by T. C. Edge
Ahead of me, from the far end of the base, a figure moves through the shadow and smoke. The mighty frame of Perses advances on me, his black armour flecked with sprays of blood, his scarred face grim and coiled like a snake. His eyes sway left and right at the count of his own dead. At least a dozen, and maybe more, must have fallen this night.
He lifts his head as he arrives before me, and I arch my own up high to meet his gaze. The beating thrill of the fight continues to throb within my veins, though I manage to withdraw the flame, calm my fire-lust and send it back into the depths where it will lie in wait to feast again.
Perses takes a deep breath, and looks over my shoulder at the steaming pile of ash on the floor, the charred skeleton of the Wind Elemental all that remains now. His eyes narrow as he stares for a long, hard moment at the defeated man.
And then he whispers. "Rarely have I seen such a gifted Elemental," he says. "The powers of our enemies are growing strong."
He snaps out of his brief reverie, and then drops his eyes back down to me. He looks upon me with a fondness that fills me with a glorious sense of pride.
"I told you not to engage," he whispers quietly, "but how lucky we are that you did. You saved many lives tonight, Herald Amber. Few could have done what you did alone."
I look to the soldiers around me, who bow their heads in respect and honour. Among them, I see Krun tilting his mighty dome, and Hestia nodding with her narrow eyes. I turn my own back up to Perses, who lays a hand on my shoulder.
"Did you save the women and children?" I ask him softly, turning my gaze to the rear of the base.
"Yes," he says, eyes grim. "All survived, thank the Prime."
He turns from me, raising his voice as he addresses his remaining men. I sense an apology in his tone, the battle going so unexpectedly ill. I don't imagine that Perses has ever seen such a single loss of life among his own soldiers.
"We honour the fallen who gave their lives in exchange for those of others," he calls out loudly. "To protect the innocent, even those who are not divine, is a great and noble way to fall. All will journey to the Eternal Halls with honour. All will be remembered forever as heroes. To the fallen," he says.
"To the fallen," the soldiers around us repeat.
A moment of prayer is given, eyes closing to remember the lost. All will now be returned to Olympus for burial, their physical forms left to decay within the great catacombs of the city. Yet for those left behind, pressing business remains. Business that cannot wait.
"You all fought well," Perses goes on, his voice threatening to croak just a touch. "But the fight isn't over yet. We travel back to Olympus immediately, and take the fallen with us." He turns his eyes to one of the Earth-Shakers, his face pale and subdued, yet trying to remain stoic. "Talon, if you are well, return to the carriages and bring them here."
The man called Talon nods and turns without a second thought. He hurries off into the night at speed, ready to fulfil his duty.
"Javin, Trenton," Perses goes on, looking towards two other soldiers. "You are our fastest runners. Return to the city immediately and report on what has happened. Tell Herald Kovas to bolster our flanks immediately. I will require immediate council with him and the others when I return."
The two men, both of whom I recognise from their previous runner duties, nod as Talon did, and disappear without a trace into the darkness.
"The rest of us have work to do," Perses continues, taking a long, steadying breath as his eyes scan the dead. "We gather our men for transport. We handle them with honour. The rest," he growls, looking over the men of the Cure, "we leave for the crows. Search their persons for anything of interest, and ensure all stolen loot is gathered for return to their rightful place." His eyes turn once more among the troop, looking to Krun. "Captain, how many captives do we have?"
"Five have been taken alive, Herald Perses," Krun growls. His eyes narrow menacingly, his mighty frame rippling. "What do you wish for me to do with them?"
I know just what Krun is thinking, a thought shared by all. To take them all out right here and now. To make them pay for the crimes they have committed. Oh, they want it, but all know it will not be done.
"They will be taken to Olympus for questioning," Perses says, leading to a series of dropped heads and light groans. "After which their punishments will be given." He turns his eyes over the men once again, turning his voice to a low growl. "I want all five captives to reach Olympus in no worse health than they are right now, is that clear?" he says. "No one will lay a hand on them. Understand?"
