“Finally! Renya’s finally heading over. I don’t know what took her so long.” Jabal squinted in the direction of the Ongocks. “At least she seems to be making up for lost time.” He stretched and hauled the piece of turf he had cut over to the drying area.
“Well,” Eiry responded. “Maybe she had to help Malchim with the processing.”
She gathered their tools and [Cleansed] them. Most of the other villagers had already stopped and made their way to the dinner line. But they had always stood apart from the rest of the village. Originally due to the villager’s hostility and later by their own choice.
She [Cleansed] their hands for them and they both noticed his hands shaking when he asked, “Is she hurt?”
She cupped his hands. “I don’t know, hon. I can’t see as far as you do.”
Anxiety spiked in him about their daughter’s unknown state. It mixed with frustration and helplessness, as everything he could think to help their child would make it worse.
And the anger. Oh, the anger, like he had never felt before. Anger at himself for failing to protect her. Anger at the world for daring to hurt his little girl.
Eiry glanced up at him, a slight tilt to her head. “What would you do if she was?” she asked.
Red strands of hair had plastered her forehead, face, and neck while they worked. And smudges of dirt highlighted where she had unconsciously tried to swipe them out of her face.
She looked as beautiful as the day he had run into her.
He moved the hair to her back, running his hands through it to help it dry. It saddened him that they could not even afford a hair ribbon. That he could not provide her with the niceties she deserved. Even though she would and had given away all luxuries for the life they have now.
He knew her well enough to understand the intent behind her query. She meant to help him focus. To break the mental turmoil of recriminations he found himself in. To switch to the action-oriented world he moved more comfortably in.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.
She responded with a twinkle in her green eyes. “Well, I intend to slap whoever hurt her this time. It’s a proven method, after all. Just line them up for me.”
Laughter burst from him, expelling all the negativity that had been building up in him.
He moved in to kiss her. What did he ever do to deserve a woman like this?
One year ago.
Jabal ran into the burning house, sidestepping those running out. They had shouted something at him, but he didn’t pause to listen. There was no time to spare. Besides, he figured it had something to do with the baby in the far corner of the house.
Black smoke obscured everything, but his [Target] ability highlighted the infant in red, twenty feet away. It lay on the ground with its feet kicking in the air.
Still alive. But probably not for long. Not if he couldn’t get there in time.
Good thing he could take the direct path.
When he had entered the fire-engulfed house, safe from prying eyes, he had morphed into his fighting form. His body became a monstrous man-shaped boulder in a blink of an eye. It transformed smoothly even though it had been years since he activated [Strength], [Stone Skin], [Haste], and [Enlarge] in tandem.
He angled his body, lowering his head and crossing his forearms in front to protect it. Pushing off from planted feet, he charged like the unstoppable juggernaut he had always been. With closed eyes and held breath, he barreled through the smoky darkness. He rammed through any furniture or walls that stood in his way.
As he got closer to the target, he lowered his right arm and deactivated the stone armor around it. The heat pounded at his unprotected arm as if it were a physical thing. Yet, he found it preferable to the intense heated pressure within his armor. His whole body felt like an oversized bruise that needed to swell, but had no room to do so.
He should crawl, staying low to avoid the heat and smoke. But there was no time.
Barely slowing, he scooped the target up with his bare hand. Running now with his left hand extended out ahead of him, he encountered another wall. This time, he thinned the protection around his chest and added another layer of stone to his left shoulder.
Cradling the target to his chest, he lunged and slammed into the wall at full speed. Fortunately, the fire had sufficiently damaged the structure of the house so there was no contest between a rock and a hard place.
But the house got the last laugh though, as he didn’t break the wall completely. The bottom portion held firm, tripping him. Before his brain caught up to the situation, he smacked into the ground.
He quickly undid his power-ups, scared that in his rush to save the baby, he had killed it instead. But even before the stone covering his eyes faded, he heard a piercing wail from the nook he had instinctively formed between his chest and arms.
Sharp pains traveled along his arms, a result of breaking the fall of an oversized man-rock. His right arm hurt especially badly, as burn blisters had burst on impact. He healed fast, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Despite all that, joy crowded out other thoughts as he gazed at the baby boy. The infant, whatever his name, now screamed at the top of his lungs and sported a few bruises. He barely even knew the family. But it didn’t matter, for it was a life and not a death.
The rest of the family were hurrying over, but he paid them no mind. Because in the next house over, which the fire had spread to, [Target] showed him three red silhouettes.
