Wielder of the Flame

by Nikolas Rex

  The other two aldoms squawked as well, and bowed low. Sesuadra and Zildjin gripped their reins tightly to stop themselves from falling off. Even the balkar that Topar rode lowered itself.

  The creatures were actually bowing to Marc.

  Marc was surprised but did not move, his hands still held in the air.

  Topar’s face was one of absolute wonder, his tail stopped flicking back and forth.

  “Never in all my days,” He whispered, “have I seen such a thing.”

  ***

  No one noticed that the yard the boys and their mentor were in was being watched, and had been on a few other occasions as well.

  An upper balcony of a nearby shop did not look down directly into the training area, but the tall tower-like roof above the balcony gave for a very good perch and view of the grounds behind the Emporium. Hidden in the dark shadows there on the roof a figure garbed all in black sat and observed the mounted combat lesson.

  Unlike Topar, the watcher had seen such a thing, and was familiar with the implications of it. That sword the boy had, it was powerful indeed, whether the boy was aware of the magic in the weapon, was another matter entirely.

  The moment the boy touched the hilt of the sword the onlooker felt a strong aura emanating from the weapon. It was faint because of his distance from the blade, but it was powerful, thick. To his enhanced magical senses it was absolutely intoxicating, the pure potential, the pure excitement and wonder, and these were all feelings he felt from a distance. Even the riding creatures in their simple little minds, could feel the magic emanating from the sword and revered it. The watcher had a strong desire to hold the sword in his own hands, to understand its power. It was the single most powerful magic he had sensed from an inanimate object in all his days. He must have the thing to himself, he must.

  But he could not spend any more time watching. The others would begin to notice his absences and suspect something, and he did not want that. He must spend some time planning now and wait, patience would yield its reward, he had to hope, had to believe it would.

  The figure garbed in black deftly slid from the roof, hanging from the gutter for a moment to flip quietly onto the balcony below. He peered over the balcony railings to make sure no one was down in the alley below. He jumped a seemingly impossible distance from this to a long strand of vines creeping up a stone wall nearby. With uncanny speed and agility he climbed down the vines, jumped onto some crates below and flipped to land on the ground with ease.

  The man stood, his black hood still up, and began to walk to the entrance of the alley. As he walked he muttered a few carefully chosen words and made two gestures with his hands. As he finished the gestures and uttered a final word the black in his cloak and attire melted away magically, transforming into a rich deep blue color. In another moment gold embroidery appeared at the hem and sleeves of his now blue robes.

  He exited the alleyway dressed as the people of Kolima knew him, Safral of the Overseer’s Hands.

  Chapter Twelve

  Awakening

  The vision of the young man brought Drake to his senses.

  It had happened again, he had blacked out. It had been at least three cycles since it had occurred last, he had even begun to hope that it would never happen again, but that hope was now gone, shattered to oblivion.

  What had he done this time?

  He was covered in blood, his two blades before him on the floor. That was when he felt a presence and a hand on his shoulder had turned him around.

  At first he did not really comprehend the sudden appearance and disappearance of the young man, just as he could not understand or explain his blackouts, but as the shock of awaking from darkness to be covered in blood that was not his own began to wear off he realized that he recognized the boy’s face.

  It was the boy from his dream.

  Drake looked around the room. There was his bed in the corner, sheets and blanket tossed and rumpled. It was dark, nighttime. A few candles, burning low, lit the room with their small flickering flames. The heavy oak dresser had been dragged from its place against the wall and leaned against the door, barricading entrance to the room. There were long gauge marks in the hard wood floor, indicating the heavy weight of the dresser.

  He could not recall having moved the dresser.

  There was also his small desk, the table with ceramic bowls and cups atop it where he ate, and a chair was along the third wall. There was the simple canvas painting hung next to the closed door on the fourth wall.

  Drake could also not remember having gotten fully suited up in his old battle gear. He wore his thick dark leather armor, leather boots, and his dark forest green traveling cloak. The nearby flickering candlelight made his armor shine with a silver gleam, the breastplate. Though he had once carefully studied the masterfully carved designs of the dragons on his gear due to the current situation he barely noticed them. Without looking he could feel the dark brown leather belt with its full pouches, around his waist.

  Before him on the floor were his weapons, two very fine swords, the candlelight glinted off their sheen surfaces. The two weapons looked completely identical. Both had slightly curved blades, very long. The outer curve looked razor sharp and the inner curve of the blade was flat. The grips were covered with black leather looking material and the Tsubas, or hand guards, were a shiny gold were decorated in the shape of fiery dragons. The blades’ were also decorated with a similar silhouette of fantastically designed dragons etched into the surface on both sides, the tail of the dragon swirling around the blade all the way to the top. Blood was spattered all over the blades, dripping off the edges in a harmonious pattern onto the floor.

  He looked at the blood and thought Not again, not now!

  What have I done this time?

  And why had that boy appeared to him, and how?

  Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound. An angry fist pounded on the door behind the large dresser five times in quick succession, shattering the silence of the room.

  His heart leapt to his throat in surprise.

  Pound. Pound. Pound. The fist banged against the wood.

