Rise of the Red Harbinger

by Khalid Uddin

  The sun had escalated; the day grew hotter. Maqdhuum was perhaps wise to forego full armor, as the day’s heat would sap any fully clad knight or soldier of all his energy. “Do not think for a moment that I will not kill you,” Maqdhuum said. “We did not come to take all of your people. Those of you too stubborn and strong-willed are not suited to our needs and are better off dead.”

  Mother, Father, Esha, Gia…little innocent Gia, she had reached barely over seven years. He will not kill me today. “Then let our dance begin, craven.” Anger fueled his words, but Marshall remained wary about letting it guide his movements. Around him in the distance, he spotted scores of small fires emerging throughout the village. They are burning everything, making sure no one survives.

  “Craven? You would call me craven, yet three of you fight me at once?”

  “You are craven for sacking our village in our sleep. For destroying a people who had committed no disservice to you. For that you are a coward. We fight in numbers because we take nothing for granted.”

  “Very well then. If I am the coward, then come strike me down. Give me a coward’s death, skinshite.”

  Skinshite. Marshall had reached his threshold, and he noticed Aric and Myron equally as angry. Outsiders did not call Taurani “skinshite” to their faces. At least not in ages. It was an old insult from those who had spurned the Taurani generations ago for their inked skin and for their devotion to Taurean.

  Marshall engaged him now, gauging his own reach as well as Maqdhuum’s. Aric and Myron maintained distance. Too many swordsmen in such a tight space would lead them to unintentionally harm each other. Aric wore full leather armor and an iron helmet. Hopefully it would not make him tire quickly.

  Marshall studied Maqdhuum’s movements, but the man’s eyes were still fixated on his own. Marshall swung, aiming for the leg first, but the man quickly deflected the blow and spun his sword for an attack at Marshall’s head. Marshall dodged the counterattack, bending backwards. Marshall feigned another attack but provoked no reaction. He tried to signal Myron, who stood behind Maqdhuum to the right, with his eyes. Myron read the signal and gingerly stalked in. His calf was a slab of red flesh hanging from the leg. As Myron neared, Marshall spun his blade, hoping to distract his adversary. Maqdhuum twisted in a flash and sliced at Myron’s leather chestplate, cutting it down the middle and leaving Myron with a gash down his chest. Myron grunted loudly, trying his best to be a man, a warrior. All the while, the foe had drawn a second sword from his back and held it ready. Myron had fallen on his back from the blow, but Maqdhuum knew better than to turn away from the other attackers for a killing stroke on the wounded boy.

  He is better trained with a blade. Can we really defeat him? Marshall’s doubt lasted only a heartbeat. Mother, Father, Esha, Gia.

  Marshall and Aric positioned themselves on each side of the man. Aric took the lead, applying a storm of strikes and swoops, his blades flashing through the air. Aric swung high and low at a feverish pace, despite his full armor. Sweat poured from his face and neck. His arms slowed. Maqdhuum parried all of Aric’s attempts and Marshall knew this would be his opportunity. Maqdhuum and Aric sparred back and forth, steel clanging upon steel. Marshall swooped in and raised his sword for a killing blow. He meant to separate Maqdhuum’s head and body. Marshall spun to his right and slashed his blade backhanded at the back of Maqdhuum’s neck.

  Maqdhuum had seen it coming. How could he have known? Marshall witnessed it all in slow motion. His blade glided through the air for its target. Maqdhuum swooped his blade behind Aric’s legs and swept him to the ground. He ducked in the process and turned to drive his other sword through Marshall’s unprotected torso. The metal sliced through flesh, then his insides, and then through more flesh as it tore out of Marshall’s back. He could not distinguish between the cold of the blade and the cold of life leaving his body. Marshall fell for minutes. Hours. Ages. The shock struck him more than the pain. As his body bounced against the dirt, sending clouds up around him, he prayed for the process to be quick. Marshall made a feeble attempt to pull out the blade as his eyes lolled about and his mouth filled with blood. He was broken. He had failed. His vision blurred. The last thing Marshall Taurean saw was the craven standing over him, removing the blade from his near lifeless body, a smile on the man’s face. Mother, Father, Eshhhhh…and then there was nothing.

