Blood of the Chosen: Children of the Prime, Book 3

by T. C. Edge

  He waits a moment, before reaching out and taking the weapon back. For the next minute, he goes on to explain the basic skill of shooting straight, showing me how to hold it properly, how to aim, and how to make sure the weapon is in safety mode when not in use. It's a fairly speedy explanation but does the trick.

  "Don't worry, we'll give you more in depth instruction on this, and other weapons, soon. Today, it is more precautionary. I'm not expecting you to engage, Amber."

  "I...what?" I ask. "But I want to."

  "You do?" he asks, raising a single eyebrow. "And you think that brave? Or, perhaps, foolhardy, now that you know what we're facing."

  I lower my eyes, feeling both defiant and foolish at the same time. I shake my head and let out a sigh.

  "Foolhardy, probably," I admit. "I'm just surprised that you're using guns at all. I kinda thought that..."

  "That our powers would be enough?" questions Perses knowingly, as if he's dealt with the same query before. "Ah, perhaps they would be against a lesser foe, or those unendowed with such gifts. But even then, going up against three hundred armed men with only our powers for company would be foolish. Yes, we would overcome them without great trouble, but we'd place unnecessary risk on our lives doing so, and might well suffer fatalities." He shakes his head a single time, and centres his deep eyes on me. "We must be mindful, and careful, at all times, Amber. We must take any advantage we can. To enter a fight without firearms would lessen our power. Both guns and blades alike are merely aids to use in conjunction with our gifts. Most of us, you must remember, don't have the innate destructive power that you do."

  He lifts a smile as he watches my reaction, then nods once more, setting a hand to my shoulder. "You are quick to learn and understand," he says. "That is a fine attribute for one so young. There will come a time, young Herald, when you will be able to unleash the full extent of your power. When you will soar higher than us all." He leans in a touch, turning his eyes down to the weapon now reattached to my flank. "I think them crude at times too," he says softly, his eyes diverting to the men. "But I must set a good example," he adds with a wink. "You should too, whether you actually choose to use them or not."

  He pulls back, and takes his thick-fingered hand with him. His gaze sways over the crowd of battle-worn soldiers, many of whom will have seen much combat over the years. But, my mind wanders, how much have they really seen? Skirmishes, yes. Minor battles to hold, or even secure land, I'm sure. But war? Proper war against a formidable foe? I shake my head internally. No, not likely.

  That final thought sets a dull throb of concern within me, despite the formidable powers these soldiers possess. Clearly, there are other great powers out there with warriors who have truly seen significant conflict. Perses spoke of a place called Neorome, a city built off the back of blood and battle. How would our own soldiers fare when facing up against such a mighty foe? Despite appearances, might Olympus be more vulnerable, more...soft than it at first appears?

  My eyes turn over the soldiers once more, everything being bathed in a brand new light. I wonder, as I scan their faces, just how many soldiers Olympus has. Why are a force of bandits from the south able to ransack any part of the Fringe in such a manner? Why don't we have the forces to protect those who supply the city with much of what it needs to operate. And why, I wonder, my limbs tightening, were two single soldiers from Haven able to overcome a Herald and his entire protective guard?

  That final thought sends a fresh quiver of alarm through me. We live here hidden from the world, thinking us above it all. Yet, perhaps the truth is far different. Perhaps others have grown battle-hardened and powerful, shaped into granite by the brutality of their worlds. Can we say the same? Has our seclusion given us the appearance of strength, but in reality made us weak?

  A voice breaks my train of thought, rolling upon the air and addressing the men. I turn my eyes up and see Perses standing before them, each soldier under his charge now prepared and standing to attention.

  "We go on foot from here," he says, turning his hand to the south, the now-darkened horizon showing the hint of woods and craggy hills. He seems to tense his body, a hum of energy spreading from his limbs. "Our enemy lie two miles only to the south. We move silently and into strike position. I will take an advanced party of Phasers ahead to make final preparations. Captain Krun will lead from here." His eyes flick to me, then to Krun. A silent order for me to go with the Titan and not do anything stupid.

