Norryn.
Norryn, I need you.
-14-
The pain of what was left of his body told him that he should be dead, yet he was not.
His eyes fought to open as his soul screamed for him to remain in nothingness. Instantly, he regretted the action, for pain found him immediately. He tried screaming yet the agony and blood choked him. He clenched his fist to find there was no fist to clench, just the charred remains of his right arm blown off below the elbow. The other arm lay useless to his side. He fought to see. Only one eye obliged.
The next wave of pain washed over him, that and the smell of burnt flesh and shrapnel. For the first time in his young life, he begged for death. He wanted peace. It was the one focus that gave him clarity over the resounding pain ravaging his remaining senses.
And then the pain doubled, and he screamed at last. What was left of him was broken but his lungs were strong. His body convulsed and he found himself being held down. He tried to kick with nothing, afraid to look down and confirm the grim fate of his legs. Two of the soldiers under his command were holding him down. He could see them at last. Somehow, he’d made it to an infirmary alive.
“We need morphine over here, now!”
Yes, morphine. That would be nice. Enough to stop his heart. Or better yet a single laser blast would suffice. Anything to end this ravaged, useless body. He begged for death, begged for the sweet release he had been denied. And yet still he lived.
At last a needle found his arm and the contents of the syringe entered his veins. The edge was taken off, giving him more lucidity and desire for death. He had not the presence of mind or vocal ability to put together the verbal order. And so he lived on. In the distance, a door opened and closed. People were approaching.
“Is this your son?” Through his hazed vision it looked to him like a doctor.
Years of military training kept the other man’s responses calm and calculated. “Yes, it is.” The other man leaned in, placing his hand on his son’s head. “Trennon, it’s your father. I am here.”
Trennon's strength returned. Reaching, he tried, no begged for his father to help him find release. A mask was placed over his face. An anesthetic and oxygen began entering his lungs. Consciousness would soon be gone, as would his ability to protest.
“What happened?” asked his father.
One of the soldiers holding Trennon down spoke. “He saved our lives, sir. Artillery fire hit one of our convoys. The blast knocked me unconscious. He dragged six soldiers to safety, including me. On his last trip, another blast blew the convoy to pieces. He was only a few feet away when it happened. Your son is a hero.”
Trennon’s father nodded. His face was both proud and horrified by his boy’s deeds and present condition.
The doctor looked at Trennon’s father with urgency. “Colonel, we do not have a lot of time. I need an answer now.”
Trennon mouthed his choice. The anesthesia was taking hold. He gladly chose death.
Colonel Eric Raymses placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, taking a pained, long breath. “Spare no expense, doctor. Money is not an issue. I have more than enough and have already pulled a few strings for you. You make my son well again, stronger and faster than he ever was. You give him the respect deserving of a hero.”
“I will, sir.”
Trennon began to shake his head and then there was nothing but darkness. . .
Trennon’s head burst from his pillow. Sweating fiercely, he gulped for air. Taking the hair from his view, he placed his face in his hands. The cold metal that cradled his head gave him no comfort. It was the same dream as always. The one that ended the life he knew and began his new one of utter damnation.
Trennon sat up in his bed, collecting himself. He knew full and well there would be no more sleep on this night, just the nagging memory of a choice that was not his own. His breaths were slowing, though his hair was laden in sweat all the way to his shoulders. Drawing his hair back, he inspected himself with resentment.
Trennon’s eyes went to his arms and hands. The metal reconstructions he was afforded ended at his shoulders and were reinforced there to handle the strain of his augmented strength. The same was for his legs. He ran his hand to his face, where a metal plate partially replaced his skull and right eye. Countless times he had battled the urge to tear it from his face.
Looking next to his bed was the chest piece he wore when he left his home. The chest plate allowed him to use all his strength without damaging his organs or fleshy parts. It also concealed the scarred remnants of his former humanity. Countless times he longed to use the strength and armaments he now possessed to end his own life. He did not know if it was cowardice or duty that drove him on.
Perhaps it was both.
Standing, Trennon went to his desk. Sitting, he drew paper and pencil from a drawer. Staring at it for long moments, he finally tried to write, hoping to exact his feelings fully for a change and say things that had remained buried for years. Anxious, his first attempt broke the lead upon the paper. Disgusted, Trennon threw the pencil before procuring another. His second attempt proved better, and the pencil endured as he wrote.
Father,
It has been six years since I have had any contact with you. It took almost that long to look past the anger I held for living beyond the day that should have left me dead and buried. A part of me did die that day, and I’ve never forgiven myself or you for allowing the rest of me to carry on.
I do not know why I am writing this now, other than I feel that I need you to understand. I am sure I have disgraced you in Thorne. It is my hope that they have reported me as dead and not a traitor and taint to your name. For generations our family has fought for our country. And after everything we were fed about Vallance, to come to realize the truth was too much for me. I felt that to continue that course would have been the true disgrace. And there is nothing left within me that would allow me to kid myself about reality.