  “Drake!?” A muffled voice on the other side of the door called out, “I know you’re in there! I don’t care if you’re asleep or not! There’s been another disturbance, this time Bad!”

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  He knew the voice. It was Ormton, the innkeeper, a friend.

  He didn’t want this, not again, not now. Things had been going so well. What could he do? He didn’t even know what he did, but judging by the blood all over him he figured it was bad.

  He would have to leave again, go far away, find a new home.

  He was stupid to have settled down. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have stayed away. But he couldn’t have, he had fallen for her.

  “Drake!” The voice called out again, “I will be honest, I have the guards here with me, but we just want to talk!”

  The pounding of the fist suddenly stopped and instead turned into someone throwing their weight against the door, the heavy dresser held.

  His thoughts became more frantic and he began to revert to his instincts, closing in on himself, shielding himself, eventually his thoughts became only the basics, only survival.

  “Drake! The town guard is here to take you in!” Thump. “I know not whether you fall to be guilty but you must let us in! Be reasonable Drake!” The pushing stopped for a moment, “What have you got blocking this cursed door!?”

  Guilty, for what? Drake shook his head, the blood on him left more than enough to the imagination. He had to escape!

  But I didn’t DO anything! Drake screamed in his mind. He used the nearest, cleanest portion of the white bed sheets to wipe as much blood off his hands as he could. He finished a quick sweeping clean of his armor and then threw the dirty sheets to the ground. He jumped out of bed, running towards the table and in one swift motion he grabbed the two blades, wiping the wet blood off of his weapons onto the right knee of his leather b
reeches.

  “I hear him!” The innkeeper cried, “Push harder!” Pound. Thump. The door groaned but the impossibly heavy dresser barely moved.

  His heart pumping fast, the young man picked up the connected sheaths from under the table, sheathed the blades, and expertly strapped the whole small contraption on his back. Next he ran to the dresser, deftly shoved the clothes on top of the dresser into the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  Lastly, he turned, and ran for the window.

  “Wait!” The innkeeper cried, “I hear him heading for the window! Two of you go around! Go around!”

  Drake put one foot on the ledge and quickly peered out, he had forgotten the room he had rented was three stories up, almost thirty feet to the ground. The starry night sky and two moons were blocked by dark clouds and the few burning lamps around the town did little in the way of illumination. But the blackness did not hinder Drake’s vision. A magic within him changed things, at night everything he saw was highlighted in a bright green and was otherwise dull and faded, not even half its original color. Using his special sight Drake made his plan of escape. There were a couple of trees below him and some bushes below that, but not much else besides hard packed dirt. He estimated the distance and figured he could land without breaking anything. There was no town wall in the direction he was aiming for so he figured he could run, follow the road for a bit, and make it to the forest in the distance. He remembered he had a map and whipped it out of one of the pouches in his belt. He scanned it quickly, the pounding on the door making his eyes move hastily. If he could get far enough west there was a river, there he would make sure anybody who followed him, and this time he was sure many would, lost his trail. And then after that he would be safe, for the most part.

  “C’mon! Heave! Heave!”

  Thump. Thump!

  Time was running short, he would either have to jump or face whoever was going to burst through the door, and though he knew he could confront them and probably win, he did not want to kill anybody.

  Anybody else… he added bitterly. He stuffed the map back into his belt just as the dresser finally gave and the door flew inwards. The Innkeeper and four men suited in armor with swords drawn, burst into the room.

  “Drake!” The innkeeper yelled, “DRAKE!”

  But his cry was too late for Drake turned and deftly launched himself from the window.

  With unprecedented accuracy and skill, especially for such a young man, Drake aimed for a tree below and made his mark. His arms outstretched, Drake grabbed the intended branch and felt his body straighten out and all the force from the fall pull at his arms. He let out a grunt of pain, but ignored it, continuing with the momentum, swinging, completing a back flip, and landing on the ground underneath the tree.

  He turned to see the innkeeper and armored men with oil lamps in their hands looking out the window.

  “He is there!” They cried.

  “I did not do it!” He tried to explain, he shook his head, his face was filled with sadness. He didn’t know what to say. He wished he could just tell someone, let them know the truth, hear his side of the story, tell them about his blackouts. But he knew it would not work, he had tried it before.

  “I did not do it. I am sorry!”

  He took off, running towards the dirt road leading away from the Inn, and the town, and everything.

  ***

  Drake was different, he knew that. He could see much better than other people. He could run faster and farther than anyone he had ever met. He had lightning like reflexes. He was smart, and could think remarkably quickly. He had a superb sense of smell and could hear astoundingly well, and most of all he was extraordinarily strong for his size. He had trained for many cycles under the two-sword style and had the technique almost mastered. He was an expert tracker, and knew how to survive in the wild.

  But the strangest thing about him, besides the things that happened to him when he had weird unexplained blackouts, was that he never aged.

  He did not know how old he truly was because he had been young now, for more than twenty cycles. He could not remember how this thing had happened to him, but he knew that he did not age as other humans.

  He had been searching for help, an explanation, anything, for a long time.

