Strayborn

by E E Rawls

  Aken frowned at the vertical scar carved from the base of his right eye down his cheek. Deep red, vicious, edged in charcoal black.

  A scar? But vempars Healed from almost anything...

  “Aken-Shou Bloodre.”

  The Master spoke, his voice smooth as a river. “I am Draev Master Nephryte. And this,” a hand motioned to the boy beside him, “is Mamoru, one of my students-in-training.”

  It was him, Master Nephryte. The hero he used to admire and want to be like, the hero who should have been there to protect his home before it burned to ashes.

  “Aken-Shou.” The Master’s greeting turned serious, and his gaze flicked toward the loaf on the ground. “I cannot allow you to wander these streets disrupting commerce and damaging property. There’s trouble enough beyond these walls without you adding to it here.” He indicated the city wall with a chin nod before staring him down again. “How old are you?”

  “I’m gonna be thirteen,” said Aken, giving his own serious look, which wasn’t easy. “Why?”

  “Good. You are to come with me and receive proper training,” Master Nephryte announced. And then his back turned, and he started away, assuming—no, expecting—Aken to follow along and do as told.

  Anger replaced any trace of intimidation. All of the blame he hadn’t known what to do with for the past week had been directed at the D.G. League and at this person.

  It was his fault a group of humans had slipped a weapon into the Outskirts—destroying his home, his parents, his life.

  If this Master had been doing his Guardian job, he wouldn’t be here homeless and starving. Some hero.

  “No!” he shouted at the man’s back.

  The Master paused, then turned.

  The scarred boy beside him clucked his tongue, amusement in his eyes.

  “No? Why do you refuse, Aken-Shou?” Nephryte’s river-smooth voice almost made Aken question why, too, but he caught himself and vigorously shook his head.

  “Because it’s your fault what happened! My home got burned up because you didn’t protect us,” he growled. “I won’t trust a false hero.”

  Nephryte’s expression softened a fraction. “The house that burned...that was your home? A very tragic case,” he said. “I would have been patrolling the Outskirts that day, but an incident elsewhere had drawn me away... The Draevs on duty saw no sign of an attack coming, not before it was too late. You have my deepest apology.” The Master bowed his head. “I come to offer you a new home, at the D.G. League’s Academy, Draevensett.”

  Aken’s chest pounded.

  “It is an offer I advise that you accept.” Master Nephryte paused before further adding, “You must. Or face the consequences, by order of the law.”

  Aken swallowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means, if a vempar born with Ability misuses it—causing harm to fellow citizens, not heeding warnings—then he is to be either destroyed, or locked away in the depths of the Morbid Dungeons. That is the rule,” said the Master. “You are a Scourgeblood, and you appear to be running rampant with your Ability—that is a dangerous combination. If you are uncontrollable, then...”

  “I’m not running rampant!” Aken protested quickly. “I just—I just did that because I was hungry. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody.”

  Nephryte’s mouth closed, considering.

  Draevensett, a new home, sounded much better than a dark cell or death. Aken’s childhood dream was within reach. And yet, could he put all his anger aside? The back of his mind was itching.

  Anything was better than a dark cell.

  He didn’t like being told what he must accept, though. Stupid law.

  “How do I know this isn’t some trap to get rid of me? You’d all be glad if the last Scourgeblood was dead. Admit it!” Aken threw up his hands, and the dirt street erupted in lava.

  It wasn’t much, a small pool—he didn’t know how to use Ability that well—but people did shout and scurry. He couldn’t resist a pleased grin at that. Fear was a form of respect, after all.

  Master Nephryte, however, raised a single finger.

  The air around him condensed, turned moist, then covered and smothered the lava—extinguishing its life with a searing hiss.

  Aken gawked. And then a growing wind rose around him and lifted him clear off the ground.

  “Wha—AH!”

  His hands swam, trying to grab hold of something—anything—legs kicking at air. He tried to create more lava, but thick-as-rope air currents wouldn’t let him move as they pinned both arms tight to his sides.

