by Davis Ashura
And, unfortunately, of all the units, the Blacks would have the hardest, longest run to make.
Rukh took another moment to map out his next decision. The warriors wouldn't like it. He turned to the Kummas. “I want all of you running flat out. Don't slow down for anyone. Get inside the Outer Wall as quickly as you can. That is your only mission.”
“But, sir, how will the Murans and Rahails keep up with us?” a Kumma asked.
“They won't,” Rukh replied. “But there's also nothing any of you can do for them by being out here. None of us can stop the Sorrow Bringer. And She can likely see through our Blends so you aren't going to be any safer hiding with us behind one of them. If we want to live, we have to run. No slowing down.”
“And what about you, sir?” asked Corporal Chopil.
Rukh's jaw briefly clenched. If Jessira were with him, she would have berated his decision even as she understood it. She was a warrior.
“I'm the commander. I'll stay with the Murans and Rahails.” He managed to quirk a smile. “Of course, until we break free of this fragging forest, none of us will be doing much running.”
From the bowels of a sewer seeps the heart of hate. It pollutes the purest water, dismaying love's longing for belonging. It is a poisonous slug, so salt it well.
~To Live Well by Fair Shire, AF 1842
“What do those red flares mean?” Jessira asked.
“It means the Advent Trial is over,” Bree answered with a frown. “Did you see those green arrows from the forest a while back? They were warnings that enemies are approaching. The red arrows are acknowledgment of the warning, and the call for all the platoons to return at once to Ashoka.”
“Do we know what kind of enemies?” Jessira asked.
“No. Not yet,” Bree said. “All we know is that enemies have been sighted.”
The crowd around them shuffled about in unease. The prior lively nature of the jests and conversations had dimmed to muted whispers of worry and uncertainty.
Many minutes later, more green warning arrows fired, this time from the plain itself and sometime later, again from the forest, just in front of it.
Jessira cursed. Rukh was out there. Worrying about him was the last thing she needed, especially with the promise of violence hovering about the Shektans like a wispy fog. She wished it were her own misgivings, but Rector Bryce had also picked up on whatever was in the air. For Jessira, it felt like a bated breath before a battle, of the watchful silence before the storm, of hate and violence waiting to be unleashed. She had passed on her warning to the other women while Rector had done the same with the warriors guarding them.
Once more, Jessira wished that more of the Shektan women were armed. Right now, the only ones who bore blades were her, Sign, and Bree. Following the unmasking of Hal'El Wrestiva as the Withering Knife murderer, safety seemed to have returned to the streets of Ashoka. And since danger no longer lurked, it no longer seemed important to go armed in public. Jessira hoped the decision to forego their swords wouldn't be one that the Shektan women would come to rue.
Just as much, she hoped that her watchful wariness would prove to be unnecessary, that whatever she was sensing would prove illusory, a product of her imagination. She prayed such would be the case because the idea of drawing her sword on another person, hurting them, cutting them, or even killing them . . . she couldn't imagine anything so awful. Such a possibility had her sick at heart.
Bree appeared to share Jessira's misgivings or at least she appeared fearful of something. She circumspectly scanned the crowd with a look of queasy concern on her face. Her hand continually drifted to the hilt of her sword.
Jessira hoped the other woman would be fine. She wasn't a true warrior, but lately, she had worked hard to correct the deficiencies in her training and was actually fairly competent . . . or at least no longer a liability.
“I don't see anything,” Sign said as she stepped up to Jessira's side.
“Nor I,” Bree added.
“Just stay alert,” Jessira warned them.
“Are you sure about what you felt?” Satha asked, coming up alongside them as well. “The Advent Trial has already ended, and I see nothing amiss. Are you certain your feelings aren't directed outward? At whatever enemy might be approaching?”
“What I felt isn't out there,” Jessira said, gesturing to the plain beyond the Outer Wall. “What I felt is in here. It's all around us.”
Satha exhaled. “And no one else has seen or heard anything out of the ordinary?”
“No one,” Jessira confirmed. “But I'm sure of what I felt. I'm feeling it off and on right now. Something bad is about to happen.”
“She's right,” Rector said. “There is something wrong. The other warriors can feel it now, too.” He stared Satha in the eyes. “I think it would be best if we simply left.”
Satha glanced about at the crowd and made a moue of disgust. “I sense nothing,” she said after a moment of study. “And while I trust your judgment, this is the Advent Trial, and this is Ashoka. I can't imagine anything truly dangerous occurring to us here. Not with us guarded by ten Kumma warriors.” She hesitated. “But perhaps we should be prudent and do as you suggest. We'll start with the younger women first.”
Rector nodded. “We'll make sure they move out in small groups so as to not attract attention.” He paused as he was about to turn away. “It would be best if you return to stand amidst the rest of the women,” he advised.
Satha nodded agreement and drifted back to where the other women were clustered.
After she had done so, Jessira looked over the crowd once again, trying to find that ineffable source of suppressed violence. Her eyes narrowed. There had been a time when she had been sure the focus of what she was feeling stemmed from the middle-aged Muran who had occasionally flicked his gaze toward her and Rector. Currently, the man stood surrounded by a group of young men—Murans, Duriahs, and Rahails. They stood silent and stared raptly out toward the broad plain surrounding Ashoka. What held their gazes was unclear since there was nothing to see.
