Krose’s spirits seemed lifted again as he walked over to stand by his friend then gestured for Rienna to come over. Rienna was suddenly timid about what would happen next.
“Come now, it’ll be quick, Miss Rienna. I’ll carry you both over there!” Dinsch said cheerily, flexing a muscle in his arm. “You think little humans like the two of you are a challenge to carry for even the smallest of the Bryfolk?”
Rienna resigned the fight and headed over, nonetheless reluctant to do so. Did she not just before fear this might happen? And over a dangerous bit of rapids to boot!
Dinsch snagged the two of them before either could object and began bounding over rock and rapid. At first, Rienna trembled with trepidation but suddenly she became exhilarated and started to laugh despite her attempts to hold it in. When they reached the other side, Rienna’s face became stony, a weak mask for obvious embarrassment as Krose and Dinsch grinned over at her.
“That was foolish of me. I’m sure someone must have heard that. We’ll have to be extra careful now,” Rienna squeaked out through her tightened throat.
Wisely, the two men said nothing and followed her to where she barely spotted the well-hidden entrance. She stepped inside and gasped.
The three of them were completely awed by the vast intricately decorated chamber. It very much resembled the ruins of a great temple, the stone wall appearing purplish. The purple carved faces poked out from behind thick tendrils and waving curtains of emerald green ivy. Rienna looked to the floor of the entrance and saw writings carved in a strange language and a metal platform of some kind carved into the floor. Krose saw where her eyes were and grabbed her arm just before she stepped on it.
“It’s a launch pad for one of those damned robots. That explains how they got the damn things through that waterfall. Don’t step on it; there’s really no telling how it’s activated,” Krose softly warned.
Rienna nodded but noted a lever on the wall nearly covered by ivy.
The place was eerily quiet and one thing became plain and clear: this place was deserted. It had hardly been a place made solely for the machines, it had a history. She looked around and wondered what must have happened here before now—tribal markings, carvings. She wondered if some sort of meetings or pacts must have taken place here once. Even with the ominous remains of those horrible machines, it was indescribably lovely. Nevertheless, Rienna saw that there was more to this place in the present and they should still look for some kind of clue as to Melchior’s whereabouts. She gestured for Krose and Dinsch to follow her into a tunnel behind an enormous altar. After several turns, Dinsch firmly stopped his companions and gestured for them to be quiet. They stopped and heard it too. The scuffle of approaching footsteps and the hushed voices of others. They all drew their weapons as the unknown group emerged from the tunnel. The strange group looked startled, drawing their weapons as well.
Rienna did not hesitate or mince words now.
“Whoever you are, you’ll tell me what I want to know now or die here! Where is Melchior?” Rienna shouted out, in the unquestionable tone her father had mastered.
The young man at the head of the other group lowered his guard a bit, his jaw dropping.
“You mean, you don’t know either?” came his dismayed reply.
Chapter 3: He Who Bears the Mark
Ashe was always a playful type, even more so when he discovered girls. One might never have even guessed that his life was fraught with the worst kinds of traumas. Before even the age of ten, he had seen things that might destroy the psyche of a fullgrown adult. One of the worst of them had been the decapitation of his parents and most of his tribe. He was only spared to be kept as a slave to a perverted barbarian who thought of this sevenyear-old boy as more arousing than a young woman. He had killed that man and escaped when he was nine-years-old.
It seemed Ashe’s luck had changed a bit then; he was taken in by a unique sword master of his own tribe and trained in this secret art. The others he trained with were all orphaned boys of his tribe as well. The sword art was quite a sight to behold. With silk scarves tied at the wrists and ankles, the result was a kind of deadly illusory dance. Through the distraction of the fabric, the swords tethered to the end of the scarves at the wrists would be the end of the opponent. The hardest parts of the technique were keeping the opponent from grabbing the silk or cutting it or getting tangled in it. Ashe had mastered the art in only three years. Around that time, the sword master went mad and slaughtered all of his pupils and then himself. But Ashe had not been dead. The cut across the left side of his head was not fatal and actually proved to be a blessing. Ashe lost all memory of anything save for his name. The trauma wasn’t obvious for that very reason—he simply didn’t remember any of it.
