by Phil Stern
CHAPTER TWO
SOON AFTER ANSON’S 18TH BIRTHDAY, he and his mother traveled to Brenlaw for his official registration. Required by law, this would necessitate Anson completing three months of basic training in the King’s armed forces, followed by periodic exercises as a permanent member of the royal reserve.
“What nonsense,” his mother muttered. Both were on horseback, ambling their way toward the capital city.
“Mom, I’ll be all right.”
“You must be careful!” she snapped. Of course, this was the same plea any mother would give a son upon entering military service, though both knew the deeper meaning.
Thoughtfully, Anson stared off into the distance, catching a flicker of lightning on the horizon. Usually one couldn’t see the Outlands during the daytime, though occasionally on cloudy mornings the frequent electrical storms buffeting that mysterious area burst into view.
Few people traveled into the Outlands, and even fewer lived to tell the tale. As far as anyone knew, it was inhabited entirely by an aggressive species of smallish, wild humanoids called Kardens. It was to combat the occasional Karden incursions into the Kingdom proper that the King primarily maintained his infantry battalions.
The secondary rationale for a military force was domestic suppression. A century before, the northern third of the Kingdom had attempted to secede and set up an independent, democratic government. Led by an empowered local woman, the insurrection was eventually put down and all of its leaders executed. Hylen, Anson’s home village, lay on the border between the lower Kingdom and the upper, rebellious territories.
“Mom, relax,” Anson replied. They were passing a small farmstead, a young boy staring at them from a nearby field. “You know I’m careful.”
“But this is different.” Mouth firmly set, she stared straight ahead. “During training everyone will be watching you, judging you. There will be spies everywhere. The slightest...” Trailing off, she was clearly searching for a suitable word. “The slightest inconsistency, shall we say, will be instantly reported! You know that, don’t you?”
Of course she was right, but by this point Anson was well aware of his own measure. He wasn’t worried about inadvertently revealing himself.
“Mom, I’ll be okay.” Tugging on the reins, Anson’s horse stopped in the middle of the lane. “Before you know it, I’ll be back in Hylen, helping you take in the harvest. It’s going to be a good one this year.”
“Yes, it is.” Pulling up herself, Anson’s mother tried to smile, though the tension almost instantly returned. “But honey, you know there are many dangers.” Fearfully, she looked away. “There are others you need to be aware of. They are the greatest threat of all. Do you know who I mean?”
Anson did. It was whispered, on rare occasion and in the upmost confidence, that a small, secret sect of empowered royal agents, called Demons, operated throughout the Kingdom. Perhaps they were young commoner children with ability, caught and brainwashed to do the King’s bidding? Possibly they were royal outcasts, or somehow created by a royal whose particular ability allowed them to do such things? No one knew for sure.
But it was said these Demons, operating in utmost secrecy, traveled the two hundred mile length and one hundred mile breadth of the Kingdom every day, rooting out empowered commoners hiding among the population.
They also served as assassins, should the King detect any serious resistance within the royal ranks themselves. With over fifty of his dearest relatives possessing talents of wildly varying strengths and applications, some of which might even be harbored in secret, the Demons were a powerful deterrent to any potential royal plotters. Though outwardly one big, happy family, Anson suspected the loyal force of Demons was the only thing keeping the King on his throne.
“Anyway, Mom,” Anson continued, stirring his horse once more into a steady walk. “There’s no choice. I have to go to Brenlaw and serve in the King’s army.”
“I know.” Sighing, she followed. “But I don’t have to like it.”
The two traveled on in silence, reaching the outskirts of the capital city in the early afternoon.
***
Anson’s mother might have felt more at ease had she known of her son’s secondary ability. It was a subtle power, difficult to assess or even fully define. But since only becoming aware of it himself some six years before, well after his mother’s fear of such things had been amply established, Anson had never shared its existence with her.
