by Heath Pfaff
"The cloak is my spare," the red-eyed warrior explained. "The sword I found on the field of battle at Fell Rock and thought you might want it when you were able to walk on your own." I took the items from him, noting again how the cloak was different than those I'd seen on the Knights at Fell Rock. He must have noticed my attention to the fabric. "They're new. Including the one you're holding right now, there are only ten of them. There will be more though, the design is good, the process perfected."
I noticed, as I went to put on my new cloak, that I was wearing an outfit of black and gray, a fine dark gray shirt that laced at the front, and well-fitted black pants. I hadn't had the chance to see the outfit I'd put on the night of the attack at Fell Rock, but I found it to my liking now that I could. The shirt reminded of the one Malice had worn when I had visited her in her room and she had worn nothing else. That memory made me smile despite myself, but the smile faltered as remembering Malice also made me remember that I didn't know if she was alright. I wanted to believe that she was safe, that her combat skills had seen her to safety, but the worry still nagged at me. I resumed dressing myself, a somber feeling sitting heavily upon me.
Donning the cloak was not an easy process. The nature of the fabric made it quite difficult to determine how it should be oriented. I did, eventually, figure it out and was surprised to find that the temperature inside the cloak seemed warmer than I had expected. The early fall air was chill but the cloak felt as though it had been warmed by my body already, despite having been just pulled from Weaver's pack.
Weaver again anticipated my question before I needed to ask it. "The inside of the cloak is always that temperature. It's part of the magic of the fabric. The one wearing it will never be too hot, or too cold. That is a surprisingly important feature for those who have to wear the same cloak day after day, come winter snow or summer heat. The fabric is also resistant to staining or tearing but will do either if put through extreme distress."
"Thank you, Weaver. I will wear it in good faith." I said, and indeed I was happy to have the cloak. From inside it, I felt much more secure. I fastened the sword at my waist, checking to see that the blade moved easily in the scabbard. It did, and I was happy for that. The blade also aided my feeling of security. Though I knew that I was far from a skilled swordsman, there was something reassuring about having the length of metal strapped at my side. Having a good weapon could make a coward feel like a hero and a hero feel like a god. I felt I belonged more in the former group than the latter, but it was an improvement either way.
"You'll still need a chain-mail vest to protect your chest. Your heart is important. If it stops beating, you'll die. Ha, yes, I know that seems an obvious sentiment, but not much else will kill you now. Just remember, if you're in a fight, protect your heart and try to keep yourself from taking any serious damage. The more serious the injury, the longer it will take for your body to heal it, and it can be hard to fight if you're mangled beyond recognition," As Weaver instructed me, he walked to the fire and pulled a wood skewer with an unidentifiable meat from where it was sticking up out of the ground at the flame's side. He walked back to me and handed me the hot stick. "Eat, you'll need the energy for traveling. When you're done, we should get moving. I could only get us so far from Fell Rock while carrying you. We should put some more distance between us and whatever forces may still be there, as soon as possible."
Following Weaver down the road dressed in my flowing cloak, carrying a sword at my hip, my strange new eyes highlighting the world in pristine detail, I found myself truly feeling like a Knight of Ethan for the first time since my training had begun all those months before. Inside I was still the same, frightened young man that I had always been, but now I was cast into the role of an imposing warrior, strong and mysterious beneath my shifting cloak. It was easy to act the part but I wondered how others would perceive me. Would they know that I was only sixteen, almost seventeen, years old and still inexperienced in the ways of combat or would they only see a "Black-Eyed Devil," some monster from stories they had never quite believed were real? I didn't know, indeed, couldn't know. A part of me didn't want to find out. If they saw me for the young and inexperienced man I was, it would shake my confidence in the man I was trying to become. If they saw me as a monster, they might be right, and that was a truth I feared deeply. Was I still human?
"Where are we headed?" I asked Weaver, looking for some topic to break the monotony of the road and stop the repeating, hopeless circles of thought I'd been caught in for several hours.
"South." Weaver stated.
"Where 'south'?" I pressed, not content with such a vague answer. It was easy to say 'south,' but there was quite a lot of 'south' we could be traveling to. For a moment I wasn't certain he would answer, but, after a short pause, he spoke again.
"Our final destination is an island in the Rip Tooth chain, Howling Wind. We'll meet up with our forces and from there we can decide our next move." His voice was tight, authoritative, not the same friendly tone he had used around the fire. I was quite shocked at his answer, not the tone, but the subject itself. I had not realized we would be traveling so far south. The Rip Tooth islands were at least another two or three weeks of travel away by foot, if we kept to the major roads. If we could find transport we might make it in a single week or less, but that was still a considerable distance to travel.
"Will we be obtaining transport?" I asked the stalwart cloaked figure, not eager to walk for three weeks.
