“What do you people think you’re doing, using kids?” the blond-haired man asked Deen. He kicked his fallen soldier’s coat aside. He had no weapon. That man’s proud, almost noble face twisted angrily, and he raised his voice. “You’re all as bad as—”
“I killed your Cathartes hound,” Deen interrupted. No time for games. He leveled his spear and pointed it at the unarmed Daevan’s heart. “You’re next.”
Deen struck like a scribblesnake the instant the soldier moved his hands. Skillfully, the man snatched the weapon with practiced precision and speed like lightning.
Then, something… unexpected happened.
Deen couldn’t pull the spear free. It was as if it had become embedded in the earth itself, wrapped in that man’s fingers. Try as he might, he couldn’t yank it away from the soldier. What deceiving strength!
His enemy took no pleasure in his predicament; the man held an impassive face even as he kicked him. Deen went flying, rolling several times across the road. He righted himself and evaded a punch that left an actual crater in the hard packed dirt road. Drawing knuckles smeared with dirt and blood, the soldier stood upright and stared Deen down with sapphire-blue eyes. It seemed a monster had been left in charge of defending the bus.
Deen’s spear was shattered, broken in two and lying at the foot of where they had been. He thanked whichever of the Flocks had given him the idea of carrying a spare spear as he reached behind his back and pulled it free of the makeshift belt.
So, the guy was ridiculously strong, was he? Strange… He eyed the soldier from head to toe. He was an ordinarily-built man, perhaps less muscular than Deen himself. What was going on?
He leveled his second spear. No matter. He’d just have to be more careful this time. He remembered a glimpse of the soldier’s palm, already bloody, likely from Luke’s knife.
The important thing was that he bled.
Deen stepped slowly, to the right, away from the hand that grabbed his spear. There was a good chance it was not only dominant, but far more practiced with this grabbing nonsense. Still, best not make assumptions yet. Never make assumptions against an opponent you don’t understand.
The Daevan soldier stepped right as well, matching his slow pace. They circled for a time like that, as if they were two predatory fish of similar size trying to determine if one was capable of eating the other.
The Daevan struck first, lunging for Deen with such a forceful punch that it buffeted the night’s calm wind.
———
For the first time in days, Typhos felt alive.
His bloodsoaked tachi sprayed the air with red droplets as he completed the swing, bringing the blade back to a neutral position. He met the eyes of a horrified ginger-haired boy similar in age to his own. The boy fell backward with fright, shrieking. Startled birds leapt away from their treetop nests, cawing in confusion and alarm.
They were afraid of the wrong thing.
Right there, right then, Typhos was unsheathed. Not his blade, no. Himself. Right in that moment, he was his true self. He had been given permission to temporarily discard his grimy patched-together rags and wear the bodysuit openly. A skin-tight suit of advanced fibers that reflected his surroundings, granting him an almost illusory appearance, as if he were the terrain around him from the neck down. It wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need it. It was a prototype that barely worked and had no head covering yet. But it clarified exactly what he was. A tool, a weapon of the empire exercised to kill with supreme precision.
Thudding to his right. Close!
His eyes darted, catching the blur of steel. His tachi caught it almost simultaneously, grinding against the tip of what he identified a heartbeat later as a lengthy polearm, wielded in the thick tree trunk-esque arms of an absolutely gigantic man. The tachi would break if he continued that farce, so he danced out of the polearm’s path and scraped his tachi aside.
It was then that he finally got a good look at the face of his next victim. Obviously Pruinan. Angry, furious. Familiar. Korsak Vankka. Lieutenant of the Ulciscor Guard. A dangerous foe.
Typhos enfolded his mind in vast emptiness, the solace of the moment. He entered a state without thought, without emotion, as if he were in a trance. He was not a person, a being of thought and feeling, of mistake and indecision.
No.
He was the greatest weapon in all of Cathartes. A weapon that pointed himself where his master commanded, and always struck true.
He attacked.
———
Snapping to lucidity, the first thing that came to Luke was the immense pain where he had been struck. The metal roof of the bus stared back at him as he listened to the sounds of boots shuffling and men grunting just outside.
