Scars Part 14
“Thank god that’s over,” Sid breathed in exasperation, pressing a calloused thumb and forefinger to his temple. “I’ve never witnessed such a boring dialogue in my life! What’s so damn interesting about rocks and holes that you can carry a discussion for two hours straight?”
“The Cores are a powerful group. We won’t win by charging them head-on. Mastering the topography of the area is essential to keeping the element of surprise.”
“And then you expect us to magically gain the advantage because they’re startled?” Sid waved his hand sarcastically.
“The safehouse they’re working from is windowless on two sides. With the correct approach, we’ll enter the building with minimal resistance. We’ll be able to take them on in small groups, while a detachment covers the exits.”
Sid raised his eyebrows. “Hoh? It seems you did your homework on this place. But what if the head isn’t with the body? Killing a bunch of lackeys won’t do us any good,” he said testingly.
“They’re there. All of them.” Soran’s voice was patient, cold and still like a pool frozen beneath ice.
“If they’d known you were this good at collecting information, you’d never have seen battle,” Sid smirked in amazement.
The comment won no amusement from Soran, whose eyes flashed to him sternly.
“Yeah, I suppose you don’t want me mentioning that stuff, do you?” Sid wondered at the elf’s ever-distant manner.
Soran made no reaction, gesturing for Sid to bear right as they came to the alley where his apartment was. Sid almost walked into the dull gray wall lining the mouth of the alley; it was dark as pitch in the unlit streets. “What do you think of the men?” Soran asked calmly, changing the subject.
“Groan’s got an attitude, but he’s a prize axeman. The Cores have been scouting him for months.”
“Does that present a conflict of interest?” Soran asked.
“Doubt it. He lost his brother to the Cores’ last raid. Hates ‘em with a passion.”
“And the others?”
“Canis was tough to track down; seems he retired from mercenary work a year ago to lay back. He’s only thirty; still in his prime. My guess is he got bored. Afflicted with an intelligence, like yourself. It was a challenge getting him to even show up without challenging him to cards, but apparently you did something to spark his interest. Oof!” Sid cursed under his breath as he walked straight into a wash basin that was left at the side of the alley, tumbling forward only to have Soran’s firm arm catch him by the shoulder and set him steady again. “Thanks. Damn streets,” he grumbled humorously, even as he almost made the same mistake again with a wheelbarrow standing beside the basin.
Regaining his composure, he went on. “Vex has a reputation for acting brashly, but I was directed to him by several locals who claimed he couldn’t be matched in throwing. Still just a kid, really. Those are the pros; the others have some skills, but little or no experience. Some needed the gold, and most got personal scores to settle with the Cores. Doubt they’ll stick around after this is done.”
Soran looked over at him questioningly.
“Don’t act like you haven’t got plans for after. You aren’t doing this for fun, and you sure as hell aren’t doing it for the money,” Sid prodded.
“You’ve heard of the private militias that form up and rent out their services in civilian conflicts?” Soran said thoughtfully.
“The Rogue Tribes. Yeah, heard a bit about them in rumors at the base. Seems they’re in demand, with the food shortage driving folks to desperate measures.”
“We’re going to become one.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Sid grinned, anticipation sparking in his eyes as he paused to let Soran unlock the door of his apartment. The lock clicked and Soran opened the door, following after Sid into the dark apartment. A soft scratch sounded, and then a small flame stretched its light over Soran’s hand and up into his face. Soon, several candles were burning and Sid was finally able to see who he was talking to. “So, what do you plan to fight with on this little outing?” he asked, looking around the room with his hands casually shoved into his back pockets. “I don’t see any weapons lying around.”
“I have my knife, if I need it,” Soran responded.
Sid twitched. “I thought so,” he said, clicking his teeth. “I figured it would be like this, so I picked you up something.”
“What?” Soran asked warily as he took a seat on the floor, one leg folded in front of him and the other knee pulled to his chest.
“Don’t give me that stubborn look; if you don’t want ‘em, I sure as hell can’t use ‘em, and there’s no way to return ‘em, now’t they’re made,” Sid reproached, setting down the large rawhide pack he’d been carrying since the meeting and kneeling to dig through it. From it he lifted an oddly shaped parcel wrapped in heavy undyed canvas and tied with two steel wires. He untwisted the wires and pulled them back. The distinctive sound of steel shifting heavily against steal came from the package as Sid unrolled the canvas, until its contents sat unveiled.
Soran blinked at the twin objects sitting in front of him, confused, and then his eyes spread wide in recognition. Two flawless steel blades, similar in curvature and shape to scimitars but with a lengthier point and a shallower arch, sat before him. Steel supports extended from the inner curve of each blade, attaching them to thick, black bracers of hard-baked leather.
“These…” Soran began and fell off, shocked.
Sid smirked at the ex-soldier’s reaction. “After you disappeared, there was an order to search and toss the whole contents of your apartment. They left it all sitting in a dumpster outside the building to wait for the groundsmen to haul it off, so I did a little rummaging and got this out,” he said, pulling out a badly creased sheet of paper and holding it up. “I figured if you were still alive, you’d be missing the little doodle of your armblades.”
“If someone caught you looking for this, you’d have been incarcerated. Who did you convince to make these?” Soran said, his voice cold and disapproving because he wasn’t sure what else to make it.
“Fellow the next town over custom-makes weapons. Cut me a deal because he said it was the most interesting piece he’d worked on in years. Took him a week nonstop to make ‘em. He kept sayin’ they’d be near-impossible to use correctly,” Sid chuckled. “Come on, I didn’t bring them for you to stare at. I know you want to play with them.”
Solemnly, Soran picked up one of the blades, cool and heavy in his hands. He turned it and inspected the blade. It was flat, perfect. Every minute detail he and Sid had discussed was worked accurately into the weapons. “These are well made. And not cheaply,” Soran observed, looking back at Sid seriously. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Cause I wanted to, idiot,” Sid grinned, clearly pleased with himself.
“That’s not-“
”If I want to do it, I want to do it, you tightwad. Just use them.”
In response, Soran set his forearm into the bracer and pulled the three binding straps as tight as they’d go without cutting off circulation. The bracer molded perfectly to his wrist and muscle. The blade stretched along the outer side of his arm, its fanglike point arching outward to several inches past his elbow. He fastened the other blade, and stood up. Focusing, he crouched into a fighting stance and threw several swipes and punches, adjusting to the unfamiliar weight on the sides of his arms. The movements were nearly identical to his backhanded scimitar technique, except that he couldn’t make the slight adjustments to the blade’s angle with his arm. In return, however, his hands were free for punches and grabs. He made his way through an advanced scimitar form he’d modified that mixed blade and hand/leg techniques, his movements gradually picking up speed as he proceeded until the blades appeared to blur in the air.
Sid watched the elf in wonder, following his movements as best he could. Watching him in action was like watching a dancer that moved with an impossible, fluid precision that was no longer part of the music, but above it. When Soran finally stopped and turned to him, he had to remind himself to blink. “Well, I’ll take that to mean you like them. No one can move like that with a weapon he doesn’t respect,” he said.
“The balance is excellent,” Soran reflected. “It will take some time to get used to them.”
“Used to them?” Sid chuckled. If what he’d just seen wasn’t considered mastery to the elf, he wondered what was.
“If I strike with these at an imperfect angle, the torque will throw the whole attack off its center of balance,” Soran explained calmly as he unbuckled the bracers and set the weapons back on the ground.
“Didn’t I tell ya to stop talking physics at me?” Sid complained, rubbing the side of his head. “Anyway, there’s still a few hours before midnight. Maybe you should catch some sleep.”
Soran looked at him sharply.
“You didn’t sleep last night, right?”
His expression sobered coldly. “Mind your own.” He went to the wall and sat against it, arms draped over his knees. He leaned his head back against the wall, but did not sleep.
Sid frowned. The former soldier was serious about not trusting him. “What really happened the last six months? Why did Rone help me ditch?” he asked seriously.
Soran’s hardened eyes half-opened, staring at a crack in the wall near the ceiling on the other side of the room. Finally, Sid let out a frustrated sigh and lay back on the floor, arms casually propped behind his head. The two men sat in silence, awake, until midnight summoned them to their task.
oOoOoOoOo
TBC
Scars (Soran's Past)
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Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Scars Part 15
The Boar’s Inn tavern was alive with the sounds of drink and high spirits as the group celebrated the night’s events. Not only had they won, but the entire group had returned alive. There was hardly a man in the room who wasn’t bandaged up somewhere, but the outcome still stood, like a salve numbing their wounded flesh: the Cores were defeated. The men gloated, cheered, and recounted over the details of the evening’s mission while the barkeep eavesdropped sleepily.
The tavern normally closed at three, Canis had put up some gold for it to be kept open, insisting that it would be no fun to postpone the celebration till daybreak. The barkeep had half expected that there would be no live men remaining to come take advantage of Canis’s advanced payment, but sure enough, just past four in the morning, they’d not only come, but burst into the establishment in a frenzy of victorious excitement.
They had already been back for several hours, and it seemed like the party was only just getting started. Even Groan, who had been the most pessimistic during the trip out, now seemed to be in even higher spirits than the others, and was currently in the process of pushing a third mug of ale on Vex. Though he had performed beautifully with his sniping during the raid, the group hadd discovered, to their infinite mirth, that Vex had the alcohol tolerance of a small rodent.
“Have a drink, Soran,” Vex lisped, wandering to where Soran was sitting.
“Got one,” the elf replied, almost in amusement as he raised up the glass of whiskey he’d been working at.
“We bea ‘em Cores, an’ese not even drinking,” protested Vex, at the peak of his intoxicated giddiness.
“There there hot shot, leave the boss alone,” Canis smirked, hauling him back to a chair and settling him down.
Sid watched Soran approvingly from where he was chumming with some men at the bar. The elf hadn’t worn much facial expression all night, but the mission had gone well because of his lead, and they all knew it. The only person who didn’t appear to be overwhelmed with excitement was Soran himself, but at least his guarded eyes seemed more alert.
After a few more minutes, Soran finished his drink and stood up.
“Leaving already? Ye ain’t even boozed up yet,” criticized Groan. A level of respect now padded the roughness of his speech.
“Maybe elves get tired quicker,” joked one man whom Soran had had to lunge in front of when he loaded his crossbow incorrectly in the middle of the fight. No one laughed.
“Tonight’s work was good,” Soran intercepted, bringing the men’s scrutinizing attention off of the greenhorn. “Those of you who are prepared to do better, I’ll see you back here tonight.”
The raucous chorus of renewed celebration followed his back as he left the tavern and walked down the sleeping streets. The mission had gone exactly as planned, and he was satisfied with it. These men were colleagues, maybe even companions, and several were talented fighters, but none of them friends. He reflected calmly that he didn’t understand that concept, and certainly didn’t believe in it. He would ally himself with several of those people, and even have a sense of protectiveness over them, but he would not really trust them, and he preferred it that way.
oOoOoOoOoOo
“Aw, he really left,” Sid commented idly as Soran exited the bar. He thought for sure the elf would have loosened up a bit by now.
“But woo, those things on his arms are scary,” one of the men chimed in.
“It’s him that’s scary, not the weapons,” another man asserted in an almost-gloating tone, “He did more’n half the work out there.”
“Indeed,” Canis grinned as he held out his glass for a refill. “I knew he had some kinda trick up his sleeve, but I didn’t think it was himself.”
“Keep yer pants on. He wasn’t that great. We coulda taken them alone, if need be,” Groan scolded, his tone not convincing himself, let alone the others.
“The maneuvers he directed to us were perfect. Where did he get those skills?” pondered Canis.
“I heard his name means something in Elven. ‘Cursed Star’ or some nonsense,” someone put forth.
“Hff. Must think quite a bit of ‘imself, prancing around wi’ a label like that,” Groan speculated.
“Who knows, but a’ll be ‘ere tonight. Cheers!” Vex cheered, raising his mug.
“If you aren’t too hung over to walk,” commented Canis, shaking his head with a smile while Groan humphed his disapproval, The normally testy young fighter was going to loathe hearing about his drunken antics when he sobered up.
And the night’s festivities went on.
oOoOoOoOoOo
The light from the candle held in her delicate hand convulsed on the hallway walls as she made her silent way to the door, the steps of her fine leather shoes padding on the marble floor as faintly as she could manage. She finally reached the door, gripping the cold handle and turning it, ever so cautiously.
A loud brass clank sounded in the knob, reverberating through the hall like a ruler cracking across her wrists. Her slender form stiffened from head to toe, heart beating tensely in her ears. In her nervousness, she’d forgotten to undo the deadbolt. Her pale fingers hurried to the mechanism, sliding it to the side with another click that made her flinch. Her movements were now birdlike and nervous as she pulled the door open and jerked out onto the relative security of the verandah, closing it swiftly behind her. She stood there like a spooked mouse for several long moments, drawing slow, deep breaths.
No one appeared to discover her. Taking a final look around, she climbed down the three stone steps and ran off down the long, cobbled drive. She kept running until she was long off the property and had reached the more populated region of town, where the homes and establishments squeezed together in close gangs that rose two and three stories, blotting out the moonlight from the dusty streets below. She drew out a small piece of parchment, which she consulted briefly before replacing it. Walking stealthily now, she navigated her way through the crowd of dark buildings and darker streets, until she arrived at the specified place. It was not what she had pictured, but she had no basis for reference.
She took a deep, excited breath. Her hand moved slowly to the knob on the dilapidated wooden door and then opened it. In an outward display of confidence, she walked firmly inside, still clutching the candle. She stepped down a narrow hallway and looked around, and looked again. No one was there.
There was no light in the hall but the shuddering glow of her own candle, which lit her surroundings poorly, but she soon found herself at the mouth of a large common room. The dull shadows of chairs and a dilapidated sofa could be made out on one side of the room. A neglected kettle screamed as if in torment from atop a hot coal stove in the opposite corner. The room smelled of mold, and something else.
She turned and walked slowly toward the kettle. Something on the floor impeded her left foot, It was heavy and firm, but gave as she encountered it. Kneeling, she turned her handle on the object on the ground.
Too-still eyes surrounded by slick darkness met hers.
Gasping in muted horror, she lurched away and began stepping backwards, the ghastly eyes fading as the light retreated. Her heel came up against another object. Whirling around, she heard her shoe slide on something thick and moist. She dropped the candle.
“I heard something,” said a low male voice from an adjoining room.
“Who’s there? Stay put,” ordered a second voice, with a dark undertone that made her finally burst into a run. She stumbled on some sort of weapon, hearing metal kick across the floor, but just raced for the door, nearly colliding with the frame as she floundered in the darkness.
“He’s running.”
“Kill him,” the voice ordered. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Soran paused as a loud clink emerged from the alley coming up on his left. He continued walking slowly, not concerned, but far too rigorously trained to not be wary of an unidentified sound. The alley came gradually into view as he reached it. A large stray cat trotted out, hugging the building he was passing and darting off. Further down the alley, the glass jar it had just disturbed rolled out across the path and slightly back again, the earth’s small stones scratching from it the same glassy pitch he’d heard a moment ago.
Calling off the battle-ready muscles that had instinctively tensed, he continued walking, watching the cat’s silhouette as it slinked beneath a gate into a stable up the street. It must have wasted very little time in spooking the animals there, because an indignant grunt immediately punctuated its entry, followed by a long, shrill whinny. Soran felt his nerves go subconsciously rigid as the sound called up imagery of screeching animals locked in burning stalls, wheezing sulfur into the choked air while an inferno mutilated their wardens on the all-too-familiar streets outside. The unwelcome memories tested his mind, like a jackal that bats at its prey to size up its teeth. Soran defeated the mental ambush as quickly as it had come, locking the intruding thoughts on the other side of a frozen barrier of rationality.
A heavy form collided full-force into his side, knocking the elf several steps leftward before he caught his footing and shot back at the offender, armblades flying up for a deadly strike.
If he had not, at that moment, heard a near-imperceptible gasp of shock and noticed the would-be attacker shudder back with arms hunched defensively in front of a pale face, his strike would have certainly taken her head off. Instead, the blade stopped within an inch of the throat and pressed forward, backing the person up into the dull brick wall of the stonemason’s shop beside them. “What do you want,” the elf demanded passionlessly as the person’s eyes widened in fear.
“A-accident,” was all the terrified, distinctly feminine voice could choke out.
“I don’t believe in accidents,” Soran replied sternly, though he hadn’t expected the person to be a woman. After a major battle, in the middle of the night, there was no way he could overlook the suspiciousness of her presence.
“S-sorry…I’m sorry! Please put the wea…weapon down,” she gasped, voice shaking like a reed ravaged by a current. Blue eyes that shone navy in the darkness were glued to the arm that threatened to cut her neck.
Soran’s blade moved very slightly back away from the girl’s neck. Somehow, she seemed more terrified than he thought his actions justified. Her legs were shaking as if they’d been pushed to the point of exhaustion. She didn’t appear to be armed. How old was she? Her face was delicate and refined, with slightly low cheekbones that produced an impression of constant introspection and bold blue eyes. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.
The girl twisted her head slightly as if trying to get a look back down the alley she had come from. She turned back to him and finally noticed the features of the person she’d offended. Soran Nightblade, her brain performed the private recognition of the man she’d seen in the bar the evening before.
“It’s five in the morning,” Soran started saying before a pair of mens’ footsteps sounded from the next alley.
“She went this way,” ordered a voice as the sound began growing closer.
Soran’s eyes narrowed on the girl. “Explain.”
“Please don’t let them find me,” she implored him, desperate tears suddenly breaking her voice, “I can’t run anymore, my legs—”
For a dangerous moment, she was almost certain that the notorious man was going to slit her throat. His cold eyes looked down at her legs that were trembling with fear and exhaustion, and back at her. When he suddenly moved, she clenched shut her eyes and shuddered, fists clenched tensely at her sides. Instead of the pain she anticipated, however, she felt strong hands close over her shoulders and pull her sideways. A door opened with a faint creak behind her as one hand left her shoulder, and then she was shoved roughly backward into a very small storeroom. She let out a helpless squeak of shock as she stumbled into the unexpected space and the door closed again with a quiet click.
The room was absolutely dark, without even the moonlight to lend its faint aura. Reya breathed tensely, glancing around at emptiness. She was not even sure if he was there with her or not until she reached nervously forward and felt soft fabric with warm skin behind it. The man took a silent step back as she touched his chest. “Don’t move,” he whispered coldly.
Reya tugged her arm back to her chest and followed his order with burning cheeks. Several long, devastating seconds passed as they waited in silence for the sound of her pursuers’ footsteps to approach, shuffle around indecisively, and finally take off again down a different street.
“Explain,” Soran repeated himself when the men were gone.
“I don’t fully know!” Reya pleaded, voice still shaking. “I went to attend a meeting my father’s colleague told me about, and when I got there-…” She stopped, her breath uneven. “They were all dead. Someone had been there, and then I heard voices and started running.” She stared fearfully at the blackness where she thought Soran was standing.
“What was the meeting for?” the low voice demanded.
“I…it was something about…about the other world,” she said sheepishly. Everyone knew that all inquiries related to Arken's rival countries were illegal. It was known that they existed, and that they were the enemy. They had a horrible climate and lived in poverty, pathetically obsessed with a weak and impotent ruling monarchy, all because they were hopelessly stupid and knew nothing of their own self-preservation. Beyond this most basic of knowledge, discussion or investigation of the world outside Arken's borders was forbidden.
“What do you care about the other world?” Soran challenged grimly.
“…Well, I don’t really. I just…thought I could prove that I’m not some child anymore. They make me a model for the others in training, and act like I’ve never broken a rule before.” The indignant anxiety in her voice betrayed that in all likelihood, she really hadn’t. She looked firmly where she thought his eyes were. “All I do is study and practice, always a picture of obedience. I’m not some daddy’s girl. I can act on my own.” For the first time, the line of argument struck her as childish and pathetic as it fumbled from her mouth. She found herself staring at him palely, with no idea why she was telling all this to him.
“I see. So you’re just a spoiled brat looking to prove something by getting involved with pointless illegal nonsense.” The voice was colder than ever, deadly and calm. It made Reya want to melt into her ruined shoes.
“I’m not a spoiled brat,” Reya argued nervously as her pride kicked in, “I’m being trained to become one of the greatest sorcerers in ZaKorr. I spend a lot of time in training, almost all the time. I sacrifice everything for others’ expectations.” Her argument didn’t impress the elf, who pushed open the door behind him and began walking back out into the street.
“Hey, wait,” she exclaimed, suddenly not wanting him to leave where only a moment ago she’d have given anything to be out of that dark room. “The Queen’s men might still be after me. They must have known what was going on at the meeting. You might be in trouble too.”
“Shea could care less about you. If those were the Queen’s men, you’d have been dead within ten yards,” Soran said flatly, walking away. “Those men undoubtedly belong to a local power that doesn’t want the army to get in their hair when it shows up to crack down on your treasonous nonsense.” He stopped and looked back at her sternly. “You should be grateful that they killed them. If the army had stepped in, this entire town would be decimated.” He saw the pupils contract in the girl’s blind eyes as this reality struck her for the first time. “Opposing the rules isn’t the trivial sport you think it is,” he condemned, and walked away.
Reya stared at the elf’s back, dizzy with guilt and insecurity. Her ignited pride had sobered at his words, and she felt the strange urge to run after him. She, who was not used to displeasing anyone, always doing anything necessary to meet all standards set for her, felt greatly distressed by the elf’s low opinion of her. Unfortunately, he was right. But she wasn’t really like that! She needed to say something, to do something to bring a better end to this encounter, but she had no idea how to resolve the situation. First and foremost, she couldn’t let him disappear. She ran to catch up with him, praying that she’d think of something effective to say before she got there.
The next thing she knew, she felt a spasm run up her left leg, and her balance faltering. Now that her adrenaline was bleeding out of her body, her muscles had simply gone on strike for an instant. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send her flying face-first into the dusty street.
Soran turned his head slightly to glance back as he heard a thud behind him. The girl was on the ground, pushing sorely back to her hands and knees. He felt a pang of nervous irritation as he turned back toward her and extended his hand. She looked up at him hot-cheeked, and took his hand, coughing at the taste of dust in her mouth as she got up again. “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling very small. She noticed as she stood this close to him that there were dark stains on his clothing, and at once remembered that at the bar, they’d been talking about going on some kind of important mission tonight. Her aristocratic life was too sheltered for her to know what the Cores were, but people had seemed worked up over it.
“Are you okay?” she suddenly asked.
It was an extremely strange question coming from her at that moment. Soran squinted at her in mystification. “Yes,” he said with less venom than before. “They probably gave up looking for you, but you should go home.”
Reya felt a hundred attempts at conversation pass under her consideration, all curbed off by her instinctive, too-cheerful reply: “Right! Thanks.” She turned toward a street and started walking. “My name’s Reya,” she suddenly said, turning around with a faint, unexpectedly beautiful smile.
“Soran,” the elf said, disarmed again by her impulsiveness. He watched her with speculative eyes as she walked away, then proceeded to his own destination.
The Boar’s Inn tavern was alive with the sounds of drink and high spirits as the group celebrated the night’s events. Not only had they won, but the entire group had returned alive. There was hardly a man in the room who wasn’t bandaged up somewhere, but the outcome still stood, like a salve numbing their wounded flesh: the Cores were defeated. The men gloated, cheered, and recounted over the details of the evening’s mission while the barkeep eavesdropped sleepily.
