by Hanna Peach
Alyx dresses in her warrior blacks even though it isn’t patrole she is leaving for. She tucks a dijis into each boot. To her hip she sheaths a silver kris and her favorite emerald-handled soris. Finally she puts on her warrior’s jacket.
Outside, the air is quiet except for the solitary call of a night-bird. Alyx pushes her way through leaves, dabbed in silver gloss from the moonlight, towards the edge of the wards. She knows the perimeter paths of the nightly ward patroles having done them during her first few years as a youngling warrior. Two lines of staggered patrole units around the ward perimeters.
Alyx clears the lines easily.
The Valle de la Luna looks like the craters of the moon from above. Over centuries the wind and rain has dissolved the limestone of this Bolivian landscape leaving behind deep valleys and sandstone fingers that reach for the sky.
The starting line is a strip of purple material that flutters in a slight breeze, stretching out between two scantily-clad seraphelle. Alyx recognizes one of them. Sophya. She used to be a Michaelea lightwarrior. She fled after it was discovered that she had developed an attachment to a female mortal, an inappropriate relationship, a serious breach of protocol. Alyx wonders if it was worth it.
Sophya catches her staring. It seems that there is a small challenge in the slight lift of Sophya’s eyebrow. Alyx lets her gaze slide past Sophya without a further sign of recognition. She isn’t here as a warrior.
Alyx glances around the crowd. She is sure that there are a few more Rogues among them.
There are a few faces, leering and eager, that she remembers seeing at the last race. And the one before that. Her followers. She wonders whether they bet for or against her.
Alyx turns her attention to her competition. The announcer called him Griffin but she knows it isn’t his real name. Just as Bullet isn’t her real name. She doesn’t recognize him but she can tell from his build that he is another lightwarrior. From the deep tan of his skin Alyx guesses he is from the coastal city of Gabriela. He is standing within a small group of Seraphim. Alyx stands alone.
Her attention returns to the course in front of her, weaving in and out of the Valle de la Luna. She has already done a run-through of this course, taking note of the sharp corners and any potential hiding places. The final leg travels through part of the nearby city of La Pazze.
Dangerous to be holding races in mortal cities. This thought sends another course of adrenaline through her body.
Alyx remembers her last race against a female competitor named Phoenix, weaving through the tips of the Tokyo skyscrapers. She is sure that they were seen by some mortals then. But who would believe it - a dueling pair of angels over the artificially illumined Tokyo skyline? This memory adds to her anticipation, sharp and alive along her skin. Alyx can’t help a smile as she shakes her limbs in a warm-up.
A seraphelle dressed in gold and wearing a sash reading ‘Miss Night Seraphelle’ floats to the centre of the starting line. She raises her hand, holding a purple handkerchief, to the air with a dramatic flourish. “Contestants, take your places.”
A hush descends upon the crowd, punctuated by a couple cat-calls and the complaints of a few who are being jostled. Alyx looks over to Griffin, alone now, as they move forward to the line. How quickly his friends have deserted him.
“On your mark,”
Alyx leans forward in the air,
“get set,”
grits her teeth,
“go.”
and takes off, one eye on Griffin.
As they squeeze together through the first skinny pass she lets him take the lead. An early head start is not often advantageous.
Griffin swerves in and out of the sandstone pillars, Alyx close behind. The first markers are up ahead, one on each side of the course. As they fly past, Griffin grabs one and tucks it into his belt. Alyx snatches the other and does same.
Alyx sees the first trap before he does.
The movement from one of the ridges above catches her eye. A seraph is rolling a large boulder towards the edge of the ridge with EarthSifter, the grainy green magic extending from his palm and wrapping around the rock like a large hand.
“Above you,” Alyx yells at Griffin.
Griffin looks up as the boulder starts its descent. He rolls to his left in the air, the boulder missing him by inches. Alyx speeds forward, taking the lead.
She grabs a second marker.