Captain Daniels… I have to… Why couldn’t he speak?
His body begged to cough, and he complied to the reward of pain intensified by the action. It was a sickly sounding cough. He spat blood, its color lost in the darkness but its distinctive metallic taste fouling his tongue.
“The light…” Luke whispered. His voice was groggy, as if he were half-asleep. He sure felt it. “The red light… makes him stronger…” He doubted the captain had heard.
Luke wedged one elbow underneath himself and heaved. He could barely move his neck, so he felt by his fingers along the splintered wood of the crates he had fallen on, until…
There.
His hand curled around something cold and smooth-textured. He strained his eyes as far as they could go and met the terrible sight from his dreams. The thunderflute was heavy in his hand, though he did not know how much of that was his weakness and how much was its actual weight. He found its peculiar handle and gripped tightly, index finger through the opening he believed would fire the arrow.
He knew this would make him like the blue-eyed man. Not Dux, rather, the blue-eyed man from his dreams. His nightmares. The one who took everything from him.
He remembered vividly how it was done. He had seen it in a hundred nights, a thousand nights. Struggling to lift the clipped thing, anger welled in him. He would not miss this chance! All he had to do was raise this useless Flock-galed hand, point the evil thing toward Dux, and squeeze! Now!
Luke screamed raggedly and forced a red power from somewhere beyond into his chest. It was more solid than Dux’s frail lights, a stable curling line of light with smaller wriggling branches. It did not split apart and join together like an ensemble of pitiful creeks. Like all of his other colors had been, he realized, this was a vast surging river. Raging through his arm. Granting him the strength he needed!
Both Daniels and Dux had stopped fighting, frozen as Luke raised the thunderflute and squeezed his finger down on the firing mechanism. He braced his ears for the thunderous boom, and his heart for the bloodshed it would bring.
The flute made a clicking sound.
Nothing happened.
No…
The flute slipped from Luke’s hand, and he slumped.
———
Cyrus watched, numb.
The assassin jumped back as Korsak’s polearm swept wide. He rode the sweep like a surfer on a wave, closing the gap between them with impossible speed. The longsword found its mark, leaving a surface gash on the lieutenant’s arm and escaping before he could retaliate.
Blood ran down Korsak’s arm, meeting older trails as if they were tributaries of red. He had taken several cuts and scrapes already. He did not seem affected, fighting with ferocity. Slashes and stabs kept the assassin moving. He seemed determined to wear him down.
I have to do something. There must be something.
He kept thinking that, but he couldn’t move. He just couldn’t. His limbs felt cold and sluggish. That longsword was going to claim Korsak’s head next, and then his own. It was coming.
He had never seen something so terrifying, not even in the Razing. He had seen his share of corpses, some he knew well. He had mourned for them. The brutality he had just seen— that was only a part of it. The stark youth of the assassin, that coldness in his eyes… It was haunting.
Korsak roared like a beast, putting his whole body behind his attacks. The assassin was two-thirds his size, but so much faster. Two extremes. If just one of those polearm strikes connected, the tide could completely reverse. The lieutenant could turn it around, couldn’t he?
Move.
The assassin slithered through an opening again, scoring Korsak in the thigh. The Pruinan stomped his foot as if to deny the blow had been dealt. It was as if the man felt no pain. Only fury.
Move!
Cyrus rose on shaky legs. The best thing he could do was try to get away. Was that what he was supposed to do? He didn’t care. He didn’t. He had to get away. Right now.
Steeling himself, Cyrus took the first step and cried out in pain as an arrow bit him in the leg. He collapsed in a heap, clutching his leg and writhing.
As he fell, the assassin dove toward Cyrus suddenly, to deliver a sinuous slash. The sturdy wooden haft of Korsak’s polearm snapped in two as he diverted the attack by shoving the blade away. Korsak tossed the short end piece of the haft aside and adjusted his hold, receiving a stab to the shoulder in the process.
Even now, the Pruinan seemed mighty. Broad-shouldered with a wide stance, solid like a rock between Cyrus and the assassin. Blood was beginning to pool underneath him. A stone would shatter against his face, and lions would flee at his deep roar when he next struck.
