This is distraction, his Duri Master’s voice told him. A willing distraction to forsake your duty. Distractions are evil. You will learn to be strong in the face of the Evil One’s wiles.
But he couldn’t back down now with all the villagers watching him so closely. His Duri Master wouldn’t stand for it, and he was already assured punishment for the incident before the day was out, anyway.
I have no choice, he thought as he bounded toward the old man with his steel glinting in the afternoon sun. Each step further removed him from the overwhelming rage he’d felt in the pivotal moment, but it was too late to change anything. It’s either him or her. This is the only way that she can live.
At last, the pig farmer ceased his hunched shuffle through the village and turned toward Nuri.
Quickly. Mercifully. Before you have to look him in the eye.
Avoiding the death stare was considered wrong by the Duri Masters, of course. The Hand of God was guiltless, inhuman. Hidria were not disturbed by staring into the very souls of the heathens they condemned to Tscharia.
Humans are weak and prone to sentimentality.
You must not be human.
You must be Hidria.
The old man was halfway turned.
Do it now.
For a moment, he felt the collective, dawning realization of the villagers and the bloodcurdling screams they quickly buried in their tongue-less obedience. The air around him grew so heavy as he drew back the blade that he was later convinced the mountain itself tried to stop him from going through with the kill. This was murder, after all, and for no greater slight than cursing in the presence of the Called. A minor offense, indeed. Certainly not punishable by death and often ignored altogether even by the strictest of Duri Masters.
It’s either him or her, he reminded himself.
The thought gave him just enough nerve to bring the devastating blade crashing through the old man’s shoulder, dragging violently downward until it stuck in his ribs and wrenched from his grip.
Done.
It was an ugly kill. The pig farmer—old and useless as he was—would suffer through the night and all the way into the next afternoon before someone finally put him out of his misery. But Nuri wasn’t there for that. Instead, he was hung upside down in the Duri Master’s purging chamber, only prevented from dropping into a fire-pit by steel hooks that buried deep in his skin. A reminder of how suffering for God was the only thing that kept him, and all peoples across the galaxy, from Tscharia.
“Heathen,” he whispered, tapping the blade and stepping back as blood sprayed his armor. The old man collapsed with wide eyes. Gasping. Demanding an explanation.
Why? he could hear the old man’s soul cry out to him.
Because you are not her, and because God demands tribute. Blood for blood.
The village fell utterly silent. The people were unsure whether they should rush to the old man’s aid (someone’s family member, surely) or leave him there to die alone rather than risk a similar fate.
Nuri fell to his knees before the old man, certain he was about to vomit but fighting it back with every ounce of his being lest the villagers think him weak. They would report any show of guilt or indecision to the Duri Masters and the Duri Masters would make him pay dearly for it if they caught him.
Slowly, the sharp thudding in his head slowed to a manageable drone. The farmer finally screamed. A few brave villagers broke their paralysis and rushed to the old man’s side to tend his fatal wound as best they could, though anyone with eyes could tell he had no hope for survival.
Nuri didn’t notice them. His ears rang and he suddenly felt on the verge of fainting.
Distraction.
He glanced once towards the river and locked eyes with the girl. It was only a moment, but it was enough for her to understand his meaning and make herself scarce before the Duri Masters descended the mountain.
I did this for you, he thought in her direction as she sprinted up the opposite slope, which was forbidden to all but the most revered Duri. It was him or you.
Distraction, a female voice whispered in his head.
He rose on unsteady legs and stumbled back toward the Duri Master’s hut, purposely leaving the blade lodged in the old man’s chest. It was going to be an ugly, arduous job prying it free, and it wasn’t right for the villagers to see one of the Called sweat in such a way. It gave them the impression that he was weak as they were weak, and that was simply unacceptable.
The people cannot respect someone who is weak. Therefore, they will not follow the law of one they perceive as weak. This is why God orders the destruction of Heathens, to remind them that He is not weak. He is Death and Suffering itself, even as He is Life and Joy. To be God-like, we must be both brutal and kind. You can only manage these dual natures by making just judgments and remaining aloof from human indignities. Sweat. Blood. Love. Tears. Emotion of any kind. To be like God, you cannot be like humans.
Humans are weak.
You will be Hidria.
The teaching provided little—if any—consolation, but at least it occupied his mind as he ascended the mountain to accept his punishment at the Just Hand of God.
Distraction.
It kept him from thinking about the girl, and from wondering what would become of her among the bloodthirsty monsters on the Forbidden Mountain.
Maybe someday, he would find out for himself.
7
Distraction, Colt’s voice echoed before Nuri had a chance to orient himself within the new darkness.
The rumble of the avalanche had finally ceased after several anxious moments of wondering whether the barrier would hold. Now that he was certain the way behind him was completely blocked off, he shrugged snow from his shoulders and drew his laser blade to illuminate the mountain passage. He could only see two meters ahead of him at a time, but that was more than enough to recognize the corridor’s similarities to the winding tunnels in the sacred temple. Perhaps, he thought, it had been built in mock tribute once upon a time. Such extravagant, sardonic homage was not beyond the capabilities of the Evil One’s disciples, though it was impossible to know which of the two had been constructed first. The only glaring difference between the hallways was the lack of aquatic luminescence that had conveniently guided his footsteps back in the temple. For the time being, his blade provided the only light.