The men nod reluctantly, though I see a few with dark intentions behind their eyes. Men, no doubt, who have lost dear friends tonight. Dear brothers and sisters who lie broken and bloodied across the valley and sloping hills.
Perses looks over the troop once more, the swaying of his eyes deliberate and intentionally intimidating. He glances down at me, and then back up.
"You all saw what Herald Amber is capable of," he says. "I put her in charge of the captives' safety. Do not test her, any of you. You will gain nothing from seeking petty revenge."
He pats me on the shoulder, and then moves off to make preparations for our departure. A moment later, the remaining soldiers among his troop, Krun and Hestia included, set about preparing our dead for transport, and checking the enemy dead for information.
As I watch it all unfold, the skies above darkening further with a gathering of thick, star-blotting cloud, I hear my name called out across the camp. I turn my eyes up, and find Perses waving me over.
When I join him, I discover a line up of five men sitting around a tree, ankles and wrists tied, gags stuck into their mouths. Three lie unconscious, various bloodied wounds upon their bodies.
Two others sit awake, one with eyes turning to the soil in fear and defeat, the other with a defiant scowl that refuses to be defeated by the dire circumstances that confront him. A man of significant proportion, with heavy, masculine features, a significant beard, and shallow scars on his face, he looks me right in the eye and doesn't look away. For a long, drawn out second he just stares, before eventually turning his gaze slowly, methodically up to Perses, still unyielding as he provides the great man with a look that could, were such a power real in this world, kill.
I look to Perses with my eyes raised. "Someone seems to really hate us," I murmur.
Perses nods slowly, speaking as if the man isn't there. "Such is the case with simple-minded men. They do not know what curse they spread upon the world. They do not see that their defeat is righteous and good, the will of the Prime."
"Screw the Prime," comes a throaty grumble, a voice that staggers from its home like a clumsy horse from the gate. His eyes, lit with an odd, almost etherial blue, darken a little as they stare right up at the two of us, thick forearms bulging as he tightens his fingers to fists. "Screw the Prime, and screw you all. You're the real scourge of this world."
Perses doesn't react, but merely regards the man with a thoughtful frown, staring into those inhumanly blue eyes. "It seems that you're aware of who we are," he says after a pause. "Foolish, then, for you to come to our lands."
"Your people came to my lands first," the bearded man growls, his muscular frame bulging from his rugged cloth. "They came and destroyed everything I ever loved. Who wouldn't want revenge after that!"
He tenses further, leaning forward, and I see the metal restraints around his wrists begin to tighten on his flesh. The other conscious man glances up at him in concern, then drops his eyes right back down.
"Herald Perses," I whisper, nodding at the restraints. "Maybe he should be doubly bound, this one."
"Herald..." croaks the bearded man. His eyes flare, wild and enraged. "You are a Herald?"
Perses doesn't answer. I notice the subtlest change, however, to his posture, stepping back just a touch, fixing his feet to the ground, priming his arms by his sides.
As he does, a ripping sound grinds from our feet, and in a sudden movement, the captive's wrists burst
apart, tearing right through the metal harnesses that bind him. I step back in shock as he launches himself into an upright position, ankles bursting apart their own chains, thickset body appearing to enlarge as his muscles thicken within his rugged armour.
He lets out a mighty roar as he advances on Perses, flinging a huge fist in the Herald's direction. It rushes forward at a staggering pace, causing the Herald to duck and swerve away, avoiding the blow. He spins underneath the soldier, gliding gracefully, stepping back into the trunk of a wide pine tree. Another raging fist comes his way. Perses turns away again, letting it crack right into the bark. It splinters the wood in a burst of chips and wooden shards, driving itself into the trunk, right up to the elbow.