One thrust, two, three, five, seven! The assassin weaved through every line, every curve of steel with such grace it was as if he were dancing a dance that could only be called death.
Cyrus kept his head low, out of ideas. That archer might be hurt, but she had no intention of letting him leave. Korsak had to win.
A horrible realization dawned on him as another arrow hissed by.
“No!” he screamed raggedly.
The arrow plunged into Korsak’s side. He grunted, spinning his polearm. He must have slipped up, for the assassin carved away the fourth and fifth fingers of the hand in front. Dark liquid reflecting the light of the lantern ran down the weapon’s tip. Slick with blood, the polearm slipped from his hand.
The assassin’s silvery longsword flashed in the lantern light.
———
Deen was the first to realize the thunderflute had not worked. It seemed to him that even the soldier had expected it to work— expected to die— in that moment. He struck, hoping.
The soldier recovered less than a heartbeat slower, halfway through the thrust. He reached out and pushed the spear aside with an absurdly sturdy forearm. Boldly, he stepped well inside Deen’s range and clenched a fist. He delivered a blow like a block of iron to the chest.
Out of breath, Deen kneed the man in the gut and backed away. The soldier didn’t appear hurt, but his expression was rather… surprised.
They stood apart, breathing hard. The bus was between them, Luke laying motionless inside atop broken and shattered crates, bits of wood and thunderflutes scattered all over the bus floor.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Daevan soldier muttered to himself. His mouth twisted with disappointment. “Out already?”
“Out?” Deen asked. “Of what?”
The Daevan, in response, raised one arm above his head.
And numerous soldiers dressed in cargo uniforms stepped into view from behind walls, inside the warehouse, and other obstructions. Deen understood the situation immediately.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
It was over. It always had been.
“Sorry,” the man apologized, smiling wryly. “I’d like to finish things with you, but my sister will kill me if I die. You’re very skilled with those pointy sticks. I’m confident I would lose.”
“Flocks…” Deen muttered, looking about. There were a dozen or so people in the street now, all geared with spears or shortswords. They approached from behind the Daevan he had been fighting— who was likely some sort of military officer— and formed a semicircle formation, the flanks enclosing around Deen.
“Do not die for your cause,” the officer said softly. His tone had become less coarse, more respectful. Dignified. “It is another form of honor to accept change. My name is Dux. Come. I will see your wounds treated before the night leaves us.”
The words stung, but Deen didn’t dare retort or retaliate. It would be worse than meaningless, it would get both himself and Luke killed. A pointless death was the last thing he could afford right now. He slung his spear behind his back.
“I’d prefer you leave it for now, please,” Dux said.
He maintained a neutral expression, but his eyes burned as he undid the knot he had tied at the waist and loosened the belt. It fluttered to the road as the spear clattered behind him.
“Lord Duxille,” one of the men said, approaching. He held out a curious cylindrical glass vial containing a very curious liquid emitting a soft red glow, like a tiny handheld lightbulb. The light was very weak, but it did color the underling’s palm and the surrounding air an inch out. “A fresh ampule, sir.”
“Thank you,” Duxille said, carefully plucking the vial out of the man’s palm.
Duxille. Where had he heard that name before?
The ampule of red liquid must have been as curious to Duxille as it was to Deen, for he raised it to his face and shook it gently. There must have been… some kind of air bubble inside, otherwise the liquid didn’t adhere to gravity with those colorless pockets around it. The liquid shifted unconcernedly inside its container, as if it had not been shaken n the first place.
Duxille pressed his thumb to the ampule, and a silvery needle emerged from the tip. He set it against his arm and injected the substance. The liquid vanished, and… nothing. That was it. It wasn’t as if the man himself glowed now or anything. Strange.
“Forgive me,” Duxille said. “It’s an… affliction. Do you mind if we talk a bit of shop? Hm?”
Deen swallowed nervously. What to do now? Was General Wolf captured as well? Mirastelle was lost, in that case. He honestly believed that. Would this ‘Lord Duxille’ buy that he and Luke came alone?
