Children of the Prime Box Set

by T. C. Edge

  He's right, the comrades of the pugnacious men stepping in to calm things down, their differences quickly settled. I watch, surprised to find that those just now throwing fists quickly shake hands and sink another ale together, laughing off the scrap as though it was nothing. I can't help but chuckle myself at the sight, as Elian gives me a look of, 'didn't I tell you'.

  Of course, the in-fighting among soldiers isn't of great concern to me. The men are mostly equally matched, and have plenty of others to step in and help out. It's when someone incapable of defending themselves, with no one to support them, comes under attack that I am most concerned. Such things must, I know, occur. Male Worthies battered and bruised. Female Worthies abused and assaulted. Men of power and rank taking advantage of those who have no hope of stopping them, and have no recourse to get justice when anything does occur.

  Until now, I tell myself, still struggling to actually believe it.

  With an hour gone, Elian suggests that we split up, covering more ground and becoming less conspicuous at the same time. It's true to say that we are easy enough to spot, the soldiers growing quieter and more respectful as we near. Mostly, I suspect, that's due to Elian's presence. I'm still fairly certain that many, even most, of the soldiers are doubtful of my rank and title, even if my power isn't under dispute.

  I agree, and we part ways, taking off in different directions and agreeing to move in a circular motion, meeting again at the rear of the camp where, being far from the higher ranked members of the front, the more nefarious activity is likely to take place. It's a place I've hardly ventured towards thus far, almost afraid of what I'll find. I know, for certain, that the carriages travelling to the rear as more poorly maintained, cramped, and filled with the lower ranked Worthies, most of them men, and Fringers tasked with completing the more ugly duties required by the army.

  Naturally, due to this very thing, they have the added trouble of being looked down on more. As is always the case, those performing the lowest roles are considered the lowest people, no matter their personality, good heart, and kind and gentle nature. No, it is merely their function that determines how they are seen, a matter of life I still find reprehensible when in one of my more introspective and reflective moods.

  I am a good example of that. Being a lowly Devotee from the Fringe, I was thought of as little more than nothing. Now, as a Herald, I am one of the highest ranked people in the whole of Olympus, and am thus treated with the respect that befits that position.

  Yet, have I changed? Am I different? Perhaps in a superficial way, yes. Maybe I have begun to look at things slightly different, given my recent experiences. Yet the fundamentals of who I am remain the same. In that, I hope to think that I remain a good, righteous, and courteous person, respectful of everyone whatever their race, creed, powers and position.

  It is, of course, a flight of fancy to think that people will only be judged upon their character. It never has, and never will be the case. Yes, it plays a part, sometimes a large one, but it is traditionally someone's role in life that sets them into their particular class or caste. People judge quickly on what they see. Role, gender, race, physical appearance. We see such things and quickly create a picture of someone's value and worth in society.

  Here, the vast majority of the army will look at the slaves and servants digging toilets and scrubbing filthy clothes as the lowest of the low. And, as a result, it will be those very people who will be subject to the most violent verbal abuse, and potentially violent physical abuse as well.

  I set my mind to all such thoughts as I leave the safety of Elian's side, and begin moving into the darker suburbs of the camp. The change is immediate, the campfires growing more sparse, the numbers of soldiers the same. In the distance, Farsights are set to their nightly vigils, hidden amid the shrubs and bushes all around us, their eyes capable of drawing enough light from the darkness so as to see as all others would in the day. With them, other soldiers are set nearby, the frontline of the army always ready should a sudden attack occur.

  But here, in the rear, there remains a more sombre mood as the army's lowest servants continue to go about their duties. I see racks set up where combat gear and clothes are being washed. I see weapons and armour being continually polished and re-polished, checked and rechecked. I see carriages being checked, too, for maintenance issues. I see fresh ditches being dug for morning ablutions, others being filled in having seen their use for the night. It's a task - as perhaps are many - that the likes of Earth-Shakers or Forgers, or other elements of the army, could do themselves and with far greater ease. Yet it is given to these poor souls to see to instead, their nights often spent at work, their days spent stuffed into cramped spaces like cattle.

