by Phil Stern
“Not any more, he doesn’t.” Holding his blade casually at the ready, Senter sauntered toward him, smoothly closing the gap. “Anyway, Conger was killed by the Kardens. As will you, in my official report.”
Reflexively bringing his own blade up, the young telepath thought quickly. Senter was clearly an expert swordsman, and though he’d learned much as a recruit, Anson would be at a clear disadvantage there.
Yet Senter still hadn’t revealed any overt power. Perhaps the Demon needed to be closer for his ability to work? It would certainly explain much. Anson needed to act quickly.
“I’m sorry, Senter.” Coming to a firm decision, Anson took a deep breath, letting his sword drop. “But you’re leaving me no choice.”
Now about fifteen feet away, Senter stopped. “So now you wish to murder me, is that it? I see we’re not so very different after all.” Still grasping the sword in his right hand, Senter now held his arms out, almost in a gesture of surrender. “Very well, then. I am at your mercy. Kill me, if you can.”
Surely Senter knew he could dispatch him as easily as the Karden archers? Perhaps the Demon was even more unbalanced than Anson even knew? Well, he’d figure that out later. Feeling both a wave of relief at how easy this would be, along with a twinge of conscience at his first cold-blooded human murder, Anson reached out to mentally grab the Demon.
It was as if a bomb exploded in Anson’s head. Flung back down on the grass, momentarily blinded, he was unable to think. Rolling up onto his knees, still in agony, the commoner youth tried regain his balance. Yet Anson’s entire brain throbbed, as if thrashed from the inside. Desperately lunging to his feet, he promptly tripped over a rock, immediately falling down again.
Terrified, Anson felt Senter approach, the Demon’s malignant mental aura now fused with a deep satisfaction.
“I wouldn’t move too quickly if I were you.” A swift kick from Senter’s boot crashed into Anson’s side. “Just lay there, like a good boy.” There was a soft pulse deep within the pleasure center of Senter’s brain.
“You...you’re enjoying this!” Anson gasped, grabbing at his bruised rib. “This is what you live for! Hurting people! Making them suffer.”
“Wow,” Senter said. “So you feel all that, huh? You are a strong one, all right. Certainly no one else has ever seen inside me before.”
“You’re a freak!” Painfully sitting up, Anson’s vision partially cleared. “It’s disgusting!”
“Hmmm. That may well be.” Senter delivered another kick, Anson crashing back down again. “But it’s who I am, and I came to terms with it a long time ago. As will you, my empowered young friend, in short order.”
Laying on the ground, trying to catch his breath, Anson attempted to move a blade of grass before his nose. With great effort and some pain, he managed to make the delicate green stalk wiggle, a tiny fraction of the mental ability he’d possessed before Senter’s attack.
So his power was greatly weakened, but very, very slowly coming back. If he could keep Senter talking...
“Tell me,” Anson croaked, trying to sound defeated. “How did this happen to you?”
Letting out a deep, gratified sigh, Senter now began circling his prostrate victim. “The same as you, Anson. We were all born this way. You with your telekinesis. And me with my ability.”
Temple throbbing, Anson bent two grass blades at once.
“Of course, your telekinesis is very useful. Very direct, very obvious. A wonderful ability, really.” Stepping away, Senter now expertly sliced a branch from one of the few trees dotting the small glade. “I, on the other hand, can create a feedback loop within the minds of other telepaths, but only when they use their power on me. Not so obvious or even useful, really, except in one instance, and one instance alone.”
“When you attack other telepaths,” Anson mumbled, once more sitting up. “Your power is only useful when assaulting others like you and me.”
“Yes, Anson! Exactly!” Bending down, Senter now stared Anson straight in the eye. “Which creates a great difficulty. You see, we’re all driven to use our power. We have to! Otherwise, we go crazy.”
“So the only way you can survive is by using your power on people like me.” By now his vision was almost fully back. Still, Anson’s brain was way too weak for action. “Your power is sadistic.”
