by Lakshman, V.
* * * * *
The village was small, counting no more than ten huts arranged around a central fire pit that still held glowing embers, protected by a rain shield made of some sort of metal. The rain hit it with a pang that sounded at once both hollow and strangely muffled. Alion could almost hear the drops slide down the shield, before they joined their brothers on the soaked earth. At best, the king’s mark estimated, there were less than fifty people here. She looked to Kalissa, who pointed to the second hut on her right. Alion put two fingers up and pointed.
The men broke into smaller squads of four, each taking station silently at the entrance to each hut. The remainder of her men melded into the shadows in case any tried to sneak out, a strategy they had practiced and perfected over dozens of raids.
When they were in position, Lieutenant Kearn signaled to the king’s mark, who strode into the center of the village and its fire pit. Grabbing a metal poker, she stoked the embers, then grabbed some wood from the pile. She threw this onto the fire, watching as it lit, growing slowly into a warm, orange dance of flames. Then, she casually ran the poker across the rain shield, the metal on metal creating a cacophony of sound.
A few villagers to poke their heads out to see what was happening. At that moment those under Deft’s command exploded into action, streaming into each house and grabbing the people inside. Screams ensued as the village realized it was suddenly under attack, yet there was little defense offered, as the attackers were both well-trained and alert in comparison with these simple, sleep-addled folk.
Three entered each house and battered people into submission. A fourth would move in quickly and collar them, the torc snapping into place before they knew what was happening. Instantly, any path to their powers would vanish, or at least that was the promise. These torcs could only be removed by one without Talent. It made for an infallible test of who exactly was a mage and who wasn’t. If they had no power, they could remove their torc easily. If not, the king’s mark would deal with them.
* * * * *
Stiven raced in behind his team, torcs ready. He saw a man go down with a strike to his forehead, the flat of the blade hitting him with a dull thud. Stiven was upon him, dropping his torch and snapping a torc in place with a simple thrust of his hand. He fumbled to make another ready and looked up, only to see a woman slashing downward with something. He raised his blade instinctively, hearing the strike of steel on steel and feeling the shock of impact. The sword tumbled from his cold, wet fingers as he fell onto his back.
The woman carried a cleaver and raised her hand to strike again, but two swords plunged into her back as his squadmates came to his aid. They struck repeatedly as the woman let out a low groan, falling to her knees. They stabbed her even after she fell forward, face down and lifeless, pinning her body to the ground with their blades.
One leaned on his sword, thrust through the back of the dead woman’s body, then looked up at Stiven and laughed, “She had some swing in that arm!”
He didn’t answer, his mind still reeling from the speed of the attack and everything happening around him. Sitting on the ground, he watched numbly as the little girl who ran up to her dead mother’s body was torced, then pulled out of the hut along with her unconscious father.
Alion smiled at the brutal efficiency of her men. The villagers put up little resistance and were soon rounded up and left kneeling in the mud of the central square. Those who were unconscious were dumped to the side under the watchful eyes of the guards. Those who had been killed were dragged from where they fell and laid out for the count, a grisly sight for the survivors. Within a few moments, the raid was over and the people of the village were fully accounted for, one way or another.
* * * * *
“Wake them,” Alion said, motioning to the unconscious.
Guards went to the well and roped up buckets of cold water. With these they doused the fallen, following with kicks and slaps until all were at least semi-conscious and able to kneel next to their friends.
When the king’s mark was satisfied she had everyone’s attention, she said, “You know why we are here. You harbor those decreed by the King’s Law as a threat to this land. Point them out, and we will release you.”
None said a word, which did not surprise Alion Deft at all. Simple folk often saw those with Talent as some kind of benefit and harbored them, a mistake she would not allow to go unpunished. She moved slowly until she stood silhouetted by the fire, which blazed like a mantle of yellow power behind her. “Separate them.”
