The Hungering Saga Complete

by Heath Pfaff

  "Good, some of us new to the eyes have difficulty seeing that at first. Seeing it is half the challenge." He stopped in his tracks and after another step I did as well, curious to see what would happen next. "What you're seeing, in those streaks, is your new vision's ability to track changes in the world at a much faster rate then you're used to. What you need to do to take full advantage of that, is to force the rest of your body and your mind to match that pace."

  I must have given him a surprisingly stupid look because he drew back the mask covering the lower half of his face to reveal a smile. "It's easy. Trainees always find it surprising just how easy it is once they get the trick. All you need to do is will yourself to be faster. When they taught you to fight and taught you the forms for combat, didn't they also teach you to envision a second enemy standing behind the first and attempt to follow your strike through to that enemy?"

  "Yes..." I said, uncertainly. Malice had, I recalled, taught me something similar to that. It was a trick that aided one in learning to punch through a target instead of stopping at the target. Such a strike was more effective than a standard punch. I had adapted to it readily, and developed a strong blow that I had not once managed to land solidly on an opponent.

  "This is the same thing." Weaver explained, grinning widely. "Picture it, believe it, and your body will do the rest."

  "Alright." I said, still not sure what to make of Weaver's explanation of what was supposed to happen. The red-eyed warrior bent down and picked up another rock.

  "I'm going to throw this straight up. When I do, I want you to force yourself to speed up. I want you to picture yourself moving so fast that you can fly right past this rock. Are you ready?"

  I nodded that I was, and he drew back his arm to throw. I felt my muscles tensing in expectation, as though I were about to leap into the air myself. I felt my heart quickening, and I pictured myself streaking like a bolt of lightning through the sky on the path the rock would take. The world lurched around me. The air seemed to turn thick, tugging at my flesh as I attempted to move. I turned my head and saw the rock just beginning to leave Weaver's hand. It seemed to tumble slowly up into the sky, as though it were being drawn upward by some invisible string. I reached out for it, moving my hand as quickly as I could, but even forcing all my will into the movement, my hand still only crept slowly skyward. It took me what felt like seconds just to raise it to shoulder level. I decided to put the arm back down, and found that changing my arm's trajectory took even more effort. I saw Weaver move then, and he seemed to be walking at normal speed, casually meandering towards me as though all the air of the world hadn't just turned to sap. His hair, his cloak, and the fur on his arms shifted slowly, as if being pushed by a strong, yet slow, breeze, but he ignored it, walking all the way around me twice before I was able to return my arm to my side. As quickly as it had begun, the world resumed its normal course and I collapsed to my knees, a sense of weariness washing over me with such force that I felt light headed.

  Weaver appeared in front of me. "Not bad. You got it on your first try." He laughed loudly. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, using that trick will eat away at your energy. You can't put on so much speed without burning into your body's reserves. It's a trick that gets easier the more you do it, but the first few times you speed yourself up, it's going run you down fast. Every time you quicken yourself using the eyes, and this is true even for me after all these years, it's like running as hard as you can the entire time you're doing it. You see the potential, though, right?"

  I was still breathing heavily, but indeed I could see the potential. A warrior who could push himself to such speeds would be able to avoid almost any attack. "Yes, I do." The words came out between gasps. "Why do I move so slowly?" I questioned the more experienced warrior, hoping that he would tell me it was something that would improve with practice. Though the trick was still useful, my inability to move as quickly as Weaver had made it less impressive.

  Weaver pulled back the cloak covering one of his clawed limbs and held it up for me to inspect. "You're not equipped for faster movement yet. Improved though you are, your body was never meant to operate at the speeds that you are capable of achieving. Your muscles can't push you any faster, and your tendons can't withstand the strain that would be applied if you could. If you tried to go as fast as I can, and you succeeded, your body would fly apart at the seams.

  I blanched, envisioning my arms and legs tearing themselves free of my torso. It was not a pretty thought. Weaver helped me to my feet and we resumed walking again. I was troubled by the realization that my arms and legs would eventually become like Weaver's and the other Knights'. The loss of my human limbs would be yet another step away from my perceived humanity and I was ever mindful of the fact that power could have a terrible cost. Kyeia's life had served as a most poignant reminder of that. I noticed several sources of smoke on the not so distant horizon, the signs of a town, probably a small settlement if the number of smoke sources was anything to judge by. I realized we would need supplies if we were to be on the road a long time, but I wasn't sure how to breach the subject with Weaver. He seemed set against making any public appearances. I finally decided the best course of action was simply to speak my mind and see what happened.

  "We'll need to acquire provisions if we're to travel far on foot - dried meat, some skins for water." I tried to make my voice as casual as possible, not eager to see my traveling companion's cold, commanding side again.

  To my surprise Weaver merely nodded his agreement. "I had thought of that, though it goes against my better judgment. Human settlements are..." he seemed to think for a moment before coming up with the word he wanted, "troublesome." There was a look of disgust on his face that seemed to ill fit the man who had been grinning so widely just a few moments before. I found myself feeling uneasy at Weaver's comment on the human settlement. A seed of doubt was forming in my mind, and it was difficult to squelch. It grew all the stronger for the fact that I knew not what I was in doubt of, only that my travel companion seemed possessed of two distinctly different personalities, one edged in darkness.