“Oh, Anson, you have no idea!” Suddenly relaxing, Senter seemed buoyant, almost joyful. “To reach into your mind and twist things around! By the King! To do what I just did to you, is the most satisfying thing in the world!” Casually planting his sword in the grass, he nonchalantly draped his arms over the hilt. “I am the most powerful one of our kind. Ever. And nobody ever knows it. Except the people I kill, of course. How sad.”
Kneeling so close, Senter’s malignant mental aura once more crawled over them both. Hiding his own distaste, Anson now fully sat up, casually cradling his own blade. “How did you discover your power? How would you even know it existed?”
“Very good question.” Rubbing his chin, Senter thoughtfully stared off into space. “I was born a royal, Anson. Lived in the castle and everything. Of course, I was a big disappointment to my parents, having no obvious power and all.”
“That must have been rough.” Rubbing his temple, Anson tried his best to sound consoling.
“What would you know of such disappointments, commoner boy?” Clearly, Senter was in his element, finally able to talk openly about himself. “In any event, a royal uncle soon took a most unnatural interest in me. His ability was making young children feel very passive, no matter what was happening to them. Well, you can imagine his shock when he tried that trick on me one day out in the woods.”
“And yours as well, I would think, when you found out what you could do to him.” Slowly, so very slowly, Anson felt his own mental cohesion returning.
“Well, that’s a funny thing, Anson.” Senter stared off, reflecting back on the elation he felt so long ago. “When you finally discover your power, you just know it. It’s there, right at your fingertips. From then on, I knew my place in the world.”
“So what happened to your royal uncle?”
“I slit his throat.” Senter spoke very simply, as if such things happened every day. “No one ever suspected me, except the Network, of course. I was taken away from my parents that night.”
“And they agreed to that?”
“Well, when the exact nature of my ability was explained to them, they were all too willing to let me go.” Senter sighed. “Funny how fickle love can be, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry.” Anson paused. “You didn’t deserve that kind of rejection.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Rising to his full height once more, Senter motioned Anson to stand as well. “Listen, I want to be fair about this, but we can’t take all day. At some point the Kardens will be back.” Skillfully, he twirled his sword from one hand and back. “On guard, my friend. At least you will die a soldier’s death.”
Somehow struggling to his feet, Anson wearily held up his own sword. “We’ll see.”
“Indeed we will.” And with that, Senter swung to the attack.
Mobilizing his flagging concentration, Anson stepped to one side, slashing at Senter’s head. Easily dancing back out of range, the Demon first feinted at his leg, then aimed a two-handed blow at Anson’s chest. Parrying it at the last moment, Anson was knocked flat on his back.
But instead of pressing his advantage, Senter stepped back. “By the King, Anson. You’ll have to do better than that!”
Carefully struggling back up, Anson violently shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs. Obviously, Senter had no intention of finishing him off quickly, instead prolonging the confrontation. No doubt this was another manifestation of Senter’s innate sadism, an indulgence further gratifying his seldom-exercised ability to mentally maim other telepaths.
But it also represented an opportunity. Anson felt his power codifying once more, vitality flowing back through his synaps
es, obviously much more quickly than Senter anticipated. If he could keep this going long enough...
“Come on, you freak!” Wiping blood from his chin, Anson smiled. “Get it all out of your system.”
“I’m no freak.” Eyes narrowing, Senter paused. “I have a power, just like you.”
“You’re a pervert! Just like your uncle, only worse!” Anson countered. “And we both know it.”
“And here I thought you understood me,” Senter snarled, swinging back to the attack.
By this point Anson’s power was only about one-tenth of normal strength, still too weak to forcefully project outside of his body. But it was potent enough to help him fight off Senter’s conventional assault.
