Outskirts of Alvion. Southern Hemisphere.

“Move it, you old mule!” He heard the sound of the taskmaster’s whip and braced himself right before it struck his back. Stinging pain coursed through his veins and he clenched his teeth to keep from making a sound. That would just spur the pudgy cunt on.

They were closer to Alvion now. He could see the famous towers of the city in the distance. The trees of the forest were not tall enough to hinder the view. The House of Masonry outdid themselves in this regard, evident in the landmarks that could guide those even outside their city.

It had taken them five days of trekking from Alva to get to this point and he was exhausted. He wished he could get a sip of water, only a sip. His muscles ached relentlessly and his fingers were already numb from the lack of blood flow. He had had to wrap his forearms, wrists, palms and fingers in rolls of and strips of torn clothes to keep them safe from bruising. His palms were already heavily calloused though, so there was no need to worry about bruising there.

The cart he was pulling was large — larger and heavier than the standard cart — and was loaded with weapons and chests filled with gold and other precious metals. Seven men sat shoulder to shoulder on both sides of the cart facing each other. An eight sat in the rider’s seat, whom he knew so well by the sound of the whip in his hand. The others were alien to him — strangers from a different land. He had heard whispers of the forces of The Church of the Light.

Were these them?

The men were bigger and taller than anyone he had ever seen — even the Baelors. Not that he could truly recognize them as they wore long flowing black cloaks and skull-shaped masks to cover their faces. Every inch of their skin was covered from view. Their weight was supposedly the reason why he was using such a large, heavy cart to transport them. Their masks were especially meant to intimidate with the scary glare they all spotted. And what was that metal tube behind their heads that connected their heads to their backs?

There was a presence to them. An oddness that he couldn’t quite put words to. It was… uncomfortable… unnerving. Maybe that was why they chose to travel in the cart instead of the draft horses they brought along with them — seven giant horses, the sizes of which he had never seen before that trundled alongside their cart. The matching troops gave them a wide berth. Other carts were ahead of him as the giants’ weight was not so easy to pull.

He tsked in annoyance at the injustice, but there was nothing he could do. Predator’s didn’t care for the opinions or comfort of cattle.

Thankfully they couldn’t pick up on his use of mental energy — for whatever reason that was. His senses told him they weren’t sacred artists. Yet, the same senses were very alert to every movement they made. On an instinctual level, he could tell they were very dangerous. Even the Blanks, Drudges, and mortals marching alongside the cart were weary of them.

The taskmaster couldn’t also pick up on his use of mental energy as he was merely a Drudge, and a weak one at that; a dirty, sweaty, fat slob of a man. The taskmaster couldn’t have been more than fifty but he, who was over two hundred years old with his white hair already falling out, was fitter than he was. He swore to himself that when he laid hands on the cunt, he would make him suffer! He would listen to his cries of pain and suffering and he would do nothing!

He carefully scanned one of the boxes — a highly guarded one at the back of the cart, far away from his position. Even with his weak mental energy, he could tell what it contained. Skysails. The thick leather belts were bound tightly in rolls and the crystals in them clinked together from time to time, or when he hit a pothole in the road.

The temptation to reach for them was strong, but he held himself back. He had children who needed him, and becoming an enemy of Alvric would spell their doom. Besides, the sails were of an older model. Anyone who had been in the employ of Vorthe’s armed forces could tell. It would take him a lot more essence, that he didn’t have by the way, to fly with one of the damned things — a lot more to even bond with it. Simply put, it would be a bad idea to try to escape, no matter how tempting it was.

He only needed to exercise patience. In all his two hundred years and more, he had never felt so empty in his core; so starved of essence. The Alvrics didn’t bother shackling his core since they always left him near death every day. But they also needed a mule to transport resources for the war effort. Since he was worth less than an actual mule to them, it became his job to pull carts across the vast forest separating Alva and Alvion which was to the north.

Thankfully and fortunately, Vorthe had built roads across their lands many, many years ago. If not, he would be trudging through the forest and any journey would take more time and energy to complete. Unfortunately, the road went around a mountain separating both cities, making the journey a little longer.

