Crow charged, feeling rather than seeing the sand rush forth beside him as he closed in. His enemy’s hands danced, fingers contorting and wrists flexing as the air took on a hot, electric taste.
His strain showed him the attack just in time to dodge, as it always did. Even so Crow felt the hairs on his back shrivel and blacken. A great heat washing over his stumbling form.
It slowed him enough for the coiling sand to overtake him, twisting ahead like swimming snakes and arcing unwaveringly towards the enemy. Silica scattered in all directions just feet from its target, breaking like clay against stone.
Straightening back to a sprint, Crow reached the man a moment later.
His fists clenched tight enough to hurt themselves as he punched. A hurried attack, born from uncertainty and confusion at the enemy’s unseen defence.
Pain met the blow, leaping back from knuckle to wrist as Crow’s hand rebound. The shock dulled his senses, even so he saw clearly that, like the sand, his strike had been halted long before it found flesh.
The cloaked man gave him no more than a few stunned moments to ponder the knowledge before waving a hand, casting Crow back with a rush of wind and a lurch of his stomach. The desert coughed dust into the air as he landed fifty feet back.
Blurred vision showed the man advancing, crimson energy leaping from darting palms like sparks spat from a campfire. The pale-haired boy retreated from his assault.
Sand coiled about him, shifting like a whirlpool before Crow’s eyes. He watched as it twisted, thinning in some places to thicken in others. Just where the enemy struck.
With each attack particulates flew apart even as more were dragged from atop the ground to replenish them. It was, Crow realised, the ability’s true strength. An ever-regenerating wall.
And yet it was breaking down.
Each attack left the mass smaller than before, every block sent its wielder retreating two paces further.
Exertive sweat glistened across his neck, hands shifting frantically to conduct magic. Even with his efforts so clearly focused there was nothing he could do but delay the inevitable.
Seeing such a strong adversary overwhelmed nearly froze Crow where he lay. He pushed past the fear, feeling his guts squirm like nesting rats as he shot to his feet and ran once more.
Circling around the clashing mystics, Crow kept his eyes on them. He studied the pace of their battle, scrutinising as much as he was able and eyeing every detail. They set an obvious pace, and in only moments he saw his chance to strike.
Crow closed in with three bounds, pivoting and snapping out a kick as fine as any he’d thrown before. It might have taken a fence post’s head off, but failed to even reach the man.
The enemy turned his head fractionally, yet oddly slowly, gaze snapping to Crow with an intensity he could feel even through the sterile, lifeless mask.
With barely a gesture he released a blast to send him spinning backwards through the air. Crow landed hard, folding already at the wind being driven from him.
Grunting, he rolled over onto his stomach. His attempt to stand was interrupted by a sharp stab of pain as something shifted in his belly, then a bottomless gasp as bile soured his mouth and dirtied the sandstone.
Pit. How powerful is he?
Few were ignorant of the fact that mystics strengthened as they aged, nor that the rate at which they did was never quicker than between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Crow had entered the Sieve prepared to meet those with far more power than him by his youth alone.
An adult, though, wasn’t something he’d feared he might need to fight. He coughed, then spewed more vomit to hiss and congeal under the glaring sun.
How in the world will I ever be as strong as this?
Careful not to jar his tortured insides again, Crow raised his head to stare at the ongoing fight. He saw it through a tear-blurred screen, distorted vision making the pace no less obvious to him.
The pale haired boy was still fighting, face tightened and stiff with concentration, arms flickering one way and another like fighting birds. The air around him was tinted by diffusing grains.
He cut such a fierce sight that Crow almost allowed hope to take root in him.
But no face was strong enough to hide the boy’s struggle. His arms moved more sluggishly than before, sand coiling at their gestures proving thinner and shallower. There were perhaps only seconds remaining before the defence was shattered.
Crow cursed upon realising his charge hadn’t so much as bought time, then cursed again as he climbed to his feet for another.
He bulled forth in spite of the pain, darting towards the pale-haired boy rather than the cloaked man.
His ally stiffened as Crow reached his back, perhaps expecting a betrayal. Instead Crow waited for his chance. It came to him when, at last, the defensive sand grew too thin to guard at all.
It was then he pounced, leaping through the few remaining grains like a stone thrown through glass. He hurled an elbow, felt it scrape against the unseen barrier between him and his enemy, then righted himself and lashed out with a kick.
The second blow was no more effective than the first, save for shunting the man back a foot as it left him unharmed. Crow saw gauntleted hands rise, braced himself to be yet again cast like a discus.
Instead motion blurred by his side as the pale-haired boy threw a kick of his own. The blow stopped no nearer the man than any others, yet Crow saw something as it rebound from the unseen wall. A distortion of light, faint and swift as a sunbeam caught by smoke.
