gain a terrifying break-neck speed and soon they were whirring through the dark space, taking sharp corners and diving down steep descents. Jessop held the young Hunter tightly, pushing her cloak against his wound.
As they finally emerged from the labyrinth, the unmistakably red sky, where hundreds of other Soar-Craft zipped around them, blinded Jessop. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the unfamiliar crimson atmosphere of Azgul.
She wasn’t from Azgul, though she had been there for several days, preparing for this moment, where she would find the ones like her. She couldn’t help but think, as she looked down at the young Hunter’s blood, staining rivers into the lines of skin on her hand, that with all the violence that had already ensued, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
As quickly as the sense of certainty materialized it had disappeared, wrenching from her gut as the Soar-Craft dropped some sixty-feet in the sky to undertake a row of oncoming ships. Hanson Knell was either a brilliant or superbly dangerous pilot. He tore the old machine through the skies, weaving through organized lines of Soar-Craft, cutting off other pilots, making unsanctioned cuts and dives around Levi-Hubs, where other pilots, busy recharging their ships, yelled and cursed at them. Jessop didn’t care about the dangerous flying, the precarious Soar-Craft or the angry slurs of other pilots—all she cared about was the direction they were travelling in. She had confirmed who they were and she knew they were going to a place she had envisioned entering for many years.
Jessop could see it nearing in the red horizon, the building that mirrored the crimson light of the city, refracting red rays in every direction. The building that appeared like a needle in the skyline; slender, tall and reflective. The Glass Blade was the training center and home to all the Hunters of Infinity there had ever been, and all the Hunters of Infinity there ever would be. She narrowed her eyes at the architectural spectacle that she had only ever known through the thoughts of others and she wished she could remove her stained goggles to get a clearer look. The sickly sensation of fluid slicking her fingers drew her attention away from the nearing Glass Blade and back to the wounded Hunter.
She cautiously drew her cloak back and pulled at his leather vest. His tunic was saturated with dark blood. She pulled the hem up, narrowing her eyes on the injury as the wind whipped around his garments. The sheer amount of blood made it difficult to assess the actual injury, but with focus, she could see the small pocket of a wound, tucked in between the mounds of his red-stained muscular ridges. It amazed her how humans, Hunters or otherwise, were kept safe by the integrity of this fine skin, and one small slice was all it took…
The wound was bad, the blood loss potentially fatal. She covered the injury back up, pushing a handful of material hard against it. The abilities of t
he medical team at the Glass Blade were renowned, known of even where she came from. If anyone could save the young Hunter, it was the team residing within his own home. As if on cue, the gleaming reflection of the red sky against the glass-paneled building nearly blinded her and she looked down to the pale face of the Hunter, silently willing him to hold on just a little bit longer.
She looked ahead as they sped towards the glass, with no signs of slowing down, and no visible entrance. She knew the Hunter trick, but she could not pretend she was not put somewhat on edge by the nearing building. As her heart sped up, the old Hunter threw his hand, fingers extended and palm out, in front of him, making the mystical mark in his palm visible to the glass walls. And just like that, the glass seemed to melt, rippling as though burning, and a black hole, barely large enough for the Soar-Craft to fit through, opened up to them.
With a sudden sickening drop, the Soar-Craft ducked into the mystical entrance, enveloping them in darkness. The preternatural mark, burnt into the hand of the Infinity Hunters, was the only way to gain entrance into the Glass Blade. A building that housed the protectors of Daharia, and the Blade of Prince Daharian, or the Blade of Light, as they called it, needed such security measures. Although, Jessop knew, such measures had only been put in place after what had happened with Falco Bane all those years ago.
They soared down a pitch-black tunnel and it was clear that Hanson navigated the ship through such darkness by memory alone. Jessop, on the other hand, pulled her goggles off, able to see in the darkness just fine. She had been raised in darkness. It was more soothing to her than any source of light could ever be. Just as she thought it though, a light did appear. A white glow in the distance illuminated a docking bay. Hanson zipped the Soar-Craft forward, bringing them in for an abrupt landing on the parking zone. Almost immediately, a team of white uniformed techs and engineers began yelling, angry, as they circled the ship.
“Knell, if we’ve told you once we’ve—” one began, but froze, his voice caught in his throat, as he saw Jessop and the fallen Hunter.
Hanson leaped from the craft, wrenching open a side door so that Jessop nearly fell out onto the hard floor. “Help me get him inside!”
Hanson and a group of the white uniformed men lifted the young Hunter from Jessop and quickly began to haul his unconscious body down the bay, leaving her, bloodstained, in the back seat. She quickly leapt out of the ship and ran after them, barely getting through the sliding automatic glass doors in time. She stared as Hanson Knell watched over his young mentee with fear, applying pressure to his wound and whispering under his breath to him. She could feel the combined concern of all of them, who clearly knew the wounded man and feared for his life. The second thing for her to learn about the young Hunter was that he was clearly beloved. The first had been that he was a half-decent fighter.
But her attention was torn as she lurched forward, unsteady on her feet as the floor beneath her began to rise. The steel metal platform on which they stood flew up a transparent chute, travelling through the Glass Blade, like a bead in a crystal clear tube. While she dug her heels in, the surrounding men seemed quite accustomed to the force.
They passed floor after floor of training rooms, engineer docks, labs, and workplaces, each one containing groups of men, all in the same uniform—black if they were a Hunter, white if they were not—all conducting different business. After several more levels were passed in which Jessop had seen a handful of young boys, some barely old enough to talk, undergoing martial training, the glass bullet came to a sudden halt, opening its doors to a medical floor.