  I see it all that night, and feel a renewed, and palpable, sense of injustice at it all, my mind bursting with complains to bring to Perses when I next get to see him. Yes, perhaps he's heard enough from me on that account, or thinks he has at least, but my pursuit of greater equality for the Fringers is only just beginning.

  He might as well get used to it. It isn't going to stop.

  Among the men - because most back here are men, with the female Worthies, mostly pretty and young, seeing to the brighter tasks within the camp - I see many, many hollow eyes and dirty faces. They remind me of those I saw pulling carriages in Olympus, men battered by wear and tear, their expressions empty of emotion but for the hurt and unending discomfort they're forced to endure.

  I try speaking with some of them, though find them often timid and frightened, cowering to me as I wander through, my robes still faintly lit to help me see in the dark. I look for signs of physical abuse, and see many. Scratches, grazes, bruising are common. It's hard, however, for me to know if these are from physical harm, or simply a result of their daily workload.

  More serious signs are rare. I see a couple walking with limps, though not enough to properly hinder their work, the result of old work-induced injuries or recent abuse I cannot tell. I see others with malformed noses, badly broken in the past, or more serious signs of scarring on their faces, suggesting nasty gashes at some time in their lives. I ask, again, if anyone is being subjected to bullying or abuse, but get no proper answers. Only mumbled responses that provide no definitive conclusion, or hasty shakes of the head that could mean just about anything.

  Here, unlike with the young, female Worthies, no one is willing to speak out. The girls, perhaps, are a little safer from reprisal. An attack on one would be more obvious, more likely to attract attention and create a result. And in me, so recently one of them, and of the same age and gender, they see a champion willing to stick up for them, fight for their cause.

  Not so these men. Many, I know, are not even Worthies, but are merely lowly Fringers brought along to suffer the undignified tasks required by the convoy. They are more expendable, less valued. If one were to suffer a serious injury, or even be killed by a high ranking soldier, would anyone care? If one were to witness, or perhaps suffer, abuse, would they speak to me about it, expecting me to be able to protect or help them?

  No, not here among the dregs. The prevailing thought, I come to see, is that they consider themselves outside of the protections given to the others. That cases of abuse are, perhaps, common. That serious injuries, while less so, do happen. And that only significant cases will find their way to the top, to the attention of the administrators running the show. Only when it becomes enough of a problem to affect manpower will anyone truly care. The rights of the individual are non-existent.

  I feel sick that night as I move through, compiling more and more complaints to bring to Perses, to even announce to the war council itself should I get the chance. I consider marching into one of their meetings, demanding to be heard, demanding that the lowly elements of the army see better treatment or...well, or what?

  I'll walk? I'll take all of this to the Prime when I get back, who will surely be aware, and not likely care themselves, of a problem so relatively small. Really, is there anything I ca
n do to make the powers that be take note?

  I imagine that, right now, the answer is no. Their concerns are grander and more pressing. Perhaps, only, when the war is done, will I be able to make a change. To do that, I must be smart. To do that, I must bide my time.

  But right here, right now, I will do whatever I can.

  So on I go, eyes scanning, searching for anyone who might just speak to me. I find, among the slaves at work, those overseeing them, gruff soldiers tasked with maintaining order. Suitably surly and stern of face, I consider their presence something positive, men who will work them hard, but try, at least, to keep them safe.

  I speak with a couple, receiving the usual respect for my title, if lingering ambiguity about whether or not I deserve it. I speak with some passion for the plight of the men, but get little sign of such a thing in return. Instead, uninspired platitudes are given, and bland assurances made about the safety of the Fringers and their rights here among the army. I try to dig deeper but get little in return. I tell the supervisors that I'll be back, and will hold them to account if any men under their charge suffer serious injury. They nod and bow, but hardly seem to care about the force of my argument.

