by T. C. Edge
And before I can even follow, before I do the same, a loud call comes from behind me, from another Farsight set upon his perch.
"People!" he shouts. "We have people coming!"
My heart leaps, my mind conjuring the image of an army rushing forward, the city emptying out. Yet when I turn and look, I see only the faintest signs of movement coming from the mists far away. Tiny dots upon the horizon, a little cohort coming our way.
"Sir, shall we prime the cannons to fire?" comes a call.
I look to Avon again, his eyes narrow as he stares into the distance. Slowly, he shake his head, and a little smile runs up his lips.
"No, soldier, can you not see?" he asks, turning his eyes to the man. His grin grows a little wider. "White flags," he says. "They mean only to talk."
The men seem almost enthused by it all, nodding, their eyes showing hope. A hope, perhaps, that they're here to surrender. A hope that the war may already be done.
As Avon rushes off to inform Herald Kovas, I take another look.
Whatever this is, I think. It isn't a surrender...
With that, I storm after Avon.
This, I cannot miss.
98
I stand on the other side of the wall, my eyes staring forward across the wide plains. In the distance, the little group from Haven appear to have stopped, awaiting us in the open. Large, white flags billow in the wind, a clear sign of their peaceful intent. It is something we need to honour, a dictate of war we cannot ignore.
Nor, I suspect, would anyone here want to.
We begin walking, our own group comprising the leaders from the army. At our head, Herald Kovas stamps, chin high, neck scar revealed, trying to appear as authoritative and regal as he can. Behind, his retinue of advisors and subordinates follow, including Lady Dianna, Atlas, the Overseer, Elian, myself, and of course, the other two remaining Heralds, Avon and Gailen.
It is a powerful grouping, though a potentially dangerous move. Should they decide to attack, ignoring their own peaceful mandate, then we might find ourselves vulnerable. To that end, our cannons have been primed to strike right at them in such an event, the likes of Gailen and Avon have been instructed to keep a close watch all around should something go awry, and we have several additional Farsight-Phasers with us, multi-gifted men who'll watch our flanks.
It's all precautionary, of course. Out here, in the open, any attack would be spotted way before it had time to reach us, and we'd quickly speed our way back to the safety of the camp if needed, protected by our cannons as we go.
An unlikely event, certainly, but as Kovas grunts as we advance, all necessary precautions that we have to take, considering the forest ambush from almost a week before.
I walk by Elian's side as we go, my heart fluttering loudly, our own remit being to 'roast them all alive' should they make any move. The order creates a feeling of tension in me, coupled with a humming anticipation, driven itself by the fire in my blood, the beast that yearns to be set loose.
"Let me do the talking," Kovas rumbles as we begin to grow near. "Unless they address anyone specifically, leave it to me."
We nod, his order taken without question, though I do notice Dianna roll her eyes a little at the thought of it. Kovas, pugnacious and belligerent as he is, isn't the greatest diplomat. That role, should it come down to it, will surely be taken on by the Overseer, oldest, smartest, and wisest among us.
We push onwards, and the figures ahead begin to grow in clarity. At their head, front and centre of their little group, is an elderly woman of placid expression, her hair neatly bunched and grey, her attire austere and dark, simple, the sort adopted by a leader of a great city.
We have heard about her already, the leader of the movement that ousted the previous government, head of a group of rebels who called themselves the Nameless. Lady Orlando is her name, a woman known to be as wise as she is stern, profoundly respected throughout the city, her leadership, unlike that of our own central commander, unquestioned.
To her right side, I see a young man, handsome, smart, expression not giving anything away as we advance. His proximity to her suggests that he's an advisor of sorts, one of her most loyal counsellors and consultants.
Next to the young man is another, though very, very different. He's a couple of decades older, gnarled and of grand proportion, standing much taller than the rest, his frame broad and thickly muscled, chin crafted from stone. With closely shaven hair and a grim scar running vertically through his left eye and down his cheek, he cuts a grim, intimidating figure. Yet unlike the others, who dress in darkened, simple attire, he stands in archaic, intricately adorned armour, silver and shining under the sun, his flank fixed with a great blade, too large to be wielded by but a few.
