Children of the Prime Box Set

by T. C. Edge

  His eyes lift from mine, turning off to the other pyres. I follow them, and note the Fire-Bloods nodding to one another. I catch sight of Raymond again, find his eyes on mine. Once more, they hold no fear for himself, only me. And over the murmuring of the crowd, I see his lips break open and whisper...

  "Everything will be OK."

  The Fire-Bloods step forward.

  Their hands, glowing, alive with an inner flame, reach out towards the wood stacked beneath us. I keep my eyes on Raymond for a moment, then look again at the young man before me. I see him reaching for the wood, sparks of flame seeming to crackle upon his fingers. They disappear into a tangled mess of kindling.

  And moments later, the blaze begins.

  A primal sense of fear engulfs me, a natural response that anyone would feel. I forget my immunity for a split second as those flames begin to quickly spread beneath my feet, working around the base of the stack of wood, rising up around the stage I stand upon.

  I look from side to side, see the flames proliferate, rapidly eating their way through the wood. My pulse thrashes, my eyes widening as they regard the instinctively terrifying sight. Yet, as the blaze builds, my body, my flesh, picks up only the sensation of the furnace, the agonising heat that spreads. I'm aware, by natural instinct, of the rising temperature, but feel no pain as it prepares to attack me, burn my robe and what lies beneath.

  The panic in me starts to fade, and a sense of relaxation permeates in its place. I peruse those flames differently; as allies, as friends. I look upon the licking tongues of orange and yellow, and feel that affinity with them, that bond that exists between us. And instead of pain, a great blanket of comfort surrounds me, like nothing I've ever felt before...

  A sudden shriek cuts the air.

  It bellows from somewhere behind me, ear-splitting, like nothing I've ever heard. I twist my neck sharply back, and see one of the heretics from Westhollow hidden amid the blaze. I stare, the moment locked in time, as the flames take hold on his white cloak, as they eat at the oil rubbed into his skin and hungrily devour his flesh.

  Another warped shriek of pain lifts, ripping from the throat of the other of Raymond's companions. I fling my head the other way and see him, the flames rising up his legs, creeping up his body like the claws of some dreadful, fire-wreathed beast. They wrap him quickly, his eyes opening wide, tears of agony unable to build as they're so swiftly burned away.

  The sight sinks into me, one I'll never forget. And those sounds, those roars of impossible pain. I know they'll echo in my nightmares forever.

  I tear my eyes from my sight, try to numb my ears from the sounds. And then I catch sight of Raymond, just off to my side. I find his face contorted, his lips locked tight, clamped down and refusing to let slip a single sound. I see the tendrils of unbearable heat reach up to him, rising around him, feasting on his cloak and the flesh of his feet and legs.

  I watch, and all but forget that the flames are building around me too. That I myself am blanketed in the pouring smoke, the wood stacked beneath me building into a raging bonfire. I merely look through the flames, the scorching, rippling air, and into Raymond's face as he tries to stop from screaming out. Tries to separate his mind from the pain running through every inch of his body.

  And eventually, as the calls of his companions grow ever wilder, I see him break. I see those lips crack open, releasing his own screech of agony and torment, just as those same lips crack from the burning heat. As his skin, covered in oil, splits and boils, blackening as the blaze does its work.

  I forget everything else as I watch the purification unfold, the awful torture these men endure. As I listen to their wails, see the anguish on their faces, smell the scent of their flesh being cooked. And all the while, I barely notice as the white cloak covering me burns away, as the flames eat at the oil on my skin, as the dark smoke surrounds me, conceals me, locks me away from the baying crowd beyond.

  Hidden within that tomb of fire and putrid smog, I watch the three innocent men from the Fringe murdered. Executed. Sacrificed here for the pleasure of the crowd.

  And there, up there above them all, watching from afar, the Prime. Through the black smog, the flames, I see the pair, standing so still, their favoured children upon the steps before them. None move. None care. They stand as gods, standing up there in the clouds, casually presiding over it all.