The tavern normally closed at three, Canis had put up some gold for it to be kept open, insisting that it would be no fun to postpone the celebration till daybreak. The barkeep had half expected that there would be no live men remaining to come take advantage of Canis’s advanced payment, but sure enough, just past four in the morning, they’d not only come, but burst into the establishment in a frenzy of victorious excitement.
They had already been back for several hours, and it seemed like the party was only just getting started. Even Groan, who had been the most pessimistic during the trip out, now seemed to be in even higher spirits than the others, and was currently in the process of pushing a third mug of ale on Vex. Though he had performed beautifully with his sniping during the raid, the group hadd discovered, to their infinite mirth, that Vex had the alcohol tolerance of a small rodent.
“Have a drink, Soran,” Vex lisped, wandering to where Soran was sitting.
“Got one,” the elf replied, almost in amusement as he raised up the glass of whiskey he’d been working at.
“We bea ‘em Cores, an’ese not even drinking,” protested Vex, at the peak of his intoxicated giddiness.
“There there hot shot, leave the boss alone,” Canis smirked, hauling him back to a chair and settling him down.
Sid watched Soran approvingly from where he was chumming with some men at the bar. The elf hadn’t worn much facial expression all night, but the mission had gone well because of his lead, and they all knew it. The only person who didn’t appear to be overwhelmed with excitement was Soran himself, but at least his guarded eyes seemed more alert.
After a few more minutes, Soran finished his drink and stood up.
“Leaving already? Ye ain’t even boozed up yet,” criticized Groan. A level of respect now padded the roughness of his speech.
“Maybe elves get tired quicker,” joked one man whom Soran had had to lunge in front of when he loaded his crossbow incorrectly in the middle of the fight. No one laughed.
“Tonight’s work was good,” Soran intercepted, bringing the men’s scrutinizing attention off of the greenhorn. “Those of you who are prepared to do better, I’ll see you back here tonight.”
The raucous chorus of renewed celebration followed his back as he left the tavern and walked down the sleeping streets. The mission had gone exactly as planned, and he was satisfied with it. These men were colleagues, maybe even companions, and several were talented fighters, but none of them friends. He reflected calmly that he didn’t understand that concept, and certainly didn’t believe in it. He would ally himself with several of those people, and even have a sense of protectiveness over them, but he would not really trust them, and he preferred it that way.
oOoOoOoOoOo
“Aw, he really left,” Sid commented idly as Soran exited the bar. He thought for sure the elf would have loosened up a bit by now.
“But woo, those things on his arms are scary,” one of the men chimed in.
“It’s him that’s scary, not the weapons,” another man asserted in an almost-gloating tone, “He did more’n half the work out there.”
“Indeed,” Canis grinned as he held out his glass for a refill. “I knew he had some kinda trick up his sleeve, but I didn’t think it was himself.”
“Keep yer pants on. He wasn’t that great. We coulda taken them alone, if need be,” Groan scolded, his tone not convincing himself, let alone the others.
“The maneuvers he directed to us were perfect. Where did he get those skills?” pondered Canis.
“I heard his name means something in Elven. ‘Cursed Star’ or some nonsense,” someone put forth.
“Hff. Must think quite a bit of ‘imself, prancing around wi’ a label like that,” Groan speculated.
“Who knows, but a’ll be ‘ere tonight. Cheers!” Vex cheered, raising his mug.
“If you aren’t too hung over to walk,” commented Canis, shaking his head with a smile while Groan humphed his disapproval, The normally testy young fighter was going to loathe hearing about his drunken antics when he sobered up.
And the night’s festivities went on.
oOoOoOoOoOo
The light from the candle held in her delicate hand convulsed on the hallway walls as she made her silent way to the door, the steps of her fine leather shoes padding on the marble floor as faintly as she could manage. She finally reached the door, gripping the cold handle and turning it, ever so cautiously.
A loud brass clank sounded in the knob, reverberating through the hall like a ruler cracking across her wrists. Her slender form stiffened from head to toe, heart beating tensely in her ears. In her nervousness, she’d forgotten to undo the deadbolt. Her pale fingers hurried to the mechanism, sliding it to the side with another click that made her flinch. Her movements were now birdlike and nervous as she pulled the door open and jerked out onto the relative security of the verandah, closing it swiftly behind her. She stood there like a spooked mouse for several long moments, drawing slow, deep breaths.
No one appeared to discover her. Taking a final look around, she climbed down the three stone steps and ran off down the long, cobbled drive. She kept running until she was long off the property and had reached the more populated region of town, where the homes and establishments squeezed together in close gangs that rose two and three stories, blotting out the moonlight from the dusty streets below. She drew out a small piece of parchment, which she consulted briefly before replacing it. Walking stealthily now, she navigated her way through the crowd of dark buildings and darker streets, until she arrived at the specified place. It was not what she had pictured, but she had no basis for reference.
She took a deep, excited breath. Her hand moved slowly to the knob on the dilapidated wooden door and then opened it. In an outward display of confidence, she walked firmly inside, still clutching the candle. She stepped down a narrow hallway and looked around, and looked again. No one was there.
There was no light in the hall but the shuddering glow of her own candle, which lit her surroundings poorly, but she soon found herself at the mouth of a large common room. The dull shadows of chairs and a dilapidated sofa could be made out on one side of the room. A neglected kettle screamed as if in torment from atop a hot coal stove in the opposite corner. The room smelled of mold, and something else.
She turned and walked slowly toward the kettle. Something on the floor impeded her left foot, It was heavy and firm, but gave as she encountered it. Kneeling, she turned her handle on the object on the ground.
Too-still eyes surrounded by slick darkness met hers.
Gasping in muted horror, she lurched away and began stepping backwards, the ghastly eyes fading as the light retreated. Her heel came up against another object. Whirling around, she heard her shoe slide on something thick and moist. She dropped the candle.
“I heard something,” said a low male voice from an adjoining room.
“Who’s there? Stay put,” ordered a second voice, with a dark undertone that made her finally burst into a run. She stumbled on some sort of weapon, hearing metal kick across the floor, but just raced for the door, nearly colliding with the frame as she floundered in the darkness.
“He’s running.”
“Kill him,” the voice ordered. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Soran paused as a loud clink emerged from the alley coming up on his left. He continued walking slowly, not concerned, but far too rigorously trained to not be wary of an unidentified sound. The alley came gradually into view as he reached it. A large stray cat trotted out, hugging the building he was passing and darting off. Further down the alley, the glass jar it had just disturbed rolled out across the path and slightly back again, the earth’s small stones scratching from it the same glassy pitch he’d heard a moment ago.
Calling off the battle-ready muscles that had instinctively tensed, he continued walking, watching the cat’s silhouette as it slinked beneath a gate into a stable up the street. It must have wasted very little time in spooking the animals there, because an indignant grunt immediately punctuated its entry, followed by a long, shrill whinny. Soran felt his nerves go subconsciously rigid as the sound called up imagery of screeching animals locked in burning stalls, wheezing sulfur into the choked air while an inferno mutilated their wardens on the all-too-familiar streets outside. The unwelcome memories tested his mind, like a jackal that bats at its prey to size up its teeth. Soran defeated the mental ambush as quickly as it had come, locking the intruding thoughts on the other side of a frozen barrier of rationality.
A heavy form collided full-force into his side, knocking the elf several steps leftward before he caught his footing and shot back at the offender, armblades flying up for a deadly strike.
If he had not, at that moment, heard a near-imperceptible gasp of shock and noticed the would-be attacker shudder back with arms hunched defensively in front of a pale face, his strike would have certainly taken her head off. Instead, the blade stopped within an inch of the throat and pressed forward, backing the person up into the dull brick wall of the stonemason’s shop beside them. “What do you want,” the elf demanded passionlessly as the person’s eyes widened in fear.
“A-accident,” was all the terrified, distinctly feminine voice could choke out.
“I don’t believe in accidents,” Soran replied sternly, though he hadn’t expected the person to be a woman. After a major battle, in the middle of the night, there was no way he could overlook the suspiciousness of her presence.
“S-sorry…I’m sorry! Please put the wea…weapon down,” she gasped, voice shaking like a reed ravaged by a current. Blue eyes that shone navy in the darkness were glued to the arm that threatened to cut her neck.
Soran’s blade moved very slightly back away from the girl’s neck. Somehow, she seemed more terrified than he thought his actions justified. Her legs were shaking as if they’d been pushed to the point of exhaustion. She didn’t appear to be armed. How old was she? Her face was delicate and refined, with slightly low cheekbones that produced an impression of constant introspection and bold blue eyes. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.
The girl twisted her head slightly as if trying to get a look back down the alley she had come from. She turned back to him and finally noticed the features of the person she’d offended. Soran Nightblade, her brain performed the private recognition of the man she’d seen in the bar the evening before.
“It’s five in the morning,” Soran started saying before a pair of mens’ footsteps sounded from the next alley.
“She went this way,” ordered a voice as the sound began growing closer.
Soran’s eyes narrowed on the girl. “Explain.”
“Please don’t let them find me,” she implored him, desperate tears suddenly breaking her voice, “I can’t run anymore, my legs—”
For a dangerous moment, she was almost certain that the notorious man was going to slit her throat. His cold eyes looked down at her legs that were trembling with fear and exhaustion, and back at her. When he suddenly moved, she clenched shut her eyes and shuddered, fists clenched tensely at her sides. Instead of the pain she anticipated, however, she felt strong hands close over her shoulders and pull her sideways. A door opened with a faint creak behind her as one hand left her shoulder, and then she was shoved roughly backward into a very small storeroom. She let out a helpless squeak of shock as she stumbled into the unexpected space and the door closed again with a quiet click.
The room was absolutely dark, without even the moonlight to lend its faint aura. Reya breathed tensely, glancing around at emptiness. She was not even sure if he was there with her or not until she reached nervously forward and felt soft fabric with warm skin behind it. The man took a silent step back as she touched his chest. “Don’t move,” he whispered coldly.
Reya tugged her arm back to her chest and followed his order with burning cheeks. Several long, devastating seconds passed as they waited in silence for the sound of her pursuers’ footsteps to approach, shuffle around indecisively, and finally take off again down a different street.
“Explain,” Soran repeated himself when the men were gone.
“I don’t fully know!” Reya pleaded, voice still shaking. “I went to attend a meeting my father’s colleague told me about, and when I got there-…” She stopped, her breath uneven. “They were all dead. Someone had been there, and then I heard voices and started running.” She stared fearfully at the blackness where she thought Soran was standing.
“What was the meeting for?” the low voice demanded.
“I…it was something about…about the other world,” she said sheepishly. Everyone knew that all inquiries related to Arken's rival countries were illegal. It was known that they existed, and that they were the enemy. They had a horrible climate and lived in poverty, pathetically obsessed with a weak and impotent ruling monarchy, all because they were hopelessly stupid and knew nothing of their own self-preservation. Beyond this most basic of knowledge, discussion or investigation of the world outside Arken's borders was forbidden.
“What do you care about the other world?” Soran challenged grimly.
“…Well, I don’t really. I just…thought I could prove that I’m not some child anymore. They make me a model for the others in training, and act like I’ve never broken a rule before.” The indignant anxiety in her voice betrayed that in all likelihood, she really hadn’t. She looked firmly where she thought his eyes were. “All I do is study and practice, always a picture of obedience. I’m not some daddy’s girl. I can act on my own.” For the first time, the line of argument struck her as childish and pathetic as it fumbled from her mouth. She found herself staring at him palely, with no idea why she was telling all this to him.
“I see. So you’re just a spoiled brat looking to prove something by getting involved with pointless illegal nonsense.” The voice was colder than ever, deadly and calm. It made Reya want to melt into her ruined shoes.
“I’m not a spoiled brat,” Reya argued nervously as her pride kicked in, “I’m being trained to become one of the greatest sorcerers in ZaKorr. I spend a lot of time in training, almost all the time. I sacrifice everything for others’ expectations.” Her argument didn’t impress the elf, who pushed open the door behind him and began walking back out into the street.
“Hey, wait,” she exclaimed, suddenly not wanting him to leave where only a moment ago she’d have given anything to be out of that dark room. “The Queen’s men might still be after me. They must have known what was going on at the meeting. You might be in trouble too.”
“Shea could care less about you. If those were the Queen’s men, you’d have been dead within ten yards,” Soran said flatly, walking away. “Those men undoubtedly belong to a local power that doesn’t want the army to get in their hair when it shows up to crack down on your treasonous nonsense.” He stopped and looked back at her sternly. “You should be grateful that they killed them. If the army had stepped in, this entire town would be decimated.” He saw the pupils contract in the girl’s blind eyes as this reality struck her for the first time. “Opposing the rules isn’t the trivial sport you think it is,” he condemned, and walked away.
Reya stared at the elf’s back, dizzy with guilt and insecurity. Her ignited pride had sobered at his words, and she felt the strange urge to run after him. She, who was not used to displeasing anyone, always doing anything necessary to meet all standards set for her, felt greatly distressed by the elf’s low opinion of her. Unfortunately, he was right. But she wasn’t really like that! She needed to say something, to do something to bring a better end to this encounter, but she had no idea how to resolve the situation. First and foremost, she couldn’t let him disappear. She ran to catch up with him, praying that she’d think of something effective to say before she got there.
The next thing she knew, she felt a spasm run up her left leg, and her balance faltering. Now that her adrenaline was bleeding out of her body, her muscles had simply gone on strike for an instant. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send her flying face-first into the dusty street.
Soran turned his head slightly to glance back as he heard a thud behind him. The girl was on the ground, pushing sorely back to her hands and knees. He felt a pang of nervous irritation as he turned back toward her and extended his hand. She looked up at him hot-cheeked, and took his hand, coughing at the taste of dust in her mouth as she got up again. “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling very small. She noticed as she stood this close to him that there were dark stains on his clothing, and at once remembered that at the bar, they’d been talking about going on some kind of important mission tonight. Her aristocratic life was too sheltered for her to know what the Cores were, but people had seemed worked up over it.
“Are you okay?” she suddenly asked.
It was an extremely strange question coming from her at that moment. Soran squinted at her in mystification. “Yes,” he said with less venom than before. “They probably gave up looking for you, but you should go home.”
Reya felt a hundred attempts at conversation pass under her consideration, all curbed off by her instinctive, too-cheerful reply: “Right! Thanks.” She turned toward a street and started walking. “My name’s Reya,” she suddenly said, turning around with a faint, unexpectedly beautiful smile.
“Soran,” the elf said, disarmed again by her impulsiveness. He watched her with speculative eyes as she walked away, then proceeded to his own destination.
-
Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Scars Part 16
It was nearly dawn when Sid opened the door to Soran’s apartment and waltzed in. He looked around to find the elf sleeping on his side under his blanket against the left wall of the room. At least, he had been sleeping. His green eyes were now opened, keenly studying the man who’d just entered his room.
“What are you doing?” Rhen demanded quietly, the sleep dropping out of his voice.
“I’m goin to sleep. Your little mission tired me out,” Sid said, a very slight slur in his voice.
“I told you to find a place,” Soran frowned, not bothering to argue that it was not the mission, but the party afterward that probably expelled the most of Sid’s energy that night.
“But I didn’t, so I’m crashing here. Besides, there’s no reason for one person to live in this ballroom alone,” he prescribed casually as he strolled in.
Soran watched disapprovingly as Sid pulled a towel out of his pack and headed imperturbably to use his shower. A few moments later he heard a string of shocked profanities followed by “Holy hell, it’s freezing!”
“There’s no hot water,” Soran called back in frustration, pressing his fingers into his eyes.
“Fucking cold!” Sid reasserted. After a few minutes he reemerged from the washroom nude with the towel on his shoulders, rubbing at his cold arms. He pulled on clothes from his bag and looked back at the elf. Soran had rolled over to face the wall. “How the heck do you stand that ice pond every day,” he remarked, toweling off his head. “Hey. You’re awake, right?” he prodded when the elf didn’t respond.
“What are you doing here,” Soran asked flatly.
“I told you, I’m crashing here.”
“Why aren’t you in Skolos. What does Rhone want you here for,” the elf asserted coldly.
Sid stared at the elf, momentarily deflated. “I figured you’d ask that eventually, but the truth is I don’t know why that geezer let me leave,” he grinned half-heartedly. “If I had to guess, I’d say he was worried about you.”
“Wrong,” Soran said with dead certainty.
“Why? You were his only student.”
Soran just narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “You’re covering for something.”
“It ought to make perfect sense. You’re the one surrounded by secrets here. What aren’t you telling me?” Sid returned, sounding offended.
“You don’t need to know.”
The sound of a dog barking in the street outside punctuated the silence that was to end their conversation. Sid shrugged off his budding frustration and stretched out on the floor, lying on his back with his head on his hands. Rhen still faced the wall, not moving.
“Ever heard of the mining compounds outside of Skolos? Thousands of folks work there, basically slaves who wound up with some bad luck and got sold to Queen Shea’s taskforce,” Sid asked after a few minutes, knowing the elf wasn’t asleep. Soran made no response. Unfazed, he went on, not suspecting just how sorely familiar the ex-soldier really was with the queen’s mines.
“Well, there’s a whole industry in Skolos for shipping the ore from the mines along the coast. I used to belong to a shipbuilding crew, making freight ships to service the mines, you know. It was rough work, but it suited me fine. I got injured once, greenhorn fumbled some lumber with the pulley and landed it on my leg. I met a nurse there, in the shipyard’s clinic.” A bemused smirk came to his face. “We fell for each other. Not really what you could call ‘romantic’, but we clicked, and we could trust each other. Not much more you can ask for in this day and age. I told her we’d sail off together someday in a ship I’d build.”
He moved one hand from behind his head and waved it dismissively, “Of course, we knew that was impossible, but we liked the thought. Then she died; a disease that was sweeping the whole crew. They couldn’t afford to let it spread, so they quarantined her with the others and more’r’less left ‘em to rot. I couldn’t afford the meds to get her out. After that, I joined the army. Did it voluntarily. Needed a change of pace.”
He waited. Soran made no response. Sid closed his eyes understandingly. “I thought I was being tough, going to the army, but looking back on it, I was probably just running. There’s no feeling in the army; it’s safe that way. But it gets old. If you ask why I followed you, I’d say it’s cause I got bored. It looked like you were doin’ what I kept putting off. Coming back to reality.” He cracked an eye open and looked over at the elf for a moment. He was still facing the wall, no doubt with that cold, emotionless stare. “Maybe not exactly,” Sid noted, closing his eyes again casually. “But since you’re my ‘inspiration’, you could at least trust me enough to fall asleep.”
“…Alright.” The delayed answer was so quiet that Sid wasn’t sure he heard it correctly.
“Good,” Sid approved, sounding pleasantly surprised. “’Night then.”
“Goodnight,” Soran answered solemnly.
Sid regarded the motionless elf suspiciously, watching to make sure he’d really go to sleep. After about twenty minutes, the stiffness in the elf’s posture eased, shoulders sliding forward and breath evening out. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the elf’s distant behavior, but at least he’d chosen to accept him. He wondered if his story had been accepted. It was true, but somehow it sounded half-forged, even to him. After a few minutes, he too slipped off into sleep.
oOoOoOoOo
The faint sound of movement pulled Sid’s eyes open. Only a dull trickle of rising sunlight was beginning through the window shade, so he guessed it had been less than an hour since he’d nodded off. More rustling drew his attention back to Soran’s side of the room, which was still shrouded in near-darkness. The elf had shifted onto his back at some point. One arm rested across his stomach, and the other was stretched away from his side across the floor. Half-smirking drowsily, Sid had just closed his eyes again to return to his sleep when an almost imperceptible gasp, as one would make in a controlled response to pain, tugged his attention back to the elf.
Sid pushed up on his elbow and looked at Soran carefully. The sleeping elf’s face seemed contorted in pain, jaw and neck tense as if some threat or blow had been thrown straight in his face. The hand that lay at his side clenched quickly, nails scraping the floor, and a sharp sound formed and cut off in his throat. After that the man lay still, leaving Sid to stare in plain confusion. Except that he seemed to be breathing faster than normal, nothing was unusual about Soran now.
Sid lay back again, pondering the elf’s behavior. He must have been dreaming, but it was unbelievable that the former super-soldier would fear some kind of physical injury. The expression that had been on his face now seemed stuck in his memory, strangely haunting in its intensity. It had to be something more. For the first time, Sid was struck with how little he actually knew or had the right to know about the elf, and the probability that all the changes in Rhen’s behavior weren’t merely some facade that would come down after a few drinks or closer acquaintance. For Sid, however, this caused little real concern. It would be interesting living here and seeing Soran train those men into a real fighting force. Anything else he might need to know would reveal itself through time. He closed his eyes and slept until late afternoon.
oOoOoOoOo
Reya sat with her elbows resting on the thick wooden table in front of her, fingers woven into a tight knot in front of her mouth as she watched the men filtering out of the tavern. She was sitting in a booth in the corner of the room, in high, but nervous spirits. She could hardly believe she’d been bold enough to come, but she soothed this tension by reminding herself that she’d been visiting this inn for years. The owner and barkeep was a good friend of her father’s and on excellent terms with her. This was one of the very few places she was permitted to visit recreationally in the town, normally too busy studying her sorcery to do much else.
Still, she knew she hadn’t come here in the middle of the afternoon just to order the spiced tea that sat on the table in front of her. It had been two whole months since she had first met Soran Nightblade, on the night of his militia’s first mission. Since their success that night, the group had grown into high demand settling major disputes in the area, and as their reputation for efficiency and perfection rose, they had become well known elsewhere as well. Whatever the rogue was doing to train them, he was doing it right. The rogue army had lost neither a mission nor a single man. It had grown to seventeen men, who trained together daily and, Reya had learned, used the Boar’s Head as a place to fraternize after training. She had come here three days in a row already, and seen many of Soran’s men congregate there, some of whom she even recognized from the time she’d first seen Soran from a distance, but Soran had never been with them.
Today, however, he was there, sitting calmly at a table with some of his men by the bar. He sat back in his chair with arms relaxed behind his head while he observed the others’ conversation, contributing occasionally, but mostly just listening and lending his strange voiceless charisma to the atmosphere. Reya felt lewd somehow eavesdropping on them, but had to keep peering over with her peripheral vision to check whether or not Nightblade was still there. She wished she had worn a cloak. The long blue silk robe she normally wore for training felt out of place, like an arrow announcing her presence, but thankfully, nobody seemed to notice her, and now they were leaving, heading out the door amidst lively conversation. Soran left last, tossing some coins onto the table and heading out into the blaring light outside the dimly lit tavern.
As inconspicuously as possible, Reya got up and went outside. The men were already a good way down the street, which was bustling with midday activity. She searched the crowd until she spotted Soran, walking his own way off toward a less crowded road. Jogging slightly to keep up with the pace he was setting, she followed him from a distance through the streets of the town until they reached the rural area beyond, and then proceeded more carefully. The area on this side of the town was hilly and sparsely forested, but still quite dry.