  He struggled, determined to get free by sheer force of will. He couldn’t let himself be so easily defeated!

  The hint of a smile touched Nephryte’s lips while observing Aken’s vain struggle. “A very determined and stubborn soul, with great potential. If only you would listen and do as you’re told.”

  Aken glared down from where the air held him suspended, trying to spear the vempar with his furious gaze. Nephryte appeared not to notice.

  “A vempar of your power cannot be left alone, or who knows what damage you’ll inflict upon yourself and those around you. Aken-Shou, this is not a trap to get rid of you.” He tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. “Yes. I have decided to take you with me—whether you like it or not.”

  With that, the Master turned once again, and the older boy fell in step with him.

  “Huh?” Just as Aken began wondering what they were up to, the air ropes constraining him began to pull his body forward, following after them. “Hey—! Y-you let me go, right now!”

  All he could do was kick and shout like a caught animal. It must have been an amusing sight for the market crowd: a boy dragged through the air like a balloon on a string, feet a whirring propeller. He could hear their snickers and laughter.

  “Jerks! Son of a warthog, stop flying me around, or I’ll—Yaaaahg!”

  The air ropes shook him.

  Aken yelled and kicked the whole way into the city. He didn’t even notice their leaving the Outskirts behind until the grand school came into view. Then he saw, and then he fell silent, staring up at the rising towers, star-struck and jaw dangling.

  The air ropes released and he landed clumsily on his knees with a grunt. The Master and Mamoru shared a smirk before continuing up to the iron gate. They knew he would follow. And follow he did. It was either that or be dragged the rest of the way—and he really didn’t want anybody from this grand place seeing him like that.

  Aken put on a wide frown, masking his awe behind it, and plodded toward a new life and an old dream.

  AKEN STOOD WITHIN DRAEVENSETT’S courtyard and turned in place. He was finally here, to study and train for the D.G. League—the first step toward becoming the greatest Draev Guardian. His anticipation battled with guilt, though. It was only because he’d lost Sabe, Mom and Dad that he was here, now.

  Master Nephryte—who he preferred to call Mentor rather than a heroic Master—let his student Mamoru give Aken a brief tour of the school and introduce him to the dorm floor boys he’d be living, learning and training with. Aken put on a casual smile as he faced the group.

  “This is Aken-Shou,” Mamoru gave introductions. “He’ll be a part of Floor Harlow from now on. He’s the—”

  “The Scourgeblood, so I’ve heard. Figures he’d end up on our Floor,” spoke one of the boys. He had the look of a noble snob about him and leaned his head back so that he looked down his nose at Aken.

  The other boys shifted, fear or distrust showing in their body language, and Aken held back a lump in his throat.

  “Enough, Hercule,” said Mamoru. “Aken-Shou is our comrade, now. You can’t call him names.”

  The noble turned his head aside with a snort.

  “Does that mean he has crazy monster powers?” asked another: a too-merry boy with orange spiky hair. “I’m Bakoa, by the way!”

  Aken frowned at him, the word monster stinging. “Hercule. Bakoa. Hmph, good to know the names of my enemies,” he said cool
ly.

  Bakoa’s grin fell in fright. “Eh?”

  Mamoru intervened, “Let me show you to your room, Aken, and then we can head down to the dining hall.”

  After that, the word Scourgeblood floated through the halls and classrooms of Draevensett. Denim was at the school, and had made sure everybody knew by the following day. As Aken tried to eat lunch in the cafeteria, students made a show of avoiding the table he sat at.

  After a while, Aken slammed his hands down on the table. The sound rang through the room, and he rose and fixed his gaze on the crowd of students. “Yes, I’m the last Scourgeblood, that’s right! And you know what? That’s not all I’m gonna be. One day, I’m gonna become the greatest Draev Guardian ever, and kick all of your behinds!”

  Their was a pause, then bursts of laughter filled the air.

  “The greatest Draev Guardian ever?” one student guffawed.

  “What a joke! Everybody knows Master Nephryte is the greatest. That twerp thinks he can beat him?” said another.