He reminds me, upon looking at him, of Perses, emanating an aura that only the likes of the great Herald of War could match.
I find my attention taken by him, so out of place and magnificent as he is, as we step onwards. He isn't from around here, I think. This man can only be from Neorome...
There are two others of note within the central group, though, like us, they have additional soldiers and men flanking them, their presence to add a measure of security, if an added element of tension too.
To the other side of Lady Orlando, I see a man of middle age, his hair short and brown flecked with grey, face cleanly shaved, eyes cold and staring, an impressive and impassive blue.
We have heard, now, of these sorts from Haven, the so-called Savants. Keenly smart, and yet emotionally defunct, their kind made up the ruling elite before being overturned almost a year ago. Now, it seems, several still remain at the forefront of their leadership. This man, as well as Lady Orlando herself, and the young advisor to her side, all exhibit the traits to suggest they are a part of this class of what they term, Enhanced.
The final member of their forward party, though easy to ignore at first as we step forward, is a young girl who looks no older than me. I find my eyes linking directly with hers as I come, a deep hazel, the same colour as her hair. She stands out more and more as I look at her, perhaps in a similar manner as me, though I'd ever be keen to deny it; beautiful, her skin clear, her eyes profoundly keen and penetrating as she peruses us, one by one, as though a predator looking for weakness in her prey.
I don't have to be told who she is. We heard of this girl back in Olympus before departing on this great quest. We heard of her from Marius, his mind excavated of all he'd experienced at the hands of Herald Nestor. His capture, his manipulation, his betrayal of his friend, and eventually, after having his own extreme potential 'awakened', his saving and redemption at the hands of two young warrior women from the city right before us.
This one, I know, is the telepath we've been told of, a girl with the additional powers of the Farsights and the Phasers, a highly potent mix that immediately marks her as a great threat. Despite her age she is, like me, a powerful agent at her leader's disposal.
And her name, I know, is Brie.
Our two leadership groups slowly come together, ours a little larger than theirs, and likely more powerful too. Only the young girl, Brie, and the mighty Neoroman at the flanks appear of power to match our own. The others at the core aren't warriors, but diplomats. Here, perhaps, to try to come to some agreement. I wonder, glancing at the slightly smug expression on Kovas's face, whether he'll be amenable to such an arrangement, should it be suggested.
We move into position, Elian and I standing together to one side, our robes and armour glowing faintly, flames tickling the skin of our fingers. I notice eyes on us, our powers more conspicuous, more dazzling to view. The interest suggests to me, once more, that Fire-Bloods, and other Elementals perhaps, aren't common here.
Their leader, Lady Orlando, draws us in with a stern look. As Kovas's mouth opens, perhaps keen to begin the exchange himself, she speaks ahead of him, doing so with a croak to her voice, and an ingrained, and earned authority that, at least as I see it, he cannot match.
It wo
uld be safe to say, that I like her immediately. Though she has no great power of her own, she exhibits something that Kovas is so sorely lacking; dignity and class, a sophistication and composure that all good leaders should possess.
"There will be no use of powers here," comes her voice, stern and direct, her eyes looking upon myself and Elian, before languidly moving off towards Kovas. "Is that to be agreed?"
Kovas stops, his mouth hanging open a second, before nodding curtly. "Agreed, Lady Orlando," he says. His eyes turn to myself and Elian. We quickly douse our flame, my armour dulling to black, Elian's combat robes losing their glow, fading to a more muted red.
"Thank you," she says. "I see that you know who I am? Might I have your name, sir."
Kovas nods, trying to be magnanimous, a fact that would never be under question should Perses be here. "My name is Kovas, Chief Herald of War, hammer of the Prime," he says grandly.
Lady Orlando listens to the lofty title without reaction, as though she already knows somehow, or more likely, simply isn't impressed, and wants him to know it.
"Quite a...mouthful," she says after a noteworthy pause. "Yes, we have heard of this Prime before. And of these Heralds." Her eyes glance to Brie, standing to one side, her own still working across us, looking for weak links.