He didn’t take long weighing his options before deciding there were virtually none aside from venturing deeper into the mountain. He figured moving forward was his safest bet for progressing in the trials, anyway, even accounting for his certainty that unspeakable horrors lingered from the Evil One’s reign over Shehoora. Likewise, he had no doubt that those same terrors eagerly anticipated his arrival.
That doesn’t change anything.
To hesitate was to admit fear and fear was a human preoccupation. Hidria bore no fear—as both his Duri Master and Colt had repeatedly pointed out to him—and the trials were designed to discern whether he truly was Hidria, or at least had the capacity to be. Allowing the prospect of peril to dissuade him would only prove his unworthiness.
Besides, he had to focus to survive. He had to stretch his senses to the limit and accurately process the slightest movement in the shadows around him. He knew well that there was more to fear in the trials than God and demons.
Insanity, he thought with a frown.
Nuri wasn’t sure if the legends were true, but many among the Duri claimed the longer it took the Called to complete the trials, the less of his or her sanity remained. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t perish in the extraction process first, which was hardly a certainty. He supposed that was why it was rumored that all Hidria were insane, though he’d never met one himself to prove or disprove the claim. As far as he knew, no one had ever met a Hidria after its transformation. They were not meant to be seen while they purged the galaxy, and especially not to interact with creatures of a weaker constitution.
You, too, must remain unseen, Colt’s voice materialized j
ust beyond the arc of light from his blade. It won’t matter what awaits in the darkness so long as it doesn’t see you coming.
Nuri frowned and dabbed absently at his chest wound. His suspicion was piqued. The way he understood her, Colt had just suggested he sheathe his laser blade and proceed blindly through the darkness, an action which would leave him utterly exposed to any foul creature that happened upon him. His first instinct was to dismiss the idea offhand, but upon further reflection, he had to admit there was a certain logic to it. He might not see danger as it approached without the light of his blade, but neither would his enemies see him as he moved along the corridor.
It would at least be safer than broadcasting my location, he thought.
The only question then was whether his enemies—Watchmen, Jhrupa, or the infamous ice-wraiths—already knew he was coming. If they did, their heightened senses would mark his approach long before betraying their own presence. He’d been trained to walk in almost complete silence with footsteps discernible only to the most careful ear, but lacking other noises in the hollow mountain as distractions, the Watchmen would surely hear him. And if they did not, they would sense him nonetheless.
Then there’s no point in tiptoeing, he decided, pushing his blade even further from his body to illuminate the passage another half-meter. Might as well make it really bright while I’m at it.
He continued with the beam held out for a while until a new idea struck him. Without breaking stride, he sheathed the blade and drew his rifle from its holster.
One shot will light this place up all the way to the far wall, he thought.
The flash would only last a moment but that would be enough time to survey his surroundings with the added benefit of saving the charge on his blade. Not by much, but every little bit counted when it came to conserving the energy store of his favorite weapon. Besides, blasts from a pulse rifle would provide more cover than a blade. His enemies might be able to see him for a split-second during the flash, but then they’d be plunged into just as much darkness as he and hopefully blinded by the sudden glare. They would know his general location, but it would level the playing field. They’d have a harder time pinpointing a strike if he knew what areas to avoid.
Here goes nothing, he thought.
He aimed a blaster bolt into the corridor ahead, fighting to keep his eyes focused despite their instinct to close against the poignant beam.
Nuri’s stomach lurched when he saw the crude assembly of creatures shrinking from the light but his combat training quickly took control. He rolled forward and pivoted toward the wall, then came to rest on one knee with the rifle braced against his body for another round.
Lord of All, be my blade and my resolve, he prayed silently.
There were at least ten hostiles by his reckoning but he’d only managed a brief glimpse of them. They’d been crouched along a series of broken doorframes before the corridor curved to the right on a downward slope. Neither Jhrupa nor Watchmen as it turned out, though there was a distant resemblance between them and the unholy red-masked mages.
They must be ice-wraiths, he realized. Like the Jhrupa, he’d read about the foul creatures in the Mantra of the Unholy Other, which was more or less the Good Book for the Evil One’s disciples. Also like the Jhrupa, he’d never heard of anyone seeing them in person, least of all one of the Called during the trials.
Is their presence a sign that I’ve already failed? he wondered. That I shouldn’t be here at all?
The idea made his skin prickle ominously. Perhaps this was his consequence for failure. If he was unworthy of knowing the True God, it seemed oddly appropriate that he should encounter increasingly difficult obstacles until he succumbed. Yet he was still alive for the time being, and there were enemies ahead. He couldn’t afford to dwell on morbid possibilities.
Each doubt is merely a distraction, Colt reminded him. An attempt to muddle your thoughts and undermine your resolve. Uncertainty is the weapon of the Evil One. Hidria are decisive and authoritative. They do not require introspection or self-doubt because they know that all impulses living within them are a representation of the Holy One.