I am not sorry about my decision, nor am I sorry for my anger toward you. But it doesn’t mean that I do not love you, and somehow your opinion of me is important even today. I have found a home here in Vallance, and until the day that this war finally kills me, I will fight on. This is my place now, and I will defend it to the last. All that is left for me is to tell you that your son still lives somehow and despite his anger, still loves you. Please give mother my best. When this is all over, I hope you can understand where I am and most of all where I am coming from. Good bye, father.
Trennon
Trennon folded and sealed the letter. In the morning, he would make sure it found its way to his former country. Feeling lighter than when he started, he yawned easily. Despite his initial thought of the matter, Trennon was indeed able to return to bed and find some sleep before the morning arrived much too early.
-15-
Serra Landring’s eyes shot open wide. It was pain that brought her back to reality, fingers grasping hard around her arms and legs or greedy hands as they carelessly caressed her face or body. It was also difficult not to focus on their voices, brash and hearty, even under the cover of the night. They were either stupid or they knew that there was no one within miles to save her.
The night was still upon them, but it couldn’t have been long before the sun would find its way back in the clouds again. Serra noticed they were now passing through rocky terrain. All around were ridges and bluffs as her captors took the low ground to stay out of sight. Serra had been this way before. She could judge from the surroundings that she was being taken due west and was somewhere between Rahn and what was left of Bannar.
Serra found herself still within the hands of nine men. There were always at least five surrounding her and holding her off the ground. The ones that did not carry her rested while they kept watch. Serra surmised that they must have been taking her to some form of hidden transportation. If they made it to that, she guessed that it would be over for her.
That was the only thought Serra needed for
motivation. Instantly, her limbs came back to life, thrashing and fighting her captors. To her surprise and theirs, she freed herself from their grips. She wasted not one moment as she kicked and struggled for all she was worth. If Serra was to be taken, it would be over her dead body.
Instantly, one of the soldiers called for the others, and they swarmed her again. This was clearly a fun game to these men. Serra was to be kept alive, and of that she was certain. Nevertheless, whatever order the soldiers received did not specify what condition Serra needed to be in so long as she was still breathing. That one order left to open interpretation placed Serra in the hands of dangerous men.
Serra caught a barrage of sentences streamlined into a mass of sadistic fun. She fought them fiercely and desperately held to what was hers; her body, mind, and spirit. So long as she had a choice, Serra would give these men none of the three while she still drew breath.
“Where you going, baby?” asked one.
“Yeah, baby, the party’s only getting started,” said another.
“Damn, she’s a feisty bitch!” exclaimed yet another one with gnarled teeth.
Finally, the leader of the bunch acted. “All right, enough of this crap! Hold her down!”
It did not take long to do just that with nine men. Serra fought hard but eventually was subdued. As her legs and arms were pressed to the grass, the leader of the bunch stooped and placed one knee firmly on Serra’s chest. As he did this he back-handed the young woman across the face twice, stealing much of the fight from her. Serra stared back with hazy anger.
The soldier above her smiled with sinister satisfaction, running his trigger finger down her face before grabbing her cheeks with his hand. Serra grimaced at the pressure he placed upon her. “That’s better, gorgeous. You just be a good girl now. Looks like we’re going to have to wear you out some before we take you any further, ain’t we, boys?” The question was answered with hungry and enthusiastic laughter.
Serra averted her eyes toward the cloudy beyond. There was no escape and she would probably welcome death had she held the option. The leader took his knee from her as he positioned himself on top of Serra. As he pressed against her, leaning closer to kiss her neck she saw a star just over the nearest incline of land. The ravine they were in must have rose 40 to 50 feet. She focused on that star, hoping that it would be the last thing she ever saw in this world.
Serra tried to drift, tried anything to be lost from thought in this world or any other. In her state she had missed much. She had never seen nor felt any presence as an individual sprinted with great haste to find her. She never saw as he found his way up the elevated grounds to catch sight of her and her captors. Serra never saw as he zeroed in and headed in her direction, weapon in hand.
A shadow eclipsing the star and sky is all that she saw above her. From atop the little cliff, the shadow leaped without a second thought. To Serra the shadow almost hovered in the air before it plummeted silently down to her and her captors. For an instant she saw the silhouette of long dark hair and a cloak as it shimmered in the wind above the shadow. And just before this shadow found the ground mere steps from where Serra laid, the staff in its hand came to life.
Through her muffled vision, Serra more heard than saw the first strike. It had come across the head of the man furthest from her and had been hard enough to cave in his helmet. The assaulted soldier toppled to the ground, dead before his body realized it. Wasting no time, the mysterious figure drove into the bewildered entourage. Those that remained recoiled from the lone warrior as if he were the devil himself. Instantly, Serra was forgotten, and lust was exchanged quickly enough for self-preservation.
The eight remaining soldiers stood, trying to regain their composure and ready themselves for combat. The one closest to their enemy never got the chance. With great speed the mysterious fighter drove his staff into the stomach of a Thorne native still trying to stand. As the soldier doubled over, the staff was raised, connecting with his chin. The jaw shattered easily enough as the soldier flew back a good piece.
