by Don Newton
“That’s probably him now...” Alisha grinned.
The knock at the side door interrupted their playful banter. Garrian moved toward the hallway to answer. He swung the door wide, expecting the grocer’s boy. He was surprised to find the imposing figure of Eustas Callus standing on the steps, dressed in full battle gear, crossed sabers on his back, and plasma pistol at his side.
The Zyrsteel reinforcements on his leather armor shone brightly in the early morning sun. Eustas was tall, six feet or more—and solid, like the trunk of an old tree. His face told the story of fifty-six years of a hard life. His expression was grim, and Garrian sensed the solemn manner of the man.
“Father, what brings you by so early on a fine morning such as this?” Garrian asked.
“I need to speak to the two of you,” Eustas said.
Garrian’s grin faded. Rather than question the man (which he knew would be pointless), he stepped back, motioning him inside.
Eustas sidestepped his son and stalked past him down the long corridor, headed for the center of the villa, looking for Alisha.
Garrian shut the door behind them and made his way back to the kitchen. He found his father and Alisha in a warm embrace. They rarely saw him. His wife had a fondness for Eustas, which astonished him because he didn’t share it.
Garrian’s memories of early childhood revolved around his mother because his father had always been away. When he was home, he was still away—emotionally. Eustas treated Alisha like his favorite child, from the first day he’d met her. His natural icy exterior seemed to melt when he was around her. Garrian never complained; she’d become a natural buffer between them. They never fought when she was present.
“Eustas Callus!” Alisha scolded him. “How dare you stay away from us; don’t you know Garrian misses you when you’re off solving the problems of the Tribe?” The corner of her mouth turned up. She was no fool. She knew about the tension between them, and making light of it was how she made them laugh—and laughter diluted the animosity.
Eustas chuckled, a deep rumbling sound from somewhere below the surface of his hardened exterior, his whole body shook with the effort. Garrian watched the two, amazed at how they interacted.
“I’m sure he does…” Eustace glanced at his son from the corner of his eye. Garrian thought he glimpsed a hint of sadness there—knowing better; he discounted it.
Alisha picked up on the mood and changed the subject, moving toward the dining table as she spoke, leaving them no choice but to follow. Garrian had watched her do this before. She could mold and shape situations without seeming to do so. He didn’t know if it was magic or her natural ability—but he’d never seen it fail. He recognized when she was doing it, but he was susceptible like everyone else, unable to resist her charm.
“How is Jolie?” Alisha asked, gesturing for them to take seats.
Eustas removed the sabers from his back, laying them across the far end of the long table. Garrian sat at the head of the table, watching Alisha pour kaffa from the kettle into three large cups. The steam from the liquid curled into the air between them, carrying the rich aroma to their senses. The shaded light from the overhead fixture cast a warm glow around them.
“My lovely wife is doing fine, dear,” Eustas adjusted his large frame to the chair as he spoke, “and she’s as feisty as ever. How’s my grandson?”
“Garrian got back this morning from dropping Minus off at the Lancer Academy on Minos. He decided he wanted to skip his last year of schooling and get started on his Martial training early.” Alisha sipped the kaffa, glaring at Garrian over the rim of her cup. Eustas saw the look and grinned.
“I take it, you disapprove?” He asked.
“He’s only eleven-years-old…” Alisha sat her cup down and leaned back in her chair, eyes still locked on Garrian. “My husband and I discussed it—I guess I lost.”
Garrian blew out a breath and looked down, studying the grain of wood on the table. He traced the pattern with his fingertips. Alisha wanted their son to attend the Cirrian School of Orphic Mysteries—she’d seen great promise in Minus from an early age. The Orphic energy ran deep within him, but Minus had no use for it: he wanted to be like his father: a soldier, and what father could deny a son’s wish?
“Well,” Eustas said after a moment, “I know the boy wasn’t happy with his studies, so I must agree with Garrian on this one. The Lancers will better serve Minus’ education.”
Alisha’s gaze shifted from her husband to her father-in-law, but the intensity remained the same.
Garrian stared at Eustas, his mouth open in shock. He hadn’t expected agreement from him, figuring he would choose Alisha’s side, as he’d done many times before.
“Either way, I’ve accepted it.” Her voice was a chilly monotone. “I heard Garrian ask you at the door, Eustas, what brings you by this morning?”
Eustas’ brown eyes met her blue ones but couldn’t hold them. He sipped his kaffa and watched the dark surface of the liquid in his cup. After several sips and prolonged silence, he set the cup down and drew a long deep breath.
“You both remember... when we found the ship buried outside Thalos Plains?” he asked.
Garrian glanced at Alisha. She nodded, her eyes still fixed on his father, not with malice, but with curiosity. He turned his attention toward Eustas.
“What about it?” Garrian asked. “That was years ago. It was all over the holo-vids. A crashed military ship: they said it went down in a dust storm in the Caral desert. No injuries.”
Eustas shifted in his seat, out of character. Although it was cool inside the house, Garrian saw beads of sweat forming on his father’s brow. Something wasn’t right; this wasn’t the man he’d known his entire life—he seemed nervous.
“We lied to the news services…” Eustas said. “I need to tell you the truth.”