I see the Overseer looking towards the young girl with a curious smile on his face. He seems to be nodding slightly, rather impressed, perhaps, by what he sees. The girl's gaze draws to him, and for a moment they just stare at one another, two telepaths of great power, trying to figure one another out.
Kovas, too, seems to notice's Brie's wandering, intense gaze, quite aware of what she can do. "Do not attempt to get into our heads, girl," he says with a growl. "No powers are to be used here, as agreed."
She scowls at Kovas, showing her displeasure of the man, something I have a strong affinity with. I find myself trying to conceal my smile as I do, and we catch eyes for a second in a strange moment of cross-party understanding.
"Brie," says Lady Orlando softly. "We spoke about this."
Brie reluctantly nods. The Overseer continues to observe the exchange with a look of great interest on his face.
"Now tell us, Lady Orlando," Kovas grunts. "What is it you wish to talk about? You come bearing the white flag. You clearly have something on your mind."
The old lady takes a moment to speak again, owning the discussion thus far. "We have something to say," she says, "as a collective people, united against those like you." She straightens her eyes on him, intense. "Leave these lands immediately. Go back to where you came from, and never, ever, return."
Kovas's lips build into a smirk, his gap toothed grin revealed in all its ugly glory. I shake my head internally, so sad to see that this is the man representing us.
"Oh, and here was me thinking you'd wish to surrender," he purrs. "I'm glad that isn't the case. I will enjoy the alternative."
He sniggers, outing himself as the cruel man I know him to be. After what Brie and her friend discovered, after everything they saw, I'd hoped to at least present a better picture to these people. I'd hoped, almost, that this very situation might have come about, leading to an arrangement or agreement that didn't have to lead to further violence and war and death.
If Perses was still leading us, perhaps that might have been the case. No longer.
I can see the faces of the Havenites showing their displeasure. Even the Savants at their core display some clear emotion at Kovas's words, his manner, his barbaric nature, scowling at him, looking at him as nothing but a savage.
"Your answer doesn't surprise me," Lady Orlando goes on calmly. "We have had dealings with fanatics before, and know how the brainwashed mind works. You," she says, guiding her eyes along the line, "are nothing but slaves to the rule of another. This Prime, this false deity you seem to worship, is nothing but a product of ancient genetic engineering. This is a cult and nothing more."
"A cult?" growls Kovas, squat frame seeming to stiffen. "No, my Lady, we are the liberators of these lands. We are..."
"A scourge," cuts in Lady Orlando. "A virus. We have faced such a thing not long ago, and find ourselves still standing. There is nothing here to suggest the outcome will be any different."
"Is that so?" says Kovas. He looks left and right, his eyes passing upon the gathered Heralds and Chosen. "This is but a hint of the true power we possess. Nothing but the tip of an iceberg you cannot fathom. We know you are frightened behind your walls. Your insults only serve to strengthen us, make clear our purpose. You have no chance, Lady Orlando, and you know it full well."
"All I know, Herald Kovas," Lady Orlando says swiftly, "is that you flatter to deceive. I see you and your army and do not quiver. I see these Heralds and so-called Chosen to your flanks, and see nothing but slaves, serving someone else's purpose. No," she says, her eyes finding mine for a second, "there are doubts among you, I can see. Cracks that will open to fissures, in time..."
"Words, my Lady, nothing but words," retorts Kovas. His eyes glance at Atlas, the giant standing like a mountain to his side. "You wish to see strength? Then how about a demonstration."
Lady Orlando's gaze rises to the mountainous man, though still she shows no fear.
"This Brute?" she asks, totally unimpressed. "He exemplifies my point perfectly. A lumbering giant, nothing more. All brawn, and no brain."
Atlas's ludicrously muscled body bristles at the insult, his skin-tight armour doing little to hide the contours of his frame. A deep rumble of anger flows from his barrel of a chest and up through his throat, eyes swaying upon those gathered before us.
"You think you have someone to match his strength?" Kovas asks, grinning smugly. "Then please, bring him forward."