Unleashing his own desperate fury, the commoner youth was able to channel his ability directly through his hands, making the sword far lighter, his blocks and counter-strokes much quicker. By thinking and acting in concert, his muscles and mind became welded into a single, cogent unit.
Sensing this unexpected resurgence, Senter began pressing for the kill, the two locked in desperate combat for several minutes. They slashed, grappled, and parried, Anson’s now-fused mental and conventional skills enough to keep the Demon at bay. Both sustained gashes and bruises, blood staining the bright, green grass.
However, his innate power becoming more and more active, Anson gradually gained the upper hand. Finally slapping his opponent’s sword aside, he delivered a vicious kick to Senter’s chest. Flying back through the air, the Demon landed against the nearby tree with a hard thud, breath rushing from his lungs with an audible whoosh.
“It’s over.” Now exercising about half of his normal mental strength, Anson grabbed Senter’s sword, causing to fly unerringly up into his left hand. Anson brandished both blades as if they were children’s toys. “I can cut you to pieces.”
Gasping, blood running down his battered face, Senter still managed to smile. “Why not just throw me over the cliff?”
“No. Any direct application of my power will let you wallop me again.” Twirling both swords with ease, Anson doubled the speed and skill of Senter’s earlier displays. “But this is a whole different matter.”
“Oh, Anson.” Laughing, Senter slowly struggled to his feet, his left wrist obviously broken. “You may be the most powerful telepath in the entire Kingdom, do you know that? They are right to fear you.”
A searing headache, yet another aftershock from Senter’s earlier mental assault, ransacked his brain. Dropping one sword, Anson held a hand to his head. “How long will this last?”
“I don’t know. No one’s ever survived long enough to find out.” Grimacing, Senter held a hand to a deep cut on his own arm. “Except you.”
“Senter, listen.” Wincing again, Anson took a deep breath. “There’s no reason...”
Seizing on his momentary distraction, Senter suddenly lashed out at Anson’s consciousness. Normally, without a victim directly applying his own power to unwittingly channel the Demon’s cognitive energy, this would accomplish nothing.
But with Anson’s brain still battered from Senter’s earlier assault, the Demon’s raw mental projections hit home. Instantly, the younger telepath was in complete agony.
Without conscious thought, Anson desperately flung a sword, mentally guiding it right at Senter. Plunging straight into his heart, the Demon died instantly.
But the damage had been done. It took nearly two hours for Anson to recover from this secondary attack, the pain finally subsiding to a manageable level. Terrified and helpless, fearing the Kardens would return at any moment, he was eventually able to crawl some distance back into the woods, collapsing next to a log.
***
For the remainder of the afternoon and through the following night, Anson fell in and out of a coma-like state. Bright white flashes surged throughout his mind, the most intense often startling him awake. Then, shivering and cold, a light rain falling on his face, he was unsure whether the darting light high above was merely typical Outlands lightning, or after-images imposed by his wounded, confused brain. With difficulty he’d then fall once more into a deep sleep, acute headaches gradually subsiding.
On at least one occasion there was no question actual lightning was near at hand. A thunderous explosion about fifty yards away jolted Anson wide awake, flickers of flame darting upwards from the impact site. Soon, however, the forest was dark again, the fire unable to take hold in the soggy brush.
Strange sounds intruded now and then, including the harsh bellow of animals and angry buzzing of numerous insects. There was even high-pitched Karden chatter on occasion, though the little men never came close enough to pose a threat.
The same, however, couldn’t be said for the forest’s many predators. At one point a lone wolf came sneaking up through the brush, obviously following his scent. Mentally feeling out the hunter in the darkness, Anson easily broke its neck, casting the canine far away. A large snake was similarly dispatched. The bear cub was more curious than threatening, animal and human quietly studying one another for a while. Finally ambling off through the underbrush, Anson was actually sorry to see it go.
Startling himself awake for good at first light, Anson slowly sat up, his mind clear and still again. The flickering, intense lights had finally subsided, his vision and mental clarity normal once more.