Reya stayed out of sight, following after him as he passed each hill. The further he went, the more she questioned what in the world she thought she was doing, following him like this. Something about him was extremely alluring, or maybe she had just been curious to experience that cold stare again, and try one more time to see what kind of man lay on the other side of it. But she’d come this far, so she might as well continue. She finally came over a hilltop that looked down into a depression in the land where no trees grew. Surprisingly, the land was carpeted by long, dark green grass; a plant that rarely found root in Arken’s dusty environment, but could still be found in spots.
What drew Reya’s attention most, however, was not the terrain or the unusual sight of green, but the crumbled gray walls that stood in disarray at the center of the clearing.
Soran walked among the destroyed pillars and skeleton-walls to stand in the center of what, long ago, had been a grand marble building. He took a deep breath and slid a bag off his shoulder, producing his armblades from it and going about fastening them on. Since he’d first discovered this place, he’d taken to carrying out his training among the half-crumbled ruins of the old temple. It had been hundreds of years since the Witch Queen had commanded that the temples be demolished. Reya had heard that such a site existed, but never seen it herself. Her first thought was that it was an eerie place to hang around. Soran hardly seemed to mind the area, the stumps of stone walls overgrown with vines, the eerie scent of ancient traditions.
Feeling like some kind of criminal despite the fact that by even coming here, Soran was far closer to risking that status than she, Reya crept up to the closest of the walls. She watched Soran from a crack descending from the top of the stone slab, not touching it out of nervousness that it would topple onto her despite the fact that it had stood in this place for hundreds of years.
Soran had put his bag aside and set himself into a ready stance. From this stance, it was standard to bow to the instructor overseeing one’s training, so it was somewhat odd of the elf to go through this step in the absence of any master. Reya’s curiosity was ambushed by a roar of stunned awe as the man suddenly burst into motion, the strange blades on his arms flying with furious precision in a flawless dance with the rest of his body. In her training as a sorceress, Reya had witnessed little real battle take place in the course of her life, but she was certain she’d never seen anything so deadly and graceful in her life.
Soran blazed through attack after attack at breakneck speed, crouching one instant, shooting forward with his blades the next, often shooting out punches or whirling into kicks before flipping backwards, only to fly immediately into the next attack. At times Reya couldn’t tell if he was standing or floating as his legs threw him into the air without any apparent effort. She watched him train, somewhere between war and art, until he finally finished. She had no idea how long he’d been going; the sun had made significant progress along its path since he’d begun. He walked to the nearest wall and sat down against it, wiping a hand across his sweating face.
“Well, what is it?”
The cold demand broke her from her entranced state as she realized he was staring straight at her. Had he known she was there the whole time? Cold fingers of fear probed along her spine.
“You noticed me,” she said tightly, trying to sound friendly but coming out petrified instead as she willed herself to step out from behind the wall.
Soran looked at her in slight surprise as he recognized the girl. “Well?” he asserted, resting his wrists palm-down on his spread knees as he looked at her. A faint trace of breathlessness was the only evidence that the exercise he’d been performing had taken any effort at all.
“What you said about me last time…I gave you the wrong impression. I’m not like that,” she stammered tensely, determined not to run away.
“Why should it matter?” Soran demanded, yielding no sign of friendliness.
Reya untensed just slightly; at least he didn’t seem like he was going to attack her. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m just some spoiled brat who doesn’t think through her actions,” she said firmly.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” She battled his stare.
Soran regarded her skeptically for a long moment, the silence wracking what remained of Reya’s confidence. “Well, what are you like, then.” Green fire burned into her.
“I’m…” Reya stared at him helplessly, stuck. Her proud, planned-out words tasted like saccharine garbage in her mouth while she was looking into those eyes. It was like blaring toneless notes out of an instrument in the attempt to accompany a master musician. The harder she tried, the more glaring the discrepancy became.
Soran withheld the impatient remark rising in his throat. He treasured the solitude he found here, and it was difficult to accept this girl’s intrusion, but the expression of pride mixed with self-loathing in her eyes struck him as too similar to one he once wore himself.
“You study magic, right?” he asked less coldly, not sure why he was encouraging her.
“Yes, sorcery,” Reya said, feeling her wits return to her as the man’s voice grew kinder. She took a few steps toward him. “My family believes I should put all my energy into training and enter into the Queen’s service. Father serves in the Board of Elders, and plans to connect me up to the top rank in her court.” She spoke the words like a routine, not appearing to relish the idea in particular. She wasn’t telling him her goals or her interests; she was telling him who she was.
“You must be fond of sorcery,” Soran said testingly.
“Not really…I guess…You might say I have an inborn talent for it. It only makes sense for me to study it.” She wondered how true that was. Her future was compulsory, and it was hard to separate her own interests from those dictated to her. She just knew she wanted them to be satisfied with her. She wondered if that was something the rogue would understand.
“Train for yourself, not someone else, or you’ll regret it later,” Soran said calmly, getting back to his feet and undoing the clasps on his weapons.
Reya blinked in surprise and watched him curiously. She still knew nothing about him, but she could tell the comment had been meant supportively and not to condescend. She grinned at him, crossing her arms. “You can be nice,” she praised in a cautious attempt to tease him.
Soran made no reaction, returning his blades to the bag and throwing it onto his shoulder. “Go home. It’s getting late,” he said unreceptively as he walked past her and headed back toward the town.
Reya blushed fiercely as her nerves knotted up again, but followed behind him until she reached a path that lead toward her home.
Soran wondered what the girl was after. He had not said anything, but in fact, the encounter had changed his perception of her slightly, though to what, he was unsure. That uncertainty in itself was probably the extent of the change. He decided it hardly mattered. When he looked back over his shoulder, she was gone.
…The next day, when he arrived at the ruins, a tense but warm smile was there waiting for him, daring blue eyes dancing with the sunlight.
It was nearly dawn when Sid opened the door to Soran’s apartment and waltzed in. He looked around to find the elf sleeping on his side under his blanket against the left wall of the room. At least, he had been sleeping. His green eyes were now opened, keenly studying the man who’d just entered his room.
“What are you doing?” Rhen demanded quietly, the sleep dropping out of his voice.
“I’m goin to sleep. Your little mission tired me out,” Sid said, a very slight slur in his voice.
“I told you to find a place,” Soran frowned, not bothering to argue that it was not the mission, but the party afterward that probably expelled the most of Sid’s energy that night.
“But I didn’t, so I’m crashing here. Besides, there’s no reason for one person to live in this ballroom alone,” he prescribed casually as he strolled in.
Soran watched disapprovingly as Sid pulled a towel out of his pack and headed imperturbably to use his shower. A few moments later he heard a string of shocked profanities followed by “Holy hell, it’s freezing!”
“There’s no hot water,” Soran called back in frustration, pressing his fingers into his eyes.
“Fucking cold!” Sid reasserted. After a few minutes he reemerged from the washroom nude with the towel on his shoulders, rubbing at his cold arms. He pulled on clothes from his bag and looked back at the elf. Soran had rolled over to face the wall. “How the heck do you stand that ice pond every day,” he remarked, toweling off his head. “Hey. You’re awake, right?” he prodded when the elf didn’t respond.
“What are you doing here,” Soran asked flatly.
“I told you, I’m crashing here.”
“Why aren’t you in Skolos. What does Rhone want you here for,” the elf asserted coldly.
Sid stared at the elf, momentarily deflated. “I figured you’d ask that eventually, but the truth is I don’t know why that geezer let me leave,” he grinned half-heartedly. “If I had to guess, I’d say he was worried about you.”
“Wrong,” Soran said with dead certainty.
“Why? You were his only student.”
Soran just narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “You’re covering for something.”
“It ought to make perfect sense. You’re the one surrounded by secrets here. What aren’t you telling me?” Sid returned, sounding offended.
“You don’t need to know.”
The sound of a dog barking in the street outside punctuated the silence that was to end their conversation. Sid shrugged off his budding frustration and stretched out on the floor, lying on his back with his head on his hands. Rhen still faced the wall, not moving.
“Ever heard of the mining compounds outside of Skolos? Thousands of folks work there, basically slaves who wound up with some bad luck and got sold to Queen Shea’s taskforce,” Sid asked after a few minutes, knowing the elf wasn’t asleep. Soran made no response. Unfazed, he went on, not suspecting just how sorely familiar the ex-soldier really was with the queen’s mines.
“Well, there’s a whole industry in Skolos for shipping the ore from the mines along the coast. I used to belong to a shipbuilding crew, making freight ships to service the mines, you know. It was rough work, but it suited me fine. I got injured once, greenhorn fumbled some lumber with the pulley and landed it on my leg. I met a nurse there, in the shipyard’s clinic.” A bemused smirk came to his face. “We fell for each other. Not really what you could call ‘romantic’, but we clicked, and we could trust each other. Not much more you can ask for in this day and age. I told her we’d sail off together someday in a ship I’d build.”
He moved one hand from behind his head and waved it dismissively, “Of course, we knew that was impossible, but we liked the thought. Then she died; a disease that was sweeping the whole crew. They couldn’t afford to let it spread, so they quarantined her with the others and more’r’less left ‘em to rot. I couldn’t afford the meds to get her out. After that, I joined the army. Did it voluntarily. Needed a change of pace.”
He waited. Soran made no response. Sid closed his eyes understandingly. “I thought I was being tough, going to the army, but looking back on it, I was probably just running. There’s no feeling in the army; it’s safe that way. But it gets old. If you ask why I followed you, I’d say it’s cause I got bored. It looked like you were doin’ what I kept putting off. Coming back to reality.” He cracked an eye open and looked over at the elf for a moment. He was still facing the wall, no doubt with that cold, emotionless stare. “Maybe not exactly,” Sid noted, closing his eyes again casually. “But since you’re my ‘inspiration’, you could at least trust me enough to fall asleep.”
“…Alright.” The delayed answer was so quiet that Sid wasn’t sure he heard it correctly.
“Good,” Sid approved, sounding pleasantly surprised. “’Night then.”
“Goodnight,” Soran answered solemnly.
Sid regarded the motionless elf suspiciously, watching to make sure he’d really go to sleep. After about twenty minutes, the stiffness in the elf’s posture eased, shoulders sliding forward and breath evening out. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the elf’s distant behavior, but at least he’d chosen to accept him. He wondered if his story had been accepted. It was true, but somehow it sounded half-forged, even to him. After a few minutes, he too slipped off into sleep.
oOoOoOoOo
The faint sound of movement pulled Sid’s eyes open. Only a dull trickle of rising sunlight was beginning through the window shade, so he guessed it had been less than an hour since he’d nodded off. More rustling drew his attention back to Soran’s side of the room, which was still shrouded in near-darkness. The elf had shifted onto his back at some point. One arm rested across his stomach, and the other was stretched away from his side across the floor. Half-smirking drowsily, Sid had just closed his eyes again to return to his sleep when an almost imperceptible gasp, as one would make in a controlled response to pain, tugged his attention back to the elf.
Sid pushed up on his elbow and looked at Soran carefully. The sleeping elf’s face seemed contorted in pain, jaw and neck tense as if some threat or blow had been thrown straight in his face. The hand that lay at his side clenched quickly, nails scraping the floor, and a sharp sound formed and cut off in his throat. After that the man lay still, leaving Sid to stare in plain confusion. Except that he seemed to be breathing faster than normal, nothing was unusual about Soran now.
Sid lay back again, pondering the elf’s behavior. He must have been dreaming, but it was unbelievable that the former super-soldier would fear some kind of physical injury. The expression that had been on his face now seemed stuck in his memory, strangely haunting in its intensity. It had to be something more. For the first time, Sid was struck with how little he actually knew or had the right to know about the elf, and the probability that all the changes in Rhen’s behavior weren’t merely some facade that would come down after a few drinks or closer acquaintance. For Sid, however, this caused little real concern. It would be interesting living here and seeing Soran train those men into a real fighting force. Anything else he might need to know would reveal itself through time. He closed his eyes and slept until late afternoon.
oOoOoOoOo
Reya sat with her elbows resting on the thick wooden table in front of her, fingers woven into a tight knot in front of her mouth as she watched the men filtering out of the tavern. She was sitting in a booth in the corner of the room, in high, but nervous spirits. She could hardly believe she’d been bold enough to come, but she soothed this tension by reminding herself that she’d been visiting this inn for years. The owner and barkeep was a good friend of her father’s and on excellent terms with her. This was one of the very few places she was permitted to visit recreationally in the town, normally too busy studying her sorcery to do much else.
Still, she knew she hadn’t come here in the middle of the afternoon just to order the spiced tea that sat on the table in front of her. It had been two whole months since she had first met Soran Nightblade, on the night of his militia’s first mission. Since their success that night, the group had grown into high demand settling major disputes in the area, and as their reputation for efficiency and perfection rose, they had become well known elsewhere as well. Whatever the rogue was doing to train them, he was doing it right. The rogue army had lost neither a mission nor a single man. It had grown to seventeen men, who trained together daily and, Reya had learned, used the Boar’s Head as a place to fraternize after training. She had come here three days in a row already, and seen many of Soran’s men congregate there, some of whom she even recognized from the time she’d first seen Soran from a distance, but Soran had never been with them.
Today, however, he was there, sitting calmly at a table with some of his men by the bar. He sat back in his chair with arms relaxed behind his head while he observed the others’ conversation, contributing occasionally, but mostly just listening and lending his strange voiceless charisma to the atmosphere. Reya felt lewd somehow eavesdropping on them, but had to keep peering over with her peripheral vision to check whether or not Nightblade was still there. She wished she had worn a cloak. The long blue silk robe she normally wore for training felt out of place, like an arrow announcing her presence, but thankfully, nobody seemed to notice her, and now they were leaving, heading out the door amidst lively conversation. Soran left last, tossing some coins onto the table and heading out into the blaring light outside the dimly lit tavern.
As inconspicuously as possible, Reya got up and went outside. The men were already a good way down the street, which was bustling with midday activity. She searched the crowd until she spotted Soran, walking his own way off toward a less crowded road. Jogging slightly to keep up with the pace he was setting, she followed him from a distance through the streets of the town until they reached the rural area beyond, and then proceeded more carefully. The area on this side of the town was hilly and sparsely forested, but still quite dry.
Reya stayed out of sight, following after him as he passed each hill. The further he went, the more she questioned what in the world she thought she was doing, following him like this. Something about him was extremely alluring, or maybe she had just been curious to experience that cold stare again, and try one more time to see what kind of man lay on the other side of it. But she’d come this far, so she might as well continue. She finally came over a hilltop that looked down into a depression in the land where no trees grew. Surprisingly, the land was carpeted by long, dark green grass; a plant that rarely found root in Arken’s dusty environment, but could still be found in spots.
What drew Reya’s attention most, however, was not the terrain or the unusual sight of green, but the crumbled gray walls that stood in disarray at the center of the clearing.
Soran walked among the destroyed pillars and skeleton-walls to stand in the center of what, long ago, had been a grand marble building. He took a deep breath and slid a bag off his shoulder, producing his armblades from it and going about fastening them on. Since he’d first discovered this place, he’d taken to carrying out his training among the half-crumbled ruins of the old temple. It had been hundreds of years since the Witch Queen had commanded that the temples be demolished. Reya had heard that such a site existed, but never seen it herself. Her first thought was that it was an eerie place to hang around. Soran hardly seemed to mind the area, the stumps of stone walls overgrown with vines, the eerie scent of ancient traditions.
Feeling like some kind of criminal despite the fact that by even coming here, Soran was far closer to risking that status than she, Reya crept up to the closest of the walls. She watched Soran from a crack descending from the top of the stone slab, not touching it out of nervousness that it would topple onto her despite the fact that it had stood in this place for hundreds of years.
Soran had put his bag aside and set himself into a ready stance. From this stance, it was standard to bow to the instructor overseeing one’s training, so it was somewhat odd of the elf to go through this step in the absence of any master. Reya’s curiosity was ambushed by a roar of stunned awe as the man suddenly burst into motion, the strange blades on his arms flying with furious precision in a flawless dance with the rest of his body. In her training as a sorceress, Reya had witnessed little real battle take place in the course of her life, but she was certain she’d never seen anything so deadly and graceful in her life.
Soran blazed through attack after attack at breakneck speed, crouching one instant, shooting forward with his blades the next, often shooting out punches or whirling into kicks before flipping backwards, only to fly immediately into the next attack. At times Reya couldn’t tell if he was standing or floating as his legs threw him into the air without any apparent effort. She watched him train, somewhere between war and art, until he finally finished. She had no idea how long he’d been going; the sun had made significant progress along its path since he’d begun. He walked to the nearest wall and sat down against it, wiping a hand across his sweating face.
“Well, what is it?”
The cold demand broke her from her entranced state as she realized he was staring straight at her. Had he known she was there the whole time? Cold fingers of fear probed along her spine.
“You noticed me,” she said tightly, trying to sound friendly but coming out petrified instead as she willed herself to step out from behind the wall.
Soran looked at her in slight surprise as he recognized the girl. “Well?” he asserted, resting his wrists palm-down on his spread knees as he looked at her. A faint trace of breathlessness was the only evidence that the exercise he’d been performing had taken any effort at all.
“What you said about me last time…I gave you the wrong impression. I’m not like that,” she stammered tensely, determined not to run away.
“Why should it matter?” Soran demanded, yielding no sign of friendliness.
Reya untensed just slightly; at least he didn’t seem like he was going to attack her. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m just some spoiled brat who doesn’t think through her actions,” she said firmly.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” She battled his stare.
Soran regarded her skeptically for a long moment, the silence wracking what remained of Reya’s confidence. “Well, what are you like, then.” Green fire burned into her.
“I’m…” Reya stared at him helplessly, stuck. Her proud, planned-out words tasted like saccharine garbage in her mouth while she was looking into those eyes. It was like blaring toneless notes out of an instrument in the attempt to accompany a master musician. The harder she tried, the more glaring the discrepancy became.
Soran withheld the impatient remark rising in his throat. He treasured the solitude he found here, and it was difficult to accept this girl’s intrusion, but the expression of pride mixed with self-loathing in her eyes struck him as too similar to one he once wore himself.
“You study magic, right?” he asked less coldly, not sure why he was encouraging her.
“Yes, sorcery,” Reya said, feeling her wits return to her as the man’s voice grew kinder. She took a few steps toward him. “My family believes I should put all my energy into training and enter into the Queen’s service. Father serves in the Board of Elders, and plans to connect me up to the top rank in her court.” She spoke the words like a routine, not appearing to relish the idea in particular. She wasn’t telling him her goals or her interests; she was telling him who she was.
“You must be fond of sorcery,” Soran said testingly.
“Not really…I guess…You might say I have an inborn talent for it. It only makes sense for me to study it.” She wondered how true that was. Her future was compulsory, and it was hard to separate her own interests from those dictated to her. She just knew she wanted them to be satisfied with her. She wondered if that was something the rogue would understand.
“Train for yourself, not someone else, or you’ll regret it later,” Soran said calmly, getting back to his feet and undoing the clasps on his weapons.
Reya blinked in surprise and watched him curiously. She still knew nothing about him, but she could tell the comment had been meant supportively and not to condescend. She grinned at him, crossing her arms. “You can be nice,” she praised in a cautious attempt to tease him.
Soran made no reaction, returning his blades to the bag and throwing it onto his shoulder. “Go home. It’s getting late,” he said unreceptively as he walked past her and headed back toward the town.
Reya blushed fiercely as her nerves knotted up again, but followed behind him until she reached a path that lead toward her home.
Soran wondered what the girl was after. He had not said anything, but in fact, the encounter had changed his perception of her slightly, though to what, he was unsure. That uncertainty in itself was probably the extent of the change. He decided it hardly mattered. When he looked back over his shoulder, she was gone.
…The next day, when he arrived at the ruins, a tense but warm smile was there waiting for him, daring blue eyes dancing with the sunlight.
-
Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Scars Part 17
Soran stood breathless at the center of the ruins, cool rainwater running down his neck and back through his shirt. It almost never rained in this climate, and the heavy drops pooled on top of the hard-baked soil. The grass of the ruins splashed under his feet as he lowered his weapons and let the soothing moisture roll over his skin. He turned toward the girl who was using a large hunk of marble as a bench, holding a wood-and-canvas umbrella in one hand and studying a book in her other.
No longer hearing the noises of Soran’s boots splashing across the ground and feeling eyes boring into her forehead, Reya looked up at the elf and grinned shyly. An aurora of prancing liquid surrounded his head and shoulders as he walked over and sat on the marble wall a yard down from her. As usual, he was silent, looking off calmly into the rain while he caught his breath. He always kept to his training here, regardless of the weather. The techniques he rehearsed so dutifully had already been mastered long ago, she knew, but practicing them seemed to give him some sort of satisfaction, perhaps respite from whatever haunted those green eyes of his. She found something fascinating about it, but even after all the countless times she had come here to see him, the only thing she could claim to truly understood about the dark rogue was that he was a mystery.
She never tired of watching him, his slim, lean body flying through move after move, as if his real essence lay somewhere in the way his steel blades danced in the sun. If she only followed them long enough… Something untamed and unknown always glinted in those green eyes. He reminded Reya of a panther, cold and incomprehensible, haunted by wisdom.
She’d told him that once, but he hadn’t understood. He always seemed out of place, like an angel who, through some cruel fate, had been forced to dwell in this corrupted mortal setting. He was surreal and unreadable, sexual and passionless. She had a dream where he turned into a panther and grew great black wings, lunging into the sky and vanishing to wherever it was he belonged.
Reya glanced over at the soaked elf, his near-black hair hanging in long strands in front of his eyes. She decided to take her chances and approach him, closing her spellbook and moving slightly closer to him on the wall. “You’re going to get sick,” she said worriedly.
“I’ll be fine,” he answered calmly.
The young sorceress gave up that argument, anticipating his response. For a while they just sat watching the rain. “Are you happy here?” she asked timidly. She was always asking him questions, to which he sometimes responded but hardly ever answered.
“That’s an odd question.”
“You didn’t answer it,” she countered.
“I told you it’s quiet here,” he said indifferently.
“I don’t mean the ruins. I mean here. This kingdom, this world.”
Soran didn’t respond. She wondered what he thought about at times like this, but sensed he knew as well as she that something about him didn’t fit the ruthless cruelty of the Witch Queen’s kingdom. He was as out of place here as the crumbled temple he was leaning against.
“Do you ever wonder about the other world?” she asked thoughtfully.
“No,” Soran said. He knew far more than the rest of the population did about the world outside of Arken, thanks to his studies and the classified literature Rone had taken risks to loan him. The old general had warned against cultivating too much interest in the other world, but because Rhen had wanted to learn, he had gotten his student all there was on the subject. All there was had still not been much. Outside were two more major countries, one of which was an obscure country formed of islands far off Arken’s coast.
The other was considered Arken’s hated rival, a forbidden place separated from Arken by a nearly impassible mountain range. The people of Arken knew it as “the other world,” though Soran knew from books that its real name was Ighten. Beyond that, even in texts that were of the highest level of confidentiality Rone could access, knowing anything else about the place was like interpreting a fragmented code. Its culture, government, and people were all described in the vaguest and most diminutive fashion possible, a warning to any curious enough to ask further details to keep out.
“You seem like someone who would,” Reya pushed slightly.
“Why is that?” Soran challenged dully.
