Visions: Knights of Salucia - Book 1

by C. D. Espeseth

  Flash.

  “Wayran!” This time it was Matoh shouting his name. He was back in the square, with everyone watching him.

  “What is this? No. I won’t. I don’t want to fight my brother,” Wayran said. He blinked away the confusing images as his head began to throb in pain. Something was wrong. “Pick another name, I’ll go next.”

  The crowd inhaled as one.

  “You will address me as sir, initiate,” Captain Miller’s voice snapped.

  Wayran tried to make sense of what was going on, tried to push through the murk in his mind. I’ve just been insubordinate,he realised, and then looked up to the teeming balconies around him. Insubordinate in front of the entire bloody Academy. He turned back to Captian Miller and tried to cobble together a proper salute. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just I –”

  “A cruel twist of fate to be sure,” Captain Miller said, looking sternly at him, “but the name came out of the hat just like it did for everyone else. And, son, you don’t get to choose who you face on the battlefield. This will be a lesson.”

  Wayran knew that look on Captain Miller’s face: he was to be made an example of now. He understood it, and he kicked himself for being an idiot.

  “Just pick up the gods-damned staff!” Matoh shouted. “You’ve embarrassed her enough already.”

  “I …” Wayran said, clenching his jaw. He hadn’t thought of that, of how this would reflect on their mother’s legacy. Matoh would have been all too aware of it however. Damn it.

  “Pick it up,” Matoh hissed.

  Fine, Wayran thought. If his brother wanted a fight, he was going to bloody well get one.

  He bent down and snapped up his staff. He twirled it through the air, let the polished wood drop onto his neck, where he spun it once, flicked it into his hand and dropped into a low stance. Sure, he preferred his books over training, but he had always been just as quick in the study of martial forms as he was with academic ones.

  The crowd roared at the display.

  Captain Miller raised his hand, and suddenly Wayran found his attention oddly fixated on a group of four standing on the second level. The image of the four was incredibly clear. A tall man with a purple hat was tapping his finger against the railing in time to a tune Wayran had started to hear. A short slightly pudgy young man stood next to him, with wild-looking eyes and an absurd haircut. The third and fourth members were just as unique: the Princess Echinni and the legendary Yuna Swiftriver. They all seemed to be humming. Humming the same tune.

  A tune he had never heard, and yet somehow knew.

  “FIGHT!” Captain Miller’s voice boomed.

  Staves whirled, meeting with a thwack a split second before Matoh’s fist cracked across Wayran’s jaw.

  * * *

  On the second-floor balcony, in that odd group of four, Jachem’s voice piped up. “Why are your tapping your finger, Kai? And why are you humming, Echinni?”

  “The music, Jachem,” Echinni said. “Can’t you hear it? It’s soft now but it’s building to a crescendo.”

  Kai’s finger was tapping a beat to the song Echinni was humming, and Jachem thought that odd, because he too could hear music now, above what Echinni and Kai were doing. Something was radiating from within the square.

  “Hey, I know that guy, the big tough one with the stripe of hair with feathers in it,” Kai said, oddly distant and dreamy. “Matoh … yeah, that was his name. I owe him a drink.”

  “Why do you sound like that?” Jachem got no response; it was as if Kai hadn’t heard him.

  Jachem felt as if he should recognise the tune, but at the same time he also knew he had never heard it before. He could remember every song he had ever listened to. Just like he could remember everything he had ever read, so he knew absolutely that he had never heard this song before. And yet somehow it was familiar.

  “Excuse me,” he said, tugging on a cloak worn by the stranger standing beside him. “Do you hear that music? What is it?”

  “I hear it, friend,” the stranger said. “Odd that you can as well.” The stranger paused to watch the wiry-framed brother with the shock of white hair spin and strike his brother in the stomach with the butt end of his staff. “It is returning,” the stranger said, almost to himself. “Stronger this time, and somehow different.”

  The music grew louder, and Jachem turned to tell the stranger, but then stopped as he stared into swirling red eyes and a metal face.