She feels her skin singing with electricity as the valley closes to a thin pass up ahead - a perfect spot for a second trap. This time a waiting seraphelle uses AirWhisperer to blow a thick net across the pass, the ends of the net curling around the rocks on the other side creating a tight spider’s web across Alyx’s path. Alyx snatches her dijis from her boot and slashes the blade out in front of her, tearing a hole through the net. She slips through it, the coarse netting scraping along her body. Griffin follows close behind.
The third marker signals the end of the valley and the beginning of a sprint across desert towards downtown La Pazze. The desert breeze is cool, contrasting with the heat radiating from the sand below. Very little grows here, just a few tuffs of dry grasses blurring as Alyx flies over them.
Glancing over her shoulder, Alyx can see Griffin surging forward. She swerves left and right, trying to block him from passing.
He remains close on her heels when they enter the outskirts of La Pazze. Downtown La Pazze is a rat’s nest of a place. Derelict and crumbling, the buildings are either abandoned or patched up with banged in panels of cheap wood or plastic tarp. The streets have become open toilets for the drunk and the air smells as such. This is probably why it is chosen as part of the course; there are no mortals here who matter.
Alyx is expecting a last trap somewhere here. Her senses are all on alert. What she doesn’t expect is what’s coming.
She should have known something was wrong when she saw only one final marker hanging from the abandoned building beyond.
As she nears, four Seraphim appear from their hiding places behind the building. Her lips press into a line when she recognizes them. Griffin’s friends. It’s an ambush.
“Cheater,” Alyx yells back at Griffin.
“I need to win,” he says. There as a whine to his voice, a hollow desperation. A desperation that Alyx has heard before. Pathetic. He is a blood junkie.
The four Seraphim block her path. They try and grab her. Alyx evades their grasp by spinning in the air. Their movements are slow and labored. Their eyes are wide and pupils dilated. They are all junkies.
Griffin flies past her and grabs the fourth marker.
His friends come at Alyx again with outstretched hands. No weapons. They aren’t here to hurt her. They just want to slow her down. And it’s working. If she doesn’t get past them soon Griffin will win. Her blood runs hot. This gives her an idea.
Alyx flits back out of their reach, pulls out her dijis and turns to hide her hands. Alyx cuts a deep mark into one wrist, before sheathing her blade. She lets the blood fill her cupped hands before she closes the wound up. The junkies close in on her.
Alyx flicks her hands out at them and the warm red liquid sprays, covering the four Seraphim in her blood. They start to twitch and jerk in the air. One of begins to rub her blood into her skin while giggling. Another has begun to lick his own arms.
Her stomach churns with disgust.
It is enough of a distraction. Alyx flies around them before they discover that she is not gifted and that her blood is worthless.
She spots Griffin up ahead as she flies over the outskirts of the La Pazze, the buildings dropping to squat hovels, and out into the open desert again. The finish line is another purple sash at the end of this last desert sprint. Alyx has no time to lose. She puts on a burst of speed and is soon just behind Griffin’s booted feet.
He kicks out at her as she attempts to pass, knocking her off her course. She tries passing his other side but again he kicks out, clipping her forehead, causing her to fall behind.
&nb
sp; Alyx approaches again. This time she throws herself at him from above, her outstretched arms wrapping around his thighs. He grunts and wriggles in the air as they continue to hurtle forward. She begins to pull herself up along Griffin’s body like she would a climbing rope. His eyes widen as he realizes what she is doing.
Griffin rolls upside-down in the air so that Alyx is now below him. He veers down towards the ground, the sand flying underneath them in a blur. He is trying to scrape her off him against the ground. She begins to tussle with him in the air. They twist over and over again both trying to be the one on top.
The line is close enough now that Alyx can see the faces of the crowd cheering at them. She pulls herself forward off his shoulders, her head now in front of his. Griffin grabs a dagger from his waist and lashes out over his shoulder at her. She cries out as the blade cuts along her ribs. Griffin lashes out again and elbows up at her face. She takes the blow in the jaw and is dislodged off him.
Alyx hits the sand below, skidding and tumbling.