A shield. He realised, feeling an altogether new kind of hope- born of logic and reason rather than blind faith.
“He has a shield!” Crow cried out, not bothering to hide the elation in his voice. A shield was something he understood; magic hardened for defence, a wall of energy. Something that could be broken down and pushed through.
His ally raised both arms as a blast of red light collided with him, flung from sight in a flash.
Crow had only a moment to realise that he was suddenly alone against the man. He Glimpsed himself careening like a rocket, slamming hard into a sandy wall and falling to lie still.
It was all he could do to stamp both feet hard, digging them into the stone and anchoring himself as the blast struck his guard an instant later.
The stone churned and split where heels dragged through it, leaving inch-deep furrows in the ground’s face before Crow flipped free.
He flew three yards further, flipping and rebounding from the ground before coming to a rest thirty feet from the nearest building. Momentum killed by the tortured earth.
Crow scrambled up a heartbeat after stopping, breaking into a run even against the pained protests of his body. He saw sand lancing like lightning ahead, then the pale-haired boy staggering back a moment later. Before another thought could sprout in his head, he was on the target.
Sand scattered against the shield just feet from Crow, parting like a curtain as he landed before the enemy.
He rained blows upon the barrier without pause, ignoring the pain in his hands and ache of his muscles as he beat it like a drum. The assault lasted seconds before his enemy moved to counter.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Seconds? For a mystic? How slow are you?
Crow saw no Glimpses, wonderment banished by the realisation that there was nothing he could do to avoid the attack.
But the crimson light was smothered by shifting sands, explosion choked amid it. Silica scattered, trailing smoke and glowing a hot red.
He stood stunned and motionless for a heartbeat, surprise bleeding to stupefaction. An instant later Crow whipped into motion.
A lactic burn built within him, pain replacing strength. He ignored it. Continued attacking, heedless of protesting flesh and crying bone.
Soon it was the cloaked man who retreated, his arms still moving to unleash jets of energy as they had before- yet thrown up hastily, desperate. It would still have been enough to cast Crow back as it had earlier.
But it didn’t reach him, the tides of sand lapped in a defensive rhythm to foil each attempt. He put his own shield to good use, banishing all thoughts of guarding and focusing only on breaking down the wall ahead.
Slowly, gradually, one strike at a time, he managed it.
The shield’s transparency died quickly; strain bringing darkness to its form, catching the light and making clear its depth and shape as refracted light moved across it like broken veins. Crow could see it buckle beneath each strike, deform and shift as it tried to retake its previous, shape.
The sight gave him hope.
One punch, then another. Strike by strike, blow by blow. Don’t bother with anything fancy, just wear him down.
The shield grew less stable by the second, its surface soon closer to the waves of an ocean than a sheet of glass. Crow struck ever more, feeling a sudden desperation as he noticed once more his ally’s sand was nearing its limit.
How long does it take him to recollect it? Longer than our enemy would need to attack me.
He banished the fear, sublimating it with the fury of battle. Cutaris made the mental shift easy enough to scare him.
Strike, strike, strike. Like a smith working steel, Crow continued. He stared at the shield as it wavered, sure that each fluctuation would end it, every deformation would prove its last. Then cursing when it held. The sand grew thinner, his fists ever more tender.
Crow thought his heart might explode at the tension, every passing second carrying a fear to make his veins ache.
And then the balance tipped.
For a moment the shield remained strong; then seemed to warp and shift like a marble crushed underfoot. It vanished from sight, filling Crow with fury and despair at its restored transparency.
How the fuck could it repair itself? After all that?
The confusion didn’t stay his hand for a second. With a cry born from instinct, Crow punched once more. It was a thoughtless effort, one he expected fully to be futile.
Crow’s knuckles found no resistance in the barrier, instead sailing deeper and farther by four hands. They stopped only upon meeting the mystic’s face, snapping his head back with no more resistance than they’d have found striking a pillow.
The man tumbled and flew. Crow stared as he rebound from the ground, clothes tearing and dragging where they scraped against stone- growing soiled by sand even as his movement cast it into the air.
When he stopped, Crow expected him to stand. To hurry up and defend himself. Instead the man lay still.
“Looks like he’s a glass-bone. Lucky us.”
Crow turned to the pale-haired boy as he spoke, confusion apparently evident on his face.
“A mystic without access to abilities that can strengthen their body. All the power in the world, held in a frame no tougher or quicker than an inept’s. No wonder he used that shield.”
Looking back to the unmoving, splayed man, Crow found truth in the boy’s words. It hadn’t felt like he’d struck a mystic’s skull, even with his power robbed by over-reaching.
He made his way to the fallen man slowly, cautiously. Not eager to make a surprise attack easy, no matter his confidence.
It was, as he might have thought, a wasted effort.