“Well…for one thing, you’re always coming here. These are ruins of a building constructed to worship demons from the other world, right?” she said, hoping as she heard the words come out that they didn’t anger him.
“You’re mistaken,” he said coldly, but didn’t leave.
The welcome rain dropped in a peaceful rhythm on the unreceptive earth. Reya made a weak laugh and looked down at her book thoughtfully, thumbing the thick pages. “There’s no way to really be sure, is there? No one to tell us if the paths we’ve chosen are the ones where we belong.”
“No one belongs anywhere,” Soran retorted quietly. “If you aren’t interested in magic, you should do something else.”
“I can’t…because I’m so good at it. Spells others find so difficult come just like instinct to me. It’s only natural for them to expect me to take it as far as I can. Whether I like it or not, that’s a kind of belonging. People can’t just do whatever they feel.” She felt a sad smile spread across her face despite herself. “But it figures you’d say something like that. You’re the only person I’ve heard of who can say such abnormal things with a straight face.”
Soran didn’t answer, standing to leave. Reya blinked as she noticed the beginning of a bandage showing at the edge of his collar. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“A scratch from a few days ago,” he answered. He didn’t care if she knew he was injured. Though she represented some kind of danger to him, it was certainly not a physical one.
“Show me,” she pleaded, suddenly eager.
“No,” he retorted.
“Please? Just show me,” she said with bright eyes, standing up and facing him.
“Why?” Soran sighed, but peeled up his drenched shirt to show where the bandage covered a place on the side of his ribs.
Reya looked at it closely, able to see a thin line of red where the gash had half-soaked through the bandage. She reached her hands out toward it tentatively, watching Soran’s face carefully as if she were releasing a wolf from a steel jaw trap. She could sense him tensing up, but he didn’t lash out at her when her fingers reached his chest. She took a deep breath to concentrate. He had never allowed her to touch him before. The rogue was watching her warily, uncertain what she was trying to do. Closing her eyes, Reya honed in on her magical power, a light blue glow forming around her fingers and radiating outward into Soran’s skin.
Soran narrowed his eyes and watched with a mixture of distrust and fascination, feeling something change beneath the bandage. When she brought her hands nervously back to her own chest and the glowing faded, he touched his side experimentally. The wound was gone. He knew little about magic, but he did know that those qualified to provide healing services to the army were of prestigious status among their peers, and so few in number that their abilities were put to use only in the most vital cases. When this girl said she was adept at magic, she wasn’t exaggerating.
“Thanks,” he said, looking awkwardly down into her lapis eyes that were beautiful as always. Why did she come here every day, watching him with those eyes and asking strange questions? The confusion always bothered him, but he no longer attempted to resent her presence. “I’m heading back,” he said, breaking the strange moment as he turned and began walking.
Reya looked at the handsome slope of his back and shoulders as he strode away, a faint, shy grin pulling at her lips. He was cold as ever, but in a way, she was excited. In all the six months she’d been coming here, he’d almost never said goodbye when he left. Even on the occasions where she would actually strike up a conversation with him (and never the other way around), it always ended without words.
“Are you going on a job tonight?” she asked, like handling an ember.
“Yes.” He said nothing more, wiping his dripping hair out of his face and walking off. She caught up and followed next to him, keeping a few feet’s distance between them because she’d noticed he disliked close contact, until they finally went their separate ways as usual. When she glanced back over her shoulder to see his form shrinking in the distance, she saw him looking over his shoulder with his steely calm eyes. Was he finally accepting her?
She went the rest of the way to her house with the touch of his chest still lingering on her fingertips. By the time she got there, the sun had nearly finished setting. She was still full of hopeful anticipation as she began making her way down the wide stone pathway that led from the edge of her father’s large property to the immense three-story mansion at its center.
As she neared the house, however something unsettling caught her eye: a large, black carriage harnessed to three strong bay horses sat parked near the south side of the house. Reya had seen the carriage before, and knew exactly who owned it. Lord Tromik was her father’s superior, a top-ranking member of the Council of Elders. He had about as much power as it was possible for a citizen to have in Arken, and sometimes even received his orders from the Queen herself, but this was not what unsettled her. She was well used to her father entertaining powerful guests, and their entire family seemed to have a long-running tradition of doing things by the book and in exact accordance with what was expected, so there was little reason to dread those in power. But Tromik was a different story – Reya simply couldn’t stand him.
She held her breath and walked inside, hoping their guest was occupied with her father somewhere and not wandering the estate on his own, as he sometimes did. She walked down the main hall and up the large stone staircase that led to the third floor, where her study was located. The study, with its high walls shelved with books that formed a semicircle with an open-air balcony located in the center, was a place of relative security for her. It was somewhat private from the rest of the house, and the familiar smells of candle wax and dusty books mingled with the fresh outside air.
Reya walked to a hardwood table that stood in the center of the room and took a seat in the well-used armchair next to it. A pile of books, littered with scraps of paper for bookmarks, sat on top of the table. Reya added the tome she’d been studying at the ruins to the pile and took a different one off instead, opening it to the page she’d dog-eared. Shifting deeper into the plush chair, she began studying from where she last left off. Seeing the rogue in the afternoons made no change in the pace she needed to maintain to satisfy the Council’s expectations of her, so she usually studied late into the evening.
But even if her performance and progress had not suffered, she knew that her disappearances in the afternoons were beginning to attract suspicion. She could tell it by the owlish glances of the servants when they saw her leave for her ‘time in the city,’ not to mention increasingly awkward questions from her father. Even as her hopes grew skyward for the possibility of finally achieving Soran’s favor and trust, she was growing more and more conscious of the reality that her activities might have already been noticed by people who had far more power over her actions than she herself did.
“Home so late?” a disgustingly friendly male voice startled her from the doorway.
Reya stiffened as she realized she wasn’t alone, and turned to look up at the figure of Lord Tromik standing in the doorway. He wore a crimson tunic embroidered in gold, and stood tall and handsome as always, hard gray eyes amidst short, tawny hair looking down at her face; her neck; her breasts and waist. Reya shifted defensivly in the chair, feeling naked under his gaze.
“I spend my afternoons in the town,” she said without much grace.
“You must enjoy it a great deal, to go out in this weather,” he observed keenly.
“I do. Besides, I enjoy the rain.”
“Your father tells me you are advancing quite well in your magic. I dare say, though, milady – it strikes me that you could progress at much greater speed were you not dallying about those commoners for so many hours each day. What, may I ask, makes them appeal to you so?”
Reya eyed him cautiously. There was a trap loaded for her here; she could sense danger in his voice. “I believe that’s my own business, my lord,” she said stiffly.
Tromik straightened as if a bad fish had been wofted in his face. “Oh? I’m surprised to hear you say that. Do you treasure your privacy that much?” His face grew stern. “Or could it be the shameful rumors I’ve been hearing are correct, that you’ve fallen for that peasant hooligan who christens himself some sort of general?”
The color drained from Reya’s face. “How absurd,” she protested ineffectively.
Tromik looked surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t really expected it to be true, but quickly regained himself and cast her a saccharine smile. “He must be quite a person to have acquired your affection so quickly. But, my dear, if he is so fond of you, why have you not introduced him to your father. I’m sure Lord Firecrost would be pleased to meet my rival.” Reya stared at him, stunned. “Or could it be, though this suggestion is quite impossible, that he has not returned your affection?”
“He has,” she snapped out of pride before her mind could overrule her mouth. Realizing her slip and knowing it was impossible to take it back, she narrowed her eyes at Tromik warily. “Why are you telling me this?”
Tromik grinned. “I thought you might appreciate the chance to help your little toy. Let’s say it’s my way of expressing my affection for you.”
“What?” she asked darkly. She considered her relationship to Soran a very personal matter and felt a chill run up her spine at the knowledge that Tromik, and probably others, had managed to learn of it.
“I’m saying that elf of yours is in a bit of a tangle that you may be able to clear up.”
“And what tangle is that?” she spat doubtfully. She saw Soran as practically invincible.
“At the Council meeting yesterday, it was unanimously decided that his militia be assimilated into Queen Shea’s army.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Why?” she demanded.
“Oh, I should think it would be obvious. In preparation for our conquest of Ighten, the Queen’s army must become as powerful as possible. Naturally, a group that meets with as much overwhelming success in combat as his does is a desirable asset. They say Nightblade’s men are stronger and fight harder than any known militia.”
“But that’s all because it’s Soran who’s leading them! They fight only for him. He built that militia man by man. He would never submit it to the government.”
“It’s not as if they’ve never worked for us before. We’ve hired them indirectly as mercenaries plenty of times, but the days of rogue militias are over. All the primary bands have submitted to us except his. We’ve given him time; now it’s his turn. Of course, we’re willing to bestow on him a rank equivalent to the one he has now.”
Reya’s face suddenly grew pale. “Why are you telling me all this?” she almost whispered.
“Oh, a clever girl, aren’t you? Well, since you’ve asked, I’ll be direct with my point. You’re going to help us convince Soran to make the right decision.”
“I refuse,” the girl said coolly, looking Tromik straight in the eye.
“You will cooperate with Tromik’s plan,” came a husky new voice from the doorway.
“Father!” Reya protested in horror, glancing up at the tall man whose face was wearing a stern, demanding frown. Of all the men on the Council, her father’s was the only judgment that didn’t appall her, but this time even he was cooperating. She recalled Tromik’s words – ‘unanimous.’ She looked at him angrily. So the entire Council was really in on this.
“We simply need to talk to him for a while. If he cooperates, he’ll not be harmed,” her father said, stroking his thin beard calmly. “Attempting to capture him by force may result in a battle, which would damage exactly what we mean to acquire.”
“But he’ll never coop-”
“At any rate, his death will be certain if he does not submit to the Queen’s rule. Not that I care, but if you want to help him, you should assist in his capture,” her father said harshly. Beneath his controlled sternness, she could tell he was actually furious about her lies and violations of his rules over some stray-wolf commoner.
Reya’s heart had dropped to her stomach. She couldn’t disobey her father. Moreover, any sign of dissent would brand her a traitor to the Witch Queen’s efforts. This was simply the way things worked in Arken – a system everyone had to learn to accept eventually. What other choice did she have?
“Tell me what I have to do,” she said with grim determination.
Soran stood breathless at the center of the ruins, cool rainwater running down his neck and back through his shirt. It almost never rained in this climate, and the heavy drops pooled on top of the hard-baked soil. The grass of the ruins splashed under his feet as he lowered his weapons and let the soothing moisture roll over his skin. He turned toward the girl who was using a large hunk of marble as a bench, holding a wood-and-canvas umbrella in one hand and studying a book in her other.
No longer hearing the noises of Soran’s boots splashing across the ground and feeling eyes boring into her forehead, Reya looked up at the elf and grinned shyly. An aurora of prancing liquid surrounded his head and shoulders as he walked over and sat on the marble wall a yard down from her. As usual, he was silent, looking off calmly into the rain while he caught his breath. He always kept to his training here, regardless of the weather. The techniques he rehearsed so dutifully had already been mastered long ago, she knew, but practicing them seemed to give him some sort of satisfaction, perhaps respite from whatever haunted those green eyes of his. She found something fascinating about it, but even after all the countless times she had come here to see him, the only thing she could claim to truly understood about the dark rogue was that he was a mystery.
She never tired of watching him, his slim, lean body flying through move after move, as if his real essence lay somewhere in the way his steel blades danced in the sun. If she only followed them long enough… Something untamed and unknown always glinted in those green eyes. He reminded Reya of a panther, cold and incomprehensible, haunted by wisdom.
She’d told him that once, but he hadn’t understood. He always seemed out of place, like an angel who, through some cruel fate, had been forced to dwell in this corrupted mortal setting. He was surreal and unreadable, sexual and passionless. She had a dream where he turned into a panther and grew great black wings, lunging into the sky and vanishing to wherever it was he belonged.
Reya glanced over at the soaked elf, his near-black hair hanging in long strands in front of his eyes. She decided to take her chances and approach him, closing her spellbook and moving slightly closer to him on the wall. “You’re going to get sick,” she said worriedly.
“I’ll be fine,” he answered calmly.
The young sorceress gave up that argument, anticipating his response. For a while they just sat watching the rain. “Are you happy here?” she asked timidly. She was always asking him questions, to which he sometimes responded but hardly ever answered.
“That’s an odd question.”
“You didn’t answer it,” she countered.
“I told you it’s quiet here,” he said indifferently.
“I don’t mean the ruins. I mean here. This kingdom, this world.”
Soran didn’t respond. She wondered what he thought about at times like this, but sensed he knew as well as she that something about him didn’t fit the ruthless cruelty of the Witch Queen’s kingdom. He was as out of place here as the crumbled temple he was leaning against.
“Do you ever wonder about the other world?” she asked thoughtfully.
“No,” Soran said. He knew far more than the rest of the population did about the world outside of Arken, thanks to his studies and the classified literature Rone had taken risks to loan him. The old general had warned against cultivating too much interest in the other world, but because Rhen had wanted to learn, he had gotten his student all there was on the subject. All there was had still not been much. Outside were two more major countries, one of which was an obscure country formed of islands far off Arken’s coast.
The other was considered Arken’s hated rival, a forbidden place separated from Arken by a nearly impassible mountain range. The people of Arken knew it as “the other world,” though Soran knew from books that its real name was Ighten. Beyond that, even in texts that were of the highest level of confidentiality Rone could access, knowing anything else about the place was like interpreting a fragmented code. Its culture, government, and people were all described in the vaguest and most diminutive fashion possible, a warning to any curious enough to ask further details to keep out.
“You seem like someone who would,” Reya pushed slightly.
“Why is that?” Soran challenged dully.
“Well…for one thing, you’re always coming here. These are ruins of a building constructed to worship demons from the other world, right?” she said, hoping as she heard the words come out that they didn’t anger him.
“You’re mistaken,” he said coldly, but didn’t leave.
The welcome rain dropped in a peaceful rhythm on the unreceptive earth. Reya made a weak laugh and looked down at her book thoughtfully, thumbing the thick pages. “There’s no way to really be sure, is there? No one to tell us if the paths we’ve chosen are the ones where we belong.”
“No one belongs anywhere,” Soran retorted quietly. “If you aren’t interested in magic, you should do something else.”
“I can’t…because I’m so good at it. Spells others find so difficult come just like instinct to me. It’s only natural for them to expect me to take it as far as I can. Whether I like it or not, that’s a kind of belonging. People can’t just do whatever they feel.” She felt a sad smile spread across her face despite herself. “But it figures you’d say something like that. You’re the only person I’ve heard of who can say such abnormal things with a straight face.”
Soran didn’t answer, standing to leave. Reya blinked as she noticed the beginning of a bandage showing at the edge of his collar. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“A scratch from a few days ago,” he answered. He didn’t care if she knew he was injured. Though she represented some kind of danger to him, it was certainly not a physical one.
“Show me,” she pleaded, suddenly eager.
“No,” he retorted.
“Please? Just show me,” she said with bright eyes, standing up and facing him.
“Why?” Soran sighed, but peeled up his drenched shirt to show where the bandage covered a place on the side of his ribs.
Reya looked at it closely, able to see a thin line of red where the gash had half-soaked through the bandage. She reached her hands out toward it tentatively, watching Soran’s face carefully as if she were releasing a wolf from a steel jaw trap. She could sense him tensing up, but he didn’t lash out at her when her fingers reached his chest. She took a deep breath to concentrate. He had never allowed her to touch him before. The rogue was watching her warily, uncertain what she was trying to do. Closing her eyes, Reya honed in on her magical power, a light blue glow forming around her fingers and radiating outward into Soran’s skin.
Soran narrowed his eyes and watched with a mixture of distrust and fascination, feeling something change beneath the bandage. When she brought her hands nervously back to her own chest and the glowing faded, he touched his side experimentally. The wound was gone. He knew little about magic, but he did know that those qualified to provide healing services to the army were of prestigious status among their peers, and so few in number that their abilities were put to use only in the most vital cases. When this girl said she was adept at magic, she wasn’t exaggerating.
“Thanks,” he said, looking awkwardly down into her lapis eyes that were beautiful as always. Why did she come here every day, watching him with those eyes and asking strange questions? The confusion always bothered him, but he no longer attempted to resent her presence. “I’m heading back,” he said, breaking the strange moment as he turned and began walking.
Reya looked at the handsome slope of his back and shoulders as he strode away, a faint, shy grin pulling at her lips. He was cold as ever, but in a way, she was excited. In all the six months she’d been coming here, he’d almost never said goodbye when he left. Even on the occasions where she would actually strike up a conversation with him (and never the other way around), it always ended without words.
“Are you going on a job tonight?” she asked, like handling an ember.
“Yes.” He said nothing more, wiping his dripping hair out of his face and walking off. She caught up and followed next to him, keeping a few feet’s distance between them because she’d noticed he disliked close contact, until they finally went their separate ways as usual. When she glanced back over her shoulder to see his form shrinking in the distance, she saw him looking over his shoulder with his steely calm eyes. Was he finally accepting her?
She went the rest of the way to her house with the touch of his chest still lingering on her fingertips. By the time she got there, the sun had nearly finished setting. She was still full of hopeful anticipation as she began making her way down the wide stone pathway that led from the edge of her father’s large property to the immense three-story mansion at its center.
As she neared the house, however something unsettling caught her eye: a large, black carriage harnessed to three strong bay horses sat parked near the south side of the house. Reya had seen the carriage before, and knew exactly who owned it. Lord Tromik was her father’s superior, a top-ranking member of the Council of Elders. He had about as much power as it was possible for a citizen to have in Arken, and sometimes even received his orders from the Queen herself, but this was not what unsettled her. She was well used to her father entertaining powerful guests, and their entire family seemed to have a long-running tradition of doing things by the book and in exact accordance with what was expected, so there was little reason to dread those in power. But Tromik was a different story – Reya simply couldn’t stand him.
She held her breath and walked inside, hoping their guest was occupied with her father somewhere and not wandering the estate on his own, as he sometimes did. She walked down the main hall and up the large stone staircase that led to the third floor, where her study was located. The study, with its high walls shelved with books that formed a semicircle with an open-air balcony located in the center, was a place of relative security for her. It was somewhat private from the rest of the house, and the familiar smells of candle wax and dusty books mingled with the fresh outside air.
Reya walked to a hardwood table that stood in the center of the room and took a seat in the well-used armchair next to it. A pile of books, littered with scraps of paper for bookmarks, sat on top of the table. Reya added the tome she’d been studying at the ruins to the pile and took a different one off instead, opening it to the page she’d dog-eared. Shifting deeper into the plush chair, she began studying from where she last left off. Seeing the rogue in the afternoons made no change in the pace she needed to maintain to satisfy the Council’s expectations of her, so she usually studied late into the evening.
But even if her performance and progress had not suffered, she knew that her disappearances in the afternoons were beginning to attract suspicion. She could tell it by the owlish glances of the servants when they saw her leave for her ‘time in the city,’ not to mention increasingly awkward questions from her father. Even as her hopes grew skyward for the possibility of finally achieving Soran’s favor and trust, she was growing more and more conscious of the reality that her activities might have already been noticed by people who had far more power over her actions than she herself did.
“Home so late?” a disgustingly friendly male voice startled her from the doorway.
Reya stiffened as she realized she wasn’t alone, and turned to look up at the figure of Lord Tromik standing in the doorway. He wore a crimson tunic embroidered in gold, and stood tall and handsome as always, hard gray eyes amidst short, tawny hair looking down at her face; her neck; her breasts and waist. Reya shifted defensivly in the chair, feeling naked under his gaze.
“I spend my afternoons in the town,” she said without much grace.
“You must enjoy it a great deal, to go out in this weather,” he observed keenly.
“I do. Besides, I enjoy the rain.”
“Your father tells me you are advancing quite well in your magic. I dare say, though, milady – it strikes me that you could progress at much greater speed were you not dallying about those commoners for so many hours each day. What, may I ask, makes them appeal to you so?”
Reya eyed him cautiously. There was a trap loaded for her here; she could sense danger in his voice. “I believe that’s my own business, my lord,” she said stiffly.
Tromik straightened as if a bad fish had been wofted in his face. “Oh? I’m surprised to hear you say that. Do you treasure your privacy that much?” His face grew stern. “Or could it be the shameful rumors I’ve been hearing are correct, that you’ve fallen for that peasant hooligan who christens himself some sort of general?”
The color drained from Reya’s face. “How absurd,” she protested ineffectively.
Tromik looked surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t really expected it to be true, but quickly regained himself and cast her a saccharine smile. “He must be quite a person to have acquired your affection so quickly. But, my dear, if he is so fond of you, why have you not introduced him to your father. I’m sure Lord Firecrost would be pleased to meet my rival.” Reya stared at him, stunned. “Or could it be, though this suggestion is quite impossible, that he has not returned your affection?”
“He has,” she snapped out of pride before her mind could overrule her mouth. Realizing her slip and knowing it was impossible to take it back, she narrowed her eyes at Tromik warily. “Why are you telling me this?”
Tromik grinned. “I thought you might appreciate the chance to help your little toy. Let’s say it’s my way of expressing my affection for you.”
“What?” she asked darkly. She considered her relationship to Soran a very personal matter and felt a chill run up her spine at the knowledge that Tromik, and probably others, had managed to learn of it.
“I’m saying that elf of yours is in a bit of a tangle that you may be able to clear up.”
“And what tangle is that?” she spat doubtfully. She saw Soran as practically invincible.
“At the Council meeting yesterday, it was unanimously decided that his militia be assimilated into Queen Shea’s army.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Why?” she demanded.
“Oh, I should think it would be obvious. In preparation for our conquest of Ighten, the Queen’s army must become as powerful as possible. Naturally, a group that meets with as much overwhelming success in combat as his does is a desirable asset. They say Nightblade’s men are stronger and fight harder than any known militia.”
“But that’s all because it’s Soran who’s leading them! They fight only for him. He built that militia man by man. He would never submit it to the government.”
“It’s not as if they’ve never worked for us before. We’ve hired them indirectly as mercenaries plenty of times, but the days of rogue militias are over. All the primary bands have submitted to us except his. We’ve given him time; now it’s his turn. Of course, we’re willing to bestow on him a rank equivalent to the one he has now.”
Reya’s face suddenly grew pale. “Why are you telling me all this?” she almost whispered.
“Oh, a clever girl, aren’t you? Well, since you’ve asked, I’ll be direct with my point. You’re going to help us convince Soran to make the right decision.”
“I refuse,” the girl said coolly, looking Tromik straight in the eye.
“You will cooperate with Tromik’s plan,” came a husky new voice from the doorway.
“Father!” Reya protested in horror, glancing up at the tall man whose face was wearing a stern, demanding frown. Of all the men on the Council, her father’s was the only judgment that didn’t appall her, but this time even he was cooperating. She recalled Tromik’s words – ‘unanimous.’ She looked at him angrily. So the entire Council was really in on this.
“We simply need to talk to him for a while. If he cooperates, he’ll not be harmed,” her father said, stroking his thin beard calmly. “Attempting to capture him by force may result in a battle, which would damage exactly what we mean to acquire.”
“But he’ll never coop-”
“At any rate, his death will be certain if he does not submit to the Queen’s rule. Not that I care, but if you want to help him, you should assist in his capture,” her father said harshly. Beneath his controlled sternness, she could tell he was actually furious about her lies and violations of his rules over some stray-wolf commoner.
