Perhaps it was because he knew he couldn’t wander by himself forever, or maybe it was his awareness that he would need help eventually. He was hurt, bleeding, covering in valleys of pain from that fight with the highwayman captain. So he went to them for help. They did some rudimentary care on him. They pulled his flesh together and closed his wounds to the best of their ability. Then they dragged him in a cage to one of their towns.

The car wobbled as Jorge stepped out onto the ground. Cool stones wet his soles. The air smelled foul, an olfactory cacophony of animal, human, and machine exhaust. One of them, the uniformed ones that looked like someone cosplaying a commando from an edgy action movie, yanked on his chains to come with them. He glared at him, his thick eyebrows like a canopy darkening his eyes into deep pits. Their footing stumbled, and their attitude became more amiable then. One among them didn’t seem intimidated. That man was dressed similarly. Almost indistinguishably in fact, a common tactic to hide rank. A leader of a sort, whatever passed for a leader in this world.

Jorge followed them to a place with many holding cells. The look on their faces when they saw him enter the doorway, a veritable giant in their midst. He thought the nervousness came from the axe in his hand. The leader spoke to a robed man. Already Jorge could tell something was off about him. Then the robed man raised a hand, twiddled his fingers, and searing ropes of pain brought Jorge to his knees. They pried his weapon from his loosened grip and threw him in a cell. It took three of them to lift him.

He woke up and the rest was history. He pulled his hands away from each other, breaking the chain links.

Jorge hollered, raised his right leg and kicked the bars. Sparks flew, not from the metal, but from his foot hitting an invisible layer of energy permeating the bars, apparent only when struck. So he struck again, harder. Trails of dust fell from the ceiling. He kicked again. The bars bent. Brick shattered. The barrier stayed intact, but not the building. The weakest link analogy never felt so appropriate. He stormed out, an annoyed grimace on his face. Two guards rushed to the noise and took a stance upon seeing him. They seemed to have trouble deciding what stance though, shaking and looking at each uncertainly. Jorge simply walked through them, the natural swing of his arms throwing them against the wall.

That robed man came out of a room, saw him, and raised a hand. But Jorge was ready for his voodoo nonsense. The pain was just as great as before. Jorge gritted his teeth and hissed, but he was not paralyzed. He closed the distance before the opponent could prepare another hand taser thing and swung the back of his hand across the man’s face. He heard something break. He didn’t care. The man fell onto the floor, still, but breathing.

As he explored the station, throwing aside any guards that investigated the noise, he passed by a window. There was a warehouse below. Two confused guards looked up at him. Jorge walked through the wall and jumped down onto the grass. A shower of brick and glass followed him.

The guards yelled in the uncanny valley language of theirs and charged at him with their spears. The metal bent as the tip collided with his skin. Jorge slapped the spears out of their hands. The shafts splintered into a hundred pieces. The men backed off then, allowing him access to the warehouse. The double slide doors were held together by a lock and chain. Jorge walked through the wood, breaking the metal lock with the momentum of his body.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

There were rows and rows of trinkets organized in bins, no doubt confiscated from criminals. Jorge had done nothing wrong. In fact, he reckoned he had helped their caravan by occupying some of the bandits. He saw his axe leaning against a wall. It must have been too heavy to lift onto a shelf. Now that it was in his sight, he calmed down and felt a little bad. Jorge was sure he didn’t kill any of them. That voodoo man was going to need to set his jaw right though. He picked up his axe and used the edge to cut the shackles on his wrists. When he exited the warehouse he came face to face with what must have been fifty soldiers. A dozen light footed individuals on the station’s rooftops stared at him from behind fletching, pulling nock against their cheeks. A row of soldiers with shields stood with their knees bent. They were waiting for him to make a move. Jorge let the wedge of his axe fell to the ground. The thud made them flinch. He leaned on the pommel and relaxed. Then he stared at them, utterly silent.

--

Lisŗa split off to join her team while June wormed her way to the front of the chaos. Even pedestrians surrounding the Scoutrunner headquarters had heard the noise and crowded to investigate. A dozen ‘excuse me’s later she made it into the station. She followed the apparent trail of destruction to the back of the building, where she found the stand-off between soldier and a very unmoved individual. She heard Yavi speak to their resident mage, who look half enraged and half frightened. The man’s jaw had been broken.

She forced her way to them, bumping many a pauldron along the way.

“Allow me,” she said. She recited a Rite into the swollen bulge in the mage’s cheek. Bone set to bone, and the swelling slowly subsided.

“Ms. Jerylieu,” Yavi acknowledged.

“What are you doing?”

“Figuring out how to stop this barbarian.”

“He looks stopped to me.”

“He nearly killed Metis over here.”

“Only because you did all this to him!” June took a breath. “Look, he clearly doesn’t speak our language and he doesn’t belong in our cities. Maybe we should just let him go back to his home?”

“Not a chance. Look at him. He doesn’t look anything like the natives of Heldrazi. And he was there when we were attacked. We know nothing about his involvement, lack thereof or not.”

“Then we ought to teach him how to speak. What’s pointing your sticks at him going to do?”

“Are you going to teach him?” Yavi scoffed. “The caravan is set to return to be assigned to a new owner soon. We are to accompany it according to an order by messenger paper. You have three days.”

June retrieved her own paper from her robe pocket. There on the page was a freshly signed command from the Order. ‘Continue accompanying them for now.’ She looked up, distressed.

“Where are we going?”

“To Lord Horatio’s city of operation, where the caravan was distributed.”

June shuddered. An uncomfortable name brought bumps to her skin. Ralagast.

“Three days,” she said. “I’ll teach the man to speak Nephila in three days.”

“You’ll certainly try.” Yavi called for the men to stand down. “If he fails to answer our questions in a satisfactory manner in three days, protocol will have him to be shipped to the military city of Entrigon to be interrogated properly for involvement in interference of economic function.”

The mage named Metis flexed his jaw, and spoke, his voice heavy and low, “And I won’t be using a stunning Spell to convince him to go.”