With another mighty roar of anger, the bearded man, almost the same size as the Herald himself, hauls his arm back out, further damaging the tree trunk in the process. It crunches loudly, unstable upon its great weight, teetering and threatening to fall right in the direction of the other tied up captives. The man doesn't seem to care, his full attention on Perses as he launches another assault, flinging wildly and with great power and speed, forcing the Herald to duck and weave.
I watch on in awe of the battle, as a loud crack fills the air. The trunk of the tree finally gives way, toppling down from on high. With a glance of the eyes and a speedy dash towards the crashing bole, Perses throws a heavy shoulder into the wood and sends the entire pine, trunk, branches and all, flying across the glade, where it collides with several other trees, cracking branch and bole alike.
Distracted for a mere second, the bearded man of the Cure sees his opportunity, darting at Perses once more with a brutal attack. Against a lesser foe he might just see some reward, but not against the mighty Herald of War. Without even turning to fully face him, Perses drops again to the ground, disappearing beneath the man's attack, and sends a whipping fist right up into his bearded jaw.
The crack that sounds is almost as loud as the breaking of the tree, hardly dulled by the thick forest of hair that covers his skin and bone. The man's head snaps up, body following suit as it flies skyward, before dropping into the muddied earth with a muted thump. I see his strange blue eyes flicker as he lies there, before rolling over and falling shut, as the valley falls silent.
Perses wanders over, hardly out of breath at all. He looks down at the man with that quizzical look on his face.
"A rare strength in him," he says, sounding grudgingly impressed. He looks over to a few of the men, gathered to watch their master fight. "Bind him twice, as Herald Amber said," he tells them. "This one will be going straight to the Overseer."
The men set to their orders as the rest continue to search bodies through the valley, and collect those of our own. Standing alone again with Perses, I stare down at the fallen man, his barrel chest gently heaving up and down, blood dribbling into his beard from the impact. Otherwise, he shows little ill-effect from the bout.
"He'll be just fine," Perses tells me. "He's a robust sort. Unusual to find one so physically strong in so small a frame."
"Small?" I repeat, incredulous as I look at the broadly formed man. "He's got to be nearly your height, hasn't he?"
"A few inches shy, I'd say," Perses says. "But such strength is usually reserved for Titans only. Men far, far larger than either one of us." His eyes sway over to Krun, away through the gloom, gently lifting up one of his deceased brothers into his gigantic paws. "There's a good example. You've seen plenty more."
"Then...why is he so strong?" I ask. "If he's not a pure Titan."
"Titan blood in him, for one. Yet there's something more too."
"Phaser speed," I say. "He moved quicker than a normal man, much quicker."
"Certainly, but that isn't what I meant. No," he says, shaking his head with a frown. "No, his is something raw and profound, tied to his emotion. I could feel his strength grow with his anger. He is a man who has suffered much. He has been transformed."
"Transformed? You mean...awakened?" I ask. "He grew more angry when he discovered you were a Herald. He's clearly had experience of one before."
"Oh, not one," Perses says, sighing. "This is the work of the departed. This is the work of Nestor."
He steps forwards, bending down to one knee before the unconscious man. Reaching out with a hand, he opens up a single eye, pulling apart his lids and revealing those pale blue irises.
"I mentioned how Herald Nestor had his own unique ways," he says. "Well, he also had a unique effect on all those he managed to awaken. This right here, these unnaturally blue eyes, are a side-effect of his particular technique. Of that I am certain."
He spends a moment in thought, before standing and stepping back. From the side, waiting patiently, the soldiers come forward and bind the man once more, wrapping his wrists twice over in chains, and doing the same with his ankles. They draw him back towards the others, adding another unconscious member to their ranks. He slumps against the tree, a pain contorted upon his face. Even unconscious, his anguish is visible.
What happened to him, I wonder, looking on. What did this Nestor do?
The next day, as I begin my vigil over him and his allies, I will seek to find out.
58
The convoy rolls solemnly through the eastern reaches of the Fringe, its cargo far different to when it set out. What was once a grouping of fifty soldiers and two Heralds - one of legend, the other in training - has become a motley grouping of those living and dead, of gods and mortals alike in mourning.
