by Brandon Barr
Her breath lodged in her throat. He was not where he appeared to be.
Instead of walking along her right, he stood before her, close enough for her to reach out and touch him. She realized what was happening. He was performing an illusion.
Titannus’s voice came from deceptively far away where his illusion appeared to walk, “Let go of control and you let go of your potential to change things. Let up on your power over the weak and you’ll never be able to push them hard enough for their own good. The loss of life here at South Meadow is but the birth pains of a future glory. I can promise you this, if you want to save lives in the end, you must take lives in the beginning. There is knowledge that you lack. I and the other mages can teach you—heighten your powers and help you fulfill your mission to create a unified and peaceful world.”
Payetta kept her head down, and dared not open her eyes, otherwise she might lose her connection to the reality of where Titannus stood. The dire threat of the sword she’d seen him carrying only served to intensify her focus.
“What do you say, young mage?” crooned Titannus. “Would you be interested to learn more?”
She diverted just enough energy to speak in a low growl, “I’d be interested if the plan in your head didn’t sound like the demented wet dream of a psychopath. Makes me want to rip your brain from your skull and kick it into something pointy.”
The man’s posture changed, his right foot sliding back into what she knew was a striking pose. Although she knew his location and could feel his weight shift through the life of the wheat he stood on, she couldn’t see what he was doing.
“Sorry to put down your little pet back there,” said Titannus. “It’s a pity you can’t be more civil.”
Payetta barely heard his response, too consumed with the question of his sword. She had to be ready for his attack—she had to be able to see!
Desperately she entered the nearest life she could find. Some small insect beside her on a leaf. The eyes of insects were notoriously blurry, and the one she’d entered was no exception, but it was enough. Titannus’s sword rested up against his right shoulder. Also of interest were her friends standing just behind her. Their heads were all turned in the same direction, and she knew the illusion Titannus was working had them fooled.
“It’s all right,” whispered Payetta. “You’ve provided meat enough for our party tonight in celebration of your defeat.”
Even through the blurry eyes of the insect, she could detect his annoyance in the tilt of his head, angling to the side and drooping down to point at her. He shifted his sword away from his body, holding it out from his body as if performing some ritual as she knelt down before him.
Then he pivoted and the blade in his hand drew back for a powerful strike.
Payetta’s hand flew for her wooden sword and she flung it out at Titannus’s steel descending upon her.
His vicious blow knocked her sideways toppling her from her knees onto the ground. The sword tip had narrowly missed her chest despite her defensive effort.
She lay on her back, suddenly dizzy. Her friends took off at a run, charging toward what Payetta realized was Titannus’s illusion. Kirk had Justen’s bow, and he shot at nothing but an empty field, as if the mage were standing there. Jax and Ian ran ahead of Old Ferren. All three had their swords raised.
She tried to call out, but her voice was weak. She was stretched beyond her limits between maintaining the eyes of the insect and maneuvering her own body.
She squirmed backwards using her arms, trying to keep a distance between her and Titannus. The mage stalked towards her, then he leapt, his sword swinging down at an angle to open a mortal wound on her legs, she tucked her legs up and rolled back in a clumsy somersault, but managed to land in a crouched position. The effort dizzied her and she nearly lost her hold on the insect out of pure exhaustion.
“If I chop your legs off, I can still bring you back with me,” came Titannus’s voice. “I’ll dig into your mind. See where you live. See who you love.”
His sword came again, a flashing streak of metal. She threw her wooden sword out and Titannus’s heavy blow spun her off her haunches onto the ground and her sword flew from her hands.
Titannus grinned. “Your mind is full of hostages for the taking. I swear to you, if you cooperate now, I’ll be gentle with you.”
She glared at him, propped up on her elbows. Behind him were her friends swinging their swords at the open air. She fought back the fear that shook inside her and hissed, “I’d rather die than go with you.”
“I’d rather you not. But terrible pain, I can arrange that!”
His boot came down with crushing force on her foot, but there was nothing left in her to resist. Her energy was gone, her hope fading to darkness. His sword lifted and she watched helpless. He was going to sever her leg somewhere.
One last effort of strength surged through her and she twisted her body to wrench her foot free of his boot, but his weight was like a boulder, pinning her down. She gasped and watched wide-eyed.
His sword came slashing down, but then a large silver blade came stabbing out and shielded the blow.
Justen stood there, grimacing, his shoulder sagging with the arrow still protruding from the wound.
Titannus looked dazed, and Justen swung his sword hungrily to slash across his chest. Titannus stumbled backward as he parried with the flat of his sword. The mage’s eyes blazed white but his face was drenched in sweat. Payetta could hear his fatigue in his heavy breaths.
“I’m not through with you, young mage,” his steely voice sang at Payetta. “You are pathetically untrained. Watch and learn—one never uses all their magic energy if they are wise.”
Justen strode forward to continue the attack, but Titannus spun, his cloak twirling, and he rushed away toward the four men who were engaged in battle with the illusion. Their backs were turned to the true danger. Justen ran after him and cried out a warning, but too late. As he passed, he sliced with his sword, bringing down one of the Heroes Brigade in a spray of blood.