  He fixes his anvil of a jaw, and another throb of power seems to emanate from him. It spreads upon his troop, inspiring them, and I see a flutter of movement among them. Limbs firm up. Weapons are clutched tight. A few throaty growls of determination rise up into the air.

  And I feel something too, some power build inside me, some thrill flood through my veins. I turn my eyes on Perses and wonder how I ever had any doubts at all. How could an army led by such a man ever be defeated? Who, exactly, could topple this titan?

  "Not one of us will die tonight," the great Herald goes on. "Not one of us will ascend to the Eternal Halls. We will save those who have been stolen from our lands. We will send the culprits to the pits where they belong. In the name of the Prime, we fight. In the name of the Prime, we win."

  A muted cheer rings out, though quiet so as to not be heard. Even here, miles away, there might be those among our enemy with the power to hear us.

  The men, with a final thrust of their fists, gather up their weapons and begin to march off. And in my head, I feel a sudden calm spread, an unexpected relaxation and...happiness as I watch on from the side.

  A smile rises on my lips, and a thrill rises in my heart. And within my mind's eye, I see two figures in white, radiant and perfect, calling for me to fulfil my destiny.

  I join Krun's side and, smiling gormlessly up at him, and with the Prime for company, begin to march south.

  13

  The darkness ahead breaks, and the silence that accompanied our short march evaporates. I crouch low to the sodden earth, the skies above blocked by both distant cloud and far closer foliage, and send my eyes through the clutch of trees and down the slope of a short hill.

  There, illuminated by a range of campfires in the throes of being put out or left to die away, I see a gathering of three hundred men and women, armed and armoured and setting themselves to march. They rustle about, no concern for the noise they make, speaking and laughing with little restraint.

  I scan their positions, and find no conformity. They don't appear as a small army readying to march in unison. More the ragtag leftovers of a force that, once, might have worked as one. A band of raiders and pillagers that, perhaps, has bolstered its forces by picking up fresh recruits along the way, their long journey north giving them ample opportunity to find others of questionable morals, open to acts of vile wickedness.

  A cry rings out among the din, and my gaze diverts to the rear of the camp. Within the shadows of a close grouping of trees, tossed within a deeply dug ditch, I see a few dozen women and children, hunkered down and crouching low. Several cruel men stand around them, kicking in mud and throwing sticks. I feel a chill of rage run up my spine as one piece of wood strikes a young girl in the face. She lets out a yelp and several women gather her up, surrounding her, protecting her.

  My people. These are my people of the Fringe.

  A deep rumble of primal hate, a lust for revenge, floods my veins. Before I even know it, the familiar, glorious, sensation of heat glows within. I smile as it comes, hidden up there at the top of the hill, and see the slightest hint of my new armour begin to lighten in colour. My smile doesn't turn to concern. No, I'm in control. I flex my fingers and feel the fire press through my blood, but hold the sensation in. My armour doesn't lighten any further.

  "Hold firm," comes a whisper to my side.

  I turn to see Krun's gigantic face before me, his own body hanging low to the ground like a boulder. He nods at me, his eyes steely, and then turns his gaze back out.

  Around us,
a grouping of other soldiers lie in wait for the signal. A signal that I am not to follow or react to at all. I turn my eyes across the small valley and to the woodland on the other side. There, others have moved to set the trap. Slowly but surely, we're surrounding our enemy.

  A slight rustle of movement calls my eyes left. I look, with the others, and see a Phaser materialise through the trees in near silence, coming right up towards Krun and me. He glances at me with a respectful nod, and then addresses the Titan.

  "Another lookout dispatched to the eastern edge of the valley," he whispers. "That makes four in total."

  I look to the man's flank and see flecks of blood upon his razor-sharp dagger. His eyes are similarly sharp, suggesting that he's got more than Phaser powers in his blood. A Farsight, I think, looking upon the multi-gifted young man. Speed and the power to see long distances, and make out the tiniest movements around you. Now that is a potent combo for a soldier, one that I suspect many of Perses's warriors possess.