  I move on, spotting several groups of soldiers lurking through this part of the camp, shifting along as if they're bruising for a fight. They spot me from afar, grumble a few words to one another, and move off into the night. Others I find getting too close to the slave-carriages for comfort, hanging around outside as if waiting for trouble to brew. I march up to them and demand they move off, shooing them away like an old lady scarring raccoons from the porch. They look confused by my attentions, but don't question the order, slipping back to their own part of the camp not too far away.

  A few minutes later, I hear a crunching sound, that of feet in the grit, accompanied by wood creaking and rumbling laughter sounding. I speed towards it, and spot a group of three Titans hanging outside another carriage. One grips the rear end, heaving it into the air, and shakes violently. The other two stand by, laughing loudly.

  Once again, my approach is spotted. The laughing quickly stops, though the Titan holding the carriage takes a moment to notice. When he does, he drops it right back down, the thing hitting the ground with a heavy crunch. Inside, I hear a grouping of grunts and panicked voices, those of the poor souls trapped inside as these giants subject them to this cruel form of personal entertainment.

  "Stop that. Right now," I growl, my pent up anger starting to simmer off my tongue. It brings with it a vivid glowing of my combat armour, a beacon of darkly intimidating red in the gloom of this end of the camp. Little flames spark and zip on my body like tiny barbs of lightning, my frame a simmering storm set to explode into life. I aim my golden gaze at the men and, now, see that I recognise one. A brute I've sparred with before. One of the Titans I fought outside their own temple during the Trial of the Chosen.

  The man, one of the two observing his ally toying with the carriage, sets himself into an immediate posture of deference as I continue my approach. He stands up stiff and straight, then dips his head. His two oversized comrades don't react as quickly as he does, turning their eyes to him as if surprised by the swiftness of his respectful reaction. He hisses at them, forcing them to do the same. Belatedly, they do so, though without the same crisp reverence for my position, perhaps thinking me nothing but a regular Fire-Blood out on an evening stroll.

  "What are you doing with that carriage?" I demand, continuing forward at pace, the world around me glowing red within the suffocating black.

  "Nothing," laughs the Titan right beside it, casually picking a wood splinter the size of a toothpick from his massive finger. "Just having a bit of innocent fun." His tone, hardly suitable when addressing a Herald of War, gets him another hiss from his comrade, and a slap on the back of the head to boot.

  "Sorry, Mistress Herald," says the Titan administering the reprimand. "What he's trying to say is...we won't do it again. We overstepped the mark." He dips his head again, probably aware of my new, self-assigned role as 'Protector of the Innocent'. "Please accept our sincere apologies."

  I fix my eyes on the man for a moment, searching in vain for any sarcasm in his tone, before moving towards the carriage. I open the door and peer inside. There, huddled into the space, I find a grouping of unwashed men, their duties for the night complete, their desires only to get some rest before they're called back out to continue their hardship. They look at me with frightened eyes, little lamps in the dark. The musty smell that emanates from within his me reaching instinctively to my nose. I retract it immediately, seeing how it must look.

  "Are you all OK in here?" I ask softly. "Has anyone suffered injury?"

  No one answers at first. I get only mumbles and shakes of the head. I ask again, with a little more force. This time, one of the older men lifts his voice from the back.

  "Everything is fine, Mistress Herald," he croaks. "We...we are all just fine."

  It's the same response, delivered through various grunts, broken words, and other forms of communication, that I've been given all night. I realise asking again would be futile.

  All of this, perhaps, is futile.

  I tell the men goodnight, to get some rest, and that they won't be bothered again. I even say that their conditions will soon improve, a promise that I will likely struggle to see through. One that might only serve to give them hope. One that might do more harm than good.

  Shutting the door once more, I turn again to the Titans, setting a growl to my voice.

  "If I see any of you here again, you will suffer the full force of my position." My eyes meet the man I once fought. "You know what I can do. Don't test me, any of you. Leave these poor men alone. And spread word through the camp. The Fringers are to be left alone. They are all under my protection."