At her command, the children were grabbed and moved to one side, while the adults were held at sword point. Screams ensued and one mother ran forward to grab her son. Alion moved with the swiftness of a cat. Her blade licked out, slicing the woman’s head from her shoulders before returning to her scabbard in one smooth motion. The body and head fell separately, and the villagers instantly sank into a stifled hush of broken sobs and muttered curses.
“You are in violation of the King’s Law, a decree designed to safeguard your lives! I bring justice and order. Where are they?” Alion knew she could have asked Kalissa, but this was the interesting part. She always wondered why people had such faith in their friends, when it took so little to turn them against each other.
“Justice?” a kneeling man asked. “The king’s brother summons a demon and the land is plunged into war. For that, we pay with our lives?”
Alion nodded, and a guard picked the man up and brought him before her. Her eyes narrowed. “Lilyth destroyed our world. King Galadine saved it. You owe him your respect.”
The man shook his head, clearly distraught, “My wife...”
The king’s mark looked at the headless body and shrugged. “She chose her path, as will you.” Alion grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Where are the mages? Answer, or your son dies.”
Two guards snatched up the boy in question and brought him to where the man could see him. It was clear this was the boy the dead woman had tried to save. They shoved him down to a kneeling position, and one placed his sword point at the nape of his neck.
“No!” The man looked back at the king’s mark, pleading, “No, please.” He then looked about the group and pointed to a man near one end. “He is the one you seek. He and his wife!”
Alion looked to where the man pointed and saw one of the men who had been unconscious. He knelt now, holding one hand to his bleeding forehead. She looked back at the man, then shoved him away. “Well done.” She then looked at the guards near the accused man and said, “Bring him here.”
The guards obeyed, and the man was dragged before the king’s mark and dumped at her feet. Alion looked at the man and said, “Kalissa?”
The girl walked forward, a small tremble in her lips. She came slowly, fear dragging at her feet.
“Is this man one of your kind?” Alion asked.
The girl looked at the man, who now focused his eyes on her with hatred. Because he was collared, she would not be able to see his aura, a sure sign he had Talent. Normal people always shone, regardless of the collar or not, just not as brightly as those with Talent. “Yes, King’s Mark. He is one of us.”
“And the other?” Deft had pulled a dagger, wicked and sharp, absentmindedly picking at her nails.
Kalissa looked at the pile of bodies and pointed. “Dead. His wife w-was the other,” she stammered.
Alion watched the girl, then the man. When Kalissa mentioned his wife, she caught the look of anguish that flitted behind his eyes. So, she thought, the girl speaks truly, or at least it is true his wife is dead. We shall see.
The king’s mark addressed the kneeling man. “Take off the torc, and you will be released.”
The man turned his attention from the girl who had pointed him out and now looked at the tall woman before him. She was square-jawed and horse-faced, her voice without emotion. There was no love or compassion in her eyes, only apathy and death. “The Lady curses you,” he said weakly, knowing his fate.
“My Kalissa is seldom wrong. If your wife had lived, maybe I could have persuaded you to work for me, but with her dead, there is little to compel your obedience.” Alion paused, “Unless, you have a child?”
The man shook his head. “No,” he spat, and the king’s mark could see he wished her death, or worse.
“Then take off the torc and you will be absolved in the eyes of your Fathers.”
The man slumped into the ground, head in his hands. Then he grabbed the torc in both and pulled, his neck and face straining until red. When he could pull no more, he gave up, exhausted. “What does it prove?” he muttered.
Alion turned and faced the man kneeling before her and said, “It proves you have been judged, found guilty, and served the King’s Justice.”
She brought the blade up in a short, brutal arc, stabbing under the man’s neck and through the back of his skull. The man coughed a gout of blood, clutching at the Mark’s hands. His grip was at first strong, but as his life gushed out, became weak, feeble pulls on her wrist. His last breath gurgled out of him as he died.
Alion pulled the dagger from his neck and wiped it clean, shoving the dead man onto his back with her booted foot. Then she grabbed the torc, which came undone easily at her touch, and tossed it into a basket sitting some feet away. Sheathing her dagger, she looked to Lieutenant Kearn. “Get them up.”