Jessop nearly fell out, stumbling to the side as the white uniformed men and Hanson Knell carried the young Hunter out. “Let’s get some help over here!” Hanson yelled, and immediately, under his vicious growl, a flock of medics and nurses swarmed them. Jessop stepped back and watched the team as they moved like an efficient flight of birds, swooping in, opening the young Hunter’s vest, removing his blade, and carrying him away, disappearing down the corridor without any hesitation or questions.
The room fell quiet as all of them stared at the slow swinging doors the medics had taken Kohl O’Hanlon through. Jessop took a deep breath, looking around slowly, amazed by the building she found herself in.
One of the men from the docking bay turned to Hanson Knell. “Do you want us to wait with you, Sir?”
Hanson shook his head, staring down at the young Hunter’s sword in his hands. “No, go on.”
The man nodded, slowly clapping Hanson Knell on the shoulder as he walked past, leading his group of techs back into the glass chute. Jessop studied the old Hunter’s face, the smattering of blood flecked across his cheek, the way his cool eyes fixated on the blade in his hand. He was old and he was weary, and likely in need of a medical inspection. She knew better than to suggest it though. Instead, she let her gaze fall from him, slowly taking in the brilliant opal lights that surrounded her, the pristine ivory floors and glass furniture. It was the brightest and cleanest room she had ever been in.
Suddenly, Jessop was choking. Without warning, a terrifying grip had locked around her small throat, closing around her jugular and flinging her body against the glass doors. Hanson Knell’s grizzled fingers tightened around her windpipe and in his spare hand was the blade of his comrade, pointed directly at her face. She was pinned between the blade and the door behind her, his rough fingers grinding at her neck.
She didn’t stir, her startled heart slowing as she studied the hardened eyes of Hanson Knell. Being startled was not the same as being afraid—true fear was something that had long since been beaten out of her. She took shallow breaths between his vice grip. “What?”
“Who are you, girl?” he growled.
She slowly raised her hand to his and pulled gently at his wrist, willing him to release her throat, but he resisted, inching the blade closer to her eye.
“I don’t know what answer you want,” she spoke hoarsely, her voice straining against his hold.
“Don’t toy with me, girl,” he barked, jerking her by her throat and slamming her body hard against the glass door again.
“Do not call me girl, old man,” she growled back, narrowing her eyes on him.
He brought his angry face closer to her. “I want a name, girl. And once we have that, then perhaps you’ll tell me why you fight with Falco Bane’s sword?”
She slapped at his hand, urging him to loosen his grip on her throat… before she forced it loose. Slowly, he acquiesced.
She coughed, swallowing hard against her bruised windpipe. She held his gaze as she ran her fingers slowly up and down her neck. “Because I took it from him when I escaped Aranthol.”
CHAPTER 2
“You’re lying,” he snarled, once again grabbing her throat.
Jessop had had enough. She grabbed his hand, twisted it outward, and before he could stop her, she had pulled the young Hunter’s blade from him. But Hanson Knell wasn’t some half-trained Aren; he was a well-seasoned Hunter. In an instant he had removed his own weapon and directed it at her, prepared for a fight. She stepped to the side and slowly lowered the sword, showing she meant no harm. She had not come so far to fight Hanson Knell.
“Bane trained you,” Hanson hissed with disgust, following her slow steps with his sword. “I knew Falco Bane, I helped train him, I would know his style anywhere, and I saw it in the tavern as clearly as I see it now.”
She continued to make slow steps to the side, keeping the old Hunter moving. “There is nothing you have seen that I could not explain.” She watched him study her, looking over her face with a keen eye, as if he were searching for signs of Falco.
He shook his head at her slowly. “Earlier, in the bar, you used Sentio. But no woman has ever been taught the ways.”
She thought back to the bar, when one of the Aren had her by the neck and was ready to kill her. She had pained him to free herself from his grasp. Sent
io, the ancient training of the Infinity Hunters that combined telepathy and telekinesis, was, like the role itself, reserved only for men. It had been decided long ago by the Hunters’ Assembly Council that females did not possess the necessary strength to wield Sentio to any great extreme.
She shook her head at him. “I can communicate the odd thought, push if I need to—if my life depended on it, like today—but no, I cannot wield Sentio.”
The old Hunter shook his head. “He taught you—a woman—our greatest gift.”
“No—after thirteen years of having him rifle around my mind and watching him move objects as though they were connected to strings on his hands, I finally learnt just enough to say ‘stop’ or force a door closed when he came after me,” she explained, her voice low and serious.
He continued to shake his head, his blade still at the ready. “A woman who fights as well as you has had formal training.”
“A woman who fights as well as me has been forced to learn. Falco Bane taught me—he taught me by savaging my body for half my life,” she hissed at the old man. The words felt like oil in her mouth, disgusting and dark.
Finally, he lowered his blade. She could see his imagination working; she watched him envision the life of horrors she must have suffered. While he maintained his dispassionate glower, she knew she had subdued him with her words.
“I need to take you to the Assembly Council.”
She stepped away from him. Although Jessop had anticipated being taken to the Council, she knew it best to show fear at his words. It had been soon after she had first realized that she no longer felt true fear that she had learnt it was best to let others think she still did. “And what will they do with me?”
“Ask you as many questions as I have… more.”
She nodded slowly, unsurprised by his vague answer. “You should see something then, before the rest of them do. So you can know I’m not trying to keep secrets.”
Jessop knew that the more she volunteered, the less they would forcefully take from her.