  He ran and ran and ran as long and as fast as he could, and when he could not run he jogged until he could run again. He had quickly entered into the forest just outside of the small town he had been staying in and he had continued on, not looking behind, never looking behind. Through the forest he went, deeper and deeper. Vines and leaves whipped at his face and he dodged and ducked and jumped over fallen trees, stumps, and boulders.

  After what felt like a long time, he knew that it was likely his pursuers were already lost in the dark and he could afford to take a moment’s break. He rested against a tree, panting hard, his lungs seared like fire and his breath came in short intervals. He plopped to the ground and leaned his head backwards closing his eyes, laying his back against the smooth bark of the tree. I should keep on going, he thought. But after he sat for a moment, his eyes still closed, he could not hear any sounds of pursuit, and even if there were, he knew they were far behind him. Besides it was too dangerous to use his night-vision at high speeds. I should at least reach the river first though…

  Eventually a number of factors made up his mind and he stood up, after all he was thirsty, and hungry too, he noticed. He searched the small pack he had taken with him and pulled out a small handful of purple fruit. He smelled them and, satisfied, popped them in his mouth. After swallowing the quick meal, and with a deep breath, he continued on at a walking pace.

  Walking also gave him a chance to enjoy the beauty of the nature surrounding him. With his superb hearing he could easily identify what, usually, other humans would think of as just creeks and groans of the forest. The insects of the night chirped and twittered a soft musical hum that to Drake, seemed to fill the very trees themselves. An owl hooted in the distance and took off from a branch, making leaves rustle.

  The smells of everything around him were positively overwhelming, in a good way. The most overpowering was pine, for there were many of that variety of trees in this particular forest. But he could smell birch and oraku and something else he could not identify. A number of flowers and plant smells came to his nose as well, sweet lilac, a hint of goldenlurch, the long afreeTea plant, and the strong scent of the shrub scufflesnout. He could not remember where he had learned all of these things he just knew that he knew them. He knew many of the names of plants and berries and other fruit that could be found in the wild that were safe to eat, or could be used as herbs, or for healing.

  After a short time the sound of rushing water came to his well trained ears and Drake knew that he had come to the river. With his eyesight and his hearing he made his way towards the sound until the trees broke and he was at his destination. Finally, he thought, I have a chance to wash my bloodied hands. He carefully walked down a muddy bank and knelt down right in front of the moving water. He unbuckled his gauntlets and placed them at his side. Next he took off his breastplate and swords strapped around him, also placing them next to him, and he took off his shirt as well, revealing his lean but muscular build. For someone so young and skinny he was buff. Slowly, he lowered his hands into the water. It was cold, not as cold as he thought it was going to be, but it was the warm season and the snows from the mountains had long melted. Scrubbing with both hands he scrapped his skin until every last bit of dried blood was gone. Next, he splashed cold water over his chest, he sucked in a quick breath as the cold water touched his bare skin but he quickly got over it and continued washing. Lastly, he knelt forward, resting his arms in the water and dunked his face, hair and all, into the river. Cold rushed over him, smooth, flowing cold, and he took a few gulps of the refreshing water. Finally his breath ran out and he popped his head back out, flinging droplets everywhere. He knew that normally drinking from a river was very unwise, all sorts of sickness
came from water that was so muddied down by other things, and it was a much better decision to drink from a clear, clean, stream nearer to the source. But this fact did not bother him at all because he had found that he had a rock hard gut and he could not ever remember getting sick from any sort of food, he had even had to resort to rancid meat one time when he was traveling across the plains. It had tasted horrible, but he had not gotten sick.

  The blood stains gone, his body clean, and his thirst quenched, he stood up, satisfied, put his shirt back on and picked up his things in his arms. I need to find a place to sleep, he realized, for his body suddenly felt exhausted, seeming as I didn’t get much sleep last night.

  He left the bank of the river, entering back into the trees looking for a place to rest. But he did not walk far because he wanted to keep near the river, the sound of it was reassuring. He soon reached a good spot, underneath a tree where leaves and small brush would serve as good padding for a bed. He took off the rest of his armor and belt and lay down on the leaves, with his pack as a pillow.

  He was tired, not just because of lack of sleep, but he was tired of the things that happened to him. It was as if he lost control of his body, as if something else took over and he couldn’t ever remember what happened. It did not always happen when Drake fell asleep, in fact usually not, but last night was different. Usually Drake could feel himself become dizzy, or lightheaded, and it was then he would tie himself up, or find a place where no one was, so that nothing would happen, nothing like that first time.

  He remembered the sharp contrast of red blood all across the snow, the torn bodies, the broken buildings of the village.

  He remembered the skeleton in his lap and his desperation to get away from it. He remember the blades, two of them, and his need to hold them, his inability to separate from them.

  But he could not remember anything before that.

  I need help. Drake thought. He was at the edge of his endurance. He could not take much more, running, hiding in fear, not just from those around him, but fear of himself. A tear fell down the young man’s face. I’m so tired of this! His hands began to tremble from all the anxiety that had been built up inside him. I NEED HELP! He began to cry, countless cycles he had held his emotions in and he just could not take it anymore.