Separate Realms

There were many aspects of being a soldier that Jistan had never considered. When people told tales of war, they usually stuck to the grand scope of battles. Casualty numbers, major wins and losses, turning points. Both storytellers and history books neglected the little details, like boring night watch, even more boring food selection, or the hundreds of minor infractions committed by otherwise good soldiers.

Of all these unexpected discoveries, there was one that Jistan had yet to get used to. And that was how velching heavy armor was. Even the thin plates of light steel alloy started to grow burdensome after a very short while. And it had been a very long while since he had donned the suit.

His Mind Scythe Unit, along with two others, had been assigned to go with the new arrivals to reclaim Ranteel. They’d left early that morning, marching at a brisk pace southward. The sun had passed its zenith, indicating that he had been traveling for at least five hours.

He couldn’t say he was entirely displeased with the discomfort of his situation. At least it distracted him from the knot of worry inside his gut. He had been in battles before, but never where civilians would be in danger, and never against other humans. He shuddered involuntarily, focusing on counting steps.

***

Aniah dragged the dripping mop across the floor in broad, angry strokes. She muttered under her breath, mostly cursing, occasionally spitting out insults. Some for the King, or Arellia, or Joree, or anyone else she thought deserving in the moment.

She never saw anyone save for that same man who had brought her to the King…how long ago? Two days? Four? It may as well have been a thousand. That man-he called himself Aluri-showed up several times a day to give her a new task and then left. If she didn’t work, she didn’t receive food or drink. She was never beaten or even shouted at. Aluri simply left her again, checking back in occasionally until the task was completed.

It was utterly humiliating. She felt her face burn with anger and indignation, and she let out another stream of curses.

She heard soft footsteps behind her and spun, eyes narrowed, the mop held in her hand like she was planning to swing it. She expected to find Aluri. Instead, a middle-aged woman stood behind her, eyes wide as twin moons.

Instinctively, as Aniah had done every time Aluri entered her presence, Aniah struck out with Will. It never did anything, but she couldn’t help-

The woman screamed and collapsed, pressing palms to her temples. Aniah froze in place, momentarily stunned. Within moments, Aluri was striding down the hallway towards her. No guards or soldiers, just the short man, eyes sharp and angry.

Feeling a surge of hope, Aniah shot an attack towards him. Nothing happened. She growled, wanting to swing her mop at his head, but he was too far away.

“Faoru,” Aluri said softly, eyes on Aniah but words directed at the cowering woman. “You were told not to come down this hallway today.”

“I-I-” the woman stammered, and then swallowed. “I forgot, my lord.”

“Take yourself to the sixth floor. After an hour there, perhaps you will not be so forgetful in the future.”

The woman let out what was almost a sob, stumbling to her feet and stumbling away in a rush.

Aniah watched her go, teeth clenched, hands gripping the mop handle so tightly that her fingers hurt. Aluri turned to her, dark eyes glinting faintly violet. He didn’t seem angry.

“Now, that wasn’t very nice of you, child,” he said smoothly. “Poor Faoru was only doing her job. No reason to attack her.”

Aniah glowered at him. “But I can find ample reason to attack you,” she snapped, raising the mop as if it were a sword. He smirked.

“Fortunately for me, having reason does not automatically grant ability.”

“What do you want?” she demanded. “I’m not finished here.”

“The King requests an audience with you immediately,” he replied.

She fought to keep her breathing normal as her heart skipped a beat before picking up at an accelerated tempo.

“Why?”

He smiled, but didn’t answer. She was left with little choice but to follow him towards the King’s lair.

***

Joree woke with a jolt, gasping in a deep breath. It felt as though he had been holding his breath for a very long while, although that didn’t make any sense as he had been unconscious.

His surroundings took several long moments to clear up, revealing that he was tied to a chair in a small, dimly lit room. The room didn’t seem shabby or derelict; it had smooth wooden walls and a sturdy door. But it did have a certain sense of…neglect. The floor was covered in a fine layer of dust, and he could see cobwebs in the upper corners of the walls.