Ashe bore the markings on his body of a tribe he didn’t remember. The tattoos wrapping around his upper arms held no meaning. At the center of his upper back was another (one he didn’t even know he had until his first woman had told him so) and line of symbols that traced down the outsides of both legs. The ink was black, which was not unusual by any means; his unknown tribesmen spent nearly their whole lives under the sun and only black ever stood up to time. Every year since he was fifteen, he would have the tattoos refilled, hoping some memory would return. They never did.
Ashe did little but train by day, and drink and play with women at night. He was a very handsome man. His hair was platinum blonde from the sun, his skin dark and muscled, his eyes a pale crystalline blue. Though he was still quite young, twenty years of age, it was apparent he would always have that youthful face. Men either loved him or hated him and women just loved him. He seldom wore a shirt and the pants he favored always concealed silk scarves, the two prized scimitars buckled to his back. He wore a kind of leather strapped sandals that climbed to his knees mostly, although some debated how much he actually wore clothes: he had no tan lines.
Ashe’s best friend, Shyren, was a bartender at the bar he frequented most nights. Shyren was from another tattooed tribe so there had always been an unspoken bond.
Shyren saw Ashe enter the tavern that night and knew immediately that something had been wrong. Ashe wore a peasant’s shirt, unlaced to the bottom of his rib cage. He never came into the tavern wearing shirt or swords but tonight, he wore both. Ashe had come directly to the bar and sat, without meeting Shyren’s eyes.
Shyren immediately fixed his friend his favored drink and set it before him, leaning onto the bar with concern.
“No smile and wearing what you’ve never worn in my tavern ever, Ashe. What gives?” Shyren asked in a personal hushed tone.
Ashe was now frowning darkly. Shyren was really hoping it wasn’t he that Ashe was mad at. Ashe looked up into Shyren’s face.
“Shyren… I think I know something about my tribe. It seemed I would never find anything; all of those northern tribes were wiped out, every last remnant destroyed but … someone sent me this,” Ashe carefully drew out an envelope from his shirt pocket and held it out to Shyren.
Shyren took it carefully. At the top of the letter was the symbol that Ashe bore on his back. The letter read as follows:
Fellow tribesman, I never knew another of my tribe still existed. I searched everywhere until I met a woman that recognized the mark on my back as one I share with you. I was 13 when the village was destroyed. I had gotten lost while hunting and couldn’t find my way back for 3 days. When I returned, there was nothing left. I already know you don’t know what I’m talking about; the woman told me you have no memory of this. I will tell you this; I know who you are now. You are Ashe, son of Detrien, of the Suleika Tribe. Another thing I know is that I never found your older brother’s body. It may be too much to hope for, but he might still be alive. His name is
(Ah, here the letter is smudged badly, until all that is legible is…) heard his name, but I don’t know if it is one and the same. He may have been seen at Peneschal Falls. It was a sacred place once. Do be careful. I have heard terrible things have happened there
. Your kin of Suleika Mark
Shyren shook his head, dismayed. Ashe wasn’t kidding about his bad luck. That bit of coffee that had soaked through the envelope managed to blot out the most important part. He looked up at Ashe again.
“This means you’re going to Peneschal Falls, doesn’t it?” Shyren guessed, though it wasn’t a question at all, knowing Ashe as he did.
Ashe nodded grimly. “It’s a long way from Guileford. You haven’t been away from this village much at all,” Shyren replied, voicing his concern.
Ashe nodded again but this time his eyes met Shyren’s, a desperate plea for understanding there.
“I think I have been training for this. This brother of mine, an older brother he said. Maybe he knows something about the ones that slaughtered the northern Tribes. I have to know what he can tell me,” Ashe finally said. He took the letter from Shyren and placed it gently back into his pocket, patting it once unconsciously. He shrugged a little, smirking. “I think I’ll stop off in Harmonea to see the show before I go. If I’ve only got one last thing to do before meeting death, I should at least get to see the women who can bend in ways a man can usually only dream about.”