Reya’s heart had dropped to her stomach. She couldn’t disobey her father. Moreover, any sign of dissent would brand her a traitor to the Witch Queen’s efforts. This was simply the way things worked in Arken – a system everyone had to learn to accept eventually. What other choice did she have?
“Tell me what I have to do,” she said with grim determination.
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Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Scars Part 18
A/N: Okay those of you wonderful enough to read this far! Soran’s story is nearing its end! This is an especially long chapter, so hope you enjoy : )
oOoOoOoOo
Sid looked out over the sleeping shipyard. The living quarters from which he was patrolling consisted of one long, rectangular building of two stories and a flat roof, belted by several levels of old wooden balconies. The building stretched along the length of the semicircular dockyard, the long docks stretching out like a spider’s web into the port. Gray ships bobbed and creaked against the old wooden docks, pushed gently up and down to the rhythm of the tide. The moonlight flickered in smooth sparks along the rippled surface of the night sea. A few low thunks and creaks came from the third dock, where half their men were extracting three large crates from a ship while the rest, like Sid, stood guard at various points in the shipyard. So far, the mission had gone without a hitch. As always, Soran had made sure to research the area thoroughly before plotting their strategy, only this time, he didn’t have to spend their earnings; Sid knew this shipyard like the back of his hand. It was here that he’d once worked here for years, building ships from dawn to dusk in the salt-drenched air.
For Sid, the place filled him with a bitter nostalgia. Everything from the dilapidated portside building to the shifting of the splintering docks brought back memories of his years spent here, and the people he spent them with. Many of them were quite possibly still here. The one who could have actually mattered, however, he knew was not. He broke roughly away from her image as it formed in his head, remembering to focus on keeping watch.
Their client had been robbed of some important cargo, the contents of which they were not informed, and the thieves were attempting to ship it out of the area from this port. Soran and his men were to retrieve the stolen cargo and deliver them safely to the client. That was the story they were given, though it was equally possible that the thieves were the clients themselves, or that the cargo at stake had already passed illegally through several claims of ownership before being loaded onto the ship Soran and the others were currently infiltrating.
Everything so far was going according to plan. Their presence had not been noticed by those guarding the port; having taken shifts at guard duty himself in the past, Sid knew how little it paid, and thus how flimsy the security often was in the middle of the night. The only thing that concerned him was just how quiet it was this night. The security wasn’t even weak – it was nonexistent. Considering how much they’d been paid to take this mission, whatever they were retrieving was too valuable to be left so thoroughly unguarded. The silence of the boatyard felt like an invisible net slowly surrounding them. He closed and unclosed his fingers speculatively on the handle of the double-bladed staff at his side. The balcony from which he was watching over things attached to the commodore’s quarters – a risky vantage point, but a good one.
In a jerk of movement, Sid turned to look behind him. He felt subconsciously that a lethal stare was boring into the skin on the back of his neck, but saw nothing. The ex-soldier narrowed his brown eyes skeptically at the closed sliding door behind him that led into the commodore’s personal quarters. He walked over to it in silence and inspected it suspiciously, leaning one ear against the wooden door to listen for sounds of activity. After several seconds of silence, he leaned back again, looking at the door.
A flash of white pounded in his vision as something struck him sharply across the back of the neck. Sid staggered forward and spun to face whatever had attacked him. A black-clad figure stood there, all but his eyes concealed in cloth. The flattened hand that had struck him had been intended to knock him out, but Sid was fairly resilient. No sooner had he registered the smirking angle of his opponent’s eyes, however, than another pair of hands swooped in from behind him, one clasping roughly over his mouth and nose and the other drawing a knife to the front of his throat. The hands pulled him backwards, toward the commodore’s quarters. Danger…he had to alert Soran… Sid tugged against the pressure on instinct, but a sharp knee to his back reminded him of his situation, sending a sharp gasp aching tensely from his lungs. With fire spreading up his spine, he didn’t have much choice at that point anyway. Ambush… He bit fiercely at the hand on his mouth, tasting blood, but it wouldn’t release. A muffled grunt was all the sound he could make as he was hauled rearward into the room and the sliding door closed quietly after them.
oOoOoOoOo
Reya’s legs felt like molten lead as she ran for all she was worth. Tears of panic had left wind-dried trails on her fair skin as she flew down the path. Tromik’s words echoed cruelly in her mind; they filled her with terror and rage. She couldn’t do it…not that! She absolutely wouldn’t do that! Her protests felt like ash in her raw throat. She glanced back behind her, stumbling slightly on the dark, uneven terrain. At least no one had followed her – yet.
She needed to see him. He would know what to do. If it was that man, she honestly believed he could handle anything. Her pounding feet carried her rapidly through the trees toward Aerroes, fueled by her longing to be protected within the odd security of that solemn, unshakable gaze.
oOoOoOoOo
“All the crates are extracted onto the dock. We should be ready to move,” Groan reported in a gruff whisper, jogging up to where Soran was rigging up the carts they had brought to transport the cargo. He and the horses were waiting some distance off from the leftmost end of the dock. Wheels would have made too much noise and been detected in the rocky terrain, so they brought the carts to assemble on the spot.
“Good. The horses are ready,” Soran said with less enthusiasm than one might expect.
Groan noticed the thoughtfulness in his leader’s expression. “You’re thinkin’ it too, ain’t ya. This is too easy.”
Soran didn’t answer, but frowned. “We’re moving out. Go send the signal to the lookouts.” Groan nodded his understanding and took off at a stealthy jog while Soran headed for the dock. He paused and looked up at the tall, long building that stretched along the length of the dockyard, a place where Sid had informed him the staff were housed. He eyed the rotting balcony closely as a flash of metal caught his eye. In the split second it took for the electric spasm of danger to shock through his consciousness, a steel dart shot out and fell with a sharp clang amidst some tall rows of stacked crates near the third dock, the walls of cargo obscuring its actual destination.
Soran’s eyes shot to his men, who were working at the next dock away and had clearly noticed the sound, though not its original source. They stopped their work and grouped together, automatically entering a battle-ready formation with their strongest fighters moving to the fore of the group. Canis made a signal to the others, who spread out to form a flank while he and Vex began warily approaching the right side of the crates, from whence the sound had come. Canis glanced up and saw Soran watching closely from the other side of the shipyard. The elf had darted beside a tall stack of lumber at the edge of the yard, hiding his position. Soran nodded his approval and the men proceeded to the edge of the piled crates. Soran’s eyes were scanning the balcony where he’d seen the dart fired, but saw no sign of life. Something wasn’t right. He turned his gaze suspiciously back to the walls of crates his men were approaching. Almost imperceptibly, a shadow moved from beside them.
Trap.
Soran’s hand shot out. The men stopped in their tracks at his signal. Telltale sounds of bowstrings pulling taut came from the rooftop of the boathouse. It was an ambush, Soran realized. They knew exactly where they were. “Take cover!” he shouted.
Canis and Vex dove between the stacks of crates while the others scattered, staying in pairs. No sooner had they taken shelter than an angry shout sounded from within the walls of cargo, followed by the crashing of fierce battle. Men clad in black rushed out from where they had hidden among the crates and fanned out as arrows hailed down at the rogues.
Soran cursed under his breath as he broke from his safe position and ran alongside the building to join the fight. Canis emerged from among the crates, Axe held firmly in hand. He looked a bit unsteady on his feet, but whatever had intercepted him inside, he had apparently won. After a moment Vex appeared as well, not stepping out into the open, but using the crates as a barrier while he threw small knives from a pouch at his side swiftly up at the archers on the roof. A few tumbled down while the others simply scurried to more secure positions.
Amidst the blur of sudden battle, another arrow, this one bearing an oil-soaked rag that had been lit on fire, flew and struck one of the crates behind Vex. Soran wrestled briefly with an attacker before slicing his neck efficiently open with his armblade and stepping back to look at the flames that were spreading across the crates behind Vex. It didn’t make sense...these men were far stronger and more numerous than the lackluster security force Sid had described, and far more organized. But more strangely, they were risking their own cargo by setting fire to it. It was one thing to anticipate Soran’s group’s arrival by employing their own defense force, but…
A grim realization came to the rogue. He spun back toward the crates where Vex was sniping at the archers with his knives. “Vex, get out of there!” he ordered fiercely, throwing up his left blade to deflect an arrow that flew at him.
“There’s just three more! I’ve got ‘em,” Vex called over the noise of the battle. An arrow whizzed past his shoulder.
The flames behind Vex grew higher as they ate through the crates. “NOW, Vex!” Soran roared as two more men flew at him. Where were they all coming from? He jumped up into a high spinning kick that cracked across the head of the opponent behind him before lunging straight from his landing into a lethal swipe at his second opponent’s neck, then threw the point of his other blade back with his elbow into the chest of the man he’d kicked before he could even finish falling to the ground – perfect, rapid, precise. He turned immediately back toward his strong-willed subordinate. An odd smell was beginning to permeate the smoke-scented air. “MOVE!”
As if finally realizing the seriousness in his general’s voice, Vex threw one more knife and burst into a sprint away from the crates. A second later, a wall of heat tore into him full-force from behind and sent him flying forward, skin and face tearing as he raked across the ground. Bright light and scalding heat burst across the shipyard as the crates exploded, leaving everyone momentarily blinded and throwing several off their feet.
Feeling the intense heat on his skin, Soran retreated blindly several steps backwards, trying to readjust his eyes. A startled female scream broke through the roar of flames off to his right. Time seemed to slow down as he turned in confusion toward the familiar voice, the spiritlike embers darting around him making the rest of the frenzied scene appear stuck. Without a word, he broke into a sprint toward her voice, and found her hiding in shock behind a large ship anchor that had been left near the edge of the shipyard. Soran heard and felt more explosions go off behind him as he reached her side.
“Soran, I…” she stammered breathlessly, her usual easy manner frayed by the unexpectedly dangerous scene she had suddenly found herself in when the explosion went off.
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked her sharply.
“The old man at the Boar’s Head told me where you were…I’m sorry, I had to see you,” she pleaded, her wet eyes sparkling in the firelight.
“It’s not safe, you need to get out,” Soran ordered quickly, confusion showing in his eyes.
“I…I can’t go back and leave you in this—ah!” She cried out as she saw a man clad in black run up behind Soran and swing a sword down at his neck.
Soran sensed what was happening from the expression on her face. His eyes widened and he flew up and around, meeting the strike with his own blade. The sword had more power behind it and drove Soran a full foot to the side, his boots dragging deep scars in the earth. When he recovered he shot back at his attacker, throwing the sword off wide and coming in to strike only to sense the blade coming at him again, this time at his legs. The elf jumped over the attack and threw a swift kick into the man’s chest, propelling himself backwards and flipping off his hands back to his feet. He leapt back in immediately with a spinning crescent kick that broke hard over the man’s wrist and threw his weapon spinning across the dirt.
Reya stared in awe as the moves she’d watched him practice so many times were brought to life. But now, the dance of his blades was set to the symphony of clashing weapons, cries of pain and anger, and roaring flames smoldering in the darkness. This was the world he lived in. His voice finally broke her free of her entrancement as he called out to her, his opponent already dead on the ground in front of her. “It’s not safe,” he reiterated.
Composing herself, Reya just crossed her arms and rose to her feet. “I can help.”
The two stared each other down for a long moment before Soran turned away in frustration. “Stay close,” he ordered coldly, and ran back into the fray. She grinned a little and followed him, proud of his unexpected protectiveness. As always, those panther-eyes drained the fear from her body, even in this dangerous situation. It was an odd effect he had on her.
Bodies could be seen scattered all over the boatyard – luckily, none that Soran recognized. He had trained his men well to be prepared even for this sort of fiasco; they would be gathering at the emergency waypoint he’d specified, back by the horses. He ran with Reya across the fiery battlefield, double-checking for any who might have fallen. Soran had yet to lose any of his men, primarily because he maintained a strict and unusual standard to leave no one behind.
The rogue’s body froze as a chorus of thwips foretold that the archers had spotted them. He backpedaled, skidding as he lunged sideways and shoved Reya to the ground beneath him. Reya yelped, his sudden contact startling her as much as the sharp impact with the ground. She eased open her clenched eyes to find him hovering over her propped on one elbow, his dark hair obscuring his face. More arrows struck the ground around them.
“Soran,” she urged him gently. His lower body was pinning hers to the ground.
His face turned up toward hers, green eyes blazing. “Were you hit?” his voice sounded thin, as if he were out of breath.
“No,” she answered as the arrows flew around them, barely understanding the realness of their danger.
Apparently satisfied, he stretched the arm he’d been leaning on around to the back of his other tricep, shifting more of his weight onto her. His eyes clenched shut as he jerked at something and forced out a shuddering breath. Teeth gritted, he brought his arm back and pushed himself up on his elbow again. Reya looked down at his arm in confusion, and felt a chill run through her as she saw his fist clutching the thin shaft of a bloodied arrow.
Why was he struggling so hard not to show pain? “Soran,” she said softly, reaching up toward him. Her hand gently wove through the hair that hung in his face and cupped his angled cheek, her soft thumb tracing his cheekbone.
Soran’s eyes opened again cautiously and looked down into hers, her touch stirring something in him he didn’t understand. Though he had never been conscious of wanting it before, he felt strangely that he needed the feeling that washed over him at that instant. An incomprehensible self-loathing filled him as he pushed back to his feet, breaking the first gentle touch he’d felt in more than ten years.
Soran threw up the blade on his wounded arm to deflect an arrow that would have struck his head. It ricocheted into the dirt beside them. Without a word, he grabbed Reya’s arm and tugged her firmly to her feet, half-dragging her to keep up as he ran safely behind the bonfire that was once the stack of crates. There he saw Canis coming toward him, dragging a half-conscious and badly scorched Vex over his shoulder.
“How is he?” Soran asked firmly.
“A bit loopy from the blast. He’ll make it,” Canis grunted, casting a curious eye on the girl standing beside Soran.
“Let’s get him to the waypoint,” he said, taking Vex’s other arm and pulling it securely over his bad shoulder. They moved to the edge of the bonfire, preparing to rush across the line of fire. Soran cast Reya a look that said to keep up. “Go.”
They rushed across the shipyard, Vex barely managing to keep his legs moving beneath him as Canis and Soran carried most of his weight. Reya ran with them, finally grasping the full situation. She closed her eyes and struggled to find concentration amidst her panic. Blue magic fused around her hands, and then her entire body. She opened her eyes and thrust her arms firmly overhead, bringing them down in a wide arc. A dome of blue energy crackled into place around them, deflecting the arrows as they came. Soran looked back at her in surprise, not breaking pace. Reya couldn’t respond to him, needing all of her focus to maintain the spell, but they were soon back at the waypoint, where the others had gathered.
“How many wounded?” Soran asked as he strode quickly toward them, the dome fading away.
“Six,” Artib answered swiftly, “Nothing fatal.”
“Is everyone here?”
“Soran,” Groan said, pushing forward, “I was a’le to find all the sentinels cept Sid. Th’boy’s still missing.”
“Get ready to move out. I’ll look for him.”
“The job, Soran?” Artib asked, more surprised than opposed to the idea of retreating.
“The job never existed. We were set up,” Soran said sourly. “Stay here,” he ordered Reya, running back toward the shipyard.
Soran didn’t have to run far before he found Sid already limping back toward the waypoint at a jog. A rush of unexpected relief coursed through the elf as he spotted him, though it was checked by the dark stain across the man’s tunic. He studied Sid’s face carefully as he came up alongside him. Something darkened his normally cheerful features in a way much more troubling than Soran could attribute to mere pain.
“We’re moving out,” Soran said, matching his weakened pace.
“Yeah,” Sid answered solemnly, his voice different from any Soran had heard from him before.
Soran made no mention of Sid’s wounds for the moment. He knew Sid knew he had noticed them; he would address them later.
When they returned to the others, Everyone was mounted on the horses and ready to go. Groan rode behind Vex, supporting him upright, and Reya had been paired with Canis. “Can you ride?” Soran said lowly to Sid, who nodded irately and swung onto his own horse. Soran eyed him suspiciously and mounted as well, kicking his horse into a full gallop while the others followed suit.
It was a tense, two hour ride before they came to an abandoned building that they used as an unofficial stopover when they needed one. The building was two stories tall and nestled in a craterlike alcove amidst the rocky landscape, bordered by cliffs on three sides. As soon as they were there, Sid dismounted and walked calmly away from the others into the house. Soran watched him, getting the distinct impression Sid didn’t want the others to be aware of his injuries.
“Escort the girl back to the village,” he said to Canis. “The rest of you, see to the others.” He dismounted quickly and went inside after Sid. He walked up to the second story, where he found the door to the room Sid normally used closed. Soran knocked on it twice, then opened it and walked in. Sid was sitting on a threadbare couch in the back of the room, bent forward with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped one over the other. He didn’t look up at Soran.
“I’d rather you leave,” Sid said. That voice again.
“What happened back there?” Soran asked flatly, moving into the room to stand across from Sid.
“I said I want you to get out,” he returned more harshly, raising his head with an irritated look that seemed wholly alien on his face.
“You’re wounded.”
“I’ll take care of it myself.”
“As your general, I require you to explain what the hell’s going on,” Soran asserted.
Sid’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Don’t you dare talk like that to me, you elf bastard,” he growled, something wild and barely controlled lurking in his voice.
Soran felt a pang of guilt mixed with hurt. “At least get your wounds treated,” he said even more sternly to mask his reaction.
“So now the friendless prince of seclusion is going to get on my case for keeping to myself? Get out!” Sid barked dangerously, rising to his feet and staring a cold challenge straight down into the rogue’s face.
“If it affects the squad, then yes,” Soran scowled with forced pragmatism.
Sid reached his limit. His hand shot up in a fist and slammed across Soran’s jaw, sending the unsuspecting elf stumbling a step sideways before glaring back up at Sid in shock. Sid had never hit him that way before. It hurt more than he would have expected.
“A bastard like you who’s never let anyone close to him in his life won’t understand,” Sid growled accusingly.
Indignance flared in the elf’s eyes. Soran’s fist returned the punch, aiming automatically for Sid’s solar plexus, but the elf redirected it to the side, hitting his pectoral hard to mask his choice to divert the strike. “Don’t speak as if you know me,” he spat, low and cold.
Sid’s hand shot out and grabbed Soran’s upper arm forcefully, tugging the elf forward to glare straight into his face. Soran’s eyes winced half-closed. “How the hell would I know you, asshole?” Sid countered fiercely, tightening his fingers, then hesitated as a strained bark of pain escaped the elf’s throat.
Part of the anger in Sid’s expression was replaced by confusion, and he let go of the elf’s arm as if it were heated iron. Soran pulled back immediately, favoring his arm and looking away with a bitter frown.
Sid looked down at the slick blood on his fingers and squeezed them into a pensive fist. “Jeez. Acting so pushy when you’re wounded yourself,” he sighed critically, voice heavy with guilt and more of the raw emotion that had dragged it down earlier. A tense silence passed between them.
“What happened to you?” Soran said quietly, no longer demanding; simply asking.
Sid sank back into the sofa; standing up was clearly taking its toll on him. He took a deep breath, crossed his arms, found they irritated the gash on his side and uncrossed them again, laying them tensely across his knees as he had before. “We weren’t the only ones set up. I was ambushed during my watch. They brought me into the commodore’s cabin – I got the upper hand after playing dead for a while. The commodore was there, killed in his bed. I never liked the old bastard much anyway…”
Soran looked at him quietly. The man’s voice had begun shaking. He waited for Sid to regain his composure.
“Not just him,” Sid went on stiffly, “There was a woman with him, all curled up on his arm, and just as bloody as him. It was…there’s no doubt, it was Chelsea.”
Soran’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What?” he said, trying to sort out this last piece of information, “Your fiancé…you said she died a long time ago.”
“That’s what I was told,” Sid said, his voice getting tight. “Quite a convenient way to get rid of me, I have to admit.” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “I didn’t care much for my existence at the time; maybe they expected me to kill myself. Or she could have been forced…the commodore controlled everything in that yard. Or she-…” He broke off, shuddering, his head lowered to hide the tears that were cruelly bleeding through his controlled mask. “Damnit, this is why I wanted you to get out,” he choked.
Soran stared at Sid, worried and unsure what to do. It seemed so impossible for Sid to lose his composure that he was left without any idea of how to comfort him. Part of him was jealous of his emotional friend for feeling so easily the grief that he had never expressed for his own losses. Marx, Rone, his parents, the hundreds that had died by his hands whose faces were burned like bloodstains on his memory. He hadn’t cried for them, even once. Was he broken? He tore away from those thoughts, focusing on Sid.
Sid reached into his coat and pulled out his dagger, a drop of warm liquid falling onto it as he turned the blade thoughtfully in his fingers. Soran tensed, remembering Marx. He took a step toward Sid, plans racing through his head. “Sid,” he said tensely.
Sid looked up at him and saw the fear flashing in the elf’s eyes. Always acting so tough, he thought to himself with a weak smirk at his cold friend, You probably glare at people cause you know full well you get hopelessly attached to all of them. He turned his face away again, and tried to laugh. It came out closer to a subdued sob. “Yeah, relax. Shit, if you weren’t here, it would be so easy,” he complained, throwing the dagger halfheartedly across the room. Despite the fact that the elf’s behavior toward him had remained cold and stoic for all these months, nonetheless Sid felt somehow that Soran needed him. At least, it was what he wanted to believe. It was a kind of relief to see the elf stirred up the way he was for his sake, though he was in no state to really appreciate it.
Soran frowned as Sid seemed to lose his breath and fall forward for an instant before catching himself and pulling upright again. The elf placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and felt his sweating forehead. “That’s some fever.” He looked to the wide, wet stain on Sid’s brown shirt. “What did that?”
“Knife,” Sid said, still struggling to regain control of the tears that seemed to have taken over his being. “Don’t!” he ordered as the elf moved to inspect it. “Damn it, just leave it be for a while.”
“You’re going into shock, Sid. You’re upset, you’re not being rational,” Soran asserted uncomfortably, trying as civilly as possible to move away the hand that was guarding the wound.
“I said leave it! Damnit Rhen!” Sid warned brokenly, but didn’t stop Soran from moving his shirt aside and looking at the gash.
A knock came at the door. Soran and Sid exchanged a testy glance.
“Whoever it is, not a word about this,” Sid ordered.
“I’ll go,” Soran said, and stood up to go to the door.
He opened it enough to see Reya standing outside with an anxious expression. Canis stood behind her, looking frustrated. “I healed the others,” she said. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s fine,” Soran said, seeming distracted. “You were supposed to go back.”
“Soran, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“The ones we fought with will come after us here. They could be here any time.”
“It’s really important,” she tried to continue.
“Listen to me, Reya,” Soran interrupted sternly, the tension pent up from the situation with Sid taking the form of anger in his voice. “Go back right now. It’s not safe. You shouldn’t have been here in the first place. Let Canis escort you.”
“You don’t understand, I absolutely have to-”
“It’ll be okay. Meet me at the ruins tomorrow. Tell me about it then,” he asserted less harshly, actually not wanting to send her away, but this was no place for her and he needed to get back to Sid immediately.