  “That’s a Jendar symbol, isn’t it? It means fire, or wisdom, or something like that, doesn’t it?” Jachem pointed at the symbol etched into the metal mask on the man’s face.

  He heard what could have been a chuckle from the stranger with red eyes, but then a silver hand reached out from beneath the cloak and touched his shoulder, making him jump.

  “Interesting,” the stranger said. “And yes, it is Kenaz, the symbol for the fire of knowledge and wisdom. But do not concern yourself with me, friend. Listen to the music, something is about to change.”

  As the stranger disappeared back into the crowd, Jachem leant over the railing and watched the fight unfold upon the sandy courtyard floor, letting his fingers play invisible strings to a tune he felt he should remember.

  * * *

  Matoh charged, and Wayran saw the staff in his brother’s hands blur as it swooped down at his head. He raised his own staff high on instinct and blocked easily. He shifted his weight and sprang to the side, dodging the second attack, which he knew had been aimed straight at the midriff. One of Matoh’s favourite combinations.

  Wayran countered with a flurry of quick, spearing attacks at Matoh’s feet, driving his brother back, though he scored no hit.

  Back and forth they went. The years of training together ensured a long fight, and Wayran understood that it would be the mistakes they made which would determine the victor, not some explosive offensive combo, as the they knew each other like they knew themselves.

  Sand flew from missed strikes and shifting feet. Staff snapped against staff in quick staccato rhythms followed by silence as they broke apart for brief respites.

  The crowd had grown silent, almost as if it held its collective breath. Glory within the Academy hung on the outcome of this battle, yet none knew who would rise to the top.

  Matoh sprang forward and the power of his attacks were thunderous, yet Wayran shifted into wind stance, countering each attack and deflecting his brother’s staff to avoid the brunt of his overwhelming power.

  They moved so quickly it was hard to follow; fluid and efficient, intricate yet smooth. Their violence flowed back and forth with greater and greater intensity.

  Then something began to change. Like a fledgling finding how to fly, the atmosphere within the square evolved and grew into something new, as if it were charged.

  Each smack of wood reverberated in the chest of the onlookers, forcing a rhythm into their very souls.

  Smack, crack, crack, THWACK! Pause.

  Soon the entire courtyard and everyone in it felt a resonance with the battle between Wayran and Matoh. They could feel it as the brothers did, while experiencing the entire symphony springing forth in front of them. They were the brothers then; they knew what they knew, felt as they felt.

  Thunder boomed above the crowd and no one noticed how odd it was for the sky to cloud over so quickly. The deep bass rumbles from above blended seamlessly with the beat of the brothers’ staves.

  Thousands of people gazed, mesmerized by the whirling staves as one brother would attack furiously while his mirror knew every move and countered, as if they were two sides of a spinning coin. Attack into defence; defence into attack. Back and forth they went across the sand, and the thunder grew louder and louder.

  Wayran pressed his advantage. He saw Matoh’s staff droop slightly as his brother tried to recover his defensive stance. Wayran’s hands blurred as he twirled his staff in a wide arc and then spun to strike high then low, an uppercut to ribs, right, then left, step in and pivot into an elbow strike. A hit! Wayran
spun low and kicked out his leg, catching the back of Matoh’s foot as he stepped back.

  Matoh fell, and the crowd gasped in unison.

  Wayran stepped forward to strike, but halted.

  Flash. Another vision. He was standing on the dune once more. He held a white knife in his hand. As he looked over at Matoh, he saw pain on his brother’s face, Matoh held his stomach against the tide of blood gushing forth. “Why?” The vision of Matoh screamed at him, “Why?!”

  Lightning flashed and Wayran shook himself. He was back in the square, holding a staff not a knife.

  Matoh had rolled backwards and landed in a crouch.

  He could have sworn sparks of electrical discharge were jumping away from Matoh’s hands. But it couldn’t be: the staves were wood, insulators. No amount of siphoning would do that. Could it?

  Thunder boomed and then it was Wayran’s turn to retreat. Matoh’s first strike made the wood in Wayran’s hands vibrate, deadening his grip on the weapon.

