Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I

by David Angelo

  Fin’s heart sank. The situation for his new comrades in arms was direr than he thought.

  “It was only for a month, however,” Black-Tooth continued. “We kept in touch, but for the most part, the resistance was dead. That all changed when I saw you in the pub three weeks ago.”

  “So you’ve only been back together for three weeks now?” Fin asked.

  “Pretty much,” Black-Tooth said. “Originally we weren’t expecting you to get captured, but we were able to whip up a rescue operation before it was too late. It all worked out in the end, and this training of yours will benefit everyone. I have faith that, with you on our side, we won’t go back to that dark part of our history and will be more successful than we were before.”

  Despite Black-Tooth’s words, Fin’s faith in his new compatriots died a little. The silver lining to this new gig was gone, revealing a rusted underbody that reeked of past mistakes. Perhaps it was not a good idea for Black-Tooth to practically show Fin the group’s dirty laundry when he was just getting to know them. Fin tried to bury the look of regret that began to take over his face, just as Black-Tooth stood up to observe his flammable work of construction.

  “Now we’re ready to start,” Black-Tooth said.

  “Want me to call everyone?” Fin asked.

  “Don’t bother,” Black-Tooth replied, sticking his thumb and his index finger in his mouth and producing a high-pitched whistle. Fin jumped as the squeal echoed through the trees.

  “Oops,” Black-Tooth said, seeing Fin’s fright. “I’ll warn you before I do that again.”

  14

  SUPPER THAT EVENING WAS more like a job interview. The resistance members were only too interested to learn the history of their new member, and Fin spent most of the time telling his unremarkable life story. Everyone was there to hear about his transition from orphanage to group home, what he did in the pub, how he met Scarlet, and so on and so forth. Their interest piqued slightly when Fin started telling them about his plan to run away with Scarlet. But this was probably because the rest of his biography was so bland that even the slightest ounce of excitement was enough to wake everyone’s senses. Perhaps they expected that the childhood of a prophet would be a little more interesting, with more intrigue and action. Fin guessed that it was probably a rude surprise for them to learn that he, the dragon who was chosen to save Edon from itself, had led a fairly normal life until now.

  The members at the campfire did their best to mask their boredom. They tried to look interested, asking Fin questions and nodding every so often. That is, except for Chinaw, whose expression of disinterest began long before the questions. During the entire conversation, Chinaw never once made eye contact with Fin or anyone else. He spent the evening picking at a leg of roasted venison and never said a word. It seemed to Fin that Chinaw was in his own little world, cut off from the rest of society by an invisible wall, oblivious to the events around him. Fin got the impression that he could probably say something insulting about Chinaw, like that his bright-green hide resembled an infected wound, and he would not get a response. When supper ended Chinaw was the first to quietly depart from the campfire.

  The evening concluded without fanfare, and the members hunkered down for the night. Fin wrapped himself up in his warm cot, blew out the flame from his candle, and let the darkness of his tent envelop him. But despite being drained of energy by the day’s rigorous activities, Fin found it difficult to fall asleep. It was not the frigid air that kept him awake, nor was it the haunting silence of the woods. Fin could not pinpoint what kept him from sleep, except for the change in environment. It was going to take more than a single night to adapt to his new surroundings, leaving him little to do but toss and turn. When his tenth round of counting sheep failed to hypnotize him, Fin decided to take a late-night walk of the camp. He stuck his head out the flap of his tent and surveyed the sleeping campsite. The embers from that evening’s fire had ceased to glow, but the smell of woodsmoke had saturated the air and mixed with the chill of the night breeze. A thin layer of snow had fallen upon their tents, but none of it accumulated on the ground. Aside from the occasional hoot from an owl, not a single sound was heard. Even at night the Fist of the Elder maintained the same sense of calm and peace that it saw during the day.