Realization hit him like that punch from earlier.
“Are you Duxille Sirius?” Deen asked. “Brother of the Seventh Elite?”
“She hates when people call her that,” Duxille said. “Cifelle is the second Fifth Elite. If you count them like that…” He scratched his head. “Well, frankly, it’s going to get pretty ridiculous in a few decades.”
Deen grinded his teeth at the idea of Terra Daeva lasting a few decades. It wasn’t even one decade old.
“Anyway.” Duxille waved an arm at a few of the soldiers. “These fellows will keep you company for a while,” he said. “You’re off the hook for now. Busy times. Understand? I’m sorry about this.”
Deen’s head sank. Thoughts were coming so slowly. The reality of his predicament had begun to set in. He had promised Lyla he would return. How long would it take, in this situation? Would he ever?
The soldiers were coming toward him now. Perhaps he ought to bend down, grab the spear and…
“You cannot have him.”
That smooth voice rang loud and true.
Duxille balked. The soldiers went eerily still. As Deen turned, all thought failed him, and words froze on his tongue. He had come. The one who would save him, save them all.
“Captain Daniels is one of the finest men I have ever known. A priceless treasure that cannot be shared with others. Save for his loved ones, of course. I claimed him long ago.”
General Vander Wolf looked as though he were a painting of himself come to life. Balding with a thick trimmed beard around his chin, he bore a gaunt face with sunken eyes and a moody expression that betrayed his charismatic voice. He was tall and sharply dressed, a bony man wrapped in an immaculate spiralsilk uniform of silver on black with a minimalist stitching of the Buteo Flock on the left breast. A glossy black sheath reflecting the moonlight hung from his belt, daring any who wish to strike at the man who successfully betrayed Emperor Munitio during the eleventh hour of the war and lived to tell the tale.
Others walked with him. So many, nearly as many as were accompanying Duxille. Most of them were dressed as cargo workers. Had they changed sides, or were they the general’s to begin with?
Alexis and Aisha stood closest to him, the former Deen knew was surely the best bodyguard a man could ever ask for.
“He is mine, and therefore you cannot have him, Sirius boy.”
“Protect Lord Duxille!” one of the soldiers called. The semicircle tightened around their so-called lord. More quietly, he added, “Fight to the last. Do not falter.”
“I’ll be clipped,” Duxille said, acting oblivious to his subordinates scurrying around. He whistled. “The famous Vander Wolf. Can’t say I’m surprised. You are the type to fight your own battles, I’ve been told.”
“Always,” Vander Wolf said, smiling.
“He does know he looks creepy when he does that, right?” Duxille said quietly. Louder, he asked, “What is it you want, General Wolf?”
“A cigar and a drink,” he said. He laughed mirthlessly. “And no war.”
Deen’s breath caught.
“I can do two of those,” Duxille said. He shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, general. Truly. Amon wants this war. My sister would say the same thing.”
“That’s the thing with autocracies,” Wolf said wryly. “What do you say we call a truce, just for tonight?”
“Just for tonight…” Duxille said. “I can agree to that. I’m sure we both have tricks up our sleeves. There is no sense in pointless bloodshed.”
“Indeed.”
“You cannot have the flutes. You realize this.”
“Of course. But you will turn over Captain Daniels.”
“Of course,” Duxille said. He waved his arm, and the soldiers backed away from Deen. He sighed in relief, and felt the knots in his stomach start to loosen. Duxille motioned to him, beckoning him over. “And the boy, as well. I did not catch his name.”
“I’m not really sure if he’d like that…” Wolf said uncertainly. “That boy is not one of ours. He is here through unusual circumstances.”
“Huh? I see…”
Deen trudged over to the bus and cradled Luke in his arms. He thought the boy was asleep, but he was forced to endure a flat, annoyed stare as he raised him up. Flocks, he looked as exhausted as Deen felt.
Multiple sets of eyes were on him, ensuring he did not steal any of the thunderflutes. They were odd-looking metal contraptions. And so tiny. These little things would replace the bow and arrow?