She rolls to a stop, looking up just in time to see Griffin crossing the finish line. A roar erupts from the crowd. She spits out sand and blood before pushing herself up off the ground.
“I object,” Alyx announces over the din after she crosses the finish line. “Griffin cheated.”
The crowd’s cheers turn to cries of shock, then discontented rumbles. Griffin’s eyes fall on her, smug. She has no proof of the ambush, no witnesses that will speak for her.
“This is a serious accusation Bullet,” says Miss Night Seraphelle, manicured hands on hips, as she looks down at Alyx.
“Present your markers, Griffin,” Alyx yells above the noise. A hush settles over the crowd.
Griffin’s eyes narrow then widen. He pulls the markers off his belt, one, two, three...
“No,” it leaves his lips in a groan. He has crossed the line without all four markers. He is disqualified.
Alyx pulls the purple markers from her own belt and holds them up. There are four. In the tussle Griffin didn’t feel her hands on his belt. She winks at him.
“You little—.” but Griffin is cut off, held back by the crowd, furious that he has cost them their winnings.
Tonight the RaceKeeper’s tent hangs off several rock pillars of the Valle de la Luna like a monstrous termites nest. The inside of the tent is gaudy and bright with mandarin and fuchsia colored cloths draping down from the ceiling. Harsh rose incense clogs Alyx’s nose as she enters. The RaceKeeper sits, thick legs crossed on a pile of floor cushions, chubby fingers holding a shisha pipe and his face, like always, is shrouded in darkness.
“You are such a good girl for me aren’t you, Bullet,” his voice, gritty, rolls towards her in curls of smoke.
Alyx shrugs to hide her contempt. “The competition was pathetic. Next time make it worth my while.”
The RaceKeeper laughs then chokes on his own spittle, the smoke becoming fragmented from his coughing. A servant races forward from the back folds of the tent with a clear tulip-bottle of water. He is new, much younger than the RaceKeeper’s last servant. Much younger.
Alyx heart clenches when she sees the concave of his olive-skinned limbs flopping from his rags. He is barely eleven winters. When has he last been fed? Who cares for him?
This could have been my fate if it not for Symon.
The RaceKeeper snatches the bottle from his servant’s tiny fingers. It disappears for a moment into the darkness, gulping and more coughing, then reappears empty. The servant takes the empty bottle and starts to withdraw.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” the RaceKeeper bellows at the youngling who flinches as if he had been whipped. He probably knows what it’s like to be whipped. The RaceKeeper addresses Alyx, “Sparrow will get your portion of the profits.”
Sparrow’s almond eyes dart towards Alyx before he retreats behind a curtain.
“Sparrow is such an odd name,” says Alyx trying not to let the pity creep into her voice.
“What? Oh. It’s just what I call him.”
The boy is not even called by his real name.
“How much for him?” Alyx says without thinking.
“What?” Alyx can imagine the RaceKeeper’s eyes bulging out within the darkness.
“You heard me.”
“Why do you want him?” The RaceKeeper’s voice is curious now. Alyx knows that the RaceKeeper smells an opportunity. She has to play it cool.
“I need a servant.”
There is a silence. “You are a liar.”
Alyx sniffs. “How dare—.”
“Don’t think me a fool Alyxandria of Michaelea. I know who you really are and don’t expect for a second that I believe you require a servant. What’s the real reason?”
Alyx can’t think of anything to say.
“I see. You pity the boy. Want to take care of him. Hah! You are as pathetic as he.”
At this moment Sparrow returns with a small pouch which he lays on the low round table next to the RaceKeeper before retreating again. Did Sparrow hear the RaceKeeper call him pathetic? It’s probably not the worst thing he has been called.
The RaceKeeper tosses the pouch at Alyx. “Take your winnings and go.”
Alyx catches the pouch but she holds it back out to him. “Keep the winnings. I want the boy.”
The RaceKeeper begins to laugh, slowly first, then harder. Alyx feels her cheeks warm. She lowers her hand.