“They’re here! Everyone at arms!” shouted one of the men downstairs.
Reya’s eyes shot back to him in desperation.
“Get out, I mean it,” Soran ordered, making the girl’s blue eyes swim with tears. “Canis,” he said sternly and the man stepped forward. Soran gestured toward the girl, and Canis nodded his understanding, taking her by the arm and pulling her toward the stairs.
“Soran!” she screamed in protest.
“It’ll be okay,” he reiterated firmly as her tear-filled eyes disappeared down the stairs.
oOoOoOoOo
To be Concluded…
A/N: Okay those of you wonderful enough to read this far! Soran’s story is nearing its end! This is an especially long chapter, so hope you enjoy : )
oOoOoOoOo
Sid looked out over the sleeping shipyard. The living quarters from which he was patrolling consisted of one long, rectangular building of two stories and a flat roof, belted by several levels of old wooden balconies. The building stretched along the length of the semicircular dockyard, the long docks stretching out like a spider’s web into the port. Gray ships bobbed and creaked against the old wooden docks, pushed gently up and down to the rhythm of the tide. The moonlight flickered in smooth sparks along the rippled surface of the night sea. A few low thunks and creaks came from the third dock, where half their men were extracting three large crates from a ship while the rest, like Sid, stood guard at various points in the shipyard. So far, the mission had gone without a hitch. As always, Soran had made sure to research the area thoroughly before plotting their strategy, only this time, he didn’t have to spend their earnings; Sid knew this shipyard like the back of his hand. It was here that he’d once worked here for years, building ships from dawn to dusk in the salt-drenched air.
For Sid, the place filled him with a bitter nostalgia. Everything from the dilapidated portside building to the shifting of the splintering docks brought back memories of his years spent here, and the people he spent them with. Many of them were quite possibly still here. The one who could have actually mattered, however, he knew was not. He broke roughly away from her image as it formed in his head, remembering to focus on keeping watch.
Their client had been robbed of some important cargo, the contents of which they were not informed, and the thieves were attempting to ship it out of the area from this port. Soran and his men were to retrieve the stolen cargo and deliver them safely to the client. That was the story they were given, though it was equally possible that the thieves were the clients themselves, or that the cargo at stake had already passed illegally through several claims of ownership before being loaded onto the ship Soran and the others were currently infiltrating.
Everything so far was going according to plan. Their presence had not been noticed by those guarding the port; having taken shifts at guard duty himself in the past, Sid knew how little it paid, and thus how flimsy the security often was in the middle of the night. The only thing that concerned him was just how quiet it was this night. The security wasn’t even weak – it was nonexistent. Considering how much they’d been paid to take this mission, whatever they were retrieving was too valuable to be left so thoroughly unguarded. The silence of the boatyard felt like an invisible net slowly surrounding them. He closed and unclosed his fingers speculatively on the handle of the double-bladed staff at his side. The balcony from which he was watching over things attached to the commodore’s quarters – a risky vantage point, but a good one.
In a jerk of movement, Sid turned to look behind him. He felt subconsciously that a lethal stare was boring into the skin on the back of his neck, but saw nothing. The ex-soldier narrowed his brown eyes skeptically at the closed sliding door behind him that led into the commodore’s personal quarters. He walked over to it in silence and inspected it suspiciously, leaning one ear against the wooden door to listen for sounds of activity. After several seconds of silence, he leaned back again, looking at the door.
A flash of white pounded in his vision as something struck him sharply across the back of the neck. Sid staggered forward and spun to face whatever had attacked him. A black-clad figure stood there, all but his eyes concealed in cloth. The flattened hand that had struck him had been intended to knock him out, but Sid was fairly resilient. No sooner had he registered the smirking angle of his opponent’s eyes, however, than another pair of hands swooped in from behind him, one clasping roughly over his mouth and nose and the other drawing a knife to the front of his throat. The hands pulled him backwards, toward the commodore’s quarters. Danger…he had to alert Soran… Sid tugged against the pressure on instinct, but a sharp knee to his back reminded him of his situation, sending a sharp gasp aching tensely from his lungs. With fire spreading up his spine, he didn’t have much choice at that point anyway. Ambush… He bit fiercely at the hand on his mouth, tasting blood, but it wouldn’t release. A muffled grunt was all the sound he could make as he was hauled rearward into the room and the sliding door closed quietly after them.
oOoOoOoOo
Reya’s legs felt like molten lead as she ran for all she was worth. Tears of panic had left wind-dried trails on her fair skin as she flew down the path. Tromik’s words echoed cruelly in her mind; they filled her with terror and rage. She couldn’t do it…not that! She absolutely wouldn’t do that! Her protests felt like ash in her raw throat. She glanced back behind her, stumbling slightly on the dark, uneven terrain. At least no one had followed her – yet.
She needed to see him. He would know what to do. If it was that man, she honestly believed he could handle anything. Her pounding feet carried her rapidly through the trees toward Aerroes, fueled by her longing to be protected within the odd security of that solemn, unshakable gaze.
oOoOoOoOo
“All the crates are extracted onto the dock. We should be ready to move,” Groan reported in a gruff whisper, jogging up to where Soran was rigging up the carts they had brought to transport the cargo. He and the horses were waiting some distance off from the leftmost end of the dock. Wheels would have made too much noise and been detected in the rocky terrain, so they brought the carts to assemble on the spot.
“Good. The horses are ready,” Soran said with less enthusiasm than one might expect.
Groan noticed the thoughtfulness in his leader’s expression. “You’re thinkin’ it too, ain’t ya. This is too easy.”
Soran didn’t answer, but frowned. “We’re moving out. Go send the signal to the lookouts.” Groan nodded his understanding and took off at a stealthy jog while Soran headed for the dock. He paused and looked up at the tall, long building that stretched along the length of the dockyard, a place where Sid had informed him the staff were housed. He eyed the rotting balcony closely as a flash of metal caught his eye. In the split second it took for the electric spasm of danger to shock through his consciousness, a steel dart shot out and fell with a sharp clang amidst some tall rows of stacked crates near the third dock, the walls of cargo obscuring its actual destination.
Soran’s eyes shot to his men, who were working at the next dock away and had clearly noticed the sound, though not its original source. They stopped their work and grouped together, automatically entering a battle-ready formation with their strongest fighters moving to the fore of the group. Canis made a signal to the others, who spread out to form a flank while he and Vex began warily approaching the right side of the crates, from whence the sound had come. Canis glanced up and saw Soran watching closely from the other side of the shipyard. The elf had darted beside a tall stack of lumber at the edge of the yard, hiding his position. Soran nodded his approval and the men proceeded to the edge of the piled crates. Soran’s eyes were scanning the balcony where he’d seen the dart fired, but saw no sign of life. Something wasn’t right. He turned his gaze suspiciously back to the walls of crates his men were approaching. Almost imperceptibly, a shadow moved from beside them.
Trap.
Soran’s hand shot out. The men stopped in their tracks at his signal. Telltale sounds of bowstrings pulling taut came from the rooftop of the boathouse. It was an ambush, Soran realized. They knew exactly where they were. “Take cover!” he shouted.
Canis and Vex dove between the stacks of crates while the others scattered, staying in pairs. No sooner had they taken shelter than an angry shout sounded from within the walls of cargo, followed by the crashing of fierce battle. Men clad in black rushed out from where they had hidden among the crates and fanned out as arrows hailed down at the rogues.
Soran cursed under his breath as he broke from his safe position and ran alongside the building to join the fight. Canis emerged from among the crates, Axe held firmly in hand. He looked a bit unsteady on his feet, but whatever had intercepted him inside, he had apparently won. After a moment Vex appeared as well, not stepping out into the open, but using the crates as a barrier while he threw small knives from a pouch at his side swiftly up at the archers on the roof. A few tumbled down while the others simply scurried to more secure positions.
Amidst the blur of sudden battle, another arrow, this one bearing an oil-soaked rag that had been lit on fire, flew and struck one of the crates behind Vex. Soran wrestled briefly with an attacker before slicing his neck efficiently open with his armblade and stepping back to look at the flames that were spreading across the crates behind Vex. It didn’t make sense...these men were far stronger and more numerous than the lackluster security force Sid had described, and far more organized. But more strangely, they were risking their own cargo by setting fire to it. It was one thing to anticipate Soran’s group’s arrival by employing their own defense force, but…
A grim realization came to the rogue. He spun back toward the crates where Vex was sniping at the archers with his knives. “Vex, get out of there!” he ordered fiercely, throwing up his left blade to deflect an arrow that flew at him.
“There’s just three more! I’ve got ‘em,” Vex called over the noise of the battle. An arrow whizzed past his shoulder.
The flames behind Vex grew higher as they ate through the crates. “NOW, Vex!” Soran roared as two more men flew at him. Where were they all coming from? He jumped up into a high spinning kick that cracked across the head of the opponent behind him before lunging straight from his landing into a lethal swipe at his second opponent’s neck, then threw the point of his other blade back with his elbow into the chest of the man he’d kicked before he could even finish falling to the ground – perfect, rapid, precise. He turned immediately back toward his strong-willed subordinate. An odd smell was beginning to permeate the smoke-scented air. “MOVE!”
As if finally realizing the seriousness in his general’s voice, Vex threw one more knife and burst into a sprint away from the crates. A second later, a wall of heat tore into him full-force from behind and sent him flying forward, skin and face tearing as he raked across the ground. Bright light and scalding heat burst across the shipyard as the crates exploded, leaving everyone momentarily blinded and throwing several off their feet.
Feeling the intense heat on his skin, Soran retreated blindly several steps backwards, trying to readjust his eyes. A startled female scream broke through the roar of flames off to his right. Time seemed to slow down as he turned in confusion toward the familiar voice, the spiritlike embers darting around him making the rest of the frenzied scene appear stuck. Without a word, he broke into a sprint toward her voice, and found her hiding in shock behind a large ship anchor that had been left near the edge of the shipyard. Soran heard and felt more explosions go off behind him as he reached her side.
“Soran, I…” she stammered breathlessly, her usual easy manner frayed by the unexpectedly dangerous scene she had suddenly found herself in when the explosion went off.
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked her sharply.
“The old man at the Boar’s Head told me where you were…I’m sorry, I had to see you,” she pleaded, her wet eyes sparkling in the firelight.
“It’s not safe, you need to get out,” Soran ordered quickly, confusion showing in his eyes.
“I…I can’t go back and leave you in this—ah!” She cried out as she saw a man clad in black run up behind Soran and swing a sword down at his neck.
Soran sensed what was happening from the expression on her face. His eyes widened and he flew up and around, meeting the strike with his own blade. The sword had more power behind it and drove Soran a full foot to the side, his boots dragging deep scars in the earth. When he recovered he shot back at his attacker, throwing the sword off wide and coming in to strike only to sense the blade coming at him again, this time at his legs. The elf jumped over the attack and threw a swift kick into the man’s chest, propelling himself backwards and flipping off his hands back to his feet. He leapt back in immediately with a spinning crescent kick that broke hard over the man’s wrist and threw his weapon spinning across the dirt.
Reya stared in awe as the moves she’d watched him practice so many times were brought to life. But now, the dance of his blades was set to the symphony of clashing weapons, cries of pain and anger, and roaring flames smoldering in the darkness. This was the world he lived in. His voice finally broke her free of her entrancement as he called out to her, his opponent already dead on the ground in front of her. “It’s not safe,” he reiterated.
Composing herself, Reya just crossed her arms and rose to her feet. “I can help.”
The two stared each other down for a long moment before Soran turned away in frustration. “Stay close,” he ordered coldly, and ran back into the fray. She grinned a little and followed him, proud of his unexpected protectiveness. As always, those panther-eyes drained the fear from her body, even in this dangerous situation. It was an odd effect he had on her.
Bodies could be seen scattered all over the boatyard – luckily, none that Soran recognized. He had trained his men well to be prepared even for this sort of fiasco; they would be gathering at the emergency waypoint he’d specified, back by the horses. He ran with Reya across the fiery battlefield, double-checking for any who might have fallen. Soran had yet to lose any of his men, primarily because he maintained a strict and unusual standard to leave no one behind.
The rogue’s body froze as a chorus of thwips foretold that the archers had spotted them. He backpedaled, skidding as he lunged sideways and shoved Reya to the ground beneath him. Reya yelped, his sudden contact startling her as much as the sharp impact with the ground. She eased open her clenched eyes to find him hovering over her propped on one elbow, his dark hair obscuring his face. More arrows struck the ground around them.
“Soran,” she urged him gently. His lower body was pinning hers to the ground.
His face turned up toward hers, green eyes blazing. “Were you hit?” his voice sounded thin, as if he were out of breath.
“No,” she answered as the arrows flew around them, barely understanding the realness of their danger.
Apparently satisfied, he stretched the arm he’d been leaning on around to the back of his other tricep, shifting more of his weight onto her. His eyes clenched shut as he jerked at something and forced out a shuddering breath. Teeth gritted, he brought his arm back and pushed himself up on his elbow again. Reya looked down at his arm in confusion, and felt a chill run through her as she saw his fist clutching the thin shaft of a bloodied arrow.
Why was he struggling so hard not to show pain? “Soran,” she said softly, reaching up toward him. Her hand gently wove through the hair that hung in his face and cupped his angled cheek, her soft thumb tracing his cheekbone.
Soran’s eyes opened again cautiously and looked down into hers, her touch stirring something in him he didn’t understand. Though he had never been conscious of wanting it before, he felt strangely that he needed the feeling that washed over him at that instant. An incomprehensible self-loathing filled him as he pushed back to his feet, breaking the first gentle touch he’d felt in more than ten years.
Soran threw up the blade on his wounded arm to deflect an arrow that would have struck his head. It ricocheted into the dirt beside them. Without a word, he grabbed Reya’s arm and tugged her firmly to her feet, half-dragging her to keep up as he ran safely behind the bonfire that was once the stack of crates. There he saw Canis coming toward him, dragging a half-conscious and badly scorched Vex over his shoulder.
“How is he?” Soran asked firmly.
“A bit loopy from the blast. He’ll make it,” Canis grunted, casting a curious eye on the girl standing beside Soran.
“Let’s get him to the waypoint,” he said, taking Vex’s other arm and pulling it securely over his bad shoulder. They moved to the edge of the bonfire, preparing to rush across the line of fire. Soran cast Reya a look that said to keep up. “Go.”
They rushed across the shipyard, Vex barely managing to keep his legs moving beneath him as Canis and Soran carried most of his weight. Reya ran with them, finally grasping the full situation. She closed her eyes and struggled to find concentration amidst her panic. Blue magic fused around her hands, and then her entire body. She opened her eyes and thrust her arms firmly overhead, bringing them down in a wide arc. A dome of blue energy crackled into place around them, deflecting the arrows as they came. Soran looked back at her in surprise, not breaking pace. Reya couldn’t respond to him, needing all of her focus to maintain the spell, but they were soon back at the waypoint, where the others had gathered.
“How many wounded?” Soran asked as he strode quickly toward them, the dome fading away.
“Six,” Artib answered swiftly, “Nothing fatal.”
“Is everyone here?”
“Soran,” Groan said, pushing forward, “I was a’le to find all the sentinels cept Sid. Th’boy’s still missing.”
“Get ready to move out. I’ll look for him.”
“The job, Soran?” Artib asked, more surprised than opposed to the idea of retreating.
“The job never existed. We were set up,” Soran said sourly. “Stay here,” he ordered Reya, running back toward the shipyard.
Soran didn’t have to run far before he found Sid already limping back toward the waypoint at a jog. A rush of unexpected relief coursed through the elf as he spotted him, though it was checked by the dark stain across the man’s tunic. He studied Sid’s face carefully as he came up alongside him. Something darkened his normally cheerful features in a way much more troubling than Soran could attribute to mere pain.
“We’re moving out,” Soran said, matching his weakened pace.
“Yeah,” Sid answered solemnly, his voice different from any Soran had heard from him before.
Soran made no mention of Sid’s wounds for the moment. He knew Sid knew he had noticed them; he would address them later.
When they returned to the others, Everyone was mounted on the horses and ready to go. Groan rode behind Vex, supporting him upright, and Reya had been paired with Canis. “Can you ride?” Soran said lowly to Sid, who nodded irately and swung onto his own horse. Soran eyed him suspiciously and mounted as well, kicking his horse into a full gallop while the others followed suit.
It was a tense, two hour ride before they came to an abandoned building that they used as an unofficial stopover when they needed one. The building was two stories tall and nestled in a craterlike alcove amidst the rocky landscape, bordered by cliffs on three sides. As soon as they were there, Sid dismounted and walked calmly away from the others into the house. Soran watched him, getting the distinct impression Sid didn’t want the others to be aware of his injuries.
“Escort the girl back to the village,” he said to Canis. “The rest of you, see to the others.” He dismounted quickly and went inside after Sid. He walked up to the second story, where he found the door to the room Sid normally used closed. Soran knocked on it twice, then opened it and walked in. Sid was sitting on a threadbare couch in the back of the room, bent forward with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped one over the other. He didn’t look up at Soran.
“I’d rather you leave,” Sid said. That voice again.
“What happened back there?” Soran asked flatly, moving into the room to stand across from Sid.
“I said I want you to get out,” he returned more harshly, raising his head with an irritated look that seemed wholly alien on his face.
“You’re wounded.”
“I’ll take care of it myself.”
“As your general, I require you to explain what the hell’s going on,” Soran asserted.
Sid’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Don’t you dare talk like that to me, you elf bastard,” he growled, something wild and barely controlled lurking in his voice.
Soran felt a pang of guilt mixed with hurt. “At least get your wounds treated,” he said even more sternly to mask his reaction.
“So now the friendless prince of seclusion is going to get on my case for keeping to myself? Get out!” Sid barked dangerously, rising to his feet and staring a cold challenge straight down into the rogue’s face.
“If it affects the squad, then yes,” Soran scowled with forced pragmatism.
Sid reached his limit. His hand shot up in a fist and slammed across Soran’s jaw, sending the unsuspecting elf stumbling a step sideways before glaring back up at Sid in shock. Sid had never hit him that way before. It hurt more than he would have expected.
“A bastard like you who’s never let anyone close to him in his life won’t understand,” Sid growled accusingly.
Indignance flared in the elf’s eyes. Soran’s fist returned the punch, aiming automatically for Sid’s solar plexus, but the elf redirected it to the side, hitting his pectoral hard to mask his choice to divert the strike. “Don’t speak as if you know me,” he spat, low and cold.
Sid’s hand shot out and grabbed Soran’s upper arm forcefully, tugging the elf forward to glare straight into his face. Soran’s eyes winced half-closed. “How the hell would I know you, asshole?” Sid countered fiercely, tightening his fingers, then hesitated as a strained bark of pain escaped the elf’s throat.
Part of the anger in Sid’s expression was replaced by confusion, and he let go of the elf’s arm as if it were heated iron. Soran pulled back immediately, favoring his arm and looking away with a bitter frown.
Sid looked down at the slick blood on his fingers and squeezed them into a pensive fist. “Jeez. Acting so pushy when you’re wounded yourself,” he sighed critically, voice heavy with guilt and more of the raw emotion that had dragged it down earlier. A tense silence passed between them.
“What happened to you?” Soran said quietly, no longer demanding; simply asking.
Sid sank back into the sofa; standing up was clearly taking its toll on him. He took a deep breath, crossed his arms, found they irritated the gash on his side and uncrossed them again, laying them tensely across his knees as he had before. “We weren’t the only ones set up. I was ambushed during my watch. They brought me into the commodore’s cabin – I got the upper hand after playing dead for a while. The commodore was there, killed in his bed. I never liked the old bastard much anyway…”
Soran looked at him quietly. The man’s voice had begun shaking. He waited for Sid to regain his composure.
“Not just him,” Sid went on stiffly, “There was a woman with him, all curled up on his arm, and just as bloody as him. It was…there’s no doubt, it was Chelsea.”
Soran’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What?” he said, trying to sort out this last piece of information, “Your fiancé…you said she died a long time ago.”
“That’s what I was told,” Sid said, his voice getting tight. “Quite a convenient way to get rid of me, I have to admit.” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “I didn’t care much for my existence at the time; maybe they expected me to kill myself. Or she could have been forced…the commodore controlled everything in that yard. Or she-…” He broke off, shuddering, his head lowered to hide the tears that were cruelly bleeding through his controlled mask. “Damnit, this is why I wanted you to get out,” he choked.
Soran stared at Sid, worried and unsure what to do. It seemed so impossible for Sid to lose his composure that he was left without any idea of how to comfort him. Part of him was jealous of his emotional friend for feeling so easily the grief that he had never expressed for his own losses. Marx, Rone, his parents, the hundreds that had died by his hands whose faces were burned like bloodstains on his memory. He hadn’t cried for them, even once. Was he broken? He tore away from those thoughts, focusing on Sid.
Sid reached into his coat and pulled out his dagger, a drop of warm liquid falling onto it as he turned the blade thoughtfully in his fingers. Soran tensed, remembering Marx. He took a step toward Sid, plans racing through his head. “Sid,” he said tensely.
Sid looked up at him and saw the fear flashing in the elf’s eyes. Always acting so tough, he thought to himself with a weak smirk at his cold friend, You probably glare at people cause you know full well you get hopelessly attached to all of them. He turned his face away again, and tried to laugh. It came out closer to a subdued sob. “Yeah, relax. Shit, if you weren’t here, it would be so easy,” he complained, throwing the dagger halfheartedly across the room. Despite the fact that the elf’s behavior toward him had remained cold and stoic for all these months, nonetheless Sid felt somehow that Soran needed him. At least, it was what he wanted to believe. It was a kind of relief to see the elf stirred up the way he was for his sake, though he was in no state to really appreciate it.
Soran frowned as Sid seemed to lose his breath and fall forward for an instant before catching himself and pulling upright again. The elf placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and felt his sweating forehead. “That’s some fever.” He looked to the wide, wet stain on Sid’s brown shirt. “What did that?”
“Knife,” Sid said, still struggling to regain control of the tears that seemed to have taken over his being. “Don’t!” he ordered as the elf moved to inspect it. “Damn it, just leave it be for a while.”
“You’re going into shock, Sid. You’re upset, you’re not being rational,” Soran asserted uncomfortably, trying as civilly as possible to move away the hand that was guarding the wound.
“I said leave it! Damnit Rhen!” Sid warned brokenly, but didn’t stop Soran from moving his shirt aside and looking at the gash.
A knock came at the door. Soran and Sid exchanged a testy glance.
“Whoever it is, not a word about this,” Sid ordered.
“I’ll go,” Soran said, and stood up to go to the door.
He opened it enough to see Reya standing outside with an anxious expression. Canis stood behind her, looking frustrated. “I healed the others,” she said. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s fine,” Soran said, seeming distracted. “You were supposed to go back.”
“Soran, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“The ones we fought with will come after us here. They could be here any time.”
“It’s really important,” she tried to continue.
“Listen to me, Reya,” Soran interrupted sternly, the tension pent up from the situation with Sid taking the form of anger in his voice. “Go back right now. It’s not safe. You shouldn’t have been here in the first place. Let Canis escort you.”
