Deadly Origins

Furl sat in the large command tent, sipping a non-intoxicating beverage. It was tart with a faintly bitter aftertaste, but it was better than the stale water he’d been drinking in this velching camp for the past six days.

“So, friend, what do you think our Highness wants from us today?”

Furl glanced at his companion. Will Master and former Mind Scythe, Scador looked much younger than his fifty years. He wasn’t a large man, but the mass he did have was all taut muscle and thick bones. His eyes and hair were both light brown, almost the same color as his skin. Overall, he gave off the impression of a masterful sculpture.

“Our blood and bodies, as usual,” Furl replied, almost without thinking.

Scador chuckled. “Arkadia knows that’s the truth.”

“Have you had any success in finding out more about the Kritons?” Furl asked, trying to cover his embarrassment at having spoken of Arellia so brashly.

“Nothing definitive. We only know for certain that they withdrew protection from the border. Some people are claiming suspicious movement from the Kriton military and spy network, but they haven’t come up with anything solid.”

Furl nodded, swishing the drink in his cup absentmindedly.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Scador pulled out a folded up piece of paper from the uniform pocket sown over his left thigh. Furl took it, noting the crinkled corners and small stain of some liquid darkening one side. He cocked an eyebrow.

“It looks like you more than almost forgot.”

Scador shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Arellia has been keeping me on my toes.”

Furl waved the paper in his hand dismissively. “No matter. What it is?”

The warrior shrugged. “Professor Aldern gave it to me the other day when he spotted me. Said he couldn’t find you, but he had the information you asked him about. Said to give this to you.”

Ah. Professor Aldern was a specialist in linguistics and foreign relations. Furl had asked him to investigate the origin of the name ‘Aegon’, but had nearly forgotten about the task.

Fully expecting to find nothing of interest, he unfolded the paper-it was stuck together in one corner and he had to be careful not to rip it-and began to read.

Fiedon,

This is a most unusual task you have set me about. I must admit, I was baffled at your request. Now I have come to understand the urgency of the task you have laid before me. Should I be so trusted, I would greatly appreciate an explanation as to what circumstances brought about this specific investigation.

The name ‘Aegon’ is not found in its pure form in any Manicoti dialect, including ancient renditions of current names. A form of it, Aegor, is found among several groups of Islanders. I can find no other traces of it through history in any text from other nations, and it is not in circulation among the remaining Free Nations.

However, in my investigation, I discovered an interesting trend within the Bound Territories. As the Delani have taken the people under their rule, the people have begun to assimilate certain cultural behaviors, including language patterns. Names such as ‘Egan’ or ‘Agelon’ have become more common, likely because these are easier for the Unaki to pronounce. As far as I can determine, the name ‘Aegon’ is of Delani origin.

If I may be so bold as to request, I would be greatly obliged to hear from your own mouth where you heard this name.

With deepest respect, your friend and servant, Prof A

Furl felt his hand slowly go limp, and he let the paper fall into his lap. He stared, uncomprehending, at the tent flaps for a few moments.

“Hmmm. Do you mind explaining to me what this means?”

Scador’s voice broke into Furl’s reverie. He glanced sideways to see that his friend had come to read the message over his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed Scador move.

“I’m not sure,” Furl admitted. “Maybe nothing.” But he doubted it.

***

The rider Joree was facing dismounted, a gleaming sword reflecting starlight. The other riders remained in place. With a brief glance, Joree counted six in total.

“Surrender,” the rider said, voice low and muffled from within his helm. “Come quietly and you will not be harmed.” His accent was clearly foreign. Joree had rarely heard a Kriton speak, but if he had to guess, he would say this man came from Kritose.

Aniah’s grip tightened on Joree’s arm. He could feel her tension and fear.

“What do you want with us?” Joree demanded, more to gain himself some time to think than to get answers. He had little faith in this Kriton’s promise that they would not be harmed if they surrendered peacefully.

“You are not in a position to be making demands,” the rider said, a cool edge coming into his voice. “I am going to come forward now and tie your wrists. If either of you move, you will receive a swift blow to the head from my companion here.” He nodded over Joree’s shoulder. Joree glanced back to see another figure dismounting, brandishing a large cudgel.

Joree desperately wished for the ability to use Will. He was weaponless except for a small throwing knife, and he would have to protect Aniah as well. She would be useless in a fight.

Wait.

Aniah could use Will. And, admittedly, she could use it well. Kritons were known for their physical prowess and weapons training, but when it came to mind attacks, Manicot was Master. These men would be able to use Will, but they wouldn’t be trained.

