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Agidia The Warrior's Way

Chapter Two

By JT SPIDAPublished 3 years ago 11 min read
1
Chapter 2

The ocean gently placed a salty kiss on his lips, and he awoke amid the tattered wreckage of his once beautiful ship. He stood and felt the warmth of the sun bath his face as he stretched and made note of every ache and pain that his body reported. Feeling only minor soreness and stiffness, he immediately turned his attention to the wreckage and retrieved his crate from the gaggle of timbers and cloth. He placed the trunk onto the sand and released the lock. An approving smile crept across Taxus’s hard face as the lid slid open, revealing the keen edges of his golden weapons. He raised up the broadsword and held it to the sun, turning it this way and that, from angle to angle, inspecting its keenness. When satisfied, he placed it on the sand as carefully as if it were a priceless work of art and scooped the ax from its resting place. He held its edges to the sun, canting it left and right, amazed at how perfect the balance was. When finished, he gingerly laid it by the sword and returned to the trunk. He removed a short, black, saffron robe and slid it over his shoulders, fastening his weapons belt around his waist to hold the robe in place. There was a black sack, which he knew would contain his rations, honing stones, and fire sticks. He slid his arm through its sash so that the sack hung snugly to his back. He drew up his weapons slid them through the loops of his sword belt and headed down the white, sandy beach at a comfortable trot, enjoying the gentle breeze as the air parted before him and the sweet, new smells carried to his nostrils.

DT-33 (Dimensional Tracking Team) patrol of Wasteland grid 5; He saw the sandy beach through a green haze as his night vision goggles used the ambient light from the moon and stars to cut through the blackness that engulfed the shore. He crept along the beach, black clad and quiet, followed by three others of the same type. He came to an abrupt halt, dropped to his knee, and spoke quietly into his communications unit, “Wreckage, ten meters.” He continued, “Fan out, four abreast, five meters separation; converge.”

He stood slowly as his three subordinates formed a straight line across the beach with five meters between each man, with weapons trained on the wreckage of what appeared to be a small ship. The leader’s voice could be heard through the in each of his subordinate’s helmet. “Sensor sweep, report.” He waited patiently for his officers to report the findings of their various sensory equipment. “Thermal, nothing; motion, nothing; portal scan, active residual, sir.”

When the group reached the scene, the leader’s gruff voice was heard in the others’ ears. “Continue scans, set perimeter, basic scene investigation. We’ve got a recent transport; identify and destroy.”

The voice of his lieutenant jumped crisply into his ears. “Sir, you need to see this.”

The leader came to his second’s side. His helmet and faceplate concealed the disapproving frown that crossed his face as he gazed at the still visible imprints of weaponry and feet. “Unknown is armed and moving; let’s move out. It can’t be too far away.”

Southern Coast. Traxus galloped down the beach for most of the night until just before sun rise. It was then, that he caught a glimpse of city lights towering high above the coast, cradled amidst the trees. Though he felt that he could run until the sun came forth full and bright, he decided to venture into the dense wooding and search out the city. The wilderness was alive with sounds and species of animals completely alien to his alien eyes. His thoughts were interrupted as the earth shook beneath his feet with a thundering roar. Apparently, there was some very large game, he thought. He walked until the sun was high above his head and then squatted on a mossy patch under an overhanging branch of an extremely large tree, far larger than he had ever seen.

He pulled a container from his pack; inside was a block of engineered meat, a half loaf of a spiced cake, and a flask of nutrient-enriched water, more than enough to sustain a warrior for a day. He relaxed and began to devour his meal. As the sun settled on the horizon, he found himself at the mouth of a bridge made of sturdy-looking mortar.

The forest floor that had been beneath him was now gone, replaced by a morass that covered the land as far as his keen eyes could see; the lights of the city loomed teasingly in the distance. The afternoon sun was low on the horizon when the warrior came upon what appeared to be a border. The marsh grew into a somewhat sturdier form land and a bridge stretched across a fast-moving stream. Two tall brick and mortar platforms straddled the bridge and sank deep into the swamp. The structures were linked together by a nearly eighteen-foot wall of barbed wire intermingled with what appeared to be junk—was an extremely durable mesh composed of iron and steel. He approached the gate and was greeted by a metallic being that emerged from an alcove in the side of one of the towers. The being scrutinized Traxus momentarily and then spoke, “You are psionic.” Its rasp continued, “What is your business in Alexandria?”

“I am Traxus, son of Clodus,” His speech came proud as a lion’s roar.

“You are psionic, mercenary; you may enter. Please register all firearms at the gatehouse on the right. There are employment postings in the saloon. Enjoy your visit and do obey the laws.” The metal man retreated back into the dark portal, and the gate retracted with a slow creak.