  As Fin took in the sights around him, he noticed a light coming from inside the pavilion. Light shone through cracks in its base, and the side of the tent facing him glowed with a yellow hue. As he looked closer, Fin thought he noticed a shape move along the inside. Something told him that investigating was not a good idea, but curiosity’s calls were too hard to ignore, and with great caution, Fin tiptoed toward the tent. When he approached the pavilion’s entrance, Fin carefully peeled back the flap and found Chinaw standing under a lantern that hung from the center tentpole. It appeared that Chinaw was practicing some sort of fighting maneuver as he punched at the air and ducked the blows of an imaginary opponent. Before Fin could turn away and leave Chinaw alone, a cool draft from the open entrance blew Fin’s cover, and Chinaw looked up.

  “Oh, sorry,” Fin stammered. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Nah, I don’t mind,” Chinaw said. “I just come here sometimes when I can’t sleep, which is quite often, to be honest.”

  “I can’t sleep either,” Fin replied, stepping into the pavilion. “I thought I’d take a little walk to clear my mind, and I just happened to see that you were in here.”

  “The first night’s always the hardest,” Chinaw said, “and so are the first days. It’s almost like being reborn, plopped into a completely different world and having to relearn how to live.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought of it like that,” Fin said. But Chinaw ignored him and looked from side to side, as if to check if anyone was watching.

  “I know it’s late and all,” Chinaw said, “but considering neither of us can sleep, I wonder if you’re willing to do an odd little favor for me.”

  “Go on…” Fin replied apprehensively, ignoring the desire to turn away.

  “If you aren’t aware by now,” Chinaw said, “Black-Tooth is planning on teaching you the art of hand-to-hand combat. However, before he has a chance to test you, I want to do a little test of my own.”

  “And that is?”

  “I want to see how hard you can punch someone, and the only way I can accurately tell how well you’re doing is by feeling it for myself. In other words, I want you to punch me in the face.”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s a strange thing to ask,” Chinaw said, “but after hearing about your brawl in the pub, I want to experience some of that power for myself. So don’t hesitate. Punch me right in the face as hard as you can.”

  Baffled, Fin wondered how to respond to this bizarre request, while Chinaw patiently waited for the impact.

  “Okay,” Fin said, rearing back with his fist at the ready. “Here goes nothing.” Fin pulled back and launched his fist forward, nailing Chinaw with a right hook to his eye. Chinaw staggered slightly, reeling from the force of the strike. But after the initial shockwave subsided, he straightened himself and resumed his original composure, as if nothing had happened at all.

  “You call that a punch?” Chinaw asked.

  “What do you mean?” Fin said. “I did just what you asked.”

  “You can do better than that,” Chinaw replied. “Now punch me again, and I want you to knock me so hard, my ancestors will feel it.”

  Fin shook his head in disbelief and put his guard up. He reared back and launched a second, more powerful strike to Chinaw’s temple. The impact threw him backward and onto the ground, but within seconds, Chinaw was back on his feet.

  “Oh, please,” Chinaw said, a drip of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Is that all you can offer?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Fin said. “That punch was harder than the one that killed Cato, the executioner. I mean, look at yourself; you look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “Do
I?” Chinaw replied. “’Cuz the only thing I feel like doing is waking Black-Tooth and telling him to send your sorry ass back to the pub. If that’s your idea of a punch, you’d better hope you’re never going to be in a situation where you’ll need to hit someone, because you’ll go down without any effort.”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you?” Fin retorted, his temper beginning to flare.

  “You must be the weakest prophet who’s ever lived,” Chinaw continued. “You don’t deserve that mark on your hand, you don’t deserve our recognition…”

  “All right, cut it out,” Fin said, clenching his fists.

  “Why?” Chinaw asked, getting in Fin’s face. “Why should I be afraid of a wannabe prophet?”