In the past, these red shapes were deaths for him to take. But now, they were lives for him to save.
Jabal ran for the next burning house. These three he would save because he could.
Two years ago.
Jabal ran away from home with [Haste], dirt and pebbles flying back in his wake. He could run twice as fast as a horse, but he feared it would still take too long. The figure of Healer Rensto in his [Target] view appeared tauntingly small. The red shape moved though, so at least he didn’t need to rouse the Healer from bed.
He winced as he reached an unpleasant decision. He had kept his Card activations to a minimum in these past years, hiding them from nosy neighbors.
But timeliness mattered. Besides, even if people saw something in the moonlight, perhaps he would travel fast enough to prevent identification. So he activated [Enlarge] to lengthen his strides. And once he established a rhythm, he timed short bursts of [Blink] along with his strides.
To any witnesses, they would see a twelve-foot figure appear out of nowhere, poised in midstride. And after a quick touch on the ground, disappeared again in the blink of an eye.
It was dangerous running and blinking this fast at night, especially on this so-called road. This path that connected the village to the Manor was barely maintained and rarely used. But he had [Stone Skin] to break his fall. And he had [Regenerate] for everything else.
For the umpteenth time, he cursed his Core Card. What was the point of an epic healing card if he couldn’t heal people with it?
It had, in fact, been employed for the opposite; for instead of helping others, it had made him into the perfect soldier. An undying deliverer of death.
But completely useless now, like most of his Deck. Neither the Cards that came from his Core nor the combat-oriented ones that were forced on him could help in tonight’s battle.
He hated leaving Eiry, but hers was not a war he was geared for. A war versus miscarriages that–besides a hard-fought victory in the form of Renalia–they had already lost eight battles against.
Besides, she was the strongest person he knew. Much stronger than him. If anyone could take command of the situation, it would be her. He only needed to complete his role as a footsoldier on a fetch mission.
He wished, not for the first time nor the last, that he could give Eiry his Core Card.
For all the destruction that it enabled, he understood that his Core cared solely about survival. Growing up as a street rat in Razzad–an orphaned son of a prostitute, no less–the daily rhythms of life swung precariously close to death.
[Regenerate] represented the way his Core wanted him to survive. To persist.
But now, his life would not be worth living if Eiry wasn’t in it. He had not expected to find Love in this life. To deserve it. And the fact that someone as wonderful, as beautiful, as smart as Eireann loved him back never ceased to amaze him.
An unseen rock interrupted his thoughts as it rolled when he landed on it. He grimaced as his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. But he encased his foot in rock and blinked on.
People who had knowledge of his regeneration powers assumed it helped with the pain. It didn’t.
The sprain hurt as much as one would expect from several hundred pounds falling on a bent ankle. But he had fought through worse before and there was no time to wait for it to heal.
He forced himself to enter into a state of emptiness. He needed to concentrate with each step on spotting a clear location–however difficult in the waning moonlight–to teleport to.
Jabal ran on, every step a [Blink]. Every other step a clunk from a stone boot.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Eleven years ago.
Jabal ran through the unfamiliar corridor, seeking an exit. The defenders had made this castle into a trap, collapsing it on the invaders. He only avoided getting buried in the rubble since he had run in front of the others, at the honored position as the tip of their formation.
He was uncertain if any of the others survived, but he recognized they had lost this battle in an instant. Absent was the coordinated symphony of previous battles, with clanks of weapons and cries of men. Instead, there were only the chaotic clunks of falling stones and the low discordant rumble of a castle coming apart at its seams.
The screams of dying men and women were still there, though. That never changed. However, they consisted more of servants in livery than warriors in armor.
He ran and teleported haphazardly through the corridors, as falling objects rerouted him every few steps. Masonry, braziers, tapestries, paintings, and–why was there so much stuff?
An oval metal helmet rolled and bumped against his foot, having detached from an empty suit of full plate armor that had fallen nearby.
He stopped using [Blink], cursing his mindlessness. If he had blinked just a little to the right or arrived slightly later… He didn’t want to think about it. He decided to stick with minor bursts of [Haste] instead.
Panic built up to an unmanageable level as the fears of the castle burying him alive grew. He could not stop his Core [Regenerate] ability. Which meant the rubble would trap him in a perpetual state of being crushed. And the pain that came with it.
He forced himself into a state of emptiness like Lieutenant Murshad had taught him a decade ago. Back when he had panicked before his first battle as a recruit.