Traxus stepped past the gate as it slid open, and he found a city of newer structures built on top of or around the massive piles of debris that now served as foundations and supports for the residences and businesses of the town. There was a vast diversity of dress, appearance, and even species of the inhabitants of this place, Alexandria, his new home. He found that a great number of the people were walking the streets going in and out of the shops that were scattered along the pathways, and to his great surprise, some even flew from the heavens to land and entered some of the establishments. What sort of witchery could this be, he thought? He had seen several of the enemies of his people take flight and rain death upon his clan, but every time the evil was overcome. He trooped down the narrow, broken street, attracting many looks from the people standing or walking along his path. It was not that his dress or look was different, rather that the amazement of the brand-new sights, smells, and sounds of the new place was readily visible on his face and a desire to see it all burned in his heart. The warrior stopped his stroll to admire the form of a very eye-catching woman. Her legs tightened and relaxed in the steady rhythm of her stride, and his eyes followed them as she turned to enter a wooden building across the street. Traxus whirled around as a figure approached from his rear, and he took a step back as he sized up his visitor. Seeing the agitated look on the young man’s face, the short, robust man held up a halting hand. He stroked his long, black beard as he spoke, “Nay preacher, I didna’ mean to startle ya,” he said with a slight shake of his head and jabbed a finger accusingly to where the woman had been. “But steer ya gaze from dat one der. She be bad news, yea.”

Traxus paused noticeably trying to interpret the man’s words; “And what would be your idea of sport,” Traxus asked?

“Dat be a good question, and me, Frise, I got for ya a good answer for ya too. Ya see, I be headed to enjoy some of dis swamp’s finest spirits. Ya can come if ya like. Ya look to me like ya could use a drink of sometin’ cold.” Frise continued up the street and motioned for Traxus to follow. Traxus stood his ground for only a second or two before giving in to the invitation. He quickened his stride to catch up to the man who called himself Frise. When he fell in step, the man turned to him. “What be your name, boy,” Frise asked?

“I am Traxus, son of Clodus.”

Frise reached up and placed a firm grip firm on Traxus’s shoulder then began to lead the warrior to a place where many men and woman mingled while eating and drinking. They approached a round; concrete table occupied by two other men. Frise extended his right hand to the large, blonde-haired man seated to the right of the table. The blonde man grasped Frise’s wrist as Frise also clamped onto his; each gave a curt nod to each other before releasing their grips. The man seated to the left of the table had a long, silver ponytail, brightly ordained with beads and jewels, which draped over his right shoulder and glittered with brilliance against his black vest. It was to this man, that Frise sharply placed his right fist to his heart and bowed smartly.

The blonde man gestured to the empty seats and spoke, “We were just about to eat; join us.” Frise and Traxus took their seats, he gestured to a server. Within minutes, the woman placed four large, metal goblets and a pitcher filled with a dark liquid on the table. “We’ll have pheasant,” the blonde man said and was acknowledged by the mistress with a smack of her lips.

The man with the ponytail poured himself a full cup from the pitcher, took down a stern gulp, then stood from his seat and began to speak, “You, gentlemen, enjoy a drink while you wait for the meal,” He smacked his hand on Frise’s shoulder, “I need to speak to my associate; Excuse me, please.” Frise rose from his seat and followed the man with the ponytail past a group of men and out the door.

At the table, Traxus and the blonde man each filled their cups; the liquid was sweet and cool to Traxus’s palate, and his cup was half empty when he placed it on the table. Traxus and the blonde man leered greedily at the platter of eight steaming birds as the server placed it on the table and began to feast on the moist meat seconds after she turned and left the table. Traxus quickly disposed of a fair portion of the meal before finishing his drink. He swiped his hand across his mouth as he stood. “Thank you for the food and drink, but I must take my leave,” he said, extending his hand to the blonde man. His gratitude and departure were acknowledged by a stiff nod of the blonde man’s head, but his hand was ignored. The blonde man’s eyes followed the stranger as he walked from the table and exited the inn. Within seconds, his combat programming relayed its assessment of the boy. This is a dangerous man, he surmised.

Ponytail and Frise walked a few blocks from the building and turned into a courtyard, an area roughly an acre in size that had been cleared of debris to serve as a training field for the local militia. They stood by a tree and Ponytail closed his eyes, and within seconds, the world around them fell silent. He spoke with an air of annoyance, “Who is this stranger and why have you brought him to me?”

“But his aura is like none Frise have seen before, yea. At first ’t was not even dere! But when me startled him, damn ting nearly jumped out and bit me. Dis guy here be somethin’ tough, yea, could be da one, me tinks,” Frise said.

“Are you sure, Frise, my Creole friend? Willing to bet your Cajun life on this stranger’s mysterious identity? I hope so, because you already have. We will handle the situation for you, but I warn you against crossing the S.O.D.,” Ponytail reported with a raised finger shaking slowly in the air. The S.O.D was a mercenary group formed and led by the man known as Ponytail. They specialized in delicate matters that often were of a religious nature and were known to locate and protect locations, people, and artifacts that would be otherwise destroyed by the Nationals. “I tell you, Frise; this whole deal reeks with the foul smell of foolishness. Now let us return to our meal,” Ponytail snapped. The courtyard suddenly became alive with sound again, and the two men began walking back to the tavern.

Fantasy
1

About the Creator

JT SPIDA

military veteran

father

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