  Matoh grabbed the staff and slammed an open palm onto Wayran’s chest, sending him staggering back. He had never felt such power from Matoh.

  He tried to suck in a breath and hold on to the weapon but could only watch as Matoh ripped the staff from his hand, planted it in the ground and kicked right through the wood, snapping it in two.

  Matoh threw the piece that was still in his hand at him before charging.

  Lightning flashed again. The very air felt as if it was crackling. Wayran caught the piece of the staff right out of the air and stepped forward, ducking under Matoh’s next crushing strike.

  Using all his strength, he slammed the short stick into Matoh’s ribs. It staggered him, so Wayran snapped the short stick up to slap the back of his brother’s head. He spun and drove an elbow into the side of Matoh’s head.

  The rhythm of the fight faltered, as if a violin string had just snapped.

  The trance of the crowd wavered.

  Flash. A vision.

  Wayran was in a large room, at its centre an enormous machine of some sort. It looked Jendar in nature, with slick surfaces, glowing panels, and a level of intricacy he could never have imagined. He took a step forward, and noticed he was not the only one in the room.

  A man with a metal face and swirling red eyes stood beside the machine.

  Waiting for him.

  He took another step forward.

  Flash.

  Matoh’s fist drove into his gut with such force that it knocked him off his feet.

  “Whatever is happening is becoming very inconvenient,” he gasped as he tried to get back up to his feet.

  He rolled onto one knee and saw Matoh waiting for him, which shouldn’t have been possible. His elbow strike had been perfect, right on the button. Matoh should need smelling salts right now, but instead his brother was glaring at him with white-hot rage.

  They stood facing one another, the rhythm resumed, and Wayran felt the hairs on his arms begin to rise. He knew what would happen next: he had felt it before, in the Wastes.

  Matoh stepped forward, and lightning shot down all around them.

  Yet this time Wayran felt its energy as well – felt charged by it.

  Like a wave created from a stone thrown into a pond, force barrelled out from the two brothers towards the crowd of spectators, blasting them over and lifting people off their feet like small toys.

  Rain began to fall, cold as ice, and it felt good. Wayran had the vague impression of the crowd trying to get to their feet, then saw Matoh attempting to sit up.

  This wasn’t over yet. But he was going to bloody well win.

  The two met in the middle of the square like two giant rams slamming horns.

  They had given up on weapons. Now, it was a blur of hands, feet, elbows, knees, grabbing and pulling.

  Again and again the force slammed into the onlookers, and everyone but the brothers could hear a sound like the world ripping open.

  Suddenly Wayran slammed his forehead down onto Matoh’s face, staggering them both.

  Wayran recovered first and speared his shoulder into his brother’s stomach, forcing him to the ground. He raised his fist to finish it.

  The energy around him stopped pulsing and surged into him.

  Flash.

  His mind barely registered what he saw this time. Flashes of light in the distance, so bright he had to turn away. Then silence, as the very air felt as if it were trying to escape. Fire and light engulfed him.

  Flash.

  He stood watching cities burn. Watched as tornadoes, dark as night with lightning coursing within them, ripped trees and buildings from the ground as if they were nothing but bits of ash.

  Flash.

  Wayran strode through cities of the dead. People coughing and falling to the street to lie still and unmoving. City after city filled with corpses.

  Flash.

  He stood at the cliff where he had said goodbye to his mother for the last time, and watched as a wave the size of a mountain rose to blot out the sky above New Toeron.

  “She has chosen,” a voice said from beside him.

  Wayran turned and started as he saw Red-eyes watching him.

  The man’s metal face turned back towards the giant wave and he bowed his head. “And she has found you lacking.”

  The wave crashed down on them and Wayran heard the screams of everyone in the city as it did.

  Flash.

  Wayran gasped. The square was silent, and the pulses of lightning had stopped. The entire world seemed to be waiting for him to do something. He realised he still sat on his brother’s chest, with his fist raised. “Do you yield?” his voice croaked. “Do you yield?!”