He made his way over to Duxille unsteadily and bowed his head. The Elite’s brother responded in kind, bowing his head in a sign of mutual respect. They were not friends, far from it. But they had reached an understanding.
“My name is Luke Nixus.”
“Ah,” Duxille said. “Thank you. Luke. I see. You’re pretty gutsy, kid. Sorry about the punch.”
“It’s fine,” Luke said. “Can I ask you a question, Dux?”
“Go ahead.” He laughed softly. “You earned it, for being the only person around here who bothers to use my nickname.”
“Which Elites have blue eyes?”
Deen looked down at him, and found himself staring at Luke’s red eyes. He had noticed them a while ago, but opted not to comment.
Wait. The question was about blue eyes? He was too confused and exhausted to even bother trying to figure out what this was all about. He just hoped it wouldn’t get them attacked.
“Besides my sister, you mean?” Duxille asked. “Let me think… I know Gor doesn’t, Altair doesn’t. My sister’s predecessor doesn’t… Hmm… Vega does, I know that. I’ve never seen Rigel’s face, though. Yeah. Just Vega and my sister. Maybe Rigel. They don’t mingle much, you see. And some of them have been living quite privately. So not even a guy like me knows them all. Why do you ask?”
“It… was just a passing interest. Thank you,” Luke said and closed his eyes. It was subtle, but Deen could feel him shaking slightly.
“Er…” Dux scratched his head. “Yes, of course. No problem.” He hesitated. “Take care of yourself, Luke.”
“Take care.”
Aisha and Alexis approached them midway. Deen handed Luke over to Aisha, and Alexis pulled his arm around her to support him.
True to the word of their respective leaders, the fighting in Filose ended there. Deen and the newly-expanded group left for Ulciscor without pursuit inside several automobiles. How had Wolf done it?
Tired to his bones, Deen passed out on the ride back.
———
Cyrus wept when Korsak died.
The tears came unbidden as he watched. He did watch. He would not look away. Not from this. Never from this. He was in the presence of the greatest man Asundria would never know.
What must have been a dozen arrows staked the Pruinan lieutenant all along his torso. When the polearm had slipped from his fingers, he had battled the assassin with his bare hands, wrestling with the longsword. He had lost both of those hands, discarded on the gory floor.
In that condition, he had still battled the assassin. He fought to his very last breath, when he gasped and slipped on his own blood, crashing to the ground, passing on to the Flocks Above.
Cyrus would have saluted the man if he still had the strength to move. He felt lightheaded. He had lost a lot of his own blood…
The young blond-haired assassin panted heavily, utterly exhausted. He buried his longsword in the dirt and leaned on it for support. He kept those eyes, the emperor’s own blood-red eyes, trained on Cyrus.
Like a switch, the child-faced killer changed. His face smoothed, breath quieted. It was as if the Pines themselves fell still. How he regretted ever calling Luke a boy with the emperor’s eyes. The color was the same, but the depth was so very wrong for a face so young. Those eyes were so cold, distant. They measured his soul. The assassin lifted his blade and flicked it to the side, spraying droplets in an arc across dry grass glistening in the lantern light.
“Speak your last words,” the assassin said. He raised his blade in a sign of respect. “For his valiance, I will hear them.”
Tears still streamed down his face. He knew he was going to die. He had accepted that. But he wept. He wept not for himself, not even for Fauke or the people of Castitas he loved so dearly, but for the loss of this man, the man he did not know. The man named Korsak. It was a profound sadness. Maybe Cyrus was delirious. He could not bring himself to stop his tears. What kind of incredible person could Korsak have been in life had he not been here, in this place, on this night?
“His name was Korsak.” He felt empty as he said it. It was difficult to think. There was a fog clouding his head, and deep sadness. “Korsak.”
The assassin said nothing, watching him.
“You look so alike…” he said. He could barely see. The world blurred. But he remembered the faces, and it overwhelmed his thoughts. The words came slowly. “Your face… so similar… maybe… the same…”
The assassin frowned slightly.
“Same eyes… Same face… as Luke…”
The assassin’s face twisted with horror.
The world blackened and vanished.
———
Everything hurt.