  We spent the remainder of our walk in relative silence, simply passing the miles in quiet thought, not a mode of travel I preferred since my thoughts were mostly troubled. I was quite happy to finally see the first houses of the town we'd been approaching coming into view around a bend in the road. I had guessed correctly that the town wasn't large. It consisted of maybe four or five dozen homes, what appeared to be a central store, and blacksmith shop from which the sounds of a hammer bearing down on an anvil could be heard. The hammer striking metal ringing out through the streets reminded me of my own home. Most towns and cities had a smith, and the sound of ringing metal was as natural a sound as any for a person who'd grown up in such a place. Fell Rock hadn't had its own smith. All of their metal work was brought in from outside sources. Possibly, I thought, some of them even came from the town we now approached, though I thought there was probably a settlement nearer the Post - the former Post I reminded myself, for Fell Rock stood no longer - to the north.

  As we drew nearer, I could see and hear the sound of children playing in the streets and the fields about the town. A sign at the outskirts of the town read, "Paix Farth, Huntsmen's Town." Our presence drew some attention from the children, some of whom ran into their homes, while others openly stared at us as we approached. Adults came to their windows, summoned by their children, and others stepped out of their homes, holding pitchforks or other makeshift weapons. I could hear the whispers of the suddenly attentive townspeople.

  "They've come to take us away, and they'll never let us come back home." One child whispered to another, hiding behind the leg of a large man holding a hoe.

  "Mommy says they're demons." Another child said.

  "You're not wanted here, monsters." A human man yelled openly as we passed him and his family.

  "What are they doing here?" One woman asked her husband.

  "I don't know, but their lot sh
ould be exterminated. Beasts, they are," he answered tersely.

  From beside me I could hear a low rumble rising from Weaver, and I looked over at my travel companion to see his eyes radiating rage. The streaks of white lightning along their surface seemed to churn in an unusual chaos. I began to wonder if we shouldn't have found our own provisions along the road, avoiding civilization all together. The words of the people stung me as well, striking at the very core of my own concerns over my humanity. I tried not to let it bother me, but the strong negativity projected at us as we passed both angered and saddened me. Any happiness I'd had at seeing the town was gone. We made our way to the store, Weaver not allowing our pace to grow any faster, despite the intensifying unrest about us. We were nearly to the store when the shopkeeper, who had been standing outside of his business holding a cudgel, stepped inside for a moment and came back out with a sign that read "closed." He hung it from a nail in the door before going back inside and shutting the door firmly behind him. My heart fell, but Weaver didn't change his pace. He walked directly to the door and knocked loudly. When there was no answer, he knocked again, more forcefully.

  "Do demons not read? Go away! We're closed to your ilk!" A voice shouted from within.

  There was a flash of motion, too quick for me to catch, though I could see the path Weaver's arm cut through the air. The closed sign fell to the ground in four pieces.

  "I see no sign. Open this door, shop keeper, and we will be gone soon enough." Weaver's voice held a timber I had not heard in it before, and though I found it did not affect me at all anymore, I could identify it as "the voice." What was remarkable was that I had never heard the slightest hint of it before from the red-eyed warrior. I knew that it was possible to control the effect of "the voice" among the more powerful of the Knights of Ethan, Ethaniel himself had done so to an extent, but Weaver had completely hidden it. I wondered just how powerful my companion was. From within the building came the sound of a heavy bolt being dropped into place.

  "OPEN THIS DOOR!" The voice of Weaver tore through the air. Again the Knight's voice held no sway over me, but I could feel the intensity of it, rippling through the air like the force of an explosion. The wood door shook in its frame and Weaver slammed his fist into it with such force that the entire wall of the building shook. The door, however, stood firm. There were screams in the streets and people ran into their homes, slamming doors behind them. Suddenly the roads were quiet, and it was just Weaver and me standing on an empty street in front of the store.

  "Maybe we should leave..." I began to say, but Weaver's eyes turned on me and there was a fearsome burning there. I stepped back and held my hands out wide, letting Weaver know I would not interfere in his actions again. He had been a Knight for nearly four hundred years and I would allow him to do what he thought was necessary.

  "Go away monster, we'll not..." The voice from inside the house didn't get any further than that because Weaver's monstrous voice tore from his throat in an outpouring of inarticulate fury. Two massive wings slipped from concealed slots in his cloak and beat the air heavily. I was forced to step back, or risk getting knocked off my feet by the leathery, black appendages. Weaver's powerful claws shot out and this time I managed to shift my perception of time fast enough that I could see them move, but even then those clawed hands were viciously fast. They pierced the door smoothly, and the terrifying red-eyed monster tightened his grip on the wood to the point that it began to splinter in his vice-like hands. There was a sundering, breaking sound and Weaver leaped into the air, pounding his wings and lifting the door and the portion of the wall that held the bar-lock with him into the sky. He gave another great scream of rage and tossed the door with tremendous force at the shop beneath him. I was forced to jump behind a wagon on the side of the street or be hit debris flying from the explosion of the building with the impact of the door. The roof of the shop caved in, along with a portion of the front wall. Weaver sailed to the ground, some fearsome beast of legend descending from the sky, and stepped through the rubble. I was terrified of the ferocity of the Knight I'd been traveling with. I was reminded of Wisp's unbridled rage, and wondered if the anger was a result of becoming more powerful amidst the Knights of Ethan.