Alvion was Vorthe’s stronghold right now but Alvric wanted it. They claimed it was on their land and was built by one of the ancestors who married into the House of Masonry, House Ullysius. And rumors had it that they were winning against Vorthe. Since the aliens entered the fray, things had turned against Vorthe. The once giants of the continent were being pushed back by Alvric and their cohorts. That alone told him of the power these aliens wielded.

He was a simple man. At least he was until the Alvric heir showed up on the doorstep of his home. How long ago was that again? Four… five years? He had stopped counting the days ever since he washed up in the south with six unhealthy little orphans who looked to him to protect and provide for them. But he had gotten carried away; gotten into trouble trying to take revenge all by himself.

The psychopath had been right there, right in front of him in the City Square of Alva. Only ten paces or more and he would’ve gutted him to death. He had fumbled… failed to hide the poisoned blade in his grip. And now he was a slave to his enemies.

The taskmaster’s whip struck him on the bare skin of his back, causing him to arch in pain.

“Faster, you old mule!” the cunt squealed like a pig. “We’re losing daylight!”

He sucked in air through his teeth, gritting his jaws. That stung! But what could he do? He gripped the handles of the cart tighter and increased his pace, even while his thighs burned.

Your time will come, cunt! He thought to himself.

The journey continued in relative silence and the heat of the day subsided, giving way to the cool of the evening. Mosquitoes will be out soon. And he would begin another struggle for comfort and rest.

~~~

They stopped at a small clearing by the road to make camp a good distance away from the City of Alvion. From this distance he could clearly see the towers rising like fingers wanting to touch the sky.

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Alvion stood like a massive fortress in the distance. Its six towers were like a beacon. He felt he was being watched; that anyone who stood up there could see their every move. Though they were surrounded by forests, the trees shouldn’t be able to limit sight for those in Alvion.

Vorthe had chosen strategically. If they decided to attack from there, their camp would be turned to a smoldering mess in less time than it would take for one to take a shit. But Vorthe wouldn’t — he almost wished they would though. The rules regarding war held them bound. Only Sprouts and those in the Realms below were permitted for such a battle. And Sprouts couldn’t hit them from such a distance — not even Spirit Realm artists could.

The cold of the evening was starting to set in and he quickly unbound the wrap piece tied to his waist. He found a tree to settle against and sat down to take a quick nap.

“Get back here, you old mule,” the taskmaster squealed. “Who do you think will make the fire for you?”

He heard the sound of the tip of the whip scraping the soil and quickly rose. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he harshed out. Damn! He didn’t even know the sound of his own voice anymore.

There was a small pit in the center of the clearing, evidence of other travelers using the clearing once upon a time. He cleared it of ash and sooth before heading into the forest to gather wood for fuel. The moon was out now. A small half moon in the distance that provided little to no light. He had no essence to spare, if not he would have transmitted a little to the back of his eyes to see better.

He wandered through the darkness reaching down for anything remotely big enough to his senses to be a fallen branch. All he groped were roots though. It was springtime so there weren’t going to be many fallen branches or twigs. Worse of all, everything was wet. Without an existing flame, he would not be able to make fire, or he’d have to use up more energy rubbing sticks together.

Something snatched him up with incredible speed. His heart beat against his ribs so hard he thought it would explode. Was this it? Was this how he would die? Eaten by a magical beast? No. He clenched his fists ready to rain punches on the thing with his withered old hands.

“Stay your hands old man,” a female voice reached him. “You wouldn’t want to lose them.”

He stilled. The voice was so calm even as they moved through the air, but there was a threat to it he had heard several times from the Alvrics. They broke through the forest canopy and continued flying north. The cool wind hit his bare body, causing him to relax the tension in his shoulders and back. The light from the moon helped his vision a little. The woman was holding him with a whip around his waist.

Perfect. Another slaver.

“I am no one,” he said, but the wind rushing by him took away the sound of his voice.

“That’s for me to decide,” his captors voice reached his ears, unbidden.