Payetta released her hold on the beetle and the wheat field and panted, steadying herself for a moment as she fought an unsettling vertigo. She hadn’t pushed herself this far before. She’d never needed to.
With her own eyes, she saw her brigade member lying on the ground with Justen. Jax, Ian and Old Ferren knelt beside him.
A second wave of dizziness brought her to the ground in a heap on her hands and knees, but it wasn’t fatigue that left her panting for breath, it was an unspeakable churning in the pit of her soul.
She had failed. Titannus had won.
Staring down at her fallen friend, she clenched her teeth against the bile rising in her throat.
Kirk, she mouthed silently, but heard the whisper of it in her mind.
She mouthed his name again and felt a seething swirl of emotions threaten to overwhelm her. As quickly as she could, she buried them under a string of oaths and curses that drew the eyes off her husband and the three remaining brigade members. She stood shakily and stumbled over to her fallen friend.
One thought consumed her mind as she looked upon the blood-spattered face.
Titannus was going to die for this… and she was going to be the executioner.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“We’re going to string Titannus up by his pecker!” seethed Payetta as she and the other Heroes Brigade members carried their fallen friend toward the woods.
“I don’t know,” began Jax, “it might be too small to wrap a rope around.”
“You’re right,” snapped Payetta. “Still won’t stop me from trying.” She shot an angry glance at Ferren. “You got a pair of tweezers old man?”
“I don’t understand you youngins—why can’t you grieve like normal folks?”
“I’m not giving Titannus and his little ding-a-ling the satisfaction. Just tell me you’re willing to hand over the tweezers.”
She saw Old Ferren shake his head. “Fine, just wash them after you�
�re done, will you?”
A slight grin cracked Payetta’s grim face. “That’s the spirit, Ferren. That’s the spirit.”
***
Daeken held the boy’s hand under the shadow of a large pine at the forest’s edge. Together they watched the woman and four men carry their fallen friend through the wheat fields into the forest.
He noted the arrow drooping from the shoulder of one man. Despite the wound, the man managed to do his part in carrying the dead fighter, and that earned him Daeken’s highest respect. He was the same man who’d come to the female mage’s rescue.
The woman mage seemed on the brink of collapse, unable to recover from the lost energy spent fighting Titannus. Daeken had seen mages in battle twice and had heard more than a dozen accounts, but this was the first mage versus mage duel he’d ever seen or heard of. It was an exciting prospect—and he counted himself very fortunate—to stumble upon such a person as the young woman mage.
She was lucky to still be alive. During his travels, Daeken had heard of one other mage who didn’t bend the knee to Krolan and the other dark mages under his allegiance, but this was the first such mage he had ever encountered in person, and he wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass him by.
He squeezed the boy’s hand and looked down on his shaggy brown hair. “How old are you, Shepherd?”
The boy looked up at him, but his little mouth held closed.
“I think I understand,” said Daeken. “You don’t know me, so you don’t want to talk? Is that it?”
The boy stared blankly at him, no trace of fear, no questions behind his brown eyes. Just an emotionless void. That emptiness in his eyes, beyond anything else, began to disturb Daeken. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t speak, but that there was a lack of any feeling in his eyes. All the emotions that he might expect to find considering the situation were absent.
“Can you hear my words? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The boy’s eyes did not waver, remaining still and unreadable. Daeken looked away at the four figures entering the forest not too far in the distance.
Then he felt Shepherd squeeze his hand. He looked to the boy and the boy nodded.
Daeken smiled. “You do understand me.”
Shepherd took a moment to stare at him, then nodded again.
Daeken placed his hand on the boy’s head and lightly tousled his hair. Perhaps that was what the mother meant when she said the boy was special. The child was mute. But if he could understand words, then Daeken could communicate with him, and that would make things easier.
“Come, son. We’re going to pay a visit to those four.” Daeken, pointing with a tilt of his head. “I think we may have found some friends.”
Daeken ran with the boy on his back. Though the boy was slow to respond to his words, he did not resist as he had in the beginning. The little arms that clung over Daeken’s shoulders warmed him like nothing else had in the long months since leaving his shattered life behind. He could almost feel his own son’s arms wrapped around him once more.
And though Aldon was only a memory, vivid as the forest before him, the brief presence of this boy, Shepherd, had a life-giving effect on him. The ache of loss was swallowed by this new boy who desperately needed him.
A long, cleansing breath passed through Daeken’s lips. After wandering alone for many months on his journey west, finding this valley of farms burning and under attack was a strange mix of joy, rage, and salvation.
It was something to stop and live for. The essence of what he had been seeking. Now that it was found, he wouldn’t let it go.
Ahead were the four men and one woman trudging north through the woods, parallel to the wide valley.
As he came within shouting range he called out, and they stopped and turned.