At the front, within Black Thunder, Perses gives space for the fallen. His sacred chariot, his steed of destruction and doom, has become a mobile morgue, ferrying the dead to their final resting place within the great walls of Olympus. Behind, tended by those they worship, the women and children taken by the Cure, their husbands, fathers, adult brothers and sons all killed, sit in sorrow and morbid contemplation. Within that carriage, the grief rings out, its passage taking it not to the city, but to neighbouring towns where they can start anew.
"You will be well tended," Perses promised them personally before they climbed aboard, the night still thick with gloom and dread. He crouched before them, descending to their height, speaking with such tenderness and kind-hearted compassion. "We will help you restart your lives, and give you all you need to move through this terrible nightmare. That is the promise that I, Perses, Herald of War, make to you all."
They looked up at him in wonder at that moment, all tears dried, entranced by this great divinity that so many pray to each night.
It will, I hope, help to sooth their pain, give them some comfort at the losses they have suffered.
The third carriage of the convoy of six contains soldiers of our own, Krun among them, the fourth and fifth the same. The remainder of our own troop, shorn of a great portion of its number.
I know that men of war aren't meant to hurt. That if they do, they aren't supposed to show it. Yet you don't need to see tears or hear wails of pain to know just how such a man is feeling. You can see it in their eyes, deep behind the strong, stoic facade they hold. You can hear it in their voice when they speak, deflated, lost of its energy and vitality. You can sense it in their posture, their movement, the sad aura they present.
Oh, such men suffer just the same as the rest. They cling to that pain and hurt. They bottle it, use it when the time comes. And perverse as it is, it often fuels the deep vein of power inside. Often, it makes good soldiers better.
The final carriage is attended by the smallest contingent of the living, barring Perses and his lonely journey accompanied by the dead. Within it, I sit, watching over the five captives set to endure a terrible interrogation. None will live long, I doubt. They will be forced to give up all they know, and then suffer the consequences of their dreadful, evil crimes.
I find myself interested only in one as the hours pass by, all of them bound heavily and, in some cases, still unconscious. Over the course of that first day of the return journey, when breaks are had to stretch legs and empty bladders
, I've had to contend with several heated onlookers, a small but particularly vexed portion of the troop keen to enjoy some 'personal time' with the captives, despite Perses's orders.
I can understand their desire, and might harbour the same myself were it someone I truly cared for lying dead in the bowels of Black Thunder. Yet in truth, I know that none would subvert their master's orders. That the idea, even, of being alone with the prisoners is enough to keep their bloodlust in check. And those dark stares, sent through the carriage windows, help to give them some form of cathartic release.
One of the culprits, to my surprise, is Hestia herself. Though a woman who appears to actively rage against personal relationships and interaction, she nevertheless possesses an uncanny respect for her fellow soldiers and their duties, and seeks revenge and retribution above all others when they fall. I've seen it myself already, and am seeing it once again right now.
Each time she gets a chance, she appears at the carriage windows, precipitated by a glowing red light, and sends those darkened eyes at each prisoner, one after another. I allow the indulgence, feeling completely out of place denying her, or anyone else, that right.
"How can you sit with them, hour after hour like this, and not want to roast them alive?" she grumbles. I watch as she lifts a hand to the window, clicking a button on the wrist of her combat robes to light a flame - unlike me, Hestia cannot manifest the flame herself - and then twirl the fire menacingly between her fingers. The prisoners - those still conscious, at least - shield their eyes concernedly as she does so. It seems even the cruelest of men can still feel fear for their own mortality.
"Hestia," I say firmly, lowering my voice, finding my authority. "That's the third time today. Enough's enough, all right?"
She scowls and shuts her fist pointedly, putting out the flame. "Maybe I'll get my chance soon enough," she grunts. "And you as well. This lot will be ripe for public execution. If the Overseer finds that they fear fire the most, we'll be up on that stage again real soon."