The warriors of the Advent Trial were still Blended and nothing could be seen of what was occurring down in the plain beyond the Outer Wall. With the red arrows recalling the platoons, they were all likely sprinting back to the city. Maybe that's what those silent men were looking for: the tell-tale signs of the return of the Advent Trial warriors.
Jessira tried to convince herself that such might be the case, but there was something not quite right about the men. They kept flicking glances at one another, but the bulk of their focus often drifted to the Muran. It was furtive and suspicious, unnoticeable if Jessira hadn't been looking. Some of them shifted about as though nervous, and her certainty that they might be a part of whatever was causing her such unease deepened. There was something about way they stood: the overly conscious casualness, the studiousness in their eyes, and the seriousness that didn't belong, even amidst the quiet worry radiating off the crowd since the firing of the red arrows.
“There,” she whispered to Rector.
“I see them,” Rector replied. He had already flicked his suspicious gaze in the direction of the suspicious-appearing men. After a moment, his brows furrowed in confusion. “There aren't enough of them to pose us any threat,” he said, sounding troubled rather than relieved. “There has to be something more to what we're feeling than just that handful of men.”
“Where are all the women?” Bree asked, having overheard their conversation.
“They're right there,” Sign said as though she was stating what should have been the most obvious fact possible. She gestured to the Shektan women who huddled together in a large grouping. The House warriors hovered protectively about their charges.
“No,” Bree corrected. “Where are the women in the crowd? There used to be a lot more of them, but now there's hardly any.”
Jessira suddenly cast her eyes about, looking in all directions. The blood drained from her face. Bree was right. There were hardly any wo
men left in this section of the Outer Wall. It was almost entirely populated by men—men wearing long cloaks. They had the bearing of those who had once served as warriors, and those cloaks could be hiding swords and knives at their hips. There were a lot of them, maybe over fifty.
Jessira struggled to keep her breathing smooth and even, but her heart thudded. The nightmare she had hoped would be an unwonted fear looked like it was about to come true. “I think we're in trouble,” she whispered.
“I think you're right,” Rector agreed, looking grim-faced but determined. He muttered something under his breath.
“Now!” a voice shouted.
Jessira's gaze snapped in the direction of the cry. Of course it had to have been the middle-aged Muran. After that, there was no further time for thought. The cloaked men drew hidden swords and attacked. Screams filled the air.
Shur Rainfall didn't like the eyes of the Shektans upon him. They made him uncomfortable. It was as though a curse were being placed upon his name and that of his family. He especially didn't like it when the filthy ghrina woman stared at him. Jessira Shektan. Her gaze was as soiled as a pus-filled wound. He felt the need to bathe every time she looked his way. As she was doing right now.
He barely restrained a snarl. Even now, it rankled him that an abomination like her had been welcomed so openly into the family of a ruling 'El. What degeneracy could have allowed such evil to gain entrance into the heart of one of Ashoka's great Houses? Or blinded the vision of one of the city's great heroes to the corruption that was in the ghrina's blood. How could Rukh Shektan, slayer of so many Chimeras, have married this woman? It was proof, if any more had been needed, that House Shektan was utterly degenerate and their entire lineage Tainted.
As the ghrina's eyes passed over him once again, the Muran forced himself to turn away and not stare. Instead, he laughed, feigning frivolity even though his blood boiled. Soon enough—today, First Father willing—Jessira Shektan, the ghrinas, and all the Tainted Shektans would pay for their grave sins against nature and Devesh.
“They're looking our way again,” one of the Duriahs whispered to him in warning. The man was nervous, and his skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.
“We only need wait a little longer,” Shur whispered, wearing a false, toothy grin upon his face. “Our women have almost entirely departed, and the entirety of our warriors will be here soon enough.”
“We may not have the time to gather all of our warriors together,” the Duriah replied. “They seem to suspect something of us.”
Shur bit back his irritation. The Duriah was one of the most devout members of the Virtuous, but also one of the smartest.
“Look at Rector Bryce. He keeps glancing our way,” the Duriah noted.
Shur glanced at the City Watchman, the warrior in charge of guarding the Shektan women. The man's eyes were indeed suspicious as he seemed to study the Virtuous. So far, though, his eyes hadn't lingered overlong on Shur and his men. As long as that remained the case, then their attack could still go forward as planned.
“What do you think they're talking about now?” the Rahail asked, stepping forward and interrupting their conversation. He briefly gestured toward Jessira who stood with her cousin—another ghrina—and Bree Shektan. Approaching them was Satha Shektan, matriarch of the House. “Do you think they're talking about us?”
“It doesn't matter,” Shur said. “We only need a few more minutes, and their place in this world will be gone.” He pretended to laugh. “Look. Satha is already moving off. And they've kindly gathered all their women in one location. It'll make it that much easier to bring Devesh's judgment upon them.”
“Some of their women are leaving,” the Duriah noted.