He let out an involuntary groan, shaking his head as if to clear it. The motion only served to make everything fuzz and distort as his brain was trying to invert itself inside his head. His stomach heaved suddenly, and he worried he was going to puke all over himself. The moment of nausea passed, fortunately, as he took several deep breaths, eyes closed.

His eyes snapped open as he heard a soft clicking sound. A moment later, the door swung open. A short man with black hair and brooding eyes stepped in, an unnerving smile on his too-square face.

Joree looked him up and down slowly. His clothing was very odd-a high collared shirt and stiff trousers with a loose filmy robe over the top that reached to his ankles and wrists. His hair was greased back so that it looked almost like a plate of metal stuck to his head, a very thin, oddly shaped helm.

The man came and crouched before Joree, studying his face, his lips pulled up just slightly at the corners.

“Well,” he finally said, his voice airy and thickly accented, “I certainly hope that you prove to be as interesting as Vris claims. Otherwise I will be sorely disappointed.”

Joree raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know who Vris is, but I think he is playing a fine joke on you. I’m just a farmer. And not a very good one, either.”

The man’s smile deepened ever so slightly. “For your sake, you should hope that isn’t true.” He stood, hands clasped behind his back. “Now, I have some questions for you. Answer truthfully and quickly, and this will be easy and painless.”

Joree shifted slightly, wincing as the roped chaffed at his hands. “It’s a little late for the painless part,” he pointed out.

“First question,” the man said, ignoring him. “What is your Will strength?”

“What’s your name?” Joree asked with mock innocence. “We haven’t even been introduced. I’m Joree.”

“I am called Aluri,” he replied, not even appearing irritated. “Now, answer the question.”

Joree snorted. “On a scale from one to ten? Zero.”

Aluri nodded. “To clarify, you mean that you have no ability to perform a mind-strike?”

Joree tried to work out a kink in his neck by rolling it to the side, but winced as it pulled something in his shoulder. “That sounds about right,” he grunted.

“According to my sources, you have other abilities instead of Will. Tell me of them.”

Joree gave a half shrug. “I’ve been told I’m rather good at composing poems. Would you like me to make one for you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, although his smile remained intact. A few moments of silence passed. Joree yawned. He wasn’t trying to provoke Aluri, he was just tired and couldn’t stop it.

Aluri’s smile slipped briefly, and his eyes narrowed. Then he grinned, a full-on, toothy expression that showed off yellowing teeth. “Fascinating,” he breathed. “Tell me, do you just have a very strong pain tolerance, or are you completely resistant to mental attacks?”

Joree sighed. So that was it. Aluri had tried to hit him with Will, likely trying to get him to talk. “I’ve never been hurt when someone directed Will at me,” he admitted.

“Fascinating,” Aluri repeated. He tapped a finger to his cheek in what looked like a musing gesture. “Have you tried it with people of varying levels of Will power?”

Joree gave him a flat look. “Yes, of course. I conducted an extensive experiment on myself. The Highness herself participated. I left the report back at my house. If you would be so kind as to untie me, I can go get it for you.”

“We will have to experiment with this further,” Aluri mused, looking past Joree with distant eyes. “Yes, indeed. What else can you do?” His tone and attention shifted so abruptly that at first Joree didn’t realize he was being addressed.

“Well, beyond my poetic prowess, I am rather good at manual labor. Comes from being a farmer, I suppose. Oh, and I can make a very delicious sandwich. Assuming the meat and bread are already provided, and all I have to do is put them together.”

Aluri leaned down close, close enough that Joree could feel his breath on his face. “You may be immune to Will,” Aluri said softly, smile not wavering, “but there are other ways to hurt you.” He stood back up, continuing in a normal tone of voice. “Vris indicated that you had some sort of offensive ability. I would like to hear more about this.”

“Right, I’m sure you would,” Joree said, swallowing down his nervousness. He wasn’t really fond of the idea of torture, but he doubted that giving information to this man would be wise. “First, who in the Flames are you? And where on Nakadun am I?”

“I will ask the questions,” Aluri said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you aren’t in a very good position to bargain.”