  Krun nods his approval at the assassin, keeping his booming voice to a low whisper as he speaks.

  "The entire perimeter has been checked?" he asks, his boulder of a body crouching low.

  The assassin nods. "Yes, all lookouts are dead, Captain. All our men are in position."

  "Good. Then we wait for Herald Perses's signal. Be ready, men," he says.

  We wait, the men around me numbering roughly twenty, all now gathering their weapons and preparing to engage. Their job is to attack without warning, take out as many of the enemy as possible, and draw their attention to this northern side of the camp. It will act as both devastating attack and diversion all in one, allowing another smaller group to help the captives escape, while others still attack from other angles, closing the enemy into a fatal vice.

  A minute passes, the enemy still gathering their final possessions, backing their stolen loot into bags. I see several Titans lumbering about, hauling great weights onto their backs, seemingly used as the workhorses among the group. Others zip about at speed, collecting the final trinkets left behind. Over by the slave-pit, several drunken bandits continue to heckle and laugh as they taunt the women and children. One puts an end to it with a few stern words, before dropping in a makeshift ladder and waving for the captives to climb out. They will be strung together, I know. Chained and forced to march with those who took them from their lands.

  And still, we wait, no signal given from the other side of the camp. All eyes lock across the small valley and to the woods in the distance, bodies tensed and ready. I notice a few of the bandits begin to move off towards the west, a grouping of at least fifty soldiers impatiently beginning their march. Others start to follow, the dregs of the Cure army beginning to stretch out and thin.

  I look to Krun, and see his great frame rise up a little from the earth. He knows it's time to move. The signal is imminent.

  His instincts are correct, his experience telling. From across the glade, a glow suddenly rises in the darkness. It's a flash only, hardly noticeable to those not looking for it. The combat robes of Hestia, glowing for a split-second and nothing more. The signal to move. The signal to kill.

  Around me, bodies rise, coated in black armour. They move in formation, grouped into teams of two, spreading quickly through the trees ahead and getting into position. I stand too, eager to follow, but stop after taking a single pace. No, this isn't my fight. I must obey the commands of Perses and remain a non-combatant.

  I drop again, staying low to the ground as I watch the twenty black-wreathed soldiers moving down the slope. They fade into the gloom beneath the foliage, staying low, dropping into position behind the trees at the edge of the thicket. I wait with baited breath, peering through the darkness. Then, in a coordinated flash of terrible sound, twenty automatic firearms explode into life at once.

  Light flares ahead of me, illuminating the bodies of the men as their barrels burst to life. Immediately, I see several dozen of the enemy drop, shot with expert precision through the unprotected parts of their bodies. Heads unencumbered by protective helmets kick back, hauling the attached bodies after them. Those sensible enough to wear armoured headgear grab at their necks instead, their jugulars shot clean through, creating spurts of dark crimson that pulse out between their fingers. Others with full armour find their weak-points targeted, the joints connecting their patchwork protections pinpointed and assaulted. Knees and elbows are hit, severing limbs. Blood quickly flows into the muddy earth, bodies emptied of their life-force, death sure to follow soon.

  I watch it unfold in the blink of an eye, a good portion of the Cure's remaining forces cut down by expert marksmen. I think with a foolish sense of naivety as to how I ever queried why firearms were used. Surely no natural, physical gift any of us possess could create such carnage in such a short space of time?

  A thrill presses through my blood as I watch the next phase. Alerted to the threat, the enemy now begin to react, doing so with a cohesion that I hadn't expected given the state of their camp. They display the instincts of men used to the perils of combat, ducking quickly behind whatever cover they can find, moving in small units and returning fire as they go. They disperse, ungrouping, spreading the battlefield as much as they can. Those with Phaser speed, of which there are many, speed off quickly towards the nearest patches of woodland. Some make the mistake of venturing south, right into the snare where Hestia, and others, hide.

  They won't be seen again.