This was during a brief period when, amidst much maternal urging, Anson had attempted forsaking his primary ability completely. In fact, his mother had become obsessed with the idea, convinced it was the only way to avoid accidental revelation.
Anson had tried to comply, yet would quickly become nervous and disoriented without any mental activity. It didn’t have to be much. Tossing a sock into the air. Juggling books or moving furniture. But clearly the young boy had an inner need to reach outside himself, touching the world around him.
Thus, despite his mother’s pleas, and the occasional unrealistic promise extracted by her persistence, Anson knew complete suppression was impossible.
So, one day during the summer he was twelve years old, Anson was idly bouncing things around his bedroom. Considering it a sanctuary from prying eyes and anxious mothers, Anson would often spend an hour or so by himself, fully indulging his inner energy. What danger of discovery could possibly exist in this private enclave?
Still, this particular afternoon an odd feeling of dread suddenly came over him. Sitting on his bed, lounging back against the wall, Anson suddenly froze, instinctively allowing the three shoes he’d been mentally juggling to fall. For several seconds Anson tried to identify the bolt of...something...that had flashed through his head, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
But then a movement caught Anson’s attention. Glancing up, the smiling young face of Jaron, a friend from school, slowly rose up outside his window. Laughing, Jaron knocked on the glass.
“Anson!” he called out. “Come on! We’re all playing ball by the church today! You must come!”
“Sure.” Still breathing hard, Anson smiled weakly. “I’ll be there soon!”
“Don’t be late!” And with that Jaron was gone, running off to knock at the next boy’s window.
Had that inner voice not somehow called out, within his own head, Jaron would have seen Anson for who he was. With warning, he’d been able to protect himself.
But what had it been? Though he didn’t remember doing so, Anson soon became convinced he must have simply heard Jaron’s approach. Anything else just didn’t make sense.
That evening he draped heavy curtains over his window, plunging the room into dank, comforting darkness during the daylight hours. Thinking the matter closed, Anson put it of out his mind.
That is, until a similar incident two weeks later.
Along with the rest of his class Anson stood watching Mr. Reed, the blacksmith, pound a glowing horseshoe in his shop. The Hylen village elders thought such vocational trips beneficial, hoping the children would better understand the hardships their neighbors faced once adults themselves.
Again, a stab of dread welled up within Anson’s mind. Petrified, he somehow knew to focus in on Mr. Reed’s swinging hammer, even now coming down onto the half-molten horseshoe atop the anvil.
“Get down!” he yelled, tackling two other students beside him, all three landing hard on the dirt floor.
With an awkward clank, a quarter of the horseshoe broke free and went sizzling through the small crowd, thudding into the wooden wall by the door. Had Anson not acted immediately, he and the other two students would have been struck.
With a curse Mr. Reed dropped the hammer, grabbing a huge bucket of water waiting nearby. “Get out of the way!” he roared, dousing the small flickers of flame coming from the impact point.
The unfortunate Ms. Klane, clearly flustered, corralled Anson outside. “By the King, Anson, how did you react so quickly?”
/> “I don’t know. When I saw it coming I just got everyone out of the way.” Shrugging, he smiled at her. “I hope that’s all right, Ms. Klane.”
“Hope that’s all right! Why...” Running a hand through her hair, the teacher took a deep breath. “Of course. You did wonderfully. It’s just...” Helplessly, her voice trailed off.
“Yes, Ms. Klane?” Anson did his best to look innocent.
“Oh, never mind.” With a peremptory double hand clap, she demanded everyone’s attention. “Come on, class! Let’s head back now.”
This inner clarion was clearly attuned to his telekinesis, flaring most strongly when something threatened discovery of his primary talent. After all, without warning at the blacksmith’s shop, Anson might well have instinctively caught or deflected the jagged piece of horseshoe mid-air, thus betraying himself.
It occasionally acted up at other times (like when an alliraptor tried to sneak up on Anson and a few friends swimming in a lake), but still in a manner designed to forestall the necessity of using telekinesis in public.