  ***

  “It seems as if every mound was once on fire, judging by the char and ashes, Maven Savaiyon, but a few still linger.” Adria Varela had been brought mainly because of her ability to listen, to hear things that no other men or women could. That was her manifestation. Her gift as a descendant of Darian. She was almost equally adept at noticing the smallest of details. Things that most others tended to miss.

  “I would say we missed the battle by not more than a day or two.” She took pride in her talents, especially because she stood barely five feet tall and her slight frame made her look no older than twelve years, despite the fact that she’d already reached nineteen. Her eyes sat like twin moons on her face, bright and blue, which only made her look younger. Her nose was thin and meek, and her lips dark rather than bright, which, paired with her olive skin, made her beautiful, at least according to people in Markos. Her hair, dark like Galicean coffee, extended past her shoulders and enhanced her beauty. However, people tended to see a child rather than a beautiful young woman. She had resigned herself to the notion that she would always be perceived as a child. Perhaps in her old age, others would finally be jealous of her.

  “Precisely my thinking, Mouse.” Maven Savaiyon had given her that nickname two years ago, a few months after meeting her. It was not meant as a slight against her, though, more so because she was small, clever, elusive, and a nuisance to anyone who underestimated her. Maven Savaiyon was very protective of her at the House of Darian, especially around the boys, many of whom had been seen with mysterious bruises after teasing her or bullying her. He continued, “But, I have seen the aftermath of battle with Drahkunov. This is not his work. Do you understand why?”

  Adria knew the answer. “Their bodies are dismembered in multiple places. Legs, arms, heads. It is excessive, unnecessary. Drahkunov battles with honor. These dead soldiers would have been left alone. Even their armor has been ripped apart.”

  “Good.” Maven Savaiyon slightly grinned. He stood nearly seven feet tall. His skin was the tone of chestnuts and he fashioned his black hair in the Shivaani style, shaved almost to the skin but not quite so close. They all bore the mark of the Descendants: Adria, Savaiyon, and Lincan, who walked around nearby inspecting the village. They would be easily identified by any survivors.

  “Should the Taurani have been able to defeat Drahkunov?” Adria grew curious.

  Surveying his surroundings, Savaiyon responded, “Given their beliefs and stubbornness, I doubt they would have. The Taurani pride themselves in their fighting prowess, yet limit themselves because of a stupid misinterpretation of the Orijin. They hide their Marks by covering their bodies. They believe that, because Taurean himself stopped using his manifestation, they should not use theirs either. The Taurani never use their manifestations, and most do not even know they have any ability anymore. Imagine. A warrior culture that robs itself of its greatest weapon.”

  “So they prepared all this time for nothing then.”

  “Indeed. And it seems Jahmash has a new general. A very deadly one. Drahkunov was likely not sent because he had honor. This attack was meant to be embarrassing, it was meant to mock the Taurani and drive fear into the rest of our land. We can only hope that the king is not moved to act rashly by it. He normally does not need an excuse to make hasty decisions.”

  Lincan finally spoke from one of the ashen piles. “There is nothing but death here. Do you hear anything, Adria? If not, let us leave. I dislike the feel of this place.” Lincan was the youngest of their search party, at seventeen. He had only come to the House a few months ago, but his understanding of Healing was intricate. He was right,
though, they were here for a reason. Adria must concentrate if she would hear any hints of life.

  “Both of you be silent then. Let me concentrate.” She focused her mind on nothing, closing her eyes to focus, ridding herself of emotion. Her manifestation filled her veins with the sweet intoxicating melody. She knew what she was listening for. Life. Breathing. Heartbeats. Sounds boomed in her ears. She had to concentrate on the correct ones. Adria focused past the nearby insects and birds, past the breeze that rustled trees and grass. The ground. I must search the ground for vibrations. She sat, letting her ears grasp for any trembles or vibrations. Nothing. Adria reached farther. In two separate directions, she felt two heartbeats, one faint, one strong. “There are two!” Her voice squeaked with excitement. “I felt one heartbeat echo through the ground! It must be coming from under a destroyed house! The other was the faintest of breath, like a whisper, but the heart is strong.”