All this flashed through Joree’s mind in an instant. The man with the sword had only taken a couple steps closer. Speaking quietly out of the corner of his mouth, Joree said, “Aniah, how many people can you attack with Will at once?”

From the corner of his eye, he could see terror flash across her face.

“Three, maybe,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Stop whispering,” the man with the cudgel shouted from behind them. “Or I’ll knock the words right out of you.”

This would be their only chance. “On my signal,” Joree whispered, “hit the man with the cudgel, the man in front of us, and the one just to our left.”

She whimpered softly. Flames, he hoped she wasn’t too panicked to act.

He waited until the man was only a few paces away.

“Now!” he hissed urgently. In an instant, three voices cried out in pain. The man with the sword stumbled, throwing a hand to his head and nearly dropping his sword. Joree grabbed Aniah’s hand and jerked her forward, towards the sword man’s horse.

“Drop those three and hit the others!” he shouted. Commotion had broken out all around them as people tried to figure out what was going on.

Aniah must have done as he asked, for more cries of pain and alarm sliced through the night.

They reached the horse and Joree swung up onto its back in a fluid motion. He had done his share of riding in his lifetime. The horse whinnied and jerked, but he pulled it under control.

The man with the sword had recovered and was charging them now. Aniah cried out, and must have shot a blast of Will at him, for he slowed briefly. He had been expecting it this time, though, and handled it much better.

Joree grabbed Aniah’s arm and hauled her onto the saddle in front of him. She cried out in surprise and probably pain as she was jerked into the air by her arm. Well, better a dislocated shoulder than captivity and torture.

Joree spurred the horse into motion, and they began to gallop away. He picked a direction at random and moved as quickly as possible through the dark woods. It was painfully slow, as he didn’t want to risk the horse spraining an ankle. He could distinctly hear the sounds of pursuit behind them, angry shouting and stamping hooves.

Something whizzed by Joree’s head. He felt the air of it brush his ear. A thud followed a moment later, and Joree briefly saw the shaft of an arrow sticking from a tree before the horse galloped past it.

He cursed violently, ducked his head to present a smaller target. Another arrow thunked into a tree to their right, this one several paces off target. “I need you to keep them occupied as best as you can,” he shouted, bending towards Aniah. “Keep attacking them.”

Based on the fact that she didn’t give any snarky response, he assumed she must be concentrating on her task.

The sound of hooves grew louder. Joree risked a glance back, and saw that two riders were gaining on them. He tried to urge his mount faster, but he had little experience guiding a horse in the dark, let alone trying to go full speed through the forest. Soon, a rider was right on their tail, a wicked blade held out to the side. Joree cried out as the blade slashed forward, expecting to feel his skin ripping open. Instead, his mount let out an ear-splitting shriek of pain.

He slashed the horse, Joree realized, horrified. The horse jerked wildly, panic and fear overcoming its training. Joree tried to hold on, but couldn’t keep both himself and Aniah in the saddle. She lost her grip first, and soon they were both thrown violently to the ground. He managed to wrap his arms around her and roll with the impact, dispersing some of the force. Still, the air was knocked from his lungs and he felt his hip crack against something hard. A rock, probably.

Aniah was shaking and crying uncontrollably, her eyes squeezed shut. He tried to speak to her, but no sound came out.

The other riders were catching up now. Joree managed to gain enough breath to push himself to his knees.

“We…we have…to run,” he wheezed, reaching for Aniah. His shoulder flared with agony as he tried to pull her off her back. She responded to his weak tugging, and they both stumbled up.

Joree collapsed again immediately, his hip giving out from under him. Aniah cried out, reaching instinctively towards him. He waved her away.

“Get out of here,” he growled weakly. “Hide. Run. Just go.”

She looked at him with terror in her eyes, and then grimaced. She stepped forward, putting herself between him and the approaching attackers. Two had dismounted and were approaching with swords. The others were moving to surround them again.

“What in the Flames are you doing?” Joree gasped.

“Trying to earn some of that authority you were telling me about,” she said wryly. The two men coming towards them stumbled, one falling to his knees. Another man suddenly lurched, falling from his horse with a scream. Others gasped or momentarily lost control of their mounts, holding their heads or drooping in their saddles.

One of them started to shout in a language that Joree didn’t understand. Slowly, several of the men regained their wits.

Something changed. It wasn’t visible, but Joree could sense the tension in the air shift. Aniah gasped, going down on one knee. The men began to advance closer again.

They must be attacking her all at once. That was the only way for a group of untrained Will users to outdo someone skilled and powerful. As with a physical attack, even a poorly trained group could overwhelm a more skilled foe with enough numbers.