In any event, Anson’s newfound ability came in very handy at times, providing an extra measure of security in an otherwise hostile world.
***
Much to his own surprise, Anson actually found himself enjoying basic training in the military camp on the outskirts of Brenlaw. Quartered in a large tent with five other boys, they would wake up at five o’clock for a morning run, followed by parade drill and other calisthenics. After lunch they practiced with swords, pikes, and other simple weapons, along with a healthy dose of hand-to-hand fighting.
Actually, out of the 102 new recruits in camp, Anson quickly excelled in unarmed combat. As a weeding out exercise, all the boys were paired off in a contest called the Summit. Two opponents would confront one another on a hundred square foot wooden platform about four feet off the ground. If you wrestled the other recruit off the platform while remaining on it yourself, you earned two points. If both boys went tumbling to the ground, each gained one point. Punching and slashing weren’t allowed. This was merely a test of strength, balance, and fighting spirit. After two days, Anson had the third-highest point total in camp.
The drop to the earth was high enough to smart or even injure, if the boy landed the wrong way. By the middle of the first week five recruits had been disabled with broken bones, and another seven had refused to compete after rough bouts. While the honorably wounded were treated and eventually returned to camp, the shirkers were sent into Brenlaw itself for six months duty as drudges and ditch diggers. Henceforth, their families would be taxed an extra five percent to compensate for their sons’ lack of military usefulness.
“Can you imagine that?” Jaron asked during mess one evening. The same youth who’d almost discovered Anson’s talent six years before, the two were now part of a four-recruit contingent from their home village. “An extra five percent! And that’s on top of the 30 percent in crops and profit the King collects already!”
“Keep your voice down, lad.” Conger was a strapping youth from the lowlands area nearer Brenlaw and the coast. “I know you’re all from the north, but you never know who may be listening in these parts.”
Smiling, Jaron sat back. “Are you speaking of the Demons?”
A dead silence descended on the table, everyone staring at Jaron in disbelief.
“Are you mad?” demanded Rogen, a tent-mate of Anson’s. “Don’t talk of such things!”
“Why not?” Far from acting chastened, Jaron laughed. “All the Demons care about are devils hiding in our midst, as if they aren’t children of the Dark Master themselves. I say...”
“Shut up!” Conger hissed, grabbing Jaron’s arm. “Do you want us all to be arrested? Or worse?”
“Oh, relax.” Taking another bite of steak, Jaron shrugged. “Hylen is a Royal-loving village. We don’t have any devils there. Why should I be afraid to speak of such matters?”
“Jaron.” Anson spoke calmly, yet forcefully. “Let’s change the subject.”
“I don’t know what you’re even talking about,” Conger mumbled, quickly scooping up his tray and stalking off. Several other boys quietly resumed eating, trying to pretend nothing was amiss. Giving Jaron a warning glare, Anson began a robust analysis of the pike-wielding practice held that afternoon.
But somebody must have said something. The next day, at the mid-day meal, a strange, hulking man in the red of a Royal officer sat at the end of the table, barely within listening distance of Anson’s messmates. Without question, he was a Demon. Anson could clearly sense the man’s muffled, yet potent mentally energy, which in turn tripped his own inner warning system.
Anson soon became so flustered he could barely think. Blaring panic pulsing throughout his head, Anson tried to joke with the other boys throughout lunch, desperately pretending nothing was amiss. For his part Jaron said little, occasionally casting worried, sidelong glances in the stranger’s direction.
Jaron didn’t join them for afternoon exercises. In fact, it was two weeks before he returned to camp, sullen and withdrawn, a far cry from the happy youth they’d all remembered. Obviously he’d been beaten, his face bruised and misshapen. From then onward, no one dared speculate as to the possible existence of the King’s empowered secret police.