At his command, the villagers were lined up facing the king’s mark. She watched them without emotion. These were worse than the ones who sullied themselves with magic. They turned their backs on the Almighty Fathers, embracing instead the work of demons.
Her men grabbed the large basket she had tossed the torc into and placed it on the ground near the standing villagers. Alion motioned to the basket and said, “Take off your torcs and put them in the basket. Then go wait in that hut.” She pointed to the back of the village. “Once I have satisfied the king’s decree, we will release you and depart.”
The survivors moved slowly, stiffly, reaching up and pulling off their torcs with numb fingers, tossing them into the basket. Unlike the man before them, they had no Talent, and the torcs came off easily at their touch. As each collar came off, that person was ushered into the hut to stand with his neighbors.
From the back of the line came a child’s squeal. Alion looked and saw a small girl, no more than five, pulling at her torc. A nearby adult reached down, but the king’s mark stopped her with a word: “Hold!”
Four men formed a circle around the girl, who looked more frightened now than ever. She sat down in the mud and buried her face in her hands. Alion moved in closer and said, “Little one, what is the matter?”
She looked up, with eyes so blue they almost glowed. Soft black hair spilled down her shoulders, and Alion found herself stunned by the child’s simple beauty. The girl stifled her tears, then sobbed, “You hurt him!”
The king’s mark looked back at the dead man. Not as truthful as I was led to believe.
She turned slowly and faced Kalissa, a little satisfied when the girl shook uncontrollably, her eyes showing white. “Did we miss one?”
With a scream, Kalissa turned to run, but was grabbed by Malioch. He punched her once in the face, then slapped the torc back on her before she tried any more mischief.
Alion grabbed Kalissa by the scruff of her neck and dragged her back to the little girl, then threw her to the ground. “Did you think to save one of your own?”
When the girl did not answer, the king’s mark looked to the other villagers. “Remove your torcs, now!”
The townsfolk scrambled to obey, and within a few heartbeats there were no more wearing the king’s metal collar. They were pushed and shoved back to the hut, until all were crammed inside. Guards stationed themselves at the entrance, as others circled the hut to ensure none escaped.
Alion turned her attention back to the little girl Kalissa had not mentioned. “The collar, it won’t come off?” she said sweetly.
The girl looked up, then shook her head, pulling at it. “I want my da,” she said in a small voice.
The king’s mark drew her blade. “You’ll join him in a moment.”
“Hold your arm, Deft.” The strident command came from behind her, the voice strong and composed. She saw her men turn and look. Any undrawn weapons sang out of their scabbards now with the ring of steel. She blinked once, then turned to the voice.
At the village’s entrance path stood three men. No, not men, she corrected herself, one man and two boys. They were dressed in dark, close fitting clothes without armor. They carried swords strapped across their backs, the hilts jutting up defiantly over their shoulders. Even as she watched, the man in the center stepped forward into the light of the village fire.
Recognition sparked and she paused, thinking through her options. This man was an outlaw, a malcontent, but dangerous. Her eyes narrowed and she drawled, “Captain Davyd Dreys, what a pleasant surprise.” Suddenly a simple evening’s culling had turned into a fight for her very survival, and Alion was too pragmatic to lie to herself. Still, she had to buy time and asked while readying her weapons, “How does it feel, knowing you are both a traitor and cursed?”
The man she had called Davyd looked about and said simply, “I’m no longer captain and don’t serve your king. That doesn’t make me a traitor.”
“Really? What would your men say, the ones lying dead at Sovereign’s Fall?” A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, for Captain Drey’s desertion was a well-known fact.
Davyd ignored her jibe and looked about, taking in the whole scene. “Still consorting with children? Have you found no better work since your days in court?”
“This is better suited to my particular tastes, but what of you? Do you not care for the mark you still wear?” She raised her arms and displayed the two interlocked circles worn by all king’s marks, tattooed on her forearms.