He shivered in fear. This was one powerful sacred artist. He couldn’t even sense her. He hadn’t sensed her in the forest and he couldn’t, even now. He closed his eyes and extended his perception — weak it may be but it still helped him when he needed it. He scanned her and the result of his scan scared him even more.

“Are you a ghost?” he asked. He couldn’t hear his own voice clearly but he was sure she could.

She tittered, lowering them to the ground. They landed in a clearing, still inside the forest. A small hut stood among the foliage, obscured from the sky. Hold on. He hadn’t even noticed the clearing from the sky. The whole place was a hideout for slavers!

Brilliant. No one would be able to find him again. He would disappear into the night and the Alvrics would set his children in shackles, turning them to slaves and whores. There had to be a way to get away from this ghost of a woman.

“I’m not a ghost old man,” she said. “Here.” She gave him a hand to help him up. Her smaller frame pulled him up with surprising ease. She wasn’t a ghost, alright.

“My lady, I have people depending on me. If the Alvrics find out I’m missing, they’ll think I escaped.”

She was quiet for a moment but nodded. “They won’t find out. All I need is for you to help me with something, and I’ll help you in return.”

“You need me to spy on them,” he said with realization.

“You catch on fast.” she said with a smile. At least he thought she smiled, her voice was cheerier. He couldn’t see her very clearly with the hooded cloak she wore. She was tiny — at least compared to him. But he knew she was strong enough to beat him to a pulp even if he was in his prime — and he was not. Far from it, even.

“Why should I trust you?” he asked, taking a step back. And then another. “For all I know, you are just another slaver; no different from the Alvrics and their alien partners.”

“Now those are the ones I wish to know about — those alien partners,” she said. She didn’t make any attempt to stop him. “I’m not a slaver, just so you know. I came to do Vorthe’s bidding.”

He stopped. “You’re one of Vorthe’s?”

“I am.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t,” she said. From behind him. He turned around to see her standing very close to him. Instincts kicked in, and he raised his hands to defend himself.

Nothing happened. No whipping, no punching… nothing.

“I’m not going to hurt an elderly man who’s old enough to be my father,” she said, walking by him. “Come. We have very little time.”

He followed her toward the hut at the edge of the clearing. He made sure to stay a pace or two behind her. Any sudden movement and he would run. Well, not that it would do him any good.

“Tell me about yourself, old man,” she said.

“I’ll tell you what you want to know — about the aliens. I’m not telling you about myself,” he said.

“Very well. I’m ‘Two’, a disciple of Vorthe,” she said. “Sadly, that’s all I can tell you since I’m on a mission.”

A disciple of Vorthe? He once had a boy who was a disciple of Vorthe. Fell in with the wrong crowd and brought trouble home. He sighed. On most days, the memories were too much to bear. Knowing he had six children to take care of was what kept him going; kept him pushing through the pain of losing so much.

Jerome had had such a bright future ahead of him. If only he had not attracted the attention of the wrong people. He knew Jerome was one to always push for more. And nobles hated such spirit from peasants.

They got to the hut and Two raised a flap made out of vines to enter. He followed her in. The place was warm and comfortable. Better than anywhere he had stayed for a long while now. There was a warm glow coming from a crystal at the top center of the ceiling of the hut.

“Welcome,” someone — another female — said from a corner. He turned to look at her and his jaw dropped. Was he seeing correctly?

“You can pick your jaw up, old man. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” his captor said with a chuckle. “Funny you called me a ghost not too long ago.”

The girl who had welcomed them stood up and walked toward him. She was just as shocked to see him as he was to see her.

“I know you,” he croaked out. His voice was tight and his throat hurt.

Tears ran down her eyes and she nodded vigorously. “I know you too,” she said.

“What’s going on?” his captor, Two, asked as she glanced between them.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he asked. “Ash—” his captor reared back as she heard him call out the name. “—it’s you, isn’t it?”

They hugged each other. Ash was a grown woman now. She was taller than Tara was when they were all still in the slums of Farryn — almost as tall as he was now. He released Ash and faced his captor, clearing his throat.

“I was a guard once, in Farryn. Happy to serve.” He puffed his skinny chest out and stood straight.

“Ooh,” Two cooed. “Did you have a name officer… or a number?”

He hadn’t spoken his name to anyone since arriving in Alva. But now he was proud to say it. Ash had given him something he thought he had lost years ago.

Hope.

“The name’s Wen, my lady. My children call me Old Wen.”

End of book Three.