That’s a contradiction, he argued. True Hidria are servants of both God and the Duri Masters. They rely on instruction. Hidria are ascetics and death-bringers. They deny themselves to purify their actions. Listening to one’s own urges and impulses is the opposite of asceticism. It is the causeway to the Evil One.
He could hear the enraged ice-wraiths hissing as he crept along the corridor and prepared to unload the rifle on the lot of them, but now Colt’s debate clouded his mind as well. He found himself hesitating to gather his thoughts before proceeding again.
Distraction, Colt mocked.
Nuri was about to argue that if all distractions were servants of the Evil One and Colt was herself distracting him, then surely she was an agent of the Evil One. By that logic, he shouldn’t suffer her to live whatever arcane existence she’d carved out beyond the influence of the jealous Duri Masters, who could never achieve her proximity to God no matter how strictly they followed their own doctrines or how many affronts to the Creator they neutralized through the reckoning blades of the Called.
That’s precisely what she’s doing to me, he realized. She’s drawing me away from the road ahead just long enough to lower my guard so the Watchmen can strike. I’ll either be dead, exiled, or stationed at a failed Called installation until I die. At best, I’ll be an errand boy.
He might have pondered the issue further (he was known for considering the world around him altogether too carefully, much to the chagrin of his Duri Master), but the ice-wraiths were so enraged by his presence and the blinding light of the rifle blast that they could wait no longer and attacked as one writhing mass of shadow.
Here they come, Colt warned. Your hands must be swift and steady.
He felt the charge more than saw it. The sound of their eager, starved snarls threatened to break his resolve. Their collective footsteps shook the corridor.
As the calm surety of battle covered his doubts, Nuri planted his feet shoulder-width apart and aimed his rifle toward the heaviest concentration of gargled curses at the far end of the hallway.
I am not human, he reminded himself as he pulled the trigger and locked his knees against the sputtering recoil. I am Hidria.
The angry screams that followed were so piercing that he barely registered the rifle blasts over the raging cacophony, but neither sound fazed him. He simply held his finger against the trigger and arced shots across the corridor, unable to see how much damage he inflicted. The light from the rifle was too bright to make sense of the moving shadows. He did, however, catch brief glimpses of the creatures with each new series of reports. They were horrible things. Pale, diseased faces. Razor-blade incisors. Glowing, pupil-less eyes. It wasn’t until they were two meters from him that he realized a few were climbing the walls and ceiling.
More distractions, Colt reminded him. Focus on the greatest threats. The ones on the ceiling will drop eventually. If you play it right, they could become obstacles for the others.
He would have been wary of her advice if he’d had the time to consider it closely, but the battle calm was upon him and he wasn’t processing in any conscious way. His training had beaten out most of the irrational thoughts that distracted during battle. He had been wholly transformed into a series of finely-tuned reactions, his instinctual warrior-self calculating each move before he had a moment to digest what was happening around him.
One by one, the ice-wraiths dropped, then two by two, then they all bunched together and tripped over their dead.
But the swarm kept on coming without an end in sight.
They are strong, Colt told him. You cannot match their numbers nor their blind hatred. You must be smarter than them if you want to survive.
Nuri eased off the trigger for a moment and edged back toward the doorway. He couldn’t see the ammunition indicator that predicted the number of shots remaining before his
energy pack ran dry, but he knew it wasn’t much. In fact, he considered it a miracle the charge hadn’t died already and he’d managed to mow down a significant portion of the enemy.
Yet, as the horde advanced down the corridor toward him, the illusion of progress from his initial bursts was erased. The ice-wraiths trampled their fallen brethren without even a glance to be sure their footing was true on the cold dark stone. Those among them who’d taken to scrambling across the walls and ceiling on all fours were nearly upon him, as well, and firing blindly wouldn’t do much good against such a heavy press.
No use holding back now, he thought, continuing to fire as he drew the laser-blade with his left hand. I’ll have to cut my way out of here.
Not if you’re smart, Colt told him.
He had no idea what she meant by that and there wasn’t time to sift through her riddles. Instead, he hacked the glowing blade through each ice-wraith as they confronted him until the combination of new attackers and fallen corpses was so thick around him that he couldn’t be sure whether he was merely attacking the dead. More often than not, the laser made a clean cut and the wraiths fell where he caught them, yet their hardened bones and leathery skin occasionally resisted enough that they didn’t drop right away. As a result, those who survived the initial thrust and hack re-emerged from the pileup angrier than before.
You are allowing them to swallow you whole, Colt told him matter-of-factly. She drifted down the corridor beyond the wraiths with her own pale radiance. The sight was somehow more unsettling than the glow of the ice-wraiths’ eyes as they descended upon him.
I don’t have a choice.
They pressed too heavily for a counter strike. She was right about one thing: their sheer numbers were on the verge of completely swallowing him. Figuratively, at least, even if they had so far been unsuccessful in literally devouring him. They flung themselves at his blade so relentlessly and with such fervor that he could only manage to lock his legs beneath him and occasionally parry their groping claws or snapping teeth.
Colt: The Cosmic Prayer (Hidria Book 1) Page 5