He approached confidently, looking over each face. One man was older than himself, grey-stubble marked his face and ran down to his neck. He looked about sixty. Another man, nearer his own age, but rather unfit, had a distant look in his green eyes. Then there were the two younger men. One was of average height, with lean muscles and a sharp-eyed look to him, the second was tall and large framed, with thick muscled arms protruding from his tattered sleeves. He was the one with the shoulder bloodied by the arrow.
Beside him, holding his hand, was the woman. Dark ginger hair framed a remarkably beautiful face. But shadows of suspicion edged her features. Where sorrow marred the faces of the three men, anger passed like storm clouds across her fair skin.
The woman’s eyes looked hard at him, then jumped to the child. “You’re not from around here. What were you doing out there?”
“The same as you,” replied Daeken, meeting her unflinching eyes, “Doing what any decent man, or woman, with a skill at sword or sorcery might do. Fighting.”
“Who are you?” she pressed.
“Daeken Zee Walton, the great-great-grandson of Terry Henry Walton. And I am here to help.”
The hard line in the young woman’s lips cracked just a little. “My name’s Payetta. This is Justen, Jax, Ian, and Ferren the old fart.” She lifted her chin, as if it were a signal to follow them, and then half turned to leave before saying, “If you want to help, come with us.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Payetta reclined on the ground against an elk hide backrest, while the outsider, Daeken, sat cross-legged on a bear skin. The boy, whom they were told was named Shepherd, knelt beside She Grunts and Cluckruck, staring at the two animals with interest.
Next to Shepherd, a small fire burned in a makeshift stove of unearthed scrap metal she and Justen had collected. Three of Cluckruck’s eggs were sizzling in a pan along with strips of rabbit meat Payetta had caught on the trip back from South Meadow to their hideout in the woods.
For Payetta, hunting had little sport to it. She simply spotted what she wanted to eat with her Eartheye, summoned it over, then killed it. She thanked the animals that gave their life for her, whether that was for a meal, or in fighting against a mage and his raiders.
Beside her lay Justen, breathing softly in his sleep, her hand on his arm. The bloodied arrow and shaft lay on the dirt at his head. Here in the comfort of their main hideout—which was no more than a covered hole in the ground like the rest of her and Justen’s hideout homes—she could give her husband the majority of her concentration.
Healing was a magic she’d gained through slow, steady use. It was not something she could practice every day. The power of it was given life out of necessity, as was all her magic.
She didn’t remember how old she was when it all started, but it was very early. Three or four she guessed. The house would rumble with the violent words of her father and he would tear apart her silent mother with threats and vulgarities no child should ever have to hear from the mouth of a parent.
Once she ran far enough away from the echoing walls of her house, the quiet of nature became her refuge. She remembered talking every day to the animals she saw as if they were friends. Eventually, they began to respond to her. It was as if they heard her voice even when it was only the voice in her head. She began to beckon them to come closer.
And eventually, they came. First the smaller animals. The field mice, moles, chipmunks, rats, shrews. Next were the large black rats and gophers. Soon came squirrels and hares. By the time she was ten, she had made acquaintance with every type of bird in the woods and most of the local herds of deer and elk. And by that time, she knew her talent was something to be kept secret. She dared not find out how others would react and feared they might believe her to be an evil mage as was often talked about in the community square.
One day, when the vile words spewing forth in her home threatened to overwhelm her with guilt and rage, she fled her home for the woods. Intense anger clouded her thoughts. Anger at how fearful she was of her father, and maddened by her inability to stand up for her mother.
As she fled deep into the woods for solace, she came upon a rare animal she’d only seen once or twice in the form of a
pelt, brought in from the hunters in her community. Its fur was ruddy brown with speckles of black. A small, predatory creature that looked half weasel, half fox. The locals called them fishers.
The animal was caught in a trap and it growled at her when she came upon it. From early on she’d learned the difficulty of taking over a predator. They fought her tooth and claw, unwilling to share their mind. They battled her out of fear and anger, and that particular day, Payetta was very angry.
Her father had promised to bash her mother’s brains in with a hammer while she slept if she dared tell anyone about an affair he’d had with a neighbor’s wife. After the cruel confrontation, her mother had gotten into Father’s hard liquor. She quietly proceeded to get so drunk that night, that she peed all over his favorite cloak and squatted a crap in one of his boots. It was one of the uglier mornings Payetta had ever awoken to.
Payetta didn’t blame her mother one bit for what she’d done. She was out of her mind, and it was Father that had pushed her off the ledge. He was the center of their homes cruel suffering. When Payetta escaped her home that morning, she swore fiercely under her breath at Father, whispering words she was too scared to say to his face.
It was out of that chaotic anger she grew determined to conquer the predator she’d come upon. After all, it was caught in a trap and couldn’t flee. She spent the entire day wrestling with the fisher’s will, her anger and pain poured into the goal of conquering the strong willed animal.
She felt its pain stemming from its injured foot caught in the hunter’s trap, and she found it every bit as severe as her own pain. And somehow, when she made that connection, the creature’s unrelenting will began to slip. Before sundown, the animal was in her arms and surprisingly, the fisher’s foreleg was no longer injured.
In their exchange it had been healed.