  When Chinaw uttered prophet, he sprayed Fin with a mist of bloody saliva, and that was all Fin could take. Fin saw nothing but red as he socked Chinaw right in the nose, causing his head to snap back and his legs to give way. Chinaw landed with a thud, sprawled on his back, and a torrent of blood spilled from his nostrils. Fin stood over him, blood-soaked fist ready to deliver another blow, lest he try and insult him again. But Chinaw remained quiet, motionless, just like Cato. Anger was replaced with panic as Fin got on his knees and tried to return Chinaw to consciousness, but nothing was working. Fin reached for his wrists, attempting to check his pulse, but again, he did not know how it was done. All the while, the blood dripping from Chinaw’s nose collected on the grass near his head like a small puddle of thick, crimson syrup.

  Fin’s stomach turned, because of both the sickening smell of blood and the fear of having killed someone by accident again. He chewed his fingernails and wondered how he was going to explain this to Black-Tooth and the others. In one last desperate act to revive his fallen comrade, Fin slammed his fist into Chinaw’s chest. At once Chinaw opened his eyes and gasped and gagged on the blood in his throat. Rolling over onto his chest, Chinaw coughed his guts out, clearing his airway of the blood that was trapped inside. When the coughing ended, Chinaw looked up at Fin and said, “That’s what I call a punch. I knew you had it in—” Chinaw gagged on something wedged in his throat. He spat onto the grass something that looked like a blood-covered tooth.

  “Oh, wow,” Chinaw said, showing the bloody tooth to Fin. “Look what you did.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Fin replied.

  “Don’t be,” Chinaw said. “I asked you to punch me. There’s no need to apologize for something I asked you to do.”

  Chinaw pulled himself to his feet, only to stagger like a drunk. Fin caught his fall before he could face-plant.

  “Thanks,” Chinaw said. “I think you hit me harder than I thought.”

  “Maybe you should sit down for a second,” Fin said.

  “Good idea,” Chinaw said. Fin led Chinaw to a corner at the edge of the tent, where he collapsed in a heap on the ground.

  “Need anything?” Fin asked. “Like some water?”

  “That’s very kind of you, but no,” Chinaw said. “I just need to sit for a second to get my balance back.”

  “Think you’ll be able to sleep now?” Fin said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Chinaw sniggered. “Oh, and by the way, I didn’t mean all the garbage I said earlier. I was only trying to make you mad, since I thought it would make your punches stronger. Note to self: don’t make you angry.”

  “I’ve found that hard to control lately,” Fin admitted.

  “You’re at that age,” Chinaw said. “It’s something that you’ll learn to control in the future. But as I’ve just shown you, there is a way to make your anger work for you.”

  “Are you implying I should be angry every time I go into battle?”

  “Oh, no. I’m just saying that your primal fury can help you, like, for example, when your opponent can’t feel pain. When all else fails, get pissed off.”

  “Wait,” Fin said, taking a seat next to Chinaw, “what did you say about not feeling pain?”

  “That’s a little trait of mine,” Chinaw said. “It’s not that I can’t feel pain, I just have a very high tolerance for it. The first two punches you threw were good enough to knock any poor bastard out, I just couldn’t feel them. I needed you to hit me with a real wallop for me to feel it.”

  “What causes this tolerance?” Fin asked.

  Chinaw simply pointed to the crescent-shaped scar around his right eye. “Whatever left this behind,” he said, “broke something in my head, dulling the effect that any pain has on my body. It’s a pretty extreme blessing, but I tend to see it more as a curse.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You notice that I said whatever caused this? That’s the thing; I don’t know what caused the injury that left this scar, or how I got it. The first thing I remember is waking up in a field, dazed, confused, and bleeding from this wound. That was eight years ago. I don’t remember anything that happened before; not my childhood or past relationships or even my friends, if there were any. The only thing I remembered was my name and how to throw a punch.”

  “Is there any way you know to try and get it back?” Fin asked.