Just before that, the authorities in Razzad had realized–in his second trial for theft–that the punishment after his first arrest had not been enough. That cutting his hand off for stealing a loaf of bread had not taught him a permanent lesson. So they had offered him a choice between cutting off both of his hands and his head or volunteering for Lieutenant Murshad’s unit.
So at the age of eleven, he had joined the war against the invaders and infidels from Mireland.
It had been fun that first month, training with other young men, experimenting with the new Cards they gave him, and eating to fullness at every meal. But anxiety had transitioned to fear in their inaugural battle. So Lieutenant Murshad had taught them a technique to deal with it. To imagine a void and feed it their emotions and thoughts and emerge empty.
At first, he used the technique before combat, feeding his fears of death, pain, and failure into the void. Later on, he relied on it while fighting, feeding the void his bloodlust so that he could retain control over himself.
As the years passed and the war changed, he only performed it after battle, to forget what he had done. For the war had morphed from defending the homeland into one of retribution.
But now he circled back to the first kind of usage, to deal with the fear of premature entombment.
Turning a corner, he ran into a large room, surprising a bunch of kids. The amount of books in the room, many now on the floor, suggested a well-stocked library. He had orders to burn false infidel books, but he didn’t need to lift a hand this time. Many of the oil lanterns had fallen or spilled, creating growing bonfires.
The six kids turned as one to stare at him, then stiffened, like marble statues. The youngest, perhaps just past his Deck Day, looked at him with absolute terror etched on his face.
He knew that look well. They saw their death in him. Just like all the others.
He stood almost seven feet tall, with muscles chiseled over a decade of combat. And holding a scimitar in each hand, there was little doubt as to why he was here. Plus, his brown skin, a stark contrast to their white ones, loudly proclaimed their opposing allegiances.
He froze also, for the recent reminisce about Lieutenant Murshad had surfaced old memories. He recognized the kid’s expression as the same one he exhibited when he had peered out at his first battlefield. At the invading Mirelanders a decade ago.
Except he was the invader now. And this was their home.
The oldest, perhaps the same age as him, shoved the others behind her and faced him. The similar faces and fiery red hair suggested that they were her younger siblings.
She kept her hands at her sides, away from but close to the knife at her belt. She stared at him with firm eyes as she spoke passably in his language, “There’s a way under to the”–she said an unfamiliar word in her own language–“and out. I can lead us out safely.”
Behind her, he could see that they had emptied a bookcase, and he had interrupted their attempt at moving it. A patch of wooden boards peeked out behind it, instead of showing solid stone blocks. He moved to sheath his swords.
Perhaps misinterpreting his intent, she quickly added while the hand close to her knife twitched. “My father is”–she paused while searching for a word–“leader here. He will pay lots of money if you return me not hurt.”
She paused again to phrase it more clearly, but he had caught her meaning. Really, who could think of rape when an actual building was falling and burning around them?
Then again, he imagined some of his army buddies would. They’d jump at a last chance to do their duty for the war effort if they thought they were about to die.
‘Duty’, the new orders had called it. As relayed by their new lieutenant: to rape and pillage and slaughter their way across Mireland. He still thought of their commander as new, even though it had been almost two years since the new guy transferred into Lieutenant Murshad’s position.
‘Transferred’. That was another army term.
Lieutenant Murshad had been publicly executed for refusing to pass down those same orders. His boys had been forced to stand at attention while it happened, their countenances monitored for any sign of disobedience.
For the higher-ups knew of the loyalty Lieutenant Murshad had garnered, had earned. As harsh and demanding as he was on the battlefield, he was like a big brother and father to them when off-duty. In his final words to them, he had told them to not give the higher-ups, the higher-fucks in his words, any reason to extend the punishment. To remain strong. To stay alive.
So they had stood there that day, crying on the inside, outwardly showing their lieutenant how strong they were.
But it had all been a lie, for the real strength had died that day. They began to die in their dangerous missions without Lieutenant Murshad's wisdom and protection. Without Lieutenant Murshad’s influence, their unit had diminished. Became less human, more monstrous.
And they followed their orders as written. Did it matter that they disliked it? Did it matter that they didn’t want to? No one had the strength of conviction Lieutenant Murshad possessed. To refuse and die.
So he imagined a lot of them would follow orders and do their duty here.
Especially since this young lady before him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He didn’t believe, as she claimed, that the lord of the castle was her father, though. After all, what father would collapse a building with his children still inside?
But he could believe she came from wealth and nobility. The way she stood confidently facing him. The expensive cut of her outfit. The elaborate styling of her hair. Her fair complexion, highlighted with a light dusting of freckles. The way her bright green eyes seemed to pierce into his soul…
Shit, he thought, as he noticed her hand creeping towards her knife.