Luke awoke in darkness. He was barely aware of a faint magenta light flowing through his body. The light did not illuminate the automobile, but the bumping from below and the sounds of the engine and the rushing wind outside told him that that was where he was.
He was parallel to the floor, sprawled out over two sets of knees. An older woman met his eyes. She wore her steel-gray hair in a bun, with thick wavy strands hanging down the sides to frame her mature face. She wore the uniform of a cargo worker, like the Daevan soldiers had.
“What, Yulania?” Wolf said, voice close. Next to the woman.
The three of them were in the back seats. In front, someone was driving. Aisha, he thought. Captain Daniels was asleep slumped with his head against the window in the other front seat.
“I told you he was awake,” the woman said. She sounded like a stern grandmother lecturing a child, not at all someone speaking to another fully grown adult. “I swear. I could teach you anything but proper manners.”
Wolf chuckled quietly, and she glared daggers at him. His eyes went wide and he stopped chuckling.
“Luke,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’re almost back. We’ll get your wounds treated immediately. We did what we could with first aid, but you’ve broken some bones. You’ll be out of commission for a few months.”
“A few months…” he rasped. Pain spiked in his chest when he talked.
“I’m sorry, truly. I’ll explain everything when I have time. The war is coming. Please forgive me.”
His mind was hazy. War was coming to Asundria. And he would be bedridden. He found that frustrating. He had to prove himself, to join the Mirastelle army and earn their trust. The blue-eyed man, the one who said he had become an Elite, cackled at him in his dreams.
He hated him. He hated that black-coated man with every fiber of his being. So he would do it. He would change everything.
Arm unsteady, Luke reached into his cloak pocket. They gasped in unison as he pulled out the thunderflute he had stolen. It slipped out of his weakened grip and clattered to the floor.
———
Typhos shook the boy’s shoulders, but still he did not stir. Too much blood lost. Bane-cursed child!
“How do you know that name!” he hissed.
A bush rustled. He smoothed his face immediately.
Niya Samatkaeb stepped into view. Her shirt was bloodied at the shoulder. Her hand clutched a bloodsoaked strip of cloth tied around the wound.
“My Ace,” she said, bowing her head quickly. “If there is a fourth member of their group, they are even more skilled than you.”
“There was one more skilled than me,” Typhos said coldly, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the blood off his tachi and sheathed it. “I ran him through with Hagetaka only because of your arrows. I am not invincible.”
“Of course, my Ace.”
The Ahraran woman acknowledged that far too quickly. He would have to keep an eye on her. Perhaps that incident with her twin brother still weighed on her mind.
His training demanded distrust of fellow members of Cathartes. He had been tested many times in the past with loyal-seeming fellows who made attempts on Levian Vega’s life. Only after murdering them did he learn they were loyal. They were tasked to make those attacks, all so Typhos could prove his own loyalty by killing them. They had offered up their lives to further his development.
That wasn’t always the case, though. Mostly, those of Cathartes he killed were simple gutless traitors.
“Return, Niya. Send your replacement to your post and report back. Then you may seek aid for your wound.”
“Yes, my Ace,” she said, bowing deeply. She hesitated. “What of this one? He yet lives.”
He reached down and opened a wide pouch strapped around his thigh. It was filled with medical supplies.
“Do not concern yourself. I have plans for this one,” Typhos said. He added an edge to his voice. “Return.”
Niya left without another word, slinking into the shadows.
Typhos unrolled a bandage as he appraised the ginger-haired boy. He had been distracted, but now he finally noticed. He had memorized this person recently. He was from the village they were occupying. The mayor’s son. Cyrus Alder, he believed the name was.
He glanced over at the head rolled onto its side. That must have been Captain Fauke of the Ulciscor Guard. Important assets lost for Mirastelle, then. There would be a response to this. There was bloodshed yet to come before Rigel’s Highlight plan, just under three weeks away.
He turned back to the Alder boy. His teachings and his thoughts were in dire conflict. What was he supposed to do in this situation?
“It’s just like you to cause me problems at a time like this,” Typhos whispered. “Luke.”