  “I have managed to get some of it back,” Chinaw replied, “with Kemp’s help. She scanned my mind and was able to unlock the fragments of memories that occurred shortly before my injury. That’s about all she found, though. According to her, the rest of my memories are locked away in some sort of mental vault, which she is unable to open. Yet again, considering what she found the last time she went in my mind, I’m probably better off not knowing what’s unknown.”

  “What happened?” Fin asked, intrigued and a little frightened by the prospect.

  “It was discovered,” Chinaw said, “much to my dismay, that before I lost my memory, I worked in the Edonion underground. Most normal citizens know it as a haven for crime and disorder, and I worked in one of the most despicable corners of the whole system.”

  Chinaw paused to rub his eyes, taking long, deep breaths, as if to delay his revelation. Finally, he mumbled something under his breath, barely audible to Fin’s ears.

  “What’s that?” Fin asked.

  “I sold Faranchies,” Chinaw said, louder than before. “Girls, usually young, to Cullidon clients for their own pleasure. I made them do things, sick things, often against their will, and when they didn’t listen, I’d beat them. If they cried, I’d hit them harder, until they did whatever services my clients paid for.”

  By now Fin wished he had just kept his mouth shut. But since it was his own nosiness that had brought him this far, he might as well listen as Chinaw continued with his story.

  “After Kemp discovered these fragmented memories,” Chinaw said, “I started having nightmares, flashbacks to some of the horrifying things I used to do. I saw myself doing revolting things to young girls; beating them, choking them, kicking them, even whipping them. There’s one dream I have where I watch myself watch a girl no older than fifteen get violated by a Cullidon who’s two times her size, and he crushes her to death and I do nothing to save her…”

  Chinaw paused, his hand over his eyes, and Fin realized that he was trying to hold back tears.

  “It’s okay,” Fin said, putting a hand on Chinaw’s shoulder.

  “No,” Chinaw replied. “I’m still having these damn nightmares. Every time I close my eyes, I hear their screams, I see the pain and fear in their eyes, and I wake up and realize that I was the source of all that sorrow.”

  “But that’s not part of you anymore,” Fin said. “You’re a new person now, different from what you were then.”

  “I wish,” Chinaw said. “But my past hangs over me like a cloud, following me everywhere I go. The echoes from a life I don’t remember living will haunt me until the day I breathe my last. Then I’ll be free from the suffering I endure and redeem myself for the heartache I’ve caused.”

  “But you already redeemed yourself,” Fin said. “You abandoned your old reality and joined this resistance for the sake of the Elder.”

  “I’m well past the point
of forgiveness, Fin,” Chinaw said. “The only way I can find redemption for the crimes I committed is through death at your side.”

  “Hold on,” Fin said, “where are you going with this?”

  “There’s no greater honor than dying for the sake of the Elder’s anointed,” Chinaw said. “That’s my dream, that I’ll die a noble death in your service and give my life to Edon. Then I’ll find redemption.”

  “Chinaw,” Fin said. “I have no plans to let anyone die while I’m a part of this resistance.”

  “Fin,” Chinaw said, his voice stern and sharp. “Get real. This is war, and during wars, people will die. Once your training is complete, once our numbers grow, and after we begin to poke parliament in the ass, there will be conflicts, and there will be casualties. It’s an inevitable fact of our plight, and even you, the prophet of our dreams, cannot change it.”

  Chinaw sprang to his feet and looked down at Fin.

  “That is where I want to find myself after the Dragon Storm,” Chinaw said. “Among the casualties, in a voiceless audience that praises your victory.”

  When he was finished, Chinaw took a deep breath and looked around, the luster of his speech all but gone. It would even seem, to Fin at least, that Chinaw had changed before his eyes into a completely different dragon.

  “I must say,” Chinaw said, “that conversation wore me out. I think I’ll try and get some sleep before the sun rises.”

  “Yeah,” Fin said. “I’m getting pretty tired myself.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Chinaw said, turning to leave.