Shyren smiled, a little sadly, at his friend. Ashe grabbed for the drink still on the bar counter and knocked it back in a single breath.
“You know I can’t stop you. Come back for a drink when you’re finished,” Shyren said firmly, leaving no room for argument. This was a thing people said to the ones they cared about most as a hidden way of saying ‘you’re coming back alive whether you like it or not.’
Ashe stood and stayed for a moment, looking at his short, pudgy friend, now wiping the counter as all bartenders do with cool avoidance. Their eyes locked for a moment and both men nodded curtly. Ashe turned and left abruptly.
Men weren’t very good at saying goodbye.
Harmonea was an entertainment city, full of flashy bright lights and the kind of crowd Ashe felt at home with: heavy drinkers, loose women, and every kind of strange one can imagine. The journey there had been amazingly dull so the arrival was a welcome change that lifted his spirits. Because of the annual arrival of the traveling performers was here this weekend, families seemed to overcrowd this place now. Ashe frowned, feeling a wistfulness growing with every young boy tugging at his father’s arm … and the proud smile the fathers gave back. Ashe grew agitated and started to ignore the happy family atmosphere, instead concentrating on the arrowed signs proclaiming “This way to the Cirque du Harmonea!”
Ashe found himself arriving at the enormous tent. He frowned at another sign he saw: SOLD OUT. Now, he smiled a little deviously. He didn’t really intend to be a paying customer in the first place. He glanced at the buildings around him and noticed only one appeared suitable to scale. He took a quick but thorough look around and ducked into the alley beside it, slipping his way up a rain gutter and onto the roof. He stayed low to the roof, aware that the show’s guards or some snitch might catch him up there. Sneaking across the roof, he caught sight of a support beam on the tent and grinned. Pulling a small ball of sorts from the sword buckles, he whipped it across the street, aiming for the roof of another building.
The flash bomb went off and the second all attention turned to the direction it came from, he sailed into the air, landed on the beam and carefully slit the tent and slipped in unnoticed.
Ashe slid along the wide beam until he reached a comfortable and well-hidden spot. Best seat in the house, he thought with a grin. He waited only ten minutes before the next show began. Lucky for him since it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed without the crowd having something to focus on.
It was entirely magical, this show. The crowd below gasped at every turn. Being a man that relied on illusions, he appreciated the display, but was not fooled by any of the movements. What was more interesting, from where he sat, was the display of breasts in tight bodices ready to spill out at the first hint of an overzealous twist.
The lights dimmed and even Ashe held his breath as a young man wearing a ridiculous array of multicolored silks walked out, holding a long silver dagger in each hand. Once the silks settled in a pool around him, only the young man’s shiny jet black hair moved, ever so gently across his cheeks and eyes, the rest of his hair bound down his back in an intertwining tail that seemed to reach his knees.
Suddenly the man was a blur of movement. The silks ballooned out and the knives struck out in a flurry of illusory movement and distraction. Ashe’s jaw became slackened. This was a form of his own fighting style! He knew not the name of it, but he was determined to talk to this man. Another page in his past was not far from being revealed! This style was relying on much shorter blades and an entire wardrobe of silks (Ashe cringed to think of the expense), but the essence remained the same. Even after the thunderous applause sounded and other acts began under brighter lights, Ashe was lost in his own world of thought. Again the light dimmed and Ashe was brought back to attention.
This time a delicate woman of pale skin, dark auburn hair, and big violet eyes walked out onto a nearly invisible rope and bowed effortlessly. She was clad in a tight purple bodysuit and every bit of skin poking out sparkled with some sort of glitter paint. It did not escape his attention that far below, through the flap of tent that led to the performer’s dressing room, the man he had been awed by looked up at the beautiful woman with extreme interest.
Ashe chuckled; this man was more like him than he thought.