"No, hiring transportation is too easy to track, especially for us. In a battle, or out in the countryside we can use our cloaks to vanish, but towns, cities, and villages will see us and remember our passing. We will leave as little trail as possible." Again, there was a note of command in the way he spoke. It was, I guessed, probably attributable to his many years in the Knights of Ethan. Being second only to Ethaniel himself must have put Weaver in positions of command on many occasions. I didn't reply again, but after a time Weaver turned his eyes to me and I thought I could see a smile about his features, though it was hard to tell for certain as he had the face mask portion of his cloak pulled up, leaving only his eyes clearly visible. "We should probably begin your training."
I nodded my agreement, happy to have something to do. The tedium of travel is matched in torment only by the foot pain.
He walked as he continued talking. "Let us begin with something easy, yet vitally important. In fact, this will be the most important thing you'll learn how to do and, conversely, the easiest. You will use it much more effectively later, but for now you need to learn its function and how to call upon it in times of distress." He bent down and picked up a rock from the road. Weaver tested its heft in his hand for a moment before pulling back his arm and flinging the stone forward at an almost straight course out from us. Such was the velocity of his throw that I could barely detect an arc in the object's trajectory, even with my improved vision. "Now, if you were watching that closely, you should have seen a strange streaking behind the rock when I threw it, like a light that followed the path of the stone. Did you see it?" He looked at me again.
"Yes, I saw it." I told him, not sure if I should tell him that the streak following the stone had been quite distinct. In fact, it had been almost blatant, as were all things that moved, especially those that moved in contrary force to the world around them. For instance, a leaf blowing in the wind only left a faint trail, but a bird, struggling against the pull of the ground and grip of the winds, left a much more resonant trail. I had spent a good deal of time studying the effect.
"Good, some of us new to the eyes have difficulty seeing that at first. Seeing it is half the challenge." He stopped in his tracks and after another step I did as well, curious to see what would happen next. "What you're seeing, in those streaks, is your new vision's ability to track changes in the world at a much faster rate then you're used to. What you need to do to take full advantage of that, is to force the rest of your body and your mind to match that pace."
; I must have given him a surprisingly stupid look because he drew back the mask covering the lower half of his face to reveal a smile. "It's easy. Trainees always find it surprising just how easy it is once they get the trick. All you need to do is will yourself to be faster. When they taught you to fight and taught you the forms for combat, didn't they also teach you to envision a second enemy standing behind the first and attempt to follow your strike through to that enemy?"
"Yes..." I said, uncertainly. Malice had, I recalled, taught me something similar to that. It was a trick that aided one in learning to punch through a target instead of stopping at the target. Such a strike was more effective than a standard punch. I had adapted to it readily, and developed a strong blow that I had not once managed to land solidly on an opponent.
"This is the same thing." Weaver explained, grinning widely. "Picture it, believe it, and your body will do the rest."
"Alright." I said, still not sure what to make of Weaver's explanation of what was supposed to happen. The red-eyed warrior bent down and picked up another rock.
"I'm going to throw this straight up. When I do, I want you to force yourself to speed up. I want you to picture yourself moving so fast that you can fly right past this rock. Are you ready?"
I nodded that I was, and he drew back his arm to throw. I felt my muscles tensing in expectation, as though I were about to leap into the air myself. I felt my heart quickening, and I pictured myself streaking like a bolt of lightning through the sky on the path the rock would take. The world lurched around me. The air seemed to turn thick, tugging at my flesh as I attempted to move. I turned my head and saw the rock just beginning to leave Weaver's hand. It seemed to tumble slowly up into the sky, as though it were being drawn upward by some invisible string. I reached out for it, moving my hand as quickly as I could, but even forcing all my will into the movement, my hand still only crept slowly skyward. It took me what felt like seconds just to raise it to shoulder level. I decided to put the arm back down, and found that changing my arm's trajectory took even more effort. I saw Weaver move then, and he seemed to be walking at normal speed, casually meandering towards me as though all the air of the world hadn't just turned to sap. His hair, his cloak, and the fur on his arms shifted slowly, as if being pushed by a strong, yet slow, breeze, but he ignored it, walking all the way around me twice before I was able to return my arm to my side. As quickly as it had begun, the world resumed its normal course and I collapsed to my knees, a sense of weariness washing over me with such force that I felt light headed.
Weaver appeared in front of me. "Not bad. You got it on your first try." He laughed loudly. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, using that trick will eat away at your energy. You can't put on so much speed without burning into your body's reserves. It's a trick that gets easier the more you do it, but the first few times you speed yourself up, it's going run you down fast. Every time you quicken yourself using the eyes, and this is true even for me after all these years, it's like running as hard as you can the entire time you're doing it. You see the potential, though, right?"
I was still breathing heavily, but indeed I could see the potential. A warrior who could push himself to such speeds would be able to avoid almost any attack. "Yes, I do." The words came out between gasps. "Why do I move so slowly?" I questioned the more experienced warrior, hoping that he would tell me it was something that would improve with practice. Though the trick was still useful, my inability to move as quickly as Weaver had made it less impressive.