  And as the flames surround me, so they begin to burn within. Fuelled by the blood-curdling screams of the men upon the stage with me. By the smell of their cooking flesh. By the sight of Raymond, so stoic, so defiant, finally breaking as the pain becomes too great to endure.

  I listen, and watch, and smell it all. And a hate, an anger, like I've never experienced, erupts within.

  I feel an energy begin to burn and explode, feel the flames surrounding me grow stronger, fiercer, wilder. They grow, the bonfire upon which I hide rising, spreading, fuming with a greater intensity as my body floods with rage.

  I see, through the flames, the crowd murmuring. I see faces of confusion, even concern, spreading across them. I see the young Fire-Blood beside my pyre staring into the ball of fire with an expression of wonder and bewilderment. His eyes widen, and he takes a step back, before turning to look at the crowd.

  And then, as the fire within me becomes unquenchable, too wild to control, he calls out, "Get back!"

  Something breaks inside me. I feel it snap, like a crick in the neck allowing full motion once more. An ache I never knew I had is gone. I feel more alive than ever before, a power surging, building, exploding like a long dormant volcano finally unleashing a hundred years' worth of pent up fury and fire.

  The flames spread from me. They rush, pressing outwards from my body in all directions. My body fizzes and burns, my arms rising free of the shackles that secure me to the stake. I find them lifting, find my lungs roaring with a great bellow of anger.

  And into the crowd, the firestorm goes.

  Screams spread.

  Bodies rush.

  Soldiers pour forward from their positions, some at tremendous speeds, trying to protect the crowd, pull them away as the fires spread.

  Upon the stage, the Fire-Bloods plant their stances, feet fixing to the ground, hands stretching out to hold back the blaze. I get only the sensation of it all as my body bursts free, the four Fire-Bloods diverting the flames as they hurry, hungry, into the gathered audience.

  For a few moments, I let the anger flow, let the fire spread as I bellow and roar. Then I see them. See the Worthy surrounding the stage unable to escape as the flames chase them down. See several of them caught among the fire. See their grey robes turn to ash in a moment as they struggle to rush away.

  I recognise one. A beautiful girl under the service of Marlow, unable to escape. I see her form eaten by the inferno. And in moments, she's gone.

  Fear spreads through me at what I've done. My rage evaporates, the flames put out as if by a tidal wave of shame and sudden self-hate. I feel the energy inside me swiftly drawn back, receding to somewhere deep in my core. My arms fall to my sides, the fire in my blood doused, a sensation of deep exhaustion beginning to take hold.

  And there I stand, upon the stage, the pyre and stacks of wood now turned to a pile of ash. The stone stage around me steams, its surface scorched. The throng beyond have withdrawn, pulled back, nothing near to me now but the four Fire-Bloods, standing around me with hands held out, bodies postured in defence, flesh glowing with an inner flame.

  Across the great square, screams still spread, though begin to settle as the fires are put out, those set aflame doused. I scan, my eyes blurring, and see that many lie upon the stone floor, bodies blackened. Dead. Others are hurried off, quickly withdrawn for urgent treatment.

  And the rest, they stare.

  Bewildered.

  Shocked.

  Faces I've grown used to now, the same I saw during the collection ceremony, the same I saw upon my sister, my parents, even Jude.

  Now here, in this city of th
e gods, standing naked upon the stage, I'm looked at in wonder.

  My eyes slowly lift up to the great hill, my arms hanging to my sides. And there, once more, I see the Prime. They stand as one, watching, unmoving. For a moment, I think we lock eyes, feeling as if I'm staring at a single being. Then, with the finest of nods, the pair turn, drifting back towards their temple as the clouds gather once more around them.

  And as they disappear into the gentle white fog, and a horrible silence pervades the square, I feel my legs finally buckle. I drop, my naked form collapsing to the floor, my eyes staring at the corpses lying before me.

  Corpses that, I know, will be mostly made up of the Worthy. My old brethren from the Fringe, killed by a so-called god...

  It is with that thought that my eyes collapse, and my mind withdraws into a total, all consuming blackness.

  A blackness from which I never expect to wake up.