  Matoh blinked in dazed surprise, as if he too had just come out of a trance. His brother’s eyes tried to focus on him. “I …” Matoh started, but then jerked his head to the side as something drew his attention.

  Wayran turned as well. Just in time to see Captain Miller diving through the air.

  Well, that’s not fair, The thought hit Wayran a fraction before Captain Miller’s shoulder did, and for the second time within a few heartbeats he was lying face up on the sand with the wind knocked out of him, feeling cold rain splat against his sweaty forehead.

  The captain pinned his arms down as if he were some sort of animal.

  “Stay down! The both of you.” Captain Miller’s voice bellowed. “Whatever that stunt was, we’ve had enough of it. You hear?!”

  Wayran didn’t know what to say. The captain’s fury was completely unexpected.

  It was then he heard Matoh laughing. His slow, mirthful chuckles were the only sound reverberating around the parade grounds.

  “The look on your face,” Matoh said between laughs. “Ha! Your face!” Matoh was holding his stomach, trying to breathe between laughing and coughing fits. “Bam!” Matoh smacked his fist into his own hand, mimicking the hit Captain Miller had delivered on Wayran. “Right in the gut,” Matoh snorted, and broke into another fit of laughter.

  The rain continued to fall. How ridiculous, Wayran thought to himself as his brother’s laughter began to infect him. About to claim victory only to be blindsided by the referee! He couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he started to chuckle up at Captain Miller.

  “You think this is bloody funny?” Captain Miller stared down at him, then glared at Matoh, still chuckling and sprawled out on the sand.

  “No, sir, well, yes, sir,” Wayran tried to say. “It’s not often you have to worry about the referee as well as your opponent – if you don’t mind me saying, sir.”

  “Well, you better laugh now, son. That bloody stunt of yours is going to strip the funny right out of your damn bones. We’ll see how much you laugh after a night in the cells.”

  Wayran stopped laughing, and as he did, he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

  This time he hadn’t been dreaming. This was more like a vision, and it had been so clear, so vivid and real. The echo of a name had been present in all visions: Kali. The
keys were linked to this name somehow.

  “Kali,” he said aloud. “Why does Kali need the keys?” And what had all the scenes of destruction meant?

  He let his head hit the sand and sighed inwardly. This was the second time he was lying on the sand utterly and completely clueless about what was happening to him, knowing that his world had just changed, but having no idea what to do about it.

  He was beginning to hate sand.

  * * *

  “That was amazing! Did you see that!” Jachem was buzzing.

  “A good match. Strange ending.” Kai realised he was still tapping his finger against the railing, and stopped. Oddly, he felt a bit dazed. What was the tune I was tapping to? “Gideon’s Wild Night”? No ... Kai shook his head. Now that he had stopped tapping, the tune seemed to fade.

  “A good match!? Strange ending? Of course it was strange! That energy or whatever it was knocked everyone over like some sort of tidal wave!” Jachem was irate.

  “What?” Kai looked over to Echinni, who shrugged at him in confusion. “Did you see?”

  “No.” Echinni shook her head. She seemed as dazed as Kai felt.

  “What was that song?” Kai tried to remember. Echinni had been singing.

  “I was …” Echinni shook her head and trailed off before laughing in confusion. “I don’t remember. How strange.”

  “There was a song,” Jachem said as his fingers tried to move across invisible guitar strings. “But I can’t … remember.”

  Kai huffed at that. “Well if you can’t remember, Jachem, then it must not have been a song we’ve played before. But …” Kai’s eyes grew distant. “… I feel as if I did know it.”

  “You two didn’t see anything?” Jachem said.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t recall seeing this energy you speak of, I …” Echinni started as she turned to leave.

  Yuna had drawn her sword and was staring down at the two brothers being escorted out of the courtyard. “Yuna?”

  The big woman didn’t respond. She had a death grip on the pommel of Hunsa as she continued staring blankly ahead. Her muscles bulged along her arms as she gazed down into the square. Her breath came in rasps and there was sweat on her shaved head.