Somehow, though, the world seemed different. Breathing heavily, he touched a large leaf, the physical sensation of mass and texture much more vivid than before. Scent easily carried on the light morning wind, his brain effortlessly separating and cataloguing a thousand different odors. Sounds were instantly placed by distance and location, his mind pinpointing both the origin of each vibration and the specific air quality the sound had passed through to reach him.
All of Anson’s senses were on overdrive, as if an entirely new universe had opened up before him. Before he’d been veiled, unaware of the rich, vibrant sensations and information conveyed by the world-at-large. Now, it was all there for the taking.
This was not a new power, like his telekinesis or inner clarion. Instead, the wracking agony of Senter’s assault, as terrifying as it had been, had forced his own mind to reset. In the process, his brain had been swept clean of accumulated muck, allowing uninhibited use of his full, natural cognitive abilities.
In the cool morning air, stunning sensations nearly overwhelming him, it was almost as if he’d been born anew.
Standing, Anson held out his arms, reveling in the light wind coursing along his entire body. Almost without effort, he raised the huge log beside which he’d slept high into the air, sending it hurtling over the tree tops into the forest far beyond. A chipmunk crunched over a leaf some forty yards distant, its size and movements easily discernable.
Rather than terminating his life, the Network’s latest assault had left Anson far stronger than before. And with Senter now dead, his own fate would be an even greater mystery. To the royal authorities he was still a shadow, an empowered ghost among the population. He could easily resume his life in Hylen, never to be threatened again.
But there were other telepaths, people of power and sensitivity, who didn’t seek his destruction. People like the royal princess.
For a moment Anson lingered over her image, the echoes of the empowered girl’s mind brushing up against his own at the castle. There was always hope of a better life, a renewal of purpose and being, while the dark-haired princess existed.
Thinking on it now, Anson realized she must be much like himself, forced to hide within the community-at-large. For surely the other royals wouldn’t tolerate someone of her strength and awareness unless absolutely sure she could be controlled. And from what he’d already sensed, the princess was very much her own person.
It was an intriguing thought, to say the least.
Returning to the glade, he dispatched a fresh Karden unit once more laying in ambush for a new human patrol. Even as the little men went sailing over the cliff Anson dug into their knapsacks, his hunger at le
ast partially sated from the nuts and berries that were the Karden’s primary rations.
Reclaiming his sword, Anson then struck out toward the last known position of the royal army, only now idly wondering if he’d been abandoned completely in enemy country.
CHAPTER SIX
PRINCESS APRINA STRODE DOWN a castle hallway, booted footfalls echoing hollowly off the flagstones.
Long, dark hair flowing behind her, Lydia’s mother was dressed in tight leather pants and tan blouse, a light cape billowing out behind her. Sleek gloves and a gleaming belt knife completed the image of a royal princess preparing to embark on a hunt.
But actually, Aprina had quite a different expedition in mind. For this fine morning she’d decided to directly confront the King concerning Tenen’s wild accusations to her daughter.
She knew the genesis of the allegations, though they were nearly two decades old. While in her early 20's, Aprina had become involved with several other younger royals incensed by the harsh treatment routinely doled out to the commoners. Why should the people live in abject poverty, while the royals enjoyed privilege and plenty?
There had been vague talk of a “new order” for the Kingdom, though no general revolution was ever seriously contemplated. Still, the three young women and two men had openly agitated for reform, accosting their older brethren with demands for both lower taxes and greater commoner autonomy.
It had been an idealistic time, full of passion and hope. That is, until the day Aprina discovered her pregnancy. Instantly her priorities changed, all thoughts now of the safety and sustenance of her child.
Her boyfriend, the leader of their group, refused to give up the fight. There was too much at stake, he claimed. Actually, their baby would be a sign of strength, he said, showing the “establishment” they were growing in numbers. Their dissent would gain more weight.