  The End

  The Chosen - Children of the Prime, Book 1

  This story will continue in Book 2 - Trial of the Chosen!

  Part II

  TRIAL OF THE CHOSEN

  22

  My eyes split open, cracking like fissures opened up on the barren, scorched earth. Light floods through the narrow gap, blinding, overpowering.

  A deep ache echoes through my head and body, worse than any hangover I've ever experienced after indulging too liberally in grandma's home brew.

  It comes in waves, forcing my eyes to weld shut once more, my hand reaching instinctively to cradle my forehead, my skin still hot to the touch. I wince, bracing against the memories that bring the pain...

  The fire exploding from my body, spreading out from the pyre.

  The bodies of those caught in the inferno, chased down by death as they tried to escape.

  The grey-robed Worthy, my old brothers and sisters from the Fringe, eroded to ash right there before my eyes.

  The throb in my head pulses wildly, the memories assaulting me, violent and relentless. I open my eyes once more to distract myself, expecting to find a cell, surprised to even be waking.

  My final thoughts were of death. That of those I'd killed.

  That of my own.

  But no, this isn't the end. I open my eyes a little wider, blinking through the discomfort, and find the source of the light. A window, large and grand, set into a wall of stone, its perimeter edges beautifully carved. A glorious yellow radiance spreads from outside, illuminating a room of lavish decoration and generous proportion.

  I feel the ache in my body and mind temporarily withdraw as I gawp at the space, blinking as my eyes adjust. I find a bedroom, fitted with fine furniture, the floor of marble and walls of glorious white stone. There are frescoes painted into the ceiling, depicting powerful men and women in heroic, magnificent poses and garb. There are tables and softly cushioned chairs, curtains and deep maroon drapes, bowls of fruits and other foodstuffs, jugs of drink to the side.

  And beneath me, a bed of startling softness and comfort, far larger than any I've ever seen, laden with pillows and blankets and other forms of bedding I didn't even know existed.

  I press myself up into a sitting position, my back hitting a headboard behind me. Immediately, my eyes seek out a door, a way out. They rush left and right and discover an exit of solid wood, the door as opulent as the rest of the chamber. I find no other person in the room but me, another scan of the space confirming that I'm alone.

  I take a heavy breath, trying to catch up. My first reaction is to rush for the exit, seek a way out, try to escape this dreadful place. But, somehow, I find myself stagnant for a moment, my body too weak to make any such effort, my mind still numb from the horrors I've seen.

  And done.

  Another barrage of shame attacks me, images of blackened bodies appearing before my eyes. I suck in another breath and turn away from them, shaking my head as if the motion will frighten them off, force them back into the shadows where they'll surely reside forever, ever lurking and creeping to the light when I'm at my most vulnerable.

  I slip to the edge of the bed, feet dropping to the cool marble floor. The light continues to pour in from the grand window, the skies so clear here above the great city of Olympus.

  Is that where I am, I ponder. Am I still in the city of the gods...or have I been taken elsewhere?

  The thought has me moving, standing to my feet, approaching the light. My body complains with every step, emptied of all energy, running only on reserves. I stagger a little, my knees almost buckling. I reach out and steady myself as I approach the window, hands planting to the fine stone sill, a sweep of clean, pure air pressing immediately into my face.

  I breathe it in, my hair ruffled by the soft breeze, shining bright gold under the light. Once more, I blink as my eyes adjust, the sun so bright in the skies above, set within an ocean of brilliant azure blue. And gradually, the world comes into view.

  The city tumbles off into the distance, stretching out beyond the limits of my sight. Ahead, I see the hill that climbs into the clouds, its peak once again hidden amid the mist. A memory surfaces, perhaps from only hours ago. The Prime. Man and woman. Standing there, presiding over the deaths of Raymond and his compatriots, surrounded by the Heralds, the Chosen...

  I grimace, my hands pressing harder at the windowsill, the ache in my skull briefly forgotten. My eyes drift away, and there, not far away, I see the grand square beneath the hill, the stone stage scorched down one side, the square itself similarly blackened.