***
Jarod ran down the narrow lane connecting the main bazaar to the side roads of Jos Hollow. Behind him, he heard vendors hawking their wares—the bustle of the city streets—and the pursuers who were chasing him. His breath came in ragged gasps. He’d been running for several minutes, and he was exhausted. Rivers of sweat ran down his face, soaking his shirt and stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in agony from the exertion, but he dared not stop.
“Hold up, you coward!” The taller one was closer, the shorter one falling behind. Feet slapping pavement, breathing hard—closer now. He could feel the violence reaching for him like a heavy hand. He was terrified.
At a fork in the road, Jarod chose left, hoping he could lose them by cutting through the park, mingling with the crowd surrounding the fountain. Arms and legs pumping, chest heaving, the last hundred yards seemed a thousand or more.
Jumping and dodging, weaving and ducking, he made it to the fountain as the other men caught him. The taller one grabbed him, taking him down, they rolled for several yards, dust and gravel flying. The shorter man caught up and straddled his chest, raining blows on his face and shoulders with clenched fists, screaming obscenities.
Jarod curled into a tight ball and tried to protect himself with his arms—his tears mixing with the blood streaming down his battered face, his nose shattered and twisted at an odd angle.
A giant of a man with long black hair and piercing blue eyes grabbed the two attackers by the collar of their shirts, throwing them to either side of the helpless man. He stood over Jarod, glaring at the other two, demanding answers. “What in the name of all that’s good is goin’ on here?”
The fountain was typically crowded with people, and today was no different. Men surrounded the brawl, shouting encouragement or derision, eager for tales for their next trip to the saloon. Women hid their faces and whispered to each other. Children were pulled behind mothers, hands held over small ears and eyes, protecting them from the carnage.
“So, let’s have it!” The big man wasn’t satisfied with the attacker’s silence. “What on Erador is all this?”
The taller man was the first
to regain his composure. The shorter man lay in the dirt where he’d fallen, glaring at Jarod, bleeding and broken on the ground ten feet away.
“He said our Lord Kavan was a False God!” The taller man said, pointing at Jarod.
The big man chuckled. Several people in the crowd hissed, and several others laughed—a few made no sound at all, but hate poured from their eyes: some for the broken-bleeding man—some for the other two. Hushed whispers passed through the throng. Mothers grabbed their children, herding them away.
“So... this is about whose God is the real God?” The voice came from the edge of the crowd. Everyone turned. A tall thin man with a long flowing gray beard, dressed in red robes, pushed his way through the masses. Approaching the big man, he made a sign in the air with one slender finger, thin trails of red fire carving a shining rune in space before him.
The stone in the circlet on his forehead glowed with a crimson light. He raised the staff in his left hand and brought the end down against the earth with a resounding thud, shaking the ground beneath the gathered crowd. Sparks of red and amber erupted from the base of the staff. The big man staggered back several feet, leaving the injured Jarod undefended on the ground.
“I am a Herald of the God Zaril, and this man has been wronged!” His voice had changed: it sounded like the earth grating against itself—like a volcano erupting. The light surrounding the fountain dimmed as dense clouds passed overhead, streaks of blue lightning crawling across their gray faces. Thunder echoed in the distance.
The crowd fled—thirty people running in as many directions. Screams of women mixed with the cursing of men—some were too afraid to move and became witness to the slaughter.
The Herald raised the staff above his head, turning toward the two assailants—they tried to run. Both ends of the staff glowed a hot red, and flame burst forth: two beams of searing fire, consuming the pair before they could move. Engulfed in flames, screaming in agony, they died where they stood, charred beyond recognition. Two blackened stumps remained, the bittersweet smell of charred flesh mixing with those of sweat and fear.
The big man grabbed the Herald by the neck, one massive arm lifting him from the ground—his fingers tightened around the Sorcerer’s throat, choking the life from him. The Herald spun the staff around, striking him on the side of the head. He lost his grip long enough for his victim to fall to the ground, choking, trying to catch his breath.
The big man pulled his broadsword free—fire from the staff reflecting in his eyes. The blade made an evil-sounding hiss as it cleared the leather scabbard. The Sorcerer regained his feet, raising the staff, muttering something in the Cirrian speech, when the broadsword blade entered his neck from the left side. Blood erupted, showering the ground around them as the severed head flew into the air, propelled by the force of the blow. The lifeless body fell like a sack on the ground, twitching and writhing in the throes of death.
The big man reached down, wiping the crimson stain from his blade on the red robe of the dead Adept—the cloth turned a deep black. He looked at the head, the lips still moved, mouthing whatever spell had almost been cast. He sheathed the sword and picked up the staff, snapping it across his left knee—he tossed the two halves into the dirt.
The remaining crowd milled about, like sheep in a thunderstorm. One man, a short blond fellow who’d seen the whole thing walked over, curiosity conquering fear.
“Tell me, friend… w-what is your name?” he stammered.
The big man looked at him, gave a curt nod, and walked away. Ten yards passed when he pivoted and stared at the blond stranger. He walked back and placed his right hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Do you believe in these... Gods?” His voice was deep but melodious.
The blond man looked into the big man’s eyes—all he saw was pain. “Not after what I saw you do.”
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-Don Newton-