“You think that this is all it takes to buy a life?” Another fit of laughter. “Even if you won a thousand races you wouldn’t get close to paying this boy off. He is too valuable to me. Now get out. You’re starting to bore me.”
She wants to hit him. She could hit him. It would hurt him. Really hurt him. She could probably get another three or four punches in before his guards at the entrance pull her off. Then what would happen to her?
Don’t care.
What would happen to Sparrow? This thought causes her to rethink her violent desire.
Alyx narrows her eyes at the RaceKeeper. “Fine. I’m going. But if I return and there isn’t some meat on his bones or better clothes on his back, I will stop racing for you.”
The RaceKeeper chokes on his shisha pipe.
Alyx is being followed.
As she moves through the outer forest of Michaelea she can hear the faint movement of leaves behind her, trailing her.
She has felt this presence since she left the RaceKeeper’s tent, and if she is honest with herself the presence has been there even before that. She snaps her head around, peering into the shadows. There is no one there. At least, no one she can see. But the little hairs on her neck are standing up.
Alyx slips behind the trunk of a large tree. She pushes up and crouches on the lowest branch. This someone, if they are really following her, will pass right under her.
Alyx doesn’t have to wait long.
A figure moves low along the shadows, brushing leaves out of the way. Alyx holds her breath until he moves right under her. She drops herself behind him and digs the point of her soris, to his back.
“Why are you following me?” she demands. “Turn around. Slowly.”
His shoulders hitch to his ears. He turns in a slow precise movement. His gaze meets hers. His eyes, curving up at the corners, have a familiar feline quality to them. Seraphim.
He wears dark jeans and a simple cotton t-shirt on his wide frame. Seraphim. Dressed like a mortal.
“Rogue.” Her breath catches in her throat.
“Please, I’m not here to hurt you,’ he says, raising his open palms to her in a show of placation.
Alyx hesitates.
That’s all he needs. He palms the air towards her before she realizes what he is doing. Alyx feels the wave of magic hit her square in the chest.
“DreamWalker,” she cries.
It wraps her, hot and stifling. Her body feels heavy. Very heavy, and tired. Her wakefulness is dragging down, slipping away like water down a drain. She tries to hang onto consciousness,
tries to push up her defenses, but too much of his magic saturates her body.
Her knees give out, the sword falls from her hand. In a stride he is at her side and his strong arms ease around her. Her hands against his chest trying to push him away are weak as kitten paws. She moans.
Her peripheral closes until his eyes are all she can see, pale green like mint tea. Her chin drops forward, her head comes to rest on his chest. He smells like the wind and the rain, wild and cool. Her eyelids fall several times. Then.
Nothing.
The DreamWalker
Second level magic.
The DreamWalker has the ability to manipulate sleep and communicate with others through dreams.
The model lightwarrior will use the DreamWalker’s bloodink mainly to induce a sudden sleep upon others by pushing their consciousness into the DreamPlain. Commence your practice of inducing DreamWalker sleep with a partner who is in non-resistance. As your skill progresses have your partner increase their resistance.
The model lightwarrior will also practice resisting DreamWalker sleep. Resistance is created by maintaining focus on something physical or tangible. Examples include choosing an object to focus your gaze on or to focus on physical sensations such as pain. Bloodink is not required for resistance.
To communicate with others through dreams the DreamWalker must enter and locate the other in the DreamPlain. This is not recommended for beginner users of bloodink as the DreamPlain is vast and can be difficult to navigate. This aspect of DreamWalker magic is reserved for flock leader’s as a means of communicating with warriors out on an extended patrole.
The Lightwarrior’s Protocol
Chapter 9
Alyx becomes aware of the smell first. A sharp spicy incense. Then her body pulls into awareness. She is lying on a slab, cold, unforgiving.
Her eyes open. The ceiling soars above her, arcing, familiar, lit only by candlelight, flickering. Where is she?
An altar, in a church. Recognition kicks in as she sees the high windows, the familiar holy scenes depicted in stained glass. Saint Paul’s cathedral. Saint Joseph. What is she doing here? What happened?