“You don’t understand, I absolutely have to-”
“It’ll be okay. Meet me at the ruins tomorrow. Tell me about it then,” he asserted less harshly, actually not wanting to send her away, but this was no place for her and he needed to get back to Sid immediately.
“They’re here! Everyone at arms!” shouted one of the men downstairs.
Reya’s eyes shot back to him in desperation.
“Get out, I mean it,” Soran ordered, making the girl’s blue eyes swim with tears. “Canis,” he said sternly and the man stepped forward. Soran gestured toward the girl, and Canis nodded his understanding, taking her by the arm and pulling her toward the stairs.
“Soran!” she screamed in protest.
“It’ll be okay,” he reiterated firmly as her tear-filled eyes disappeared down the stairs.
oOoOoOoOo
To be Concluded…
-
Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Ok, 19 is going to be a biiiiig last chapter, so I'm going to post it as I write it *cackle* plus I could also really use feedback as I go. So here is the beginning.
Part 19
Soran woke with a silent start, blinking warily at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Throwing off his dreams like so many nets tossed over his head, he scanned the room and found Sid still where he’d left him, lying on the couch near the window. It had been a long night after the battle, seeing to Sid’s wounds and convincing him to sleep. Seeing the normally-optimistic man so crushed by his despair was a first for the elf. Sid’s depression hadn’t stopped him from making a shameless fuss while Soran treated his wounds, though. It was a long night before they were both able to go to sleep, and even then, Soran kept waking from his dreams.
The rogue was accustomed by now to his haunted visions of the past, but tonight it was different. It wasn’t himself he was seeing, but the girl, always in danger, always screaming out to him. He dug his fingers into his hair and thought. She’d been trying to tell him something. Was she in danger? Should he care? He’d always maintained a strict distance from the girl, and firmly rejected any attachments that threatened to develop to her. So why? Why was her face haunting his dreams? He’d learned from his experiences that attachments represented danger. That was the way it had to be in this world. It was foolish to afford to be concerned with anyone but yourself. He thought of how Reya always talked about the “other world”, asking questions about forbidden rumors that had somehow reached her ears. A dangerous fascination, but perhaps a justified one.
The elf got to his feet from where he’d been sleeping on the floor and went to Sid, checking him for lingering signs of the fever he’d been dealing with earlier.
“Who’d have thought “Soran Nightblade” would be such an attentive nurse,” Sid said, his mouth pulling up into a smirk while his eyes remained closed.
“You’re awake.”
“Don’t feel like sleeping. But really, I’m fine,” he said, opening one eye to look up at the rogue. “You’ve been checking on me all night. Get some sleep.”
Soran moved his hand away from Sid’s forehead and looked out the window. It would still be several hours before dawn. “It’s not that I’m worrying. I just woke up,” he said flatly.
Sid grinned and closed his eye again. Soran didn’t move, just staring outside.
“…Something you want to talk about?” Sid prodded a minute later after the elf still hadn’t left.
“No.”
Sid opened his eye again at Soran, who was facing away. “Something about that girl that was with you?”
Silence.
“What was she doing there in the first place? A girlfriend of yours?”
Soran frowned. “She’s not…probably. Just a kid who hangs around me when I practice.”
“A kid, huh? Looked like quite an attractive woman to me.”
“Well not to me,” Soran said too forcefully. “She was trying to tell me something.”
“It was dangerous here,” Sid commented knowingly. Soran wasn’t sure he was comfortable with how easily the man was reading his concerns, even if he was completely wrong about his relationship to Reya.
“I’m glad. It’s the first time you’ve told me about anything personal. Sort of a relief, you know?”
Soran’s cold eyes shot down to Sid thoughtfully. “I didn’t tell you something. You just brought it up on your own.”
“If you say so,” Sid teased, though emotional exhaustion crouched within his voice.
“What’s your excuse?” Soran said, changing the subject. “For being up.”
Sid seemed surprised to be asked a personal question by the elf, but looked up at the ceiling and obliged. “Plenty to think about.”
“Oh,” Soran commented when Sid didn’t elaborate, not about to pry.
“I didn’t send it this week,” Sid said. Soran’s eyes queried him blankly. “My report to General Rone, on your status. I wrote about half of it, and chucked it.”
Soran blinked. Shock, anger, and confusion battled in his expression, but the result was something closer to pain. He got a mental image of what his face looked like and struggled to make it anything else instead. Of course, Sid had been there to spy on him. He’d known that from the start, but somehow… He stared at Sid speechlessly, trying to hate him, but instead he just felt…numb.
Sid felt guilt stab him as he registered the expression on the elf’s face. He’d been convinced by Soran’s cold behavior that the rogue never trusted him for an instant, but now the elf seemed…unmistakably hurt. “Listen, Rhen. I didn’t just come here to spy on you. It was Rone’s one condition to my leaving that I maintain a correspondence with him on your status. The information I give him stays with him, and he gave his word not to try to come after you. I don’t know what happened between you, but something seemed wrong with the story that was going around, so I confronted Rone on it. When I heard you weren’t dead, I left to find you for my own purposes, alright? Not Rone’s.”
Soran finally managed to bring his expression into a glare, though it was an empty one. He turned away and returned to his side of the room, sitting down and leaning back into the wall.
“Rhen-”
“Soran.”
“…I didn’t expect you be upset.”
“I’m not. I anticipated this,” Soran said stiffly.
“I told you, that’s not why I came after you.”
“Is that so,” the rogue returned coldly.
“I’m serious.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re strong-willed, but you also think differently from the rest of us. As fascinating as it makes you to watch, it’s dangerous also. No matter how strong you are, acting on values like yours will eventually get you killed,” Sid explained sharply.
“You’re one of Rone’s pet dogs.”
“I came to watch out for you, and that’s what I’ve been doing. That’s why I’m telling you the situation!”
“It matters very little either way.” Soran’s voice was so cold that Sid’s next retort seemed to freeze in his throat. He hadn’t expected this reaction. It made him feel guilty and strangely helpless, like someone who’d just handed over his kid brother to a gang.
Soran stood up again, restless. “Tell the men I’m returning alone. Everyone is to meet at the Boar’s Head this evening to discuss last night.”
“The sun hasn’t risen yet.”
“What? Wanted to follow me?” the elf’s eyes met Sid’s in a challenge for a difficult moment before he left the room.
Sid watched the door close, stunned. He swung his fist sideways into the back of the couch in frustration, making no move to trail him.
Part 19
Soran woke with a silent start, blinking warily at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Throwing off his dreams like so many nets tossed over his head, he scanned the room and found Sid still where he’d left him, lying on the couch near the window. It had been a long night after the battle, seeing to Sid’s wounds and convincing him to sleep. Seeing the normally-optimistic man so crushed by his despair was a first for the elf. Sid’s depression hadn’t stopped him from making a shameless fuss while Soran treated his wounds, though. It was a long night before they were both able to go to sleep, and even then, Soran kept waking from his dreams.
The rogue was accustomed by now to his haunted visions of the past, but tonight it was different. It wasn’t himself he was seeing, but the girl, always in danger, always screaming out to him. He dug his fingers into his hair and thought. She’d been trying to tell him something. Was she in danger? Should he care? He’d always maintained a strict distance from the girl, and firmly rejected any attachments that threatened to develop to her. So why? Why was her face haunting his dreams? He’d learned from his experiences that attachments represented danger. That was the way it had to be in this world. It was foolish to afford to be concerned with anyone but yourself. He thought of how Reya always talked about the “other world”, asking questions about forbidden rumors that had somehow reached her ears. A dangerous fascination, but perhaps a justified one.
The elf got to his feet from where he’d been sleeping on the floor and went to Sid, checking him for lingering signs of the fever he’d been dealing with earlier.
“Who’d have thought “Soran Nightblade” would be such an attentive nurse,” Sid said, his mouth pulling up into a smirk while his eyes remained closed.
“You’re awake.”
“Don’t feel like sleeping. But really, I’m fine,” he said, opening one eye to look up at the rogue. “You’ve been checking on me all night. Get some sleep.”
Soran moved his hand away from Sid’s forehead and looked out the window. It would still be several hours before dawn. “It’s not that I’m worrying. I just woke up,” he said flatly.
Sid grinned and closed his eye again. Soran didn’t move, just staring outside.
“…Something you want to talk about?” Sid prodded a minute later after the elf still hadn’t left.
“No.”
Sid opened his eye again at Soran, who was facing away. “Something about that girl that was with you?”
Silence.
“What was she doing there in the first place? A girlfriend of yours?”
Soran frowned. “She’s not…probably. Just a kid who hangs around me when I practice.”
“A kid, huh? Looked like quite an attractive woman to me.”
“Well not to me,” Soran said too forcefully. “She was trying to tell me something.”
“It was dangerous here,” Sid commented knowingly. Soran wasn’t sure he was comfortable with how easily the man was reading his concerns, even if he was completely wrong about his relationship to Reya.
“I’m glad. It’s the first time you’ve told me about anything personal. Sort of a relief, you know?”
Soran’s cold eyes shot down to Sid thoughtfully. “I didn’t tell you something. You just brought it up on your own.”
“If you say so,” Sid teased, though emotional exhaustion crouched within his voice.
“What’s your excuse?” Soran said, changing the subject. “For being up.”
Sid seemed surprised to be asked a personal question by the elf, but looked up at the ceiling and obliged. “Plenty to think about.”
“Oh,” Soran commented when Sid didn’t elaborate, not about to pry.
“I didn’t send it this week,” Sid said. Soran’s eyes queried him blankly. “My report to General Rone, on your status. I wrote about half of it, and chucked it.”
Soran blinked. Shock, anger, and confusion battled in his expression, but the result was something closer to pain. He got a mental image of what his face looked like and struggled to make it anything else instead. Of course, Sid had been there to spy on him. He’d known that from the start, but somehow… He stared at Sid speechlessly, trying to hate him, but instead he just felt…numb.
Sid felt guilt stab him as he registered the expression on the elf’s face. He’d been convinced by Soran’s cold behavior that the rogue never trusted him for an instant, but now the elf seemed…unmistakably hurt. “Listen, Rhen. I didn’t just come here to spy on you. It was Rone’s one condition to my leaving that I maintain a correspondence with him on your status. The information I give him stays with him, and he gave his word not to try to come after you. I don’t know what happened between you, but something seemed wrong with the story that was going around, so I confronted Rone on it. When I heard you weren’t dead, I left to find you for my own purposes, alright? Not Rone’s.”
Soran finally managed to bring his expression into a glare, though it was an empty one. He turned away and returned to his side of the room, sitting down and leaning back into the wall.
“Rhen-”
“Soran.”
“…I didn’t expect you be upset.”
“I’m not. I anticipated this,” Soran said stiffly.
“I told you, that’s not why I came after you.”
“Is that so,” the rogue returned coldly.
“I’m serious.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re strong-willed, but you also think differently from the rest of us. As fascinating as it makes you to watch, it’s dangerous also. No matter how strong you are, acting on values like yours will eventually get you killed,” Sid explained sharply.
“You’re one of Rone’s pet dogs.”
“I came to watch out for you, and that’s what I’ve been doing. That’s why I’m telling you the situation!”
“It matters very little either way.” Soran’s voice was so cold that Sid’s next retort seemed to freeze in his throat. He hadn’t expected this reaction. It made him feel guilty and strangely helpless, like someone who’d just handed over his kid brother to a gang.
Soran stood up again, restless. “Tell the men I’m returning alone. Everyone is to meet at the Boar’s Head this evening to discuss last night.”
“The sun hasn’t risen yet.”
“What? Wanted to follow me?” the elf’s eyes met Sid’s in a challenge for a difficult moment before he left the room.
Sid watched the door close, stunned. He swung his fist sideways into the back of the couch in frustration, making no move to trail him.
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Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Here's the second part of 19 ^_^' One more to go!
Soran’s gait was swift and tense as he walked back toward the village. When it came into sight, he headed for the wilderness to the right of it instead, where the ruins were. It was mid-morning when he arrived there, and found the place empty. Part of him had thought the girl might have been there already. Avoiding thought, he went to the clearing in the middle of the ruins, passing among the worn marble walls that jutted haphazardly from the earth. He stopped at their center and stood there calmly, almost regally, like the king of a forgotten dynasty. He was in his element in this place.
Soran was hardly conscious of this as he lowered himself into an attacking stance and threw himself into a vicious form. The familiar weight of the heavy blades on his arms was a release for the rogue, and as he flew full-force through the motions of the form, he was able to take a break from consciously avoiding thoughts of what Sid had told him. He thought only of kicking, spinning, ducking, striking; yet there was a ferocity to his movement that normally only showed during real battles – the ferocity of fighting for survival. He felt it driving him forward, and embraced it. He didn’t need Sid. In the back of his mind, he’d always known what was happening. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t betrayed. Betrayal first required trust. What bothered him more was that he caught himself attempting to see past Sid’s actions, to find sincerity in his words, when he was no different from everyone else.
A sudden awareness that someone was behind him made him suddenly halt and glance behind him. Robed in blue, the girl was there, walking towards him with her usual graceful shyness.
Reya couldn’t prevent the faint smile that found its way to her lips as he looked back at her with that entrancing stare. She was relieved to find him safe. Without thinking, she ran the rest of the way to him, jumping over a low wall of stone and jogging to a stop a touch too deep into his personal space. She tipped her head shyly down as he took an involuntary step back.
“You’re early.”
“So are you,” she said almost sadly, raising her eyes to his.
Soran looked her over inconspicuously. She seemed fine. Maybe he’d been thinking about it for nothing. He closed his eyes and turned away, walking to a low wall and sitting down. Reya followed behind him and perched lightly next to him, no longer afraid of him as she was once, but not secure in his presence either. She was safer with him than anywhere else, but was she welcome?
“How is your shoulder?” she asked him.
Soran’s wouldn’t have answered except that the topic seemed to bring a bit of her usual spunk to her eyes. She seemed different from usual today. Subdued.
“It’s taken care of,” he responded to her for once.
“I can heal it,” she offered tentatively.
“It will heal itself,” Soran said calmly, looking out across the ruins.
Reya bit back a protest, studying her lap. He seemed different; more distant than the last few days.
“Is everything alright?” Soran asked her unexpectedly. She glanced up to find his green eyes studying her quietly.
“N-no. Yes!” she sputtered. Soran arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes,” she clarified, the spirit draining from her voice.
“I see,” he said, though her tone seemed strange.
Reya looked up at the sky anxiously. He seemed worried for her. It should have filled her with excitement, but instead she felt her spirit slip to the floor. “Soran…have you ever thought about joining the army?”
The rogue’s expression chilled. “No.”
“You wouldn’t, then,” she said carefully.
“No,” he said, harshness creeping into his tone.
“Do you enjoy living as a rogue? Would you do it your whole life?” She posed the question as carefully as possible, but the elf’s gaze still hardened enough to make her flinch.
“I will.” His voice was steady, cold.
“But do you want to?” she pushed quickly.
Soran frowned and looked away, not answering. She was more persistent than usual with her strange questions today.
Reya looked away also. She was blinking too much. Even if he wouldn’t answer her, she’d been around him enough to understand that he would not be controlled. He would never submit to Tromik’s demands. They would kill him.
No, it would be worse. She would kill him. It was too cruel to think about. He’d been betrayed by his parents, and now she would betray him as well.
After the girl seemed to have given up her question, Soran got up and sat down on the sun-warmed ground next to the wall. As strange as she was acting, he was persuaded now that she didn’t seem to be in any danger – not that he was worried – and the fact that he hadn’t slept last night finally struck his consciousness. Glancing up at Reya, he lay back on the grassy earth and closed his eyes. She made no sound, but he knew she was there. She was the only person he allowed to be there with him. She had been there for so long, quietly reading or watching him day by day, that he no longer gave a second thought to things like drifting off to sleep around her. In fact, only when she was there did he sleep at all. He was keenly aware of how frail the bonds of loyalty were, yet now he found himself accepting this girl.
He didn’t analyze the tolerance he extended toward her, or the way her presence calmed him, even on days like this. She was just there, a part of this place. “Why don’t you trust me?” she often asked him when he didn’t answer her questions. He never answered that one either. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, wasn’t it obvious he trusted her most? What did it matter whether she knew about his past?
The sun glowed red-orange through his closed lids. He squinted them open slightly as a shadow changed the color from red to black. He saw Reya standing over him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands were posed in front of her, thumbs pressed together and fingers spread out like wings. A warm, heavy tear dropped onto Soran’s cheek.
“Reya?” he said warily. “What happened?”
Reya shook her head, a silent sob making her shudder. Soran’s eyes narrowed protectively. He moved to sit up, but found his body strangely heavy. He looked down as if expecting ropes to be holding him down, but he was free. A blue light glowed around him, growing steadily stronger. It took a long moment for it to occur to him he was being betrayed. “Reya!” he demanded, throwing all of his effort into climbing to his feet. He clutched her wrist and looked intensely into her eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked her quietly, his voice aching with disbelief as a sense of unnatural exhaustion consumed him. His hand slid off her wrist and he collapsed to the ground, barely able to think. Her image faded as magic forced him into unconsciousness.
Soran’s gait was swift and tense as he walked back toward the village. When it came into sight, he headed for the wilderness to the right of it instead, where the ruins were. It was mid-morning when he arrived there, and found the place empty. Part of him had thought the girl might have been there already. Avoiding thought, he went to the clearing in the middle of the ruins, passing among the worn marble walls that jutted haphazardly from the earth. He stopped at their center and stood there calmly, almost regally, like the king of a forgotten dynasty. He was in his element in this place.
Soran was hardly conscious of this as he lowered himself into an attacking stance and threw himself into a vicious form. The familiar weight of the heavy blades on his arms was a release for the rogue, and as he flew full-force through the motions of the form, he was able to take a break from consciously avoiding thoughts of what Sid had told him. He thought only of kicking, spinning, ducking, striking; yet there was a ferocity to his movement that normally only showed during real battles – the ferocity of fighting for survival. He felt it driving him forward, and embraced it. He didn’t need Sid. In the back of his mind, he’d always known what was happening. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t betrayed. Betrayal first required trust. What bothered him more was that he caught himself attempting to see past Sid’s actions, to find sincerity in his words, when he was no different from everyone else.
A sudden awareness that someone was behind him made him suddenly halt and glance behind him. Robed in blue, the girl was there, walking towards him with her usual graceful shyness.
Reya couldn’t prevent the faint smile that found its way to her lips as he looked back at her with that entrancing stare. She was relieved to find him safe. Without thinking, she ran the rest of the way to him, jumping over a low wall of stone and jogging to a stop a touch too deep into his personal space. She tipped her head shyly down as he took an involuntary step back.
“You’re early.”
“So are you,” she said almost sadly, raising her eyes to his.
Soran looked her over inconspicuously. She seemed fine. Maybe he’d been thinking about it for nothing. He closed his eyes and turned away, walking to a low wall and sitting down. Reya followed behind him and perched lightly next to him, no longer afraid of him as she was once, but not secure in his presence either. She was safer with him than anywhere else, but was she welcome?
“How is your shoulder?” she asked him.
Soran’s wouldn’t have answered except that the topic seemed to bring a bit of her usual spunk to her eyes. She seemed different from usual today. Subdued.
“It’s taken care of,” he responded to her for once.
“I can heal it,” she offered tentatively.
“It will heal itself,” Soran said calmly, looking out across the ruins.
Reya bit back a protest, studying her lap. He seemed different; more distant than the last few days.
“Is everything alright?” Soran asked her unexpectedly. She glanced up to find his green eyes studying her quietly.
“N-no. Yes!” she sputtered. Soran arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes,” she clarified, the spirit draining from her voice.
“I see,” he said, though her tone seemed strange.
Reya looked up at the sky anxiously. He seemed worried for her. It should have filled her with excitement, but instead she felt her spirit slip to the floor. “Soran…have you ever thought about joining the army?”
The rogue’s expression chilled. “No.”
“You wouldn’t, then,” she said carefully.
“No,” he said, harshness creeping into his tone.
“Do you enjoy living as a rogue? Would you do it your whole life?” She posed the question as carefully as possible, but the elf’s gaze still hardened enough to make her flinch.
“I will.” His voice was steady, cold.
“But do you want to?” she pushed quickly.
Soran frowned and looked away, not answering. She was more persistent than usual with her strange questions today.
Reya looked away also. She was blinking too much. Even if he wouldn’t answer her, she’d been around him enough to understand that he would not be controlled. He would never submit to Tromik’s demands. They would kill him.
No, it would be worse. She would kill him. It was too cruel to think about. He’d been betrayed by his parents, and now she would betray him as well.
After the girl seemed to have given up her question, Soran got up and sat down on the sun-warmed ground next to the wall. As strange as she was acting, he was persuaded now that she didn’t seem to be in any danger – not that he was worried – and the fact that he hadn’t slept last night finally struck his consciousness. Glancing up at Reya, he lay back on the grassy earth and closed his eyes. She made no sound, but he knew she was there. She was the only person he allowed to be there with him. She had been there for so long, quietly reading or watching him day by day, that he no longer gave a second thought to things like drifting off to sleep around her. In fact, only when she was there did he sleep at all. He was keenly aware of how frail the bonds of loyalty were, yet now he found himself accepting this girl.
He didn’t analyze the tolerance he extended toward her, or the way her presence calmed him, even on days like this. She was just there, a part of this place. “Why don’t you trust me?” she often asked him when he didn’t answer her questions. He never answered that one either. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, wasn’t it obvious he trusted her most? What did it matter whether she knew about his past?
The sun glowed red-orange through his closed lids. He squinted them open slightly as a shadow changed the color from red to black. He saw Reya standing over him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands were posed in front of her, thumbs pressed together and fingers spread out like wings. A warm, heavy tear dropped onto Soran’s cheek.
“Reya?” he said warily. “What happened?”
Reya shook her head, a silent sob making her shudder. Soran’s eyes narrowed protectively. He moved to sit up, but found his body strangely heavy. He looked down as if expecting ropes to be holding him down, but he was free. A blue light glowed around him, growing steadily stronger. It took a long moment for it to occur to him he was being betrayed. “Reya!” he demanded, throwing all of his effort into climbing to his feet. He clutched her wrist and looked intensely into her eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked her quietly, his voice aching with disbelief as a sense of unnatural exhaustion consumed him. His hand slid off her wrist and he collapsed to the ground, barely able to think. Her image faded as magic forced him into unconsciousness.
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Soran Nightblade
- Avatar of Hope
- Posts: 10531
- Joined: Tue Jul 19, 2005 4:45 pm
- Location: NJ
Alright. Here it is. This is the (grand?) finale. Thank you so much to the people who read this far!
oOoOoOoOo
Reya lowered her eyes. It was unbearable to watch. His icy green stare was locked onto her, full of cold emptiness and stern agony. She no longer had the right to look into those eyes. It was her fault, all her fault. Salt stung beneath the bridge of her nose, but she refused to release it. How dare she, when he had not wept – had shown nothing when she let them take him away. She had betrayed him, and as though he had expected it all along, his cold stare was free of blame, making Reya’s throat tighten with shame. Even now, hung in irons and brutally beaten, he remained proud and wild. She stared at the floor, cheeks burning, flinching inwardly as she listened to each blow fall.