Joree struggled to his feet, placing one hand against a nearby tree to steady himself. They were in serious trouble. He was injured and Aniah was under heavy attack. The men didn’t seem willing to offer them a peaceful surrender this time.

Now, more than ever, he needed to use Will. In desperation he reached within himself and tried to push the power out. But as always, his was met with the Wall. He strained against it, but it was like trying to break through steel with his breath. He wished he could put his wall in front of Aniah, protect her from the attacks of the others. She was on her hands and knees now, head bent. He could feel the energy draining away from her as if it were a physical sensation. He could also feel the energy radiating, albeit weakly, from the attackers, focused towards Aniah. He could feel his own Will, but it remained unresponsive, a cold lump inside his gut. Or maybe that was just his fear.

With nothing else to do, Joree stumbled to stand over Aniah protectively. At that moment, the last wisps of energy puffed away from her like the final tendrils of fog in the morning. She collapsed to the ground, barely breathing.

“Wait,” Joree said, holding up his hands, wincing as the motion irritated his shoulder. “Please, don’t hurt us. We surrender.”

The man before him barked a harsh laugh, which was taken up by the several others. The power of Will had stopped flowing from them once Aniah collapsed. At least, Joree thought it had. Some distant part of his mind registered that he had never heard of people being able to sense interactions of Will between two external parties.

“Somehow, my mercy seems to have gotten lost somewhere on the ride,” the leading attacker said. Joree could hear his humorless smile beneath the helm. The attacker looked down at Aniah. “I hardly think it is fair that the lady should be the one to take the brunt of the pain. And it seems you will be much easier to deal with in such a…pliable state. What do you think, my friends?”

A few grunts and even chuckles answered.

“Well, then. Let us get on with it.”

They stopped advancing, standing to stare at Joree intently. He frowned, waiting for the attack. They did nothing for a long, extended moment.

What was going on? They just stood watching him behind their helms, as if waiting for something.

Then he sensed something very faint. A slight energy, like he had felt between the attackers and Aniah.

They were trying to use Will on him. He couldn’t suppress the tiny smirk that came to his lips. He was still in danger and was about to end up with a concussion at best, no head at all at worst, but this small moment gave him a tiny sense of pleasure.

Their Will streamed from their bodies, weak rivulets of energy that coalesced into tiny eddies in the air. He could almost see it. He felt that if he reached out his hand, he could touch it. Almost without thinking, he lifted his fingers.

And felt a soft tingling run up his hand, then course through his body. He shuddered, feeling as though he had been imbued with the power of a lightning strike, somehow without being harmed by it. He lifted his hand, examining it. It looked…like a regular hand. But it felt like he was holding something wild and violent, something that was trying to break free from his grip. His palms grew hot, and he instinctively released it.

Something shot away from Joree, a ripple in the air so faint he doubted anyone else noticed. It streaked away and struck a man in the shoulder. The man was thrown violently to the side with a shout.

Other people cried out or murmured, looking for an ambush but seeing no one. Joree stared at the fallen man, equally dumbfounded. He looked back at his hands. Had he done that?

“Kyon hunj oi! Yu mon huekin shi-” The leader, who had been shouting, seemed to release he was speaking the wrong language.

“What was that? Who is with you? Where are they hiding?” he demanded. Suddenly, the outpouring of Will from the man intensified. This time, Joree could sense it more clearly. Tentatively, he reached out again. He wondered if he was crazy. Had he actually touched Will before, or had that been his addled mind compounded with injury?

But as before, the power radiated through his body, focused in the palm of his hand. This time, he directed it towards the leader of his attackers.

The man shot backwards nearly ten paces, landing on his back with a crunch. Joree didn’t wait to for him to get up. He pulled the remaining strands of Will from the air and started firing at random. The pulses were weaker, but enough to knock one man from his horse and cause another to drop his sword.

By then, then men were panicking, sure they were under attack. Someone started yelling, and they began to retreat into the darkness, several rider-less horses thundering after them.

The leader remained motionless. Joree approached him cautiously, limping the whole way. He crouched beside the man. His breastplate looked as though it had been crushed inward by something enormous, although he had landed on his back.

Joree removed the man’s helm and checked his neck for a pulse with trembling fingers.

Nothing. Joree sat back with a stunned thump. He had-he had killed someone. He didn’t feel guilty, just surreal.

He looked down at his hands again, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing. He had never done anything like that before. In fact, he didn’t think that anyone had ever used Will in the way he had tonight.

It must have been some sort of trick, some fluke.

But if it wasn’t, a small part of him wondered, what in Arkadia’s Flames was he?