  "What terrible power." I said the words aloud, though I hadn't meant to. Hearing them, I clamped my mouth shut, not wanting Weaver to hear me. I started to stand up from my place, behind the wagon where I'd taken cover, but I stopped when I heard screams coming from inside the building. There was a man and a woman, shrill voices raised in horror. The noise went abruptly quiet, and a moment later Weaver stepped from the building, two full bags of supplies clenched in one fist. He tucked his wings back into the holes on the back of his cloak and they vanished as though they'd never been.

  "Come, Lowin. It's time to take our leave of this hole." His voice was all command, rage just beneath the surface. I didn't dare disobey him, but the screams of the shop owner and his wife still hung in my mind, haunting me. We walked from the town without further molestation. It was a full hour later before I finally worked up the nerve to ask the question gnawing at my insides.

  "Why did you kill them?" The words were hard to force out.

  "Kill who? That ignorant shop keeper and his fat wife?" He looked at me for a moment, drew back the mask across his face and smiled widely. He burst into laughter. "I didn't kill them, Lowin. I merely put a little fear into them. Of course I wouldn't kill innocent people. Is that something that a Knight of Ethan would do?"

  I smiled, still uneasy. The screams I'd heard inside the store, and the sudden way they stopped, still stuck in my mind. Had he really let the shop keeper and his wife live? It was impossible to know, but the ferocity Weaver had shown in Paix Farth was something I wouldn't soon forget.

  We walked through most of the night and on into the next day, only stopping for a few hours to sleep. I didn't sleep at all. Too many troubled thoughts rested heavily upon my shoulders. I was tired as the sun rose once more over the horizon, but not so tired that I feared I wouldn't be able to function. My new body seemed to be beyond complete exhaustion, always having that reserve of energy I needed in order to go further. An hour past dawn, Weaver led us from the beaten path onto a small trail, still heading almost straight south. He seemed to have an unerring sense of direction. I wondered if it was another trait he had developed after becoming a full Knight of Ethan, or if he had always been good with navigation. I didn't ask him. Since the events in Paix Farth the day before, I had talked to him very little, choosing to keep to my own thoughts and company, unpleasant though they were.

  "Do you enjoy your service to the king?" Weaver's voice broke the silence, calm and even, but startling after the length of time we'd traveled without so much as a word. I looked to my travel companion. He was looking back at me, his mask down and his face set in a neutral expression. It was a poignant question, and not one that I was sure how to answer.

  The truth of the matter was I did not want to serve my king at all. I didn't believe in the enigmatic man who demanded the lives of the innocent in order to strengthen his army. I had no intention of telling Weaver such a thing though. I had seen the man's wrath enough, and had no desire to risk striking it aflame once more. "I have done little to serve my king yet. That is difficult to answer." I replied cryptically, hoping it would suffice.

  "Surely you have some opinion of the great man whose orders you will be following for the foreseeable future? I'm not asking a difficult question, Lowin. What is your king to you?" The warrior pressed, and I knew by the tone in his voice and the look in his eyes that he had no intention of letting this pass.

  I grit my teeth, wanting to blurt out that my king was a murderer. He was a man who traded innocent lives for power without blanching. I wasn't sure what Weaver was driving at, what he expected from me, and I didn't much care for the line of questioning. "The king is a man of power. He sits high atop his throne and governs the mass, not seeing the individuals over which he sits as judge, deciding w
hat constitutes the greater good of the whole."

  Weaver nodded. "Indeed, he is a powerful man with a strong idea of what is important for the greater good. He must only see the whole. That is a good answer, for one so young." The red-eyed Knight paused for a moment before going on. "Do you know what it takes to have a strong idea, Lowin?"

  I looked at the shifting outline of my companion quizzically. I wasn't sure what a "strong idea" implied, and I certainly wasn't sure how to answer Weaver's question. "No, I don't." I said, and it was true as far as I knew.

  "Imagination, nothing more. Anyone can have a strong idea, my boy, and it can be a harmless thing. The difference with the king is that he is very powerful man, and when a powerful man has a strong idea, it becomes a new creature entirely. Lives are lost, nations rise and fall, and cultures are born and die all on the waves of a strong idea, led by a powerful individual. The king - and I can't say I honestly know the name of our current king as there is a new one every twenty or forty years, and I've lost track - but he, in whatever new guise he comes, has always had the same, singular goal. The king wishes to align all of the peoples of our world under one crown, and reign in an era of peace and prosperity. That is a noble endeavor, no?" Most would have phrased that last sentence in such a way that the question would not have been searching for an answer, but I could tell by Weaver's phrasing that he expected me to reply. I thought before opening my mouth to give an answer.