Going with the motion of the swing, the lone warrior spun on his heel to address another soldier that had been staggering across from the fellow he had just struck. As the lone warrior spun around, he brought down the staff in a downward, diagonal arc that struck another Thorne soldier in the face, snapping his neck instantly. He too hugged the ground in a death embrace. In a matter of seconds Thorne’s numbers had gone from nine to six and he was only getting started.
As the soldier with his knee on Serra’s chest rose, he dropped back a quick step and grabbed his rifle. As he did this, the three soldiers furthest from their attacker fired their own weapons. The blasts went over Serra toward her would-be savior with great precision. Each of the three blasts were batted away as their enemy advanced on them. Staff still in hand, he batted another rifle aimed at him toward the three attackers that had just fired. That shot went into the stomach of the one on the right, doubling him over and killing him.
Serra saw body and cloak soar over her as the shadowy figure closed the gap between him and two Thorne soldiers with uncanny speed and skill. Holding his staff with both hands, he held the weapon in front of him, bringing it down upon two rifles as they readied for a second shot. Both shots burned the ground not far from Serra. The lone warrior continued this action by raising the staff up fiercely. The staff met and crushed the throats of the two soldiers before him as two more trained weapons of destruction fell in fading heaps upon the cool, damp ground.
But now the remaining three soldiers had a drop on their enemy.
As the two soldiers with the crushed necks fell, one of their comrades bridged the gap and was half a second away from running his bayonets through the back of his enemy. Still with both hands upon the staff, the lone warrior twisted his wrists and parried the blade from over his head. As he swatted the attack toward the left, he spun to the right. The veiled assailant used the momentum of the motion to drive the end of his staff into the back of the advancing soldier’s head. This strike sent the attacking soldier dazed and into the path of another laser blasts. He took the blast in his left side and flew toward the ground still smoking from his wound.
Seven were down now and only two soldiers remained.
Of the two that were left, the squad leader that had struck Serra continued to back away. As he did so, he fired with his rifle again. The other remaining soldier, who had spent most of this fight in frightened shock, especially after being made to shoot one of his own, finally fired off a hasty shot himself. His enemy leaped to his left in a well-executed roll. Coming back to his feet, he threw his staff at the awestruck warrior, catching him in the face and dropping him to the ground.
Now only the squad leader remained. As he watched his enemy throw his staff at one of his men he smiled, reloading his rifle while knowing things had just shifted into his favor. The soldier would take this man and after he killed him, he would have Serra. He made no attempt to hide his satisfaction, smiling as he pumped the handle on his rifle. “Bad move there, friend. You’re mine now!” said the squad leader. He took aim and fired.
The lone warrior had begun advancing on the last remaining soldier of Thorne. He did not run this time, choosing instead to approach with grim inevitability. The rifle blast ate through air and distance only to be batted away. The next shot met the same results as the lone warrior loomed closer still. Cursing, the Thorne soldier reloaded, firing two more shots to no avail. Trying to reload again, the Thorne soldier realized he would not have it done before the gap between him and his enemy had been closed.
“Son of a bitch!” spat the soldier of Thorne. Taking his rifle like a club, he swung the end toward the head of his approaching target. Ducking, his opponent let the rifle pass over his head. As it swept by, the momentum sent the Thorne soldier spinning around awkwardly. The motion left the Thorne soldier with his back to his adversary and his opponent wasted no time in sending a foot sharply between his legs. At the grunt that inevitably followed,
the lone warrior continued the motion. Taking his rising foot, he pushed off the Thorne soldier’s backside, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The Thorne soldier tasted cool grass. In his mind a fury dominated every fabric of his being, but he knew he had to control it. Getting his knees beneath him, he held in his hand a small knife he knew his enemy had not seen. The soldier knew he would have to trick this guy. Hiding his face, he feigned excruciating pain as he moaned from the ground. To his joy, his enemy paused. Readying his knife, the soldier spun around from the ground and lunged.
The knife closed toward his opponent’s stomach with great ease and haste. As it neared, the lone warrior deflected the strike with his wrist. The blade passed easily by his abdomen and chest. Now on the outside of the attack, the warrior used his free hands and placed one on the Thorne soldier’s chin and the other on the back of his head. Twisting abruptly, he brought the soldier to the ground as he snapped his neck. All fight left the Thorne soldier and again silence prevailed in the night.
Serra Landring tried hard to regain her wits. She had been beaten and abused, toyed with and tormented. The fatigue of five long years of war and suffering now won its battle to emerge, and Serra felt every day of it as she barely held onto consciousness. She wanted to lift her head, but what she desired to see came into her sight by his own accord. Serra knew instantly that he was looking at her.
He knelt closer and his silhouette surrounded Serra and made her feel instantly safe. She could not see his eyes in the darkness but knew they were fixed upon her. Silence prevailed for a long moment and it was Serra that had to break it. Five years of it had been long enough.
Serra had waited ages for this moment, as her plea had been answered. All the words she had dreamed to say evaporated in the contentment of those seconds. Her lips parted and her voice, though soft and dreary, uttered a single word sincere and true. It was a word that waited on her lips for seasons and would have waited for seasons more. “Norryn,” she whispered.
Echoes of Ashener Page 10