Shur nodded. He'd seen it as well. “It's no matter. It's the matrons and the ghrina scum who will taste the severity of our righteousness. With the death of their elders, perhaps the young will be blessed with wisdom and see the error of their ways.” Privately, he doubted something like that would ever happen, but it never hurt to show mercy to the weak.
Shur and his men waited in silence for a few more minutes before the Duriah spoke up once more.
“The ghrina is looking our way again,” he said. “And so is Rector Bryce.”
“So they are,” Shur said, “but they're too late. Our warriors are here.” He gathered his breath. “Now!” he shouted. Shur whipped aside his cloak and drew a sword. The rest of the warriors of the Virtuous did so as well as they leaped into righteous glory.
Rector wished he could have convinced the women of House Shektan to leave the Outer Wall sooner than he had. Anywhere else would have been safer than here where they were but targets. The small clusters currently evacuating the area were moving too slowly for his liking even as events seemed to be moving too quickly.
Too much was going on, too much that had no explanation. The green arrows followed by the red ones. The early end of the Advent Trial. Were there really enemies approaching the gates of Ashoka? And worst of all, this foreboding sense that something evil lurked nearby, something seeking death.
Rector wished again that all the Shektan women were moving off the Outer Wall right now. In fact, he wished many things, but none of it mattered any more. Their time had run out.
Jessira had pointed out the Muran. It was the same man Rector had noticed earlier, and he cursed himself. He should have listened to that niggling voice in back of his mind, the one that told him he should pay attention to the Muran. Rector recognized the man now. He had once been a captain in the High Army of Ashoka. Shur Rainfall was his name. Rector had only had a few interactions with him. It had been a couple of conversations shared shortly after Rector's return from his final Trial a few years ago and just prior to the Muran's retirement from the High Army.
But those brief interactions had left their mark. Ironically, just like Rector had once been, Shur Rainfall had also held an utter certainty of his own moral superiority and judgment. In addition, he had also possessed a self-assurance that bordered on the arrogant and a fervent passion that robbed him of charity for those who studied a problem and came to a different conclusion than he. There had been more than one instance where Shur had dismissively disregarded ideas that didn't stem from his own supposed brilliance, and according to rumor, the subsequent errors in judgment had apparently never done much to harm him with humility. To say that Rector had disliked the man would be an understatement.
“I think we're in trouble,” Jessira whispered.
“I think you're right,” Rector Bryce replied with a sinking worry. He'd killed a man once before, and the scars from that action still pained him like boils on his soul. All morning he had hoped that he would never need harm another person. That hope was about to be proven futile. And it was all because of Shur Rainfall. “That fragging Muran's face needs a fist,” Rector muttered under his breath.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Shur bellowed out a command. “Now!”
Cloaks were flung aside. Swords rasped from scabbards. Cries of hatred filled the air.
The world became chaotic.
Rector Shielded and gut-kicked an attacker. He launched a Fireball, and it screamed through the air.
Rector's soul wilted when two men were incinerated.
Upon the shouted word from the Muran, cloaks were thrown and blades drawn.
“Form a Triad,” Bree ordered.
Jessira nodded and conducted Jivatma. As always, it was rich like honey and left her feeling connected with the world beyond the shell of her body. She felt a brush against her thoughts. Bree. Jessira reached for her and Sign.
They Annexed, and an unhurried peace stole over Jessira. Her thoughts grew too heavy, too numb to maintain. It was as if she'd taken a swim in winter-cold water. Soon, her mind stilled to silence.
The Triad was born, and it had a single task: survive. It would do so no matter the cost. The Triad Shielded and swords were drawn.
The one known as Rector Bryce stepped forward. He gut-kic
ked an attacker. His Fireball screamed through the air and incinerated two of the enemy. After that, there was no further room for any weapons other than blades.
The Triad stepped forward. It angled Primary, Secondary, and Tertiary so there were no blind spots. Primary was the swiftest and most powerful of the three, but Secondary was the most skillful warrior. The Triad set her at point.
The enemy held Linked Blends and were effectively invisible. The warriors allied to the Triad were slowed by their inability to see their adversaries. Nevertheless, they persevered. The Triad, however, wasn't hampered in any fashion. Two members could sense Blends. The Triad waited until the time was opportune. Surprise would be devastating. A Link was established with the Blends of the attackers.
Murans, Rahails, and Duriahs suddenly popped into view.
Secondary parried an attacker. Her follow-through was a hard kick to her adversary's knee. It buckled and a diagonal slash ripped the man across the chest. His hands dropped, and a kick to the face put him down.
Primary held off two attackers. She took a blade on her Shield. A quick thrust led to her adversary's gurgling death. Tertiary took the other attacker in the back.
A command came from two of the members: attack. It was immediately rescinded by Secondary.
They were to hold the line. Nevertheless, they were soon surrounded. Secondary was sent forward. She took the lead and waded into the enemy. She parried slashes and thrusts from all sides, moving faster than the enemy. On her heels came Primary and Tertiary. They dealt death to those Secondary hurled aside.
From all three members came a great horror. Feelings leaked from them: shock, grief, and shame. A bone-deep regret that they had to kill people. Other Humans with life and thought.