Weaver pulled back the cloak covering one of his clawed limbs and held it up for me to inspect. "You're not equipped for faster movement yet. Improved though you are, your body was never meant to operate at the speeds that you are capable of achieving. Your muscles can't push you any faster, and your tendons can't withstand the strain that would be applied if you could. If you tried to go as fast as I can, and you succeeded, your body would fly apart at the seams.
I blanched, envisioning my arms and legs tearing themselves free of my torso. It was not a pretty thought. Weaver helped me to my feet and we resumed walking again. I was troubled by the realization that my arms and legs would eventually become like Weaver's and the other Knights'. The loss of my human limbs would be yet another step away from my perceived humanity and I was ever mindful of the fact that power could have a terrible cost. Kyeia's life had served as a most poignant reminder of that. I noticed several sources of smoke on the not so distant horizon, the signs of a town, probably a small settlement if the number of smoke sources was anything to judge by. I realized we would need supplies if we were to be on the road a long time, but I wasn't sure how to breach the subject with Weaver. He seemed set against making any public appearances. I finally decided the best course of action was simply to speak my mind and see what happened.
"We'll need to acquire provisions if we're to travel far on foot - dried meat, some skins for water." I tried to make my voice as casual as possible, not eager to see my traveling companion's cold, commanding side again.
To my surprise Weaver merely nodded his agreement. "I had thought of that, though it goes against my better judgment. Human settlements are..." he seemed to think for a moment before coming up with the word he wanted, "troublesome." There was a look of disgust on his face that seemed to ill fit the man who had been grinning so widely just a few moments before. I found myself feeling uneasy at Weaver's comment on the human settlement. A seed of doubt was forming in my mind, and it was difficult to squelch. It grew all the stronger for the fact that I knew not what I was in doubt of, only that my travel companion seemed possessed of two distinctly different personalities, one edged in darkness.
We spent the remainder of our walk in relative silence, simply passing the miles in quiet thought, not a mode of travel I preferred since my thoughts were mostly troubled. I was quite happy to finally see the first houses of the town we'd been approaching coming into view around a bend in the road. I had guessed correctly that the town wasn't large. It consisted of maybe four or five dozen homes, what appeared to be a central store, and blacksmith shop from which the sounds of a hammer bearing down on an anvil could be heard. The hammer striking metal ringing out through the streets reminded me of my own home. Most towns and cities had a smith, and the sound of ringing metal was as natural a sound as any for a person who'd grown up in such a place. Fell Rock hadn't had its own smith. All of their metal work was brought in from outside sources. Possibly, I thought, some of them even came from the town we now approached, though I thought there was probably a settlement nearer the Post - the former Post I reminded myself, for Fell Rock stood no longer - to the north.
As we drew nearer, I could see and hear the sound of children playing in the streets and the fields about the town. A sign at the outskirts of the town read, "Paix Farth, Huntsmen's Town." Our presence drew some attention from the children, some of whom ran into their homes, while others openly stared at us as we approached. Adults came to their windows, summoned by their children, and others stepped out of their homes, holding pitchforks or other makeshift weapons. I could hear the whispers of the suddenly attentive townspeople.
"They've come to take us away, and they'll never let us come back home." One child whispered to another, hiding behind the leg of a large man holding a hoe.
"Mommy says they're demons." Another child said.
"You're not wanted here, monsters." A human man yelled openly as we passed him and his family.
"What are they doing here?" One woman asked her husband.
"I don't know, but their lot should be exterminated. Beasts, they are," he answered tersely.
From beside me I could hear a low rumble rising from Weaver, and I looked over at my travel companion to see his eyes radiating rage. The streaks of white lightning along their surface seemed to churn in an unusual chaos. I began to wonder if we shouldn't have found our own provisions along the road, avoiding civilization all together. The words of the people stung me as well, striking at the very core of my own concerns o
ver my humanity. I tried not to let it bother me, but the strong negativity projected at us as we passed both angered and saddened me. Any happiness I'd had at seeing the town was gone. We made our way to the store, Weaver not allowing our pace to grow any faster, despite the intensifying unrest about us. We were nearly to the store when the shopkeeper, who had been standing outside of his business holding a cudgel, stepped inside for a moment and came back out with a sign that read "closed." He hung it from a nail in the door before going back inside and shutting the door firmly behind him. My heart fell, but Weaver didn't change his pace. He walked directly to the door and knocked loudly. When there was no answer, he knocked again, more forcefully.
"Do demons not read? Go away! We're closed to your ilk!" A voice shouted from within.
There was a flash of motion, too quick for me to catch, though I could see the path Weaver's arm cut through the air. The closed sign fell to the ground in four pieces.
"I see no sign. Open this door, shop keeper, and we will be gone soon enough." Weaver's voice held a timber I had not heard in it before, and though I found it did not affect me at all anymore, I could identify it as "the voice." What was remarkable was that I had never heard the slightest hint of it before from the red-eyed warrior. I knew that it was possible to control the effect of "the voice" among the more powerful of the Knights of Ethan, Ethaniel himself had done so to an extent, but Weaver had completely hidden it. I wondered just how powerful my companion was. From within the building came the sound of a heavy bolt being dropped into place.