  “Maybe he plans on using some evil power. Why’s a Scourgeblood being allowed here, anyway?”

  “Because they have to control him. They can’t let a monster run loose through the kingdom.”

  Aken grabbed his tray and marched out the doors.

  A month passed by, feeling as slow as molasses, and the same looks of distrust and unease people had given him in the Outskirts were repeating here. But he was determined not to give up; the stubbornness inside him wouldn’t let him.

  It hurts. So cold...

  He was having more trouble, though. A void of loss and pain kept digging at his heart—a void that wouldn’t go away but grew. All consuming, dark, wrapping around him like a vine.

  So cold, so dark...

  Something stirred restlessly. If grief, pain and anger were a living thing, then it was scraping every part of him with its claws. And one night, that pain and darkness in his dream took on a face—a face identical to his own. It stood before him like a dark reflection in a mirror, growling like a madman and whispering: So cold. Crush them all...

  Aken jolted awake, slick with sweat. He stared around his room, though there was nothing but furniture and shadows.

  So dark. Crush them, heheh. Crush them all...

  He tried to ignore the thoughts of that dark reflection, but couldn’t go back to sleep.

  The next day, Mentor Nephryte pulled him aside, confronting him at eye-level in the stairwell. “Aken-Shou, I can tell something has been weighing you down. Talk to me; I can help you.”

  Aken tried to leave.

  “If you won’t talk to me, then focus and pray about your troubles before they grow worse. Lord God hears the words of a sincere heart,” the Mentor insisted and took him by the shoulders. Apparently Nephryte was one of the few in the city who followed the faith in Lord God, instead of the red godesses. “I know it’s been hard for you to adjust here, but things will change and get better as long as you keep trying. Have you been reading the book Job, as I suggested, how he suffered a great deal and overcame it?”

  Aken pushed away. “Why would I listen to you?” he growled. “I used to think you were a great hero, but it’s your fault I’m an orphan!”

  He ran past him, heart pounding. A part of him regreted exploding like that, but he just couldn’t take it anymore.

  Entering the commons hall, he climbed up and sat on one of the window’s cold, clammy stone sills—his perch of solace.

  Once he’d calmed down, he let his mind drift, and suddenly the hunchback’s words from that long ago day came to him: “A spark of light, a star to guide the way through the darkness in your mind, Aken-Shou. With this, you will find the reborn princess.”

  The starlight orb shone in his pocket now. He fished it out with a finger and eyed its glowing surface.

  He was about to put it back when an image flashed and faded.

  Curious, he held it up close.

  An image surfaced like swirling ink deep within the orb: the face of a girl.

  He straightened.

  Her ears were round—a human. Scarlet hair curled down narrow shoulders, framing a petite face. She was beautiful, like a princess. The inked lines waved, making it look as if she were moving and smiling...before the image blurred and dissipated. Gone.

  He tucked the orb back.

  That was weird.

  The image of the scarlet princess continued dancing on the surface of his mind, and he wondered who she could be and why he bothered to care. Below, none of the students looked his way as they bustled about the commons, content to pretend he didn’t exist.

  I should make them acknowledge me, the madman inside cackled. How about a few more pranks? Force them to look at him...

  The door to the hall swung open.

  He glanced in the direction briefly, then straightened, as someone new walked in.

  Someone with scarlet hair.

  Part 3

  The Harlow Strays

  Chapter 9

  The southern gates of Draethvyle City loomed before Cyrus as she and Gandif approached. Armed guards carried rifle-axes over their shoulders and eyed the stream of people shuffling along the stone walk. She tried to avoid their piercing eyes, sinking back in the hood of her cloak.

  There was a check by the gatekeepers that their faces weren’t on any of the Vemparic Kingdom’s criminal lists, next jotting their names in a logbook and asking the reason for their visit. Her shaggy friend was good at giving convincing answers; he tossed an arm around her. “It’s my nephew’s first time here!” he said, “And I just had to bring him t’ see the festival.”