The crowd gasped as the woman flipped, spun, and mastered the rope to such a degree that she appeared to be flying and spinning through the air alone. He had seen awesome feats done on a vertical rope but never imagined that one could attain such perfection on a horizontal tight rope. She wore gloves, of course, for the tight strong rope would have easily sliced off her fingers the way she moved on it. She spun over and around in figureeights, balanced perfectly so many flips that looked like a sure fall, yet she would catch it, split apart her legs and throw herself above the rope, only to land on it effortlessly. She didn’t stumble nor show exertion throughout the performance and when she had finished and the lights clicked back on, the tent was filled with the roar of an adrenaline-overloaded audience. Ashe too clapped wildly at this.
What happened next was expected by none, though Ashe could have guessed his luck was going too good today for it to be otherwise. A whirring of machines and sirens penetrated the air and a huge machine crashed through the top of the tent, shaking the ground with the impact of its landing. The crowd began to scream and scatter to no avail; the tent was sealed and any that thought they were lucky to escape were gunned down by the army outside. Ashe’s attention flew to the woman immediately. The rope had been severed and she was falling to certain death, the man in silks rushing out, mindless of the machine, towards the woman. Ashe clenched his teeth, cursing the fool, but whipped his silk scarves out and lashed them securely onto a pole, plummeting after her. He caught her just before she hit the ground. The startled man quickly looked relieved but no one could ignore the machine turned towards them now.
Ashe looked at the man firmly and frowned.
“Grab the silk. We’re getting the hell out of here,” Ashe shouted. The man listened instantly and, though none of them expected to live through this, as the machine was charging faster than they could climb, they kept going. The machine stopped just as it reached Ashe.
Ashe looked into the cockpit and his jaw dropped instantly. The man inside looked so much like him and seemed to recognize him.
They both had the same tattoos…
The man inside the machine suddenly twisted his face into a maniacal, self-satisfied grin.
“Do not forget, Brother of the Mark, that Melchior, son of Detrien, has spared your life this day. It will not happen again!” he cackled wildly then spun the machine about to set fire to the tent.
Ashe hurried up the silk and saw the performers waiting for him at the top, their faces wild with fear. The two helped him out but the man
started to go back in. Ashe punched the man and sent him flying. The tent caught him, but he scrambled to the beam again, glaring furiously at Ashe.
“Our friends are in there! All those people too! We can’t just let them die!” the man howled back desperately.
Ashe threw him a look of anguish and rage.
“There’s nothing we can do now. The tent is in flames! We have to get off of this thing ourselves and NOW! If you go back in, you’re dying for NOTHING!” Ashe screamed back, allowing no room for argument.
Son of Detrien, Melchior had said. That bastard was his brother. He wanted answers but it didn’t change the fact that he quickly learned that this reunion was the precursor to death— either his or Melchior’s, maybe both.
Ashe grabbed the woman’s arm and charged ahead, grabbing the man’s arm too and slinging them off the tent and onto the roof. This building was on fire too. Suddenly, the man and woman were in survival mode and ran with Ashe, over the tops of collapsing rooftops and finally down a rain gutter and away from the burning mass.
All of those people… Whole families… Ashe grinned painfully. At least if it were whole families, there was no one left alive to feel the pain.
Ashe and the other two had set up camp outside the hectic city. No one had dared to light a fire after the one they just endured so they sat in the dark. The woman now sat alone, rocking and cursing softly. Ashe leaned against a tree and the man just watched the woman, deep in thought.
“My name is Ashe,” he finally said. “I have no memory of who I am from before the age of 12.”
He approached the man, now glaring at him suspiciously. He wanted to punch the guy. Really, after he just saved this guy’s ass?
“You might have noticed. The double swords, the silk, I fight in a similar style to yours, but I don’t know why. I don’t know where it came from and I have to know if you know anything,” Ashe continued, gritting his teeth to keep his cool.
The Truth about Heroes: Complete Trilogy (Heroes Trilogy) Page 4