Though occasionally sensing him in the general area, Anson never saw the Demon again during basic training. Oddly enough, he couldn’t even remember what the man looked like, his features refusing to settle within his own mind. Possibly this was the Demon’s talent, mentally confusing others as to his own appearance or location.
On reflection, Anson realized that would indeed be a very useful power for a Demon to have.
***
Halfway through boot camp, the top twenty recruits were invited to meet the King in person. Called into the Commandant’s tent the night before the coveted castle ceremony, Anson was brusquely informed he was one of the chosen few having earned the right to meet the monarch.
Clearly, the Commandant was on edge, and for good reason. Just that afternoon word reached Brenlaw of an incursion from the Outlands. Two hundred Karden bandits had reportedly attacked an outlying military post, killing a dozen soldiers and sending fifty more fleeing eastward. The Kardens had then raided a few nearby villages, burning crops and retreating back into the Outlands with hostages.
Though as stunned by the Karden onslaught as everyone else, Anson had far more immediate concerns. Entering the castle itself, in the direct presence of numerous other empowered people, was a tremendous risk. Though very skilled at muting his own mental projections, the chances of detection and capture would increase greatly within the royal palace.
But what could he do? There was no way he could refuse to see the King. Happily thanking the distracted Commandant for this tremendous honor, Anson beat a hasty retreat back to the tent.
Laying in his bunk that night, idly listening to the other boys excitedly discuss both the Karden raid and royal ceremony, Anson wondered if it was time to run. He could slip out of the tent now, steal a horse, and just ride off. By the time his tent-mates awoke in the morning and realized something was amiss, he’d have a half-day head start.
All right. And then what? He’d live some kind of indigent life, slipping from village to village, fearing arrest at every turn? Surrounded to the west and north by the Outlands and the east and south by the vast, endless ocean, there was no way to completely escape the Kingdom. Eventually he’d be caught.
But he did have advantages other people lacked. Maybe if he could travel through the Outlands, escaping Karden detection...
“What’s on the other side of the Outlands?” he suddenly demanded of his tent-mates, joining the conversation for the first time.
“What do you mean, the other side?” Conger asked. “There’s just the Outlands, that’s all.”
“But there must be something beyond them,” Anson persisted. “I mean, they can’t go on forever. Can they?”
There was a momentary pause,
each boy contemplating this new and radical idea.
“Why do you care?” a boy finally asked.
“I’m just asking,” Anson mumbled.
“Well, maybe there is something beyond the Outlands. I don’t know.” Yuron was another one of his tent-mates. “But my father told me anyone who goes more than a few miles in never returns. They just disappear.”
“Yeah, we can travel a short distance into the Outlands. In large numbers,” Conger added. “Beyond that the risk of Karden ambush is too great. Yuron’s right. No scouts have ever returned. Not a single one, ever. It’s a suicide mission.”
“It’s the Dark Master. Don’t you guys know that?” yet another recruit said. “All those storms and lightning you see over there? That’s the Dark Master’s power on display. If his Kardens don’t get you, the Dark Master himself just snatches away any God-fearing man who strays too far from the Kingdom!”
A general silence greeted this remark. Religious views varied widely in camp, opinion generally split as to whether the Kardens were supernatural servants of the Dark Master, or just annoying trolls needing a good thrashing now and then.
But to Anson, one thing seemed abundantly, and depressingly, clear. Escape from the Kingdom through the Outlands wasn’t an option.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT DAY ANSON, Conger, and eighteen other youths went to the castle. Ushered in a side entrance generally used by servants, they all waited in a small, windowless room near the Throne Hall itself for the King to see them. Uncomfortably hot in their heavy red tunics, all twenty were soon loosening collars and fidgeting with their ceremonial swords.
Yet having regained his customary confidence, Anson was the most relaxed of the group. They’d encountered no royals so far, and keeping himself hidden within the cavernous, bustling Throne Hall should be easy. Feeling almost jaunty, Anson gently chided himself for the previous evening’s panic attack.