Davyd was hit with a fit of coughing, a phlegm-covered sound emanating from deep within his chest, and held a hand to his mouth. Beneath his sleeve, she could still see the same tattoos on his forearm, twin to hers. After a moment, his coughing subsided and he rasped, “I was too late to help my brothers, but will not allow you to kill their children. You will face justice today.”
Alion’s eyes took on a calculating stare, and she nodded slowly. “The wasting sickness is upon you, judgment from the Fathers’ hands.” She moved to one side and motioned to her men, who moved forward in a loose semicircle. “Why chance your sons’ lives? They do not have the benefit of the training you’ve received.”
Davyd signaled to his sons to remain steady. They, in turn, drew weapons and came to stand by their father. “I’ve taught them what I know."
Alion Deft, the king’s mark and magehunter, bowed to the outlaw and said, “By all means then, have at us.” She looked to the brace of men still guarding the hut with the villagers inside and screamed, “Release them to their Fathers!”
At her order, her men hefted long spears and began stabbing through the thin hut walls, killing any within reach of the leafed blades. Normally they would have set the hut afire, but the accursed rain had put an end to that plan. The men at the entrance waited, stabbing any who ventured near the opening. The screams of the dead and dying soon filled the night air.
Davyd and his sons exploded into action, summoning the Way. Their forms flashed in a burst of blue fire, a flame-like skin protecting them as armor would. Without speaking they ran in three directions, with Davyd taking the shortest route to Alion and the other two winging toward the hut where the soldiers continued massacring the townsfolk. To the assembled men, the three looked like angels, shining like blue stars in the dismal night.
It was not a moment too soon, for guards began flinging their torcs at them, lethal rings aimed at the mages. The torcs did not need to fasten themselves to be effective, only loop around a limb, and Alion’s men knew it. They had practiced this and the air soon filled with the weapons of the Magehunters, seeking any kind of contact to dead
en a connection to the Way.
Davyd blocked one, deflecting it with his sword, then ducked and rolled under another as a soldier swiped at him with his weapon. The mage raised his blade and blocked the soldier’s, then opened his palm.
Blue flame engulfed the man, incinerating him in less than a heartbeat. Davyd did not slow as he dived through the dying man’s ashes and stabbed another through the eye. He yanked his blade free and spun, slicing with his arm. A thin blue light arced out, like a line with a weight at the end, severing anything it touched. Soldiers fell screaming, their legs cut out from under them.
Alion felt the blue line come her way and dodged, rolling through it. Her armor shone, bending Davyd’s spell and protecting her from its lethal cut. She thanked the king’s priests and their ability to bring the power of her Fathers to protect her.
Over the blue devastating line streaked the elder of Davyd’s sons, Armun. He landed lightly, swinging his blade in a tight arc and swatting aside two rings. He knelt and punched his fist downward. The ground erupted in a circle from the impact point, cracking under the soldiers’ feet, but leaving the villagers unharmed.
The men caught in the spell fell into crevasses appearing suddenly beneath them. Armun stood and clenched his fist, and the earth closed again on the trapped men, crushing them in its black embrace. He looked to his father and smiled, then made his way toward the hut, cutting men in half with his blade as if they were made of paper.
Davyd leaped at Alion again, weaving a net of silver steel around the king’s mark. The strikes were lethal, but each time they came near, his sword bent and twisted in his hand as if it had a life of its own. Her armor acted as if it were a reversed lodestone, repelling his blade at every thrust. He cursed, then pointed his finger and a bolt of lightning, pure blue and white, flashed at his opponent.
Alion stabbed her sword into the ground, then knelt behind it. The arc of lightning hit the air in front of her and curved around, bending the stroke into a sphere of power surrounding the king’s mark, but not touching her. The lightning danced until it gathered at the hilt of her sword, following the blade down and channeling itself into the ground, leaving Alion entirely unharmed.