Joree gritted his teeth. He wished the man would try to use Will on him again. Then maybe he could use it to escape someone. Suddenly, he regretted telling the man that he was immune to mind strikes. That made it very unlikely that anyone would attempt to use Will in his presence now. Stupid, he thought angrily.

“Now, are you going to answer the question, or do you need…persuasion?”

Joree considered some trite or flippant comment. Instead, he just met Aluri’s gaze and remained silent.

Aluri’s smile grew almost menacing. “I was so hoping that would be your response.”

***

Jistan sat beside the campfire, armor removed for the night. The sun had set, leaving the air chill. His father and sister had already retired to their tents, but he felt too numb to move.

“Long day, eh?”

Jistan turned slowly to face the man who had spoken. He was a short, wiry fellow who looked to be about five years older than Jistan. His accent was vaguely familiar, from one of the southern provinces most likely.

“Yeah,” Joree said.

“Mind if I join?”

Joree gestured vaguely to the ground beside him and the man settled down, legs extended in front of him, leaning back on his elbows.

“The name’s Halkin,” he said. “Most people call me Pew, though.”

“Pew?” Jistan asked.

“Means runt in my lands,” Halkin explained.

“And you don’t mind being called that?” Jistan asked, bemused.

Halkin chuckled. “Friend, being short i’n’t some curse. ‘S just how’s born.”

Jistan struggled to make out his meaning for a minute. Once he got talking, Halkin started leaving out random sounds.

“I suppose,” Jistan finally said.

Halkin slapped him on the back good-naturedly. “What, do th’ Manicoti think that bein’ born a few fingas shy of a tree means th’ displeasa o’ th’ gods?” Whenever he said ‘the’, he left off the ‘e’ at the end and slurred it into the next word. And if a word said ‘er’ at the end of the sentence, he just said ‘uh’.

“No, of course not,” Jistan replied, face flushing.

“Joke, friend. Jus’ a joke.”

Jistan smiled wanly. “Not that I don’t think shortness couldn’t be considered a punishment. I just don’t think the gods pay us enough heed to be doling out curses. They are too busy in their realm of perfection to notice us in the heathen lands of mortality.”

Halkin cocked an eyebrow, seeming amused. “You Manicoti, you talk ‘bout yo gods in a right strange way. Do you not worship ‘em?”

The question took Jistan off guard. “Um, worship? Well, I mean, we respect them. And we think they are divine.”

Halkin chuckled. “That i’n’t worship, friend. You don’ ‘ave no churches or meetin’s or ceremony or what-not?”

Jistan frowned. “Well, no. Why would we?”

“Because…they’re gods.”

“So?”

Halkin seemed truly baffled by that response. “Well, the gods are the say-so, right? Sos if ya wanna get to…what da ya call it? The Halls? If ya want to go there, ya gotta worship and obey and such.”

Jistan let out a small laugh. He realized after that it might be seen as rude, but he couldn’t help himself. What Halkin was saying was totally ridiculous. “Go to the Halls? Halkin, you can’t go to the Halls. It is a completely separate realm from us. The gods are so powerful that remnants of their power seeps through into our realm, allowing us to breathe, move, and use Will. I doubt they even realize that they have thus affected us. Or, well, I guess they probably know, they just don’t care.”

Halkin stared at him for a few moments. “That is th’ dumbest thing I eva heard o’,” he finally said. “Waz the point of gods and heaven if ya can’t ev’n get theya?”

“Get there?” Jistan asked.

“Ya know, like an afte’life. What comes next, once one a’ them Delani knocks me inta the dark abyss an’ all tha’.”

Jistan frowned. “Afterlife? I’m not sure I know what that means. After life is death. When you die, your essential life force-whatever remnants of the gods’ power you have within you-goes back out to the universe.”

Halkin shook his head. “Strange, indeed, m’friend.” He lay back all the way, lacing his fingers together to create a cushion for his head. “I dunno that I’d wanna live in this world ‘f I di’n’t b’lieve somethin’ betta was waitin’.”