There were no jaws to close about him, no guillotine to drop its blade. Only a broken man. Spluttering for air and retching bloody, bile-filled spittle to leak from his mask into the sand.
The pitch of his robes was sullied, marred lighter and dusted by his roll across the grime. A lens in one eye had been cracked, the other popped out entirely and left somewhere in his wake. He seemed smaller, to Crow’s eye. As though injury had stripped away height as well as strength.
Seeing him writhe in the dust brought Crow’s mind back to what he’d said upon first approaching.
“Any scriptural quotes about this?” He asked, looking down at the quivering man. Magic still radiated from him, though Crow doubted his enemy was in any condition to use it.
Muttering came from the man, low like his previous words. Racked with pain in place of fervour. Crow couldn’t hear enough to understand, surprising himself with anger.
“Speak up!” He snarled, bringing his foot down on the man’s leg.
His gut churned at the sensation of bone giving way, just as fragile and human as the pale-haired boy had hypothesised. A calcic spike erupted from the black fabric about his enemy’s leg, smeared with blood and jagged where it had snapped.
Crow marvelled at the fracture, taking a moment to be awed by his own strength. He’d not put much effort behind the stomp.
The mystic’s screams brought him back to focus, eyes moving over the man as he spasmed with agony.
When the agonised thrashing finally stopped moments later, Crow saw tears.
“Answer me.” He snapped. He should have known better, pain had paralysed the man’s tongue.
“Calm down,” Came the pale-haired boy’s voice. Crow turned to see him approaching, concern marring his face. “We’ve already won.”
“So he’s helpless.” Crow countered. “Helpless and at the mercy of a mystic. Sound familiar?”
He directed the question at the wounded man, hoping to see him daunted. It seemed to ignite fury and defiance where he’d wished for fear.
“Don’t compare me to the vermin I destroyed!”
Crow stepped towards the fallen mystic, then found himself stopped by a firm hand about one arm. He turned to the pale-haired boy, meeting his eye.
“Let go.” He demanded.
“What will you do if I do?”
“Why do you care?” Crow retorted, pulling his arm free and stepping back from the boy. Suddenly cautious, aware that the lynchpin of their alliance lay bloodied at his feet.
“I care because it looks like you’re planning on killing a man while he can’t fight back.”
From the corner of his eye, Crow saw the mystic stiffen at that. Terror freezing even the trembles of shock.
“And if I am?”
“Then I’ll stop you.”
For a second Crow found himself wanting to test the boy, even to strike him without warning and steal the advantage. Instead he simply stepped back, unclenching hands he hadn’t even noticed curl into fists.
The tension easing from the pale-haired boy almost made him wonder whether he’d have had a chance.
“Blessed are those with caloused hands.” Mumbled the man, eyes unfocused behind his broken lenses and head slumping back. “Sacred are the workers, the toilers. Holy are the doers of divine work, doubly so the invidious.”
It was clear his mind was a dozen miles from the world. Hidden behind a dazed fog of pain and zeal.
Crow took in the whimpering mess before him; feeling hate give way to disgust, sickening wonderment and the alien touch of an entirely new sensation. Pity? Surely not for such scum as that.
A light built around the man, growing to a harsh glare before giving way just a moment later. When it cleared, the hooded mystic left with it.
His eyes flickered to the slate around his wrist, not missing the luminous letters newly etched across it.
Current points: Three hundred and fifty.
Crow’s heart sank. He’d fought for perhaps ten minutes, five at the very least. Alabaster had mentioned the possibility of points reaching the thousands. To be stuck in the low hundreds with such a fraction of the stage over left him swilling bitter fear and panic around in his mouth.
“That’s that then.” Said the pale-haired boy.
Crow spun, focusing for a fight. To his surprise the boy had already begun a hasty walk away.
“I’ll be seeing you.” He called back, voice betraying none of the uncertainty threading Crow. “If you manage to make it past this stage, at least.”
“What’s your name?” Crow asked. Something about the boy struck a familiar chord, and his power alone was cause to assure he could identify him later. The mystic answered without pause or suspicion.
“Rajah.” He said, voice dripping with a seemingly bottomless confidence. Seeing him saunter away, Crow found himself unable to begrudge his attitude.
Once again he looked at his slate, staring as if the numbers might increase from concentration. They remained as they were, and a great unease grew.
At this rate, I’ll contribute nothing. One fight and a few hundred points is far too little to show for this stage of the event.
Even as he pondered the issue, Crow’s solution was obvious.
The Prime Target Alabaster had mentioned would surely yield greater reward than any other, and even Crow could recall its location. The centre of a map was no difficult place to find.
Taking off at a jog, he scoured his surroundings for a vantage point high enough to find his direction.
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Circa 1,195 I.E.