He had been standing there, lost in reminiscence. But she probably thought he was stuck deliberating between forcing himself on her or taking a payment in ransom. As if he would price her worth like she was a common whore.
A bookcase crashed near enough to them, causing them to jump even in the general din of destruction. Causing her to jerk her arm and unintentionally yank her knife out of its sheath. They all froze again, staring at the bared knife and thinking of its implications.
She stood there, with the knife still pointed towards the ground. She looked pitiful, torn between angling the knife at him in challenge and putting it back in its sheath in apology.
And she looked strong, her face firm as she guarded her siblings against him while the world she knew came tumbling down around her.
He didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t want to hurt her–orders be damned. Didn’t want to kill any of them. That her brother reminded him of himself. That he didn’t want to be here either.
The ground shook again. Right, he didn’t have time to explain anything, even if he knew how. They needed to get out now.
“Move,” he commanded, gesturing with his arm to indicate all of them. She ushered her siblings out of his path as he moved towards the bookcase. He intentionally avoided glancing at her knife when he passed, hoping she wouldn’t do anything stupid.
He pushed the bookcase fully out of the way with one hand while the other reached behind him for his handaxe. Gauging the size and state of the wood planks, he decided that a small dose of [Strength] would be necessary and sufficient.
The girl would not have been able to get through this unless she also had a [Strength] Card. Or perhaps some destructive magic. But if she had, he was certain she would have used it on him by now.
He added [Haste] as he chopped. Since fed by the dry books, the fires had spread faster than he expected. The boarded-up entryway had stairs that led downwards, into the inky darkness.
With no other option, he had to trust that whatever caused the building to crash around them would not extend below. He glanced at the girl, who meanwhile had sheathed her knife and found a couple of unbroken oil lanterns. Good thinking, even though the oil remaining seemed worryingly low.
“You lead,” he ordered, while he put his handaxe away. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sheathed scimitar. “But don’t do anything stupid.”
She nodded and spoke to her siblings. They formed a line behind her, from youngest to oldest. The youngest had stopped crying but let out a whimper once in a while.
“And no noises,” he added. His [Target] ability showed people around, but not engaged in fighting. He suspected that everyone he came with, his only friends in the world, had died or were dying.
And whatever parentage the girl claimed, somebody here had the authority and the ability to collapse a castle. The fact that they did it around her suggested her lack of value as a hostage. Therefore, he assumed that they needed to avoid all the red shapes.
She crouched down and whispered softly to the little boy, who wiped away his tears and nodded resolutely.
She would make a wonderful mother someday, he found himself thinking unexpectedly.
So unlike his own mother, who had treated him as an undesired disease caught from a customer she despised. As a burden that took time away from making a living, in the only way left to her.
He understood now that a burden was all he and his half-siblings would ever be to her. But as a child, all he ever wanted was a mother’s love. And he had felt worthless, for never receiving any. He hadn’t understood that she had none left to give. That life had already beaten all of it out of her.
Satisfied with how the youngest kid behaved, the girl looked up at him to see if he had any further instructions. He nodded toward the open staircase.
These kids obviously had known love from their parents, given how quickly she had quieted the child. How easily she had convinced them that all would be well.
He suspected his way to get the child to be quiet, learned from both his mom and the army, would not have worked so well.
After all, he doubted that a soft child raised in love would respond correctly to him shouting, “Quit crying! Don’t be a - -!” with whatever derogatory expletive they understood. Likely, any shouting in a foreign language would have driven them to tears.
Not that he could really fault these weak kids for it, growing up with love and luxury. He was just…envious.
She moved to hand him one of the lanterns, but noticing his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword, handed it to the oldest kid beside her.
He felt silly playing the role of a captor. But Lieutenant Murshad’s training had not covered how to escape from a crumbling and burning castle with enemy children.
They proceeded down the steps.
He turned briefly at the top of the stairs to move the bookcase back into place. The closed entryway muffled the noise from above, as if the darkness had draped a heavy cloak over him.
He doubted hiding the entrance would matter. Ample smoke ruined the current visibility. And eventually, this entryway would collapse in all the quaking. But their chance of getting out of this alive was slim enough already. Any more would help a lot by comparison.
Jabal turned and ran down the stairs after the two flickers of flame. The fear of being buried alive by falling stones shifted to the fear of being buried alive in an exitless tomb. He hoped he ran toward salvation, not death.