Lady Orlando lazily turns her eyes to the man to her side, draped in his silver armour, a great, sheathed sword attached to his belt. He reacts, looking back at her, his expression as calm as a light breeze, dark eyes showing no concern at all.
"Ares, would you mind?" asks Lady Orlando.
The Neoroman called Ares steps forward. "If your ladyship wishes it," he says, his voice deep and impressively commanding. "Then I will be happy to oblige."
For the first time, I see Lady Orlando smile.
"No weapons," Kovas calls out hastily, seeing the man's sword. "First to draw blood wins?"
Lady Orlando gestures to Ares, who removes his sword and sheath, dropping it to the ground with a clunk. Similarly, Atlas removes the knives attached to his belt. To anyone else, they'd be swords.
The two men step off to the side, the protective soldiers and lookouts of both parties moving to set a perimeter, a sort of battleground for the two to fight within. Atlas, standing upwards of nine feet tall, dwarfs his opponent, despite Ares's own staggering size, marching right past six and half feet and getting close to seven.
They stand, face to face, Atlas puffing like a bull, Ares standing silent, still, statuesque ahead of him. A thrill begins to light inside me as I watch on, scanning our own group, and those of our enemy. There's something...confident about the way they carry themselves, almost expectant as they watch on. Brie, in particular, observes with an energy buzzing about her, her eyes glowing with a feverish interest.
"Ready?" comes a shouting, gravelly voice. My attention is snatched back to the impending bout, Kovas the one calling them to action.
The two men nod, Atlas doing so with a grunt.
"Then fight!"
Like a racehorse from the blocks, Atlas lumbers right towards his target, his huge legs, as thick as oak-like trunks, carrying him towards him at surprising speed. Though not a Phaser, he might have something of that in him, given the way he moves, covering the short space so quickly as to arrive where Ares stands in little more than a second.
He swings a huge arm with the force of a great battering ram, a connection likely to kill all but the most durable of men should it hit.
It doesn't. No, only air greets Atlas's arm, the velocity of his swing meeting no target
at all, and causing him to stumble forward as he commits to the strike.
I blink, hardly believing my eyes. I...I must have missed something.
Ares isn't even there.
All I can see is the faint trail of air, leading to where Atlas began the bout. Across the ring, Ares stands, adopting the exact same position as before. Unmoving, hands to his side. Completely and utterly unconcerned.
Atlas spins, grunting out a great blast of air as he sees his opponent behind him. A few murmurs spread through the group, light expressions of awe. Like a runaway train, and perhaps confirming Lady Orlando's assertion that he's 'all brawn and no brain', Atlas goes again, hoping for another result. He hurls himself towards his target once more at stupendous speed, swinging his arms again. Not one, this time, but several, attempting to lock Ares down and cut off his way out.
I see only a blur of silver as the Neoroman ducks and weaves. In a flash, he's behind him again. I gasp at the sight as Atlas turns around, dumbfounded, searching again for his opponent.
He's right there, under his nose. Ares stands barely two feet from the man, looking up. With a faint flick of his toes, he hops off the ground with staggering ease, his fist whipping into Atlas's face, nothing more than a blur of silver and red.
And it's red that follows, a great crimson flow spurting from the giant's nose as it's removed from its usual position, bent right off to one side. The giant follows the motion of Ares's punch, his great frame tumbling to the earth like a toppled tree, sending shivers through the ground as he lands.
For a second, Ares looks at his opponent, confirming his defeat, before turning and walking calmly back into position next to his allies, gently wiping his fist of blood with a cloth retrieved from his pocket.
A state of shock settles among our group, Kovas looking on in mild alarm. He licks his lips, trying to hide the obvious concern, before turning back to Lady Orlando.
"A...lucky punch," he says. "I was expecting a test of strength, not..."
"It was you who determined the rules, Herald Kovas," the old lady cuts in. "'First to draw blood'." She looks to Atlas his face gushing crimson, a group of soldiers now gathering to try to haul his unconscious body away. "Is that enough for you?"