  The men, now aligned in their understanding and due behaviour demanding of my position, nod and bow as one, before stamping off silently into the night. Perhaps they'll laugh this incident off, have a good story to tell their friends. Perhaps they'll take it seriously, and I'll be one step further down the road in my task. Whatever the case, I'm doing about all I can. There's little more I can do right now than that.

  I decide to work my way back, continuing in the circular motion that Elian and I decided to follow. I wonder how he's got along, or how he'll actually behave if encountering any issues such as I've seen. Will he react like I have? Will he order the men to stand down with the same passion I display?

  Of course not, comes the obvious answer. However good his intentions, he simply doesn't believe in this cause like I do. He's doing it for you, Amber, I think. Not the Fringers, but you. Sweet as that is - and it is very sweet - our true intentions are not aligned, and probably never will be.

  I ramble on, my mind busying itself as I go, eyes now scanning as much for any sight of Elian as further wrongdoing. Before too long, however, I sense a commotion ahead, the distinct sound of grunted voices spreading from the shadows. I begin to rush, speeding through a small thicket and around a collection of carriages, to find a series of figures ahead, silhouetted against a glowing red light.

  The light of Elian's robes.

  I hurry forward to discover a tense scene. Three men stand ahead of Elian, breathing heavily, bristling with the residue of their drunken antics that night. My fellow Fire-Blood and friend looms before them, robes glowing, fire spitting from his hands, eyes cast into an angered frown. I hear him speaking to them in a low, rebuking growl, flame-wreathed fingers pointing at them one by one.

  I get closer, and other figures come into view. One lies prone on the ground, face down, his body badly beaten, signs of blood seeping into the mud. Two other Fringers crouch to his sides, checking him over. They carefully begin lifting him to his feet. He slumps into their arms, seeming unconscious, feet dragging as he's carefully taken away for proper medical attention.

  I rush up, fury filling my veins, the light of my approach drawing Elian's eyes.

  "Amber, Ambe
r, it's OK, I'm handling it." He turns towards me, takes my shoulders. "Look at me, Amber. Look at me."

  My burning eyes, glowing with their own inner flame, stare directly at the men ahead. Theirs are clouded, muddled, sunken by overindulgence. One holds a foolish grin on his face, uncaring of what they've done. Another lifts his drunken eyes to me, squinting as if trying to recognise me. When he does, they coil up in intense hatred, his lips curling, muttering something under his breath that I can't hear. I think I hear the term 'murderer', but I can't be sure...

  Elian shakes me again, finally drawing my gaze back to his and away from the man.

  "Calm, Amber," he says. "I'm taking care of it. Stay calm."

  His expression, the softness of his words, helps to bring me back. I feel the raging blaze inside me begin to weaken, a sense of control returning. I turn again and see the beaten man being taken off, his head bobbing as if he's coming back to consciousness. His legs begin to walk at a stumble, his allies moving him carefully, tenderly, though quickly all at once, as if keen to escape the horrid men who did this to him.

  I turn again to Elian, show him that I'm in control. Slowly, he slips his grip from my shoulders.

  "What happened?" I ask.

  Elian's eyes darken, as though free to do so now that my composure has returned. "You don't need to ask, do you," he says, switching his gaze back to the men. "I found them like this. The Fringer was already down..."

  "It...wasn't...us," hiccups one of the perpetrators. "We found...him like this...too."

  One of the other two can't suppress his smile. The third does nothing but maintain that intense stare, looking at me until Elian roars for him to keep his 'eyes front'.

  I feel my rage returning at their total lack of regret and contrition. Their drunken eyes rock about in their skulls, already muted emotions dulled further, hardly caring that they're addressing a Chosen and a Herald. Our youth and inexperience evidently reduce our authority. They would never act as such in front of Perses, Kovas, or one of the more senior Chosen.