  It all happens with an alarming speed, the world erupting into a terrible violence the likes of which I've never seen. By instinct I crouch lower as the bullets begin to fizz and rip around me, some hitting the trees where I hide, crunching and biting into the bark. I feel my blood boil in response, the fire raging, my combat armour following with a crimson glow. I duck lower, trying to control myself, to stop the heat from spreading and setting fire to the vegetation around me.

  And then I realise the true power of my armour, holding back the flame, locking it within to be used only when I choose to release it. I smile at that, and intensify the blaze, watching my hands as they glow a deep shade of orange and red. Flicks of fire ripple between my fingers, zapping like darts of electricity. Yet my body itself does no damage to the ground, the heat contained within my armour and set to be unleashed only when I desire.

  My eyes turn up again, the glade a cacophony of noise and blood and violent death. I look to the rear edge of camp and see that the men who'd been taunting the captives are dead. A figure of staggering might stands above them, a large dagger in his hand dripping blood. Perses, hero of the people, has taken it upon himself to see to the safety and release of the women and children. With several soldiers behind him, hauling the captives from their pit, he stands like a totem of power, protecting their escape, zipping left and right to swiftly dispatch anyone daring - or stupid - enough to get near.

  I watch in awe of the great man, this god to the people come to save them, and see his eyes divert off to the far edge of the camp. Even from here, I can see the shape of his brow furrowing as he stares. I turn in the direction in which he looks and feel my chest tighten.

  There, growing as if from nothing, I see a wild vortex of swirling wind begin to appear, building into a tornado localised around the shape of a shadow within.

  The shadow of a man, an Elemental of fierce and staggering power.

  The cyclone brings with it a roar of noise, gathering up the attention of the soldiers around it. I watch on as men from both sides begin to get caught in its grip, snatching at whatever they can to try to stop from being sucked inside.

  I switch my eyes back to Perses, a conflict seeming to rage inside him. He takes a few speedy steps forward, ready to strike, ready to engage, before several enemy soldiers rush right at him again, drawing away his attention.

  Knife in hand, he surges back into battle, becoming a whirlwind of his own as he fights off the attentions of three knife wielding Phasers, and a great Titan of the Cure. I blink, watching, my heart flaring a
s the valley falls into a terrible carnage.

  Nearby to where I hide, a thump comes down from above, and I turn to see one of our own men dropping to the ground, sucked in and spat out from the mouth of the vortex. I look into his desperate eyes and see his broken body, and crawl quickly over towards him. By the time I get there he's already dead, eyes flattened out into an endless, eternal, skyward stare, back snapped and contorted at a terrible, unnatural angle.

  I gulp down the urge to vomit and draw back the urge to cry. My fists clench tight, the flames spitting from my fingers, sparks dancing towards the leaves around me, singeing them black. I place my hands to the earth and feel the mud begin to boil. Everything inside me shudders and shivers as I turn my eyes back down to the battlefield.

  I'm greeted by a sight of utter carnage. Soldiers continue to fight, battling both the pull of the tornado and the men around them. Bullets flash and fizz, lighting up all around me now. Others fight face to face in brutal, bladed combat. Towards the rear of the camp, the remainder of our forces enter the conflict, the sight of fire beginning to rage now as Hestia's robes light bright, a shield of fire surrounding her.

  And there, in the middle, I see several of our own telekinetics, those called Earth-Shakers, trying to hold back the storm. They are a type of Elemental capable of moving matter with their minds, just like the Forgers who built Olympus, only specialised for battle and war. I see three of them standing around the storm, trying to stifle it, to battle back the staggering, weather manipulating power being exhibited by the enemy Elemental.

  Arms outstretched, they work as one, much as Elian, Hestia, and the other two Fire-Bloods did to douse the raging fire-storm that I unleashed during my purification. And around them, several of our best warriors look to watch their flanks. I see Krun among them, his great weight keeping him stuck to the ground as the whirlwind tries to suck him in, exhibiting an alarming speed as he hauls his great axe from his back, crushing and decapitating any enemy who gets near.