  Savaiyon cut in, “Let us retrieve the one underneath first. He or she may have less time and more injuries if trapped beneath a house. Where did you locate the heartbeat, Mouse?”

  “I felt it nearby. I will focus on it. Follow me.” Adria enjoyed giving the orders and instructions. She felt a sort of irony commanding others, given the common perception of her.

  She walked slowly on, fixated on the echoes and reverberations of the heartbeat. After walking northeast for a few minutes, Adria found her target. “Here. Beneath this pile.”

  Lincan observed the crumbled and blackened house. “If anyone survives beneath this rubble, they will need to be patient. It will take hours, if not a day, to move all of this away.”

  “That is why it is important to pay attention to everything, Lincan. While you remove the pile, piece by piece, I will walk into this hole in the ground.” Savaiyon pointed to a small crater, exposed by an overturned flap of grass that was surely meant to cover a hiding spot. “You two stay here; I shall see where this leads. You are certain that the survivor lies beneath?” Maven Savaiyon dropped down into the ground.

  “I have no doubts,” Adria replied. Since they’d arrived in midday, enough light penetrated into the underground retreat that Savaiyon needed no torch. Given this heat, he may not have lit one even in darkness. Adria heard him below, moving around. Things were being thrown about.

  Even without using enhanced hearing, Adria heard Maven Savaiyon groaning as he moved things.

  A heap of flesh plopped up by the hole in the ground. Maven Savaiyon emerged after. “His legs were crushed beneath a massive wooden beam. If the heat hadn’t already driven me to it, I would be sweating now from the weight of the thing. There was a whole room down there; it must have been a hiding place beneath the house. This man is no Taurani. I don’t even know where he’s from, but he has none of the Taurani markings. Most likely a soldier.” The man was unconscious. One leg dangled from tendons and sinews, a chunk of meat missing.

  Adria knew Lincan would struggle in fixing the man.

  “Lincan. You are not to heal this man to full recovery,” Maven Savaiyon ordered. “There were three dead Taurani down there with him, most likely guarding him like a prisoner. Close his wounds but do not mend his bones. That should be enough to ensure his survival until we return to the House.”

  Lincan gripped his hands to the soldier’s legs and closed his eyes. Adria always found Lincan’s healing manifestation impressive. The soldier’s muscles and tendons reformed. The skin slowly reconnected. Lincan left the shin bones broken, just as Maven Savaiyon had instructed. Once finished, Lincan sat for several minutes to catch his breath and rest. He and Maven Savaiyon then carried the soldier as Adria led them through the burnt grass to find the second survivor.

  They came upon the dirt road again and found a single man lying upon the ground. On second look, he was barely a man, of an age with Adria. He wore barely any clothes, which were shredded anyway, and his stomach had been sliced through. Blood caked his body everywhere: his stomach and chest, left hand, mouth, and the ground beneath him. Adria noticed entrails through the sliced abdomen and looked away.

  Adria had not seen much of battle or death in her nineteen years, but she knew that people did not live through injuries such as this. “I do not understand why he breathes. He has likely been lying here like this for at least a day. By now, his body should be drained of blood, and his heart and lungs should have stopped. Yet he breathes, and I can discern a heartbeat. Enlighten me, Maven Savaiyon; I am not clever enough for this riddle.”

  “I am equally as baffled, Mouse. I have never seen the likes of it. It cannot be a self-healing manifestation. His wounds would be repairing themselves. Lincan, have you any theories?”

  Lincan scratched his short black hair loudly, a habit he’d come to be known for when confused. “I have no answers. Perhaps if I have more time to study him in a more apt setting, I might shed some light on the source.”