  My anger departs, replaced again by shame and grief.

  How many did I kill? I think, staring numbly at the distant square. How many of my people died by my own hand...

  Somewhere deep, a voice responds, rising up from the depths.

  It wasn't your fault, the voice says. Don't carry the weight of the dead.

  I shake my head in denial of the words, knowing I'll carry that weight forever. My anger, my rage...it got the better of me. I lost control, just as I always do. I acted before thinking, and somewhere deep down, I wanted to seek revenge. I wanted to see those arrogant, superior faces cast in fear. I wanted to show the Children of the Prime, and their great rulers upon the hill, just what I am.

  And a part of me, I know...it wanted to kill.

  Only, the wrong people lost their lives. People deceived by a lie.

  My people.

  I force my eyes from the square, from the hill, from the Temple of the Prime hidden up there in the clouds. My mind adjusts, correcting its course, turning to other concerns. Names lift, joined by faces.

  Lilly.

  Jude.

  What will happen to them now? Will they be punished for what I did?

  I turn, unable to stand there any longer, and feel some energy pouring back into my body. I set my eyes on the door and march towards it, eager for answers, needing them. I reach the heavy wood and take a grip of the metal handle. I shove it down. It doesn't budge. I do so again, despite knowing it's futile, confirming that the door is locked.

  I revert to plan b, banging my fist hard against the wood. It thumps with a dull thud, sounding bluntly beyond. I wait a moment, half nervous to see who might answer. Nothing happens. I bang again for a full twenty seconds before realising I'm getting nowhere.

  Huffing, I pace back towards the window. I squint against the bright light as I reach the edge, looking down to see if there might be another exit, a way to climb out of this opulent cell. A frightening sense of vertigo immediately assaults me as I gaze straight out and down, the city dropping away a dozen floors to a wide stone street far below.

  I pull back, panting, eyes searching off into the distance once more. I get a sense, as I did when I first entered, of a city separated by distinct regions, each one carrying its own tone, architecture, and perhaps even culture. Colour abounds, particularly varied in certain places, others carrying more muted tones of white and light grey.

  Then, off in the distance, I find something starkly different. A region of taller buildings, standard
ised in size and shape, lit with blue and silver light. It's a tease only, but suggests what I suspected before; that there are areas of this city that embrace the world as it was before the fall, technologically advanced and embracing of modern, futuristic design.

  But, not elsewhere. Elsewhere, it seems more antiquated forms of architecture are favoured, the city seemingly dominated by grand stone buildings and statues, open squares and parks. It's beautiful, diverse, a city designed as a snapshot, an homage to cultures of the past.

  Lost for a moment in wonder, I hardly hear it as a grinding sounds from behind me. I turn to find the door opening, a cloaked figure appearing in the corridor beyond. That cloak is simple, coloured in muted grey. I lock eyes with the eyes of Marlow, High Worthy of Olympus.

  So, he survived...

  He enters, walking in with a nervous gait, the door gently falling shut behind him. It closes softly, perfectly fitted to the frame. I stand, steady, staring. Even despite the cool, I can see the beads of sweat forming on Marlow's shaven dome, the condensation glinting under the sunlight.

  He approaches me, that slightly detached look he carried before now absent. His eyes flick up to meet mine, before tracing off again. He stops short of me by about ten feet, hands clasped before him, chin low. The sense of fear is palpable, but there's something more.

  Reverence.

  Now, he sees me as a god.

  He hesitates before speaking, as if afraid the wrong words will fall. Once more, his eyes glance up but don't stay on me for long. I look past him to the door, shut tight and leaving us alone.

  Aren't they afraid that I'll hurt him, even kill him? I wonder. Is that...is that now my right?

  The thought appalls me, and though I have no love for Marlow, I can't help but feel ashamed of the way he's behaving around me. It's the last thing I wanted, to be looked at as one of them...

  "Divine Fire-Blood, Elemental, Daughter of the Prime," he begins, bowing low before me, the motion crisp and well practiced, "I do hope your lodgings are suitable, and that you slept well..."