  Cyrus frowned, but the guards let them pass after Gandif paid an entry fee—he must’ve hid a bundle of dels in with his spare clothes.

  Cyrus rubbed the fake pair of fangs in her mouth with her tongue. Gandif had carved them from white birch for her, fang caps that fit snug over her real canines. Though uncomfortable, it worked for now, until something better could be found. Eck, the taste of wood was unpleasant.

  As they passed under the gate’s archway, she tilted her head back to see the symbol on the centerstone: two hands, palms up, beneath a bat-winged crown. “That’s our kingdom’s crest,” Gandif whispered. “Best you know that one.”

  She nodded as they came through to the other side, and there, she beheld the city.

  Draethvyle spread like a wonder of fluted stone, scrolling patterns and gothic designs. Gandif led her by the hand up a wide paved street, turned a corner that melted into narrow cobblestone, before shifting back again to pavestone.

  The streets were a mishmash of textures and sizes—from five-carts wide, to barely one—crisscrossing the lay of the city in a maze. Trees grew at intervals along sidewalks, petunias dripped from windowsills, and bridges arched across the river Noncello running through the city’s heart. She caught glimpses of courtyards—secluded spaces with mini gardens and turtle ponds. There were piazzas, with shady trees and iron-lace benches, and open plazas, showing off large fountains.

  A pigeon shied away from her shoe, pecking at crumbs.

  Fountains were masterpieces, depicting mythical creatures and scenes from legends. Heroes slaying monsters, lovers dancing, mermaids singing, sagas unfolding. Her busy gaze soaked everything in.

  They passed a quaint café and a luxury fabric shop. Turrets and spires rose above the rows of peaked rooftops and parapet balconies, rising into the sun. She watched as a stream of swallows circled the highest towers, and pigeons roosted in the masonry among eyeless stone gargoyles and glass windows.

  Cyrus let Gandif pull her along while she marveled, and he navigated street after street. “Now listen, miss. Here’s a fast rundown of the place,” he told her. “The city’s divided into three districts: Uptown, where the rich folk and structures of grandeur reside—full of those fancy colonnades, and mansions with their floral gardens and trimmed hedges. Then Downtown, that’s the heart and soul and lively buzzing place of commerce, entertainment and daily liv
ing—where we are now.”

  Cyrus eyed the shop-lined streets and plazas, wonderful-smelling bakeries and pubs.

  “Then lastly there’s Lowtown, the place of warehouses and construction, and the lower class dwelling apartments. Some would call the Outskirts the fourth district, but it’s outside the east wall, and has all manner of poor and strange folk.”

  He pointed, “At the center of the city’s the palace, home to our ruling monarch King Magnovska. The Church of Draeth is that steep and spired thing towering high nearby it. And not far away is Draevensett Academy! Oh and don’t forget the big clock, Tall Tim; he’s useful when yer lost.”

  Cyrus nodded, though she doubted she could remember it all.

  Mother had once roamed these streets. What had it been like for her growing up here? Had she been happy? She tried to imagine a young image of Mother skipping up the street.

  She was following in her footsteps, in a way, heading toward the Ability school Mother had most likely attended. This was the closest she would ever get to her. There was no grave in Elvenstone; no one seemed to know where her body lay, a fact Cyrus found hard to live with. But here, she could almost feel her presence, almost touch the past.

  Cyrus pushed her hood back to see better, then felt self-conscious. Her cherry red hair caught people’s attention. She made sure to hide her human ears in its tangled mop. She’d streaked their insides with charcoal lines like a bat’s, to resemble vempar ears, but trusting in a simple disguise was more than unnerving.

  A carriage rolled past—an odd thing with two large wheels and one smaller wheel at the front, giving it a triangular look. Some sort of engine propelled it forward. Technology here was different, old fashioned yet sleek.

  A man in a long coat and cravat crossed the walkway in front of them, two young girls following at his heels. At first she thought they were daughters, but their clothes were dreary gray and worn, and they kept their heads down as they carried purchase bags. Cyrus realized with a start they were humans—his slaves. Her heart clenched.