  “Wrap his abdomen with what is left of his clothes. Then lift him to his feet and brace him, Lincan. I shall prepare us a bridge back to the House.” Maven Savaiyon’s manifestation was the ability to travel anywhere by creating ‘bridges’ in the air. In traveling this way though, he was also limited to traveling to places he’d been before, as he’d had to be able to picture his destination before creating a bridge to it. Adria also loved watching this manifestation.

  Lincan lifted the tattooed Taurani up by the arms and dragged him while Savaiyon lifted the soldier. “Are we ready then?” Savaiyon’s bridge was ready. A rectangle of bright yellow light floating before them, like a doorway to another room.

  A hint of a realization pulled at Adria’s mind. “Hmm…that’s odd.”

  “What’s that?” Lincan looked back at her, puzzled.

  She was sure now, having had the time to fully observe. “The Taurani you’re carrying, Lincan. He has no shadow.”

  Chapter 4

  The Voice

  From The Book of Orijin, Verse Two Hundred Ninety-one

  O Chosen Ones,

  We have shared Our essence with each of you,

  That shall manifest in your bodies and souls in ways special to each of you.

  It is with these manifestations that you shall cure the world of the wickedness of Mankind.

  Baltaszar had memorized the conversation word for word. It was difficult not to. He’d replayed it in his mind several times a day in the past weeks and more often these past few days.

  Yasaman had spoken softly, trembling and fighting back tears, “I…I just can’t continue to do this.” She lay beside him in the narrow bed, clutching his hand to the point of numbness and staring straight up to the ceiling. “I…I can’t continue lying to my father. And the longer we keep this going, the more likely it is that he’ll find out.”

  He hadn’t seen this coming. Yasaman had loved Baltaszar’s company and found ways for them to be together despite her father. More often, it was she who had derived schemes for their clandestine meetings. Baltaszar had grown used to sneaking over to her house in the middle of the night, once her parents had fallen asleep. This made no sense. “I don’t understand. I thought you were happy. I thought we were happy. You said this is what you wanted. You said you loved me. You’ve done so many things to make sure we could see each other. Why is it all of a sudden not worth it?”

  “I do love you, but…”

  “If you love me, we would not be having this conversation.” Baltaszar hadn’t been angry, which surprised him, but remembered being confused. Her words had been hammers pounding into his head, and causing an ache that prevented him from thinking clearly.

  “I love you, but I love my father as well, Baltaszar. And I cannot do this to him.”

  “Then why not simply tell him about me? What would be so wrong with that?”

  Yasaman turned to face him, streams of tears flooding her pillow. “You know how he feels about your father. If I was sneaking around with any boy, he would lock me in this room for ten years. Imagine what he would do if he found out it was with the so
n of the man he wants to see dead.” Tears had turned her face from a light brown complexion to splotchy red.

  The candle on her night stand had almost reached its base, the wax barely visible between the flame and metal holder. Baltaszar had understood that his ability to argue had also waned, along with the light. “He does not have to be happy with it, I know, but is it not worth a chance?” he pleaded. “For all that we have been through, you would actually give up now?”

  “Baltaszar, it is what I need to do. I’m not saying it is what I want, but it is what’s best. For everyone.”

  “This is not what is best for me!” He fell just short of shouting at her. Yasaman’s parents’ bedroom was at the other end of the house, but many things could be heard in the quiet of night.

  “I am not saying that this has to be the end, I just…”

  “How could it not be? What will make everything different all of a sudden? Your father will always want to choose your husband and he will always hate my father, unless you stand up to him!”

  “Maybe if we just hold off until things calm down, until after…”

  “After my father dies? Is that what you want to say?” Baltaszar growled. Yasaman’s mouth twitched and contorted at his words, displaying more sorrow than her glistening eyes. Baltaszar hadn’t been entirely sure if that was what she had wanted to say next, but he knew it was what she meant and anger infiltrated his veins. “If that is what you think will make your father accept me, then there is nothing more for us.” As angered and devastated as he was, Baltaszar briefly reconsidered leaving her. Since he’d met Yasaman, he was sure that she would one day be his wife.