Soran could see the girl standing at the edge of the room. Her finely braided red hair and smooth, gentle face seemed out of place in this stone chamber full of chains and blades, a scar on its perfect cruelness. Tromik’s spiked whip rose and fell, its hook-lined surface ripping jagged gashes across the elf’s back, but the pain had already lost its novelty. He watched the girl solemnly, his vision blurring with each choked cry that escaped him. After what felt like hours, the beating stopped, leaving the rogue’s back with more flesh than skin exposed. The blood laced down his waist and legs and ran into his boots. Soran turned his neck to follow Tromik with an icy glare as the man circled around and stood in front of him.
“Well, have anything new to say?” he smiled, tapping the coiled whip against his shoulder cockily.
“I’m not signing my men over. You’re wasting your time,” the rogue growled. He’d already made his decision.
“Oh, that’s such a pity,” Tromik said lightly, digging his finger sharply along the length of one of Soran’s cuts, “But that’s all right. I was rather hoping to use my alternative plan anyway.”
Soran looked almost demonic as he glared upward at his captor, long dark hair hanging wildly about his face. “If you kill me, my men will never follow you.”
“Of course not. Who said I was going to kill you?” He gestured toward Reya with an eerie grin. “Dashing rogue general, murdered by his secret lover. Quite a headline, isn’t it? What a way to go!” He leaned in close to Soran, breathing musky air into the rogue’s face. “She’s quite a beauty, isn’t she? But no matter how she flirted and wooed, she couldn’t win your heart. What would you want with the duke’s little princess daughter anyway? The great Soran Nightblade thinks only of battle and has no heart to win, so in the heat of the night, when her body is curled up with yours, she is overcome by sorrow and takes your life.” His voice grew darker and colder as he continued the story, forcing Reya to clench her fists pensively; his words were too painfully close to reality.
Tromik smirked hatefully and grasped the elf’s chin, holding it to face him and leaning in toward his face. “Of course, your men will be overwhelmed with grief at the loss of the prodigy commander who trained and fought with them through countless battles. After all, their loyalty to you is practically legendary. But they will need money, something to live on. They will accept my generous offer to make them part of the Witch Queen’s army, and with the skills of the last legendary rogue militia on our side, we will conquer the Other World piece by piece until it is no more.”
Soran let this sink in, staring sternly out at the wall. The Other World… His men would be its downfall? He could hardly afford to worry about international politics at a time like this, but still, he was conscious of a sense of disappointment. It seemed like a useless sentiment, but if such a place really existed out there…he wanted to believe it would stay that way. The fire that was his back brought him bitterly back to the present. It was foolish to have gotten into this situation. The girl had intrigued him with her lightness, her playful, gentle way, but he had allowed himself to get too close. If his men only knew, he thought, they would never let him hear the end of it. He saw no way out, except to somehow survive.
“Reya, it’s time,” Tromik purred, and she slowly came to his side, dagger in hand, and stood facing Soran. Gradually, she raised her blue eyes to look into his beautiful face. It was empty of expression, as always. ‘Of course, why would he open himself to me now?’ she thought. Remembering her purpose, she tightened her grip on the weapon, wishing she’d never gotten herself into this. Behind his icy green eyes, he was different from her, from everyone in the Witch Queen’s kingdom. “You should have been born in Ighten,” she whispered sadly, placing a gentle kiss on his bloodied lips as she drove the dagger into his waist.
Soran winced, choking out a pained gasp as he felt the cold steel inside him. Everything took on a reddish tint and the world began darkening around him. Her betrayal stabbed him almost as deeply as the dagger. ‘How could she…Why?’ The questions burned in his mind.
“Damn…you,” he whispered before collapsing entirely into blackness, his body hanging limply from the chain.
Reya bit back tears. ‘I had no choice!’
“Well done, dear. The Witch Queen will surely recognize you for your loyalty,” Tromik praised venomously as two large soldiers entered the room. “Dispose of the body,” he ordered them, and turned back to Reya. “Then we’ll announce the murder, and you’ll be made a hero for bringing the rogues down.”
“Understood,” Reya said emotionlessly as the men unclipped the manacles from Soran’s hands and let his body fall to the ground. Without much effort, they hoisted the elf’s lean form up and walked to the tunnel entrance to the chamber, a secret corridor that surfaced in the forest outside the village.
“Well, my lady,” Tromik smiled when they were alone in the room, “How shall we celebrate? Or are you still angry with me?”
“I’ll admit this is for the best,” Reya said, her mouth pulling up into a slight grin as her eyes met his. “I wish to celebrate with you, as soon as my stomach settles. My training hasn’t accustomed me to seeing this much blood.”
“Very well. Rest first, and we will enjoy our good fortune later,” he said seductively, looping one arm low around her waist and drawing her towards him.”
“Then I will retire to my quarters briefly, and perhaps change into something more…appropriate,” she said in a shy, but sultry voice, fingering a button on the front of his shirt.
“By all means,” Tromik smirked, releasing her. He noted the sensual spark in her eyes with satisfaction as she turned and left the chamber.
Reya strolled down the wide hallway of her home and up the staircase to her room. She stepped inside and closed the door, resting her head against it as it locked. She closed her eyes, feeling the inevitable sting grow in her eyes and throat, but fought it back. If she was going to move up in the Queen’s ranks of sorcerers, she needed to get through this. She would even tolerate Tromik’s affection, if it was only for a short time. The politics of power horrified her, but though her skills were top-notch, a rare opportunity like this was the only chance she had of making a name for herself. She placed a hand over her mouth, suddenly ready to vomit. What was she doing? If Soran were with her, he probably would have told her to forget politics and expectations, and do what she felt. If she could have spoken to him the night before, surely… But she hadn’t, and only he could make that kind of thinking sound sane.
Still, she wasn’t about to completely submit to the system. She turned from the door and went to her desk, where a large spellbook intended for sorcerers three times her level lay open to a dog-eared page. She had studied the spell for hours after she returned the night before, but still she read through it hastily one more time before taking a deep breath and pulling a rope out of its hiding place in her drawer. A second spellbook lay beneath the first, but she did not need to review that one. The spell had caught her eye a long time ago, and though she’d never had a purpose to try it, she felt almost sure she could perform it without a hitch. She cleared her head and prepared herself; there wasn’t much time.
Fastening the rope to her bedpost, she climbed out the window and lowered herself precariously down into the yard outside, then held her hands in front of her and concentrated hard on locating the magical signature of the spell she had used to enchant the dagger that stabbed Soran. It was a weak spell, to be certain, but it was her own magic, and therefore she would be able to sense it if he was close enough. Luckily, he was. She spun to the left and ran toward the area where she sensed the magical aura, following it deep into the woods until she felt she must be on top of it. She looked around in confusion; he should be here.
She continued a few more yards through the underbrush, where she discovered a rocky ravine that might once have been a riverbed, but was now dry as sand. A still form lay sprawled at the base of the ravine. Her pulse went cold. She had enchanted the dagger with a weak healing ability that should have kept the rogue from dying from its strike, but she hadn’t counted on Tromik’s goons dealing him additional damage afterwards.
Taking a quick look around to make sure the two soldiers had left the scene, she scrambled down the steep embankment and half-tumbled to Soran’s side. He was lying face-down, and she couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Rearranging his arms, she managed to pull him onto his back, accidentally slicing her hand on one of his armblades as she did so. She ignored it and checked his pulse quickly. With a sigh of relief, she discovered it to be faint, but regular. The elf was terribly pale, and his chest barely moved with his breath. She examined the place on the left side of his waist where she had stabbed him. Blood drenched his stomach, making it hard to see, but the wound appeared to have almost finished closing. His back was another story, but she couldn’t afford to heal it. She needed all of her energy for what she was about to do.
The elf’s breath caught for an instant, his face creasing with pain. It seemed like he would wake up, but he fell still again, sweat shining on his brow. Reya watched his suffering with a guilty sigh. It had been the only way to save him, she insisted to herself. His ideals would have only destroyed him eventually. There was one last thing she had to do, and she dreaded it even more than she’d dreaded stabbing him. “You really don’t belong here,” she whispered unhappily, almost bitterly, “I can’t live like you. This will be my last foolish deed.” She mentally retraced the steps for the complex spell she had studied the night before. A teleportation spell. It was extremely rare to perform such a spell, but Reya believed she had enough potential to cast it. The catch was that the spell normally required a vivid mental image of the intended destination. Reya had no such image. She had only a vague awareness; a concept, an ideal. The Other World. If it even existed at all… She had to take the chance.
But even if she sent him there, knowing him, he would not be able to accept the existence of a refugee. He would not leave his militia to be absorbed into the Queen’s army. He would find a way to get back, because that was the reckless way he chose to live. That was why…why…
Reya reminded herself to stay composed as she readied herself for a different spell; one that would seal his memories of everything but practical knowledge, so that if he recovered, he would never return to the Witch Queen’s territory again. If he was to start a new life, he would need to be free of his memories of his militia, his captors, himself, and…of her. The tears finally flowed freely down her cheeks as she held both hands out above his face and closed her eyes, weaving together strands of magical energy that glowed blue around her fingertips. When the weave was complete, she opened her hands, directing the spell toward Soran. The blue light glowed around his head for several moments, slowly evolving to purple, then red, and finally fading altogether. And with that easy motion, his memory was gone.
Reya felt the strength drain from her legs and sank to her knees. The powerful spell had drained her more than she expected. Every mind was different, but Soran’s had fought her magic every inch of the way, violently resisting her intrusion. If not for his wounds, she may not have succeeded at all, but once her power broke through his defenses, the spell ran its course freely. She tried to regain her composure, swiping at her eyes tiredly. This was bad. She had used too much energy already; the other spell would take far more to execute properly. Nonetheless, she didn’t have much of a choice, now.
Kneeling next to him, Reya held her arms straight out over Soran, palms down. She took a deep breath, and began summoning energy from within her, slowly collecting like snow around her hands. Slowly, slowly her hands parted and spread wide to her sides, turning up toward the sky. She inclined her head upward and began the incantation, more and more power surrounding her until her entire arms glowed too brightly to be seen. Finally, she felt the power reach its peak, almost losing track of her place in the incantation as her hands closed tightly and the light condensed into her palms. Slowly, she released her hands, and two balls of light flew forward over the rogue and began spinning around his still form, faster and faster until a shield of blue light surrounded him.
With a sudden yelp of surprise, Reya’s arms curled into her chest. A dart of pain had come and gone in her chest, warning her that she was using too much energy. The shield flickered haphazardly. No, she was almost there! Thrusting her hands back out, she shouted the final words of the incantation, and a flash of light left her blinded. When the air cleared, he was gone. Soran was gone.
Reya rose back to her feet dizzily, barely able to stand after all the energy she had put into the spell. She stared at the rocky ground, dazed and lost. He was free. What was she to do now? Suddenly she could care less when she got back to the mansion, or what Tromik thought of her. Not yet…she would return to that life, she would be part of that world, but…not yet. Her legs began moving, taking her anywhere, anywhere but there. At length, a familiar scene greeted her as she stepped out among proud slabs of white stone, glowing pink in the moonlight. The ruins of the old temple seemed different to her tonight; magisterial, and tragic. A shadow played over the pale stones, and for a cruel moment, she mistook it for him, standing there fighting alone against enemies only he could see. She would always remember him that way, wild and strong. All he would have to remember her by, she regretted, was his scars. With a full mind, she turned and slowly walked away from that forgotten place, which now held meaning only to her.
Fine
oOoOoOoOo
Reya lowered her eyes. It was unbearable to watch. His icy green stare was locked onto her, full of cold emptiness and stern agony. She no longer had the right to look into those eyes. It was her fault, all her fault. Salt stung beneath the bridge of her nose, but she refused to release it. How dare she, when he had not wept – had shown nothing when she let them take him away. She had betrayed him, and as though he had expected it all along, his cold stare was free of blame, making Reya’s throat tighten with shame. Even now, hung in irons and brutally beaten, he remained proud and wild. She stared at the floor, cheeks burning, flinching inwardly as she listened to each blow fall.
Soran could see the girl standing at the edge of the room. Her finely braided red hair and smooth, gentle face seemed out of place in this stone chamber full of chains and blades, a scar on its perfect cruelness. Tromik’s spiked whip rose and fell, its hook-lined surface ripping jagged gashes across the elf’s back, but the pain had already lost its novelty. He watched the girl solemnly, his vision blurring with each choked cry that escaped him. After what felt like hours, the beating stopped, leaving the rogue’s back with more flesh than skin exposed. The blood laced down his waist and legs and ran into his boots. Soran turned his neck to follow Tromik with an icy glare as the man circled around and stood in front of him.
“Well, have anything new to say?” he smiled, tapping the coiled whip against his shoulder cockily.
“I’m not signing my men over. You’re wasting your time,” the rogue growled. He’d already made his decision.
“Oh, that’s such a pity,” Tromik said lightly, digging his finger sharply along the length of one of Soran’s cuts, “But that’s all right. I was rather hoping to use my alternative plan anyway.”
Soran looked almost demonic as he glared upward at his captor, long dark hair hanging wildly about his face. “If you kill me, my men will never follow you.”
“Of course not. Who said I was going to kill you?” He gestured toward Reya with an eerie grin. “Dashing rogue general, murdered by his secret lover. Quite a headline, isn’t it? What a way to go!” He leaned in close to Soran, breathing musky air into the rogue’s face. “She’s quite a beauty, isn’t she? But no matter how she flirted and wooed, she couldn’t win your heart. What would you want with the duke’s little princess daughter anyway? The great Soran Nightblade thinks only of battle and has no heart to win, so in the heat of the night, when her body is curled up with yours, she is overcome by sorrow and takes your life.” His voice grew darker and colder as he continued the story, forcing Reya to clench her fists pensively; his words were too painfully close to reality.
Tromik smirked hatefully and grasped the elf’s chin, holding it to face him and leaning in toward his face. “Of course, your men will be overwhelmed with grief at the loss of the prodigy commander who trained and fought with them through countless battles. After all, their loyalty to you is practically legendary. But they will need money, something to live on. They will accept my generous offer to make them part of the Witch Queen’s army, and with the skills of the last legendary rogue militia on our side, we will conquer the Other World piece by piece until it is no more.”
Soran let this sink in, staring sternly out at the wall. The Other World… His men would be its downfall? He could hardly afford to worry about international politics at a time like this, but still, he was conscious of a sense of disappointment. It seemed like a useless sentiment, but if such a place really existed out there…he wanted to believe it would stay that way. The fire that was his back brought him bitterly back to the present. It was foolish to have gotten into this situation. The girl had intrigued him with her lightness, her playful, gentle way, but he had allowed himself to get too close. If his men only knew, he thought, they would never let him hear the end of it. He saw no way out, except to somehow survive.
“Reya, it’s time,” Tromik purred, and she slowly came to his side, dagger in hand, and stood facing Soran. Gradually, she raised her blue eyes to look into his beautiful face. It was empty of expression, as always. ‘Of course, why would he open himself to me now?’ she thought. Remembering her purpose, she tightened her grip on the weapon, wishing she’d never gotten herself into this. Behind his icy green eyes, he was different from her, from everyone in the Witch Queen’s kingdom. “You should have been born in Ighten,” she whispered sadly, placing a gentle kiss on his bloodied lips as she drove the dagger into his waist.
Soran winced, choking out a pained gasp as he felt the cold steel inside him. Everything took on a reddish tint and the world began darkening around him. Her betrayal stabbed him almost as deeply as the dagger. ‘How could she…Why?’ The questions burned in his mind.
“Damn…you,” he whispered before collapsing entirely into blackness, his body hanging limply from the chain.
Reya bit back tears. ‘I had no choice!’
“Well done, dear. The Witch Queen will surely recognize you for your loyalty,” Tromik praised venomously as two large soldiers entered the room. “Dispose of the body,” he ordered them, and turned back to Reya. “Then we’ll announce the murder, and you’ll be made a hero for bringing the rogues down.”
“Understood,” Reya said emotionlessly as the men unclipped the manacles from Soran’s hands and let his body fall to the ground. Without much effort, they hoisted the elf’s lean form up and walked to the tunnel entrance to the chamber, a secret corridor that surfaced in the forest outside the village.
“Well, my lady,” Tromik smiled when they were alone in the room, “How shall we celebrate? Or are you still angry with me?”
“I’ll admit this is for the best,” Reya said, her mouth pulling up into a slight grin as her eyes met his. “I wish to celebrate with you, as soon as my stomach settles. My training hasn’t accustomed me to seeing this much blood.”
“Very well. Rest first, and we will enjoy our good fortune later,” he said seductively, looping one arm low around her waist and drawing her towards him.”
“Then I will retire to my quarters briefly, and perhaps change into something more…appropriate,” she said in a shy, but sultry voice, fingering a button on the front of his shirt.
“By all means,” Tromik smirked, releasing her. He noted the sensual spark in her eyes with satisfaction as she turned and left the chamber.
Reya strolled down the wide hallway of her home and up the staircase to her room. She stepped inside and closed the door, resting her head against it as it locked. She closed her eyes, feeling the inevitable sting grow in her eyes and throat, but fought it back. If she was going to move up in the Queen’s ranks of sorcerers, she needed to get through this. She would even tolerate Tromik’s affection, if it was only for a short time. The politics of power horrified her, but though her skills were top-notch, a rare opportunity like this was the only chance she had of making a name for herself. She placed a hand over her mouth, suddenly ready to vomit. What was she doing? If Soran were with her, he probably would have told her to forget politics and expectations, and do what she felt. If she could have spoken to him the night before, surely… But she hadn’t, and only he could make that kind of thinking sound sane.
Still, she wasn’t about to completely submit to the system. She turned from the door and went to her desk, where a large spellbook intended for sorcerers three times her level lay open to a dog-eared page. She had studied the spell for hours after she returned the night before, but still she read through it hastily one more time before taking a deep breath and pulling a rope out of its hiding place in her drawer. A second spellbook lay beneath the first, but she did not need to review that one. The spell had caught her eye a long time ago, and though she’d never had a purpose to try it, she felt almost sure she could perform it without a hitch. She cleared her head and prepared herself; there wasn’t much time.
Fastening the rope to her bedpost, she climbed out the window and lowered herself precariously down into the yard outside, then held her hands in front of her and concentrated hard on locating the magical signature of the spell she had used to enchant the dagger that stabbed Soran. It was a weak spell, to be certain, but it was her own magic, and therefore she would be able to sense it if he was close enough. Luckily, he was. She spun to the left and ran toward the area where she sensed the magical aura, following it deep into the woods until she felt she must be on top of it. She looked around in confusion; he should be here.
She continued a few more yards through the underbrush, where she discovered a rocky ravine that might once have been a riverbed, but was now dry as sand. A still form lay sprawled at the base of the ravine. Her pulse went cold. She had enchanted the dagger with a weak healing ability that should have kept the rogue from dying from its strike, but she hadn’t counted on Tromik’s goons dealing him additional damage afterwards.
Taking a quick look around to make sure the two soldiers had left the scene, she scrambled down the steep embankment and half-tumbled to Soran’s side. He was lying face-down, and she couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Rearranging his arms, she managed to pull him onto his back, accidentally slicing her hand on one of his armblades as she did so. She ignored it and checked his pulse quickly. With a sigh of relief, she discovered it to be faint, but regular. The elf was terribly pale, and his chest barely moved with his breath. She examined the place on the left side of his waist where she had stabbed him. Blood drenched his stomach, making it hard to see, but the wound appeared to have almost finished closing. His back was another story, but she couldn’t afford to heal it. She needed all of her energy for what she was about to do.
The elf’s breath caught for an instant, his face creasing with pain. It seemed like he would wake up, but he fell still again, sweat shining on his brow. Reya watched his suffering with a guilty sigh. It had been the only way to save him, she insisted to herself. His ideals would have only destroyed him eventually. There was one last thing she had to do, and she dreaded it even more than she’d dreaded stabbing him. “You really don’t belong here,” she whispered unhappily, almost bitterly, “I can’t live like you. This will be my last foolish deed.” She mentally retraced the steps for the complex spell she had studied the night before. A teleportation spell. It was extremely rare to perform such a spell, but Reya believed she had enough potential to cast it. The catch was that the spell normally required a vivid mental image of the intended destination. Reya had no such image. She had only a vague awareness; a concept, an ideal. The Other World. If it even existed at all… She had to take the chance.
But even if she sent him there, knowing him, he would not be able to accept the existence of a refugee. He would not leave his militia to be absorbed into the Queen’s army. He would find a way to get back, because that was the reckless way he chose to live. That was why…why…
Reya reminded herself to stay composed as she readied herself for a different spell; one that would seal his memories of everything but practical knowledge, so that if he recovered, he would never return to the Witch Queen’s territory again. If he was to start a new life, he would need to be free of his memories of his militia, his captors, himself, and…of her. The tears finally flowed freely down her cheeks as she held both hands out above his face and closed her eyes, weaving together strands of magical energy that glowed blue around her fingertips. When the weave was complete, she opened her hands, directing the spell toward Soran. The blue light glowed around his head for several moments, slowly evolving to purple, then red, and finally fading altogether. And with that easy motion, his memory was gone.
Reya felt the strength drain from her legs and sank to her knees. The powerful spell had drained her more than she expected. Every mind was different, but Soran’s had fought her magic every inch of the way, violently resisting her intrusion. If not for his wounds, she may not have succeeded at all, but once her power broke through his defenses, the spell ran its course freely. She tried to regain her composure, swiping at her eyes tiredly. This was bad. She had used too much energy already; the other spell would take far more to execute properly. Nonetheless, she didn’t have much of a choice, now.
Kneeling next to him, Reya held her arms straight out over Soran, palms down. She took a deep breath, and began summoning energy from within her, slowly collecting like snow around her hands. Slowly, slowly her hands parted and spread wide to her sides, turning up toward the sky. She inclined her head upward and began the incantation, more and more power surrounding her until her entire arms glowed too brightly to be seen. Finally, she felt the power reach its peak, almost losing track of her place in the incantation as her hands closed tightly and the light condensed into her palms. Slowly, she released her hands, and two balls of light flew forward over the rogue and began spinning around his still form, faster and faster until a shield of blue light surrounded him.
With a sudden yelp of surprise, Reya’s arms curled into her chest. A dart of pain had come and gone in her chest, warning her that she was using too much energy. The shield flickered haphazardly. No, she was almost there! Thrusting her hands back out, she shouted the final words of the incantation, and a flash of light left her blinded. When the air cleared, he was gone. Soran was gone.
Reya rose back to her feet dizzily, barely able to stand after all the energy she had put into the spell. She stared at the rocky ground, dazed and lost. He was free. What was she to do now? Suddenly she could care less when she got back to the mansion, or what Tromik thought of her. Not yet…she would return to that life, she would be part of that world, but…not yet. Her legs began moving, taking her anywhere, anywhere but there. At length, a familiar scene greeted her as she stepped out among proud slabs of white stone, glowing pink in the moonlight. The ruins of the old temple seemed different to her tonight; magisterial, and tragic. A shadow played over the pale stones, and for a cruel moment, she mistook it for him, standing there fighting alone against enemies only he could see. She would always remember him that way, wild and strong. All he would have to remember her by, she regretted, was his scars. With a full mind, she turned and slowly walked away from that forgotten place, which now held meaning only to her.
Fine