Awakenings

by C. D. Espeseth

  He had told Naira what happened as soon as he got back. She had simply looked at him and nodded, tears had run down her face, but she looked as if she had barely registered what he had said. She had turned on her heel and volunteered for the next shift on patrol, and she hadn’t stopped working since.

  How had it all gone so wrong?

  The door to the hall burst open, and a courier raised a hand to get the senior prefect’s attention.

  “What is it?” Stonebridge barked at the young courier.

  “Orders sir, from the High King himself.”

  Stonebridge grabbed the orders and cursed. “Everyone! Suit up! We’re joining up with the High King and the Royal Guard. They’ll be here any moment.”

  The senior prefect had returned to their ad hoc command centre only a few hours ago. Matoh hadn’t seen the man since the night Naira had been attacked, and the news which had arrived with the senior prefect wasn’t good. The old veteran insisted on being called a captain now instead of a prefect and looked as if he wanted to tear a strip off anyone who so much as twitched in his direction. Matoh couldn’t blame him of course, as Stonebridge’s partner had been killed in an attempt to capture the murderer, and somehow Seraphim Wong had also lost her life in the chaos.

  When Matoh had learned about the seraphim’s death, he knew it would be the pebble that started the avalanche and push the Xinnish people over the edge. Seraphim Wong had been a beacon of hope and pride for the Xinnish district. She had risen from the daughter of a cartwright all the way up to the ruling council of the Singer Faith. Her music and voice had led countless congregations in worship, and she had been well known for her work within the community. She had made it a mission to feed the poor and desperate throughout the city.

  The city would riot and, from the news coming in, it sounded like it had already begun.

  Matoh got to his feet as had the initiate to his left … no not initiate ... Syklan. They had all been raised to full status now. Jerome, that was his name.

  “Did you ever see anything like this in the Narrows?” Matoh asked Jerome, remembering that before he had come to the Academy, Jerome had actually been a constable for a short time.

  “Never this bad. I reckon I can almost taste the hatred spilling out of them people, but this I know.” Jerome leaned in and looked Matoh in the eye. “When it turns, a crowd changes from a group of people into a collective monster. The frenzy gets ‘em, and you better believe that when that happens, the nicest man in the world will try to rip your throat out with his bare teeth.”

  Jerome pulled the last of the straps tight on Matoh’s armour and grabbed the edge of his cuirass and pulled him close. “And when things go south, you’ll be glad to be covered in metal and carrying a big stick, because, brother, you’re gonna need it.” Jerome patted the handles of the swords on either hip and looked sad but resolute.

  “Move out! Form up outside, four abreast,” Stonebridge called out. He was limping badly, and the bandage he wore around his knee was bleeding again, but the obvious pain the man must be in didn’t touch his face.

  That is one tough old bastard, Matoh thought and was glad the grizzled veteran was in charge. Rumour was that Stonebridge had commanded a garrison during the Border Wars between Kenz and Xin Ya, then later made a name for himself by routing the Navutians out of Vestgard during the Union Wars.

  “Sir!” Matoh shouted along with the others in the hall, and he fell into line.

  They didn’t have to wait long, the sound of hooves on cobblestones could be heard as soon as they were outside and within moments the Royal Guard with the High King at its centre rode into view. Sir Garrick and Sir Vyktor rode with him, and they too had their weapons at the ready.

  On any other day, it would be a magnificent sight to behold, but today, all it did was make Matoh’s throat go dry.

  He had never seen the High King look like that before. He held the giant warhammer at the ready at his side, and there was murder in his eyes. The Royal Guard was tense, scanning the houses around them as if for an attack.

  Things were bad, very bad.

  “Stonebridge, let’s move! Your troops had better keep up, or I’m leaving them behind. Send a runner to gather as many volunteer fire crews as we have to join the regulars following us. We may need them to help us get through.” The High King and the Royal Guard barely slowed, and Matoh and his comrades were forced into a jog by the pace of the horses behind them.

  “You heard him! Triple time! Get your sorry arses in gear!” Stonebridge turned and yelled at a man with a wide stiff-leather hat and a red armband, “Fei Hung, get your fire team ready and call in everybody on your roster. All hands at the ready, you need to keep the water coming, stop the spread of what’s already burning.”

  With that, Senior Prefect Stonebridge limped over to join the rest of them. Thankfully, Sir Garrick had also brought a horse for the senior prefect, who would have no doubt tried to run in time with them on his bleeding leg, cursing at anyone who said he couldn’t keep up. Instead, Stonebridge swung up into the saddle with practised ease and brought the horse up to the front of the line.

  Matoh and his peers jogged behind in relative eerie silence. No one spoke. Occasional shouts and screams echoed through the empty streets, the jingle of armour whispered around them as they all caught increasing glimpses of shattered windows, doors hanging ajar and household items strewn into the street.

  Then they saw the body.

  A man, who had the look of a Kenzian, leaned against a wall holding the huge gash across his stomach. His hands were covered in his own entrails, and his eyes were vacant yet still held the residue of shock and anguish within them.

  Mr Carter, Matoh thought with a shock. That’s Bob Carter, the glass blower!

  He missed a step as he tried to run and gawk at the same time. The person behind him pushed him forward with a firm hand, and Matoh caught his balance and tried to listen to the drum beat. Its beat pulled him into the rhythm of the march despite his shock.

  The empty shell of the man he had known since his childhood was left behind. The remnants of the wondrous glass sign which had spelt out ‘Carter’s Glass’ lay scattered across the cobblestone street around Mr Carter’s broken body.

  They had butchered him and ransacked the store.

  And Bob Carter was not the only body they passed whom Matoh recognised.

  Fear, numbness, anger and shock began to take hold of him then.

  New Toeron, his city, was tearing itself to pieces. The peace his mother had died for was being thrown away because of old hatreds being reignited by some.

  They turned down another street, and the smell of smoke wafted strongly amongst them. The remnants of a small wooden bandstand lay smouldering in the street.

  “Keep it together! Remember your training, rely on each other!” Stonebridge’s voice rang out from behind him, and the stern tone cut through part of Matoh’s shock.

  Focus. He told himself, and he tried to remember what they had taught him at the Academy.

  Riots. Riots meant city fighting, street to street combat. Matoh had hated those particular scenarios during training. It always got messy, almost no way to avoid casualties. Too hard to gauge the flow of the battle as most of the time, you couldn’t even tell what was happening on the other side of a set of buildings.

  Dammit.

  He felt his heart beating like a drum.

  They were getting close.

  Matoh rechecked his grip on his halberd, then felt for the pommel of his standard issue longsword, and then his other hand found the rounded sphere of the mace on his hip.

  Despite having practised all of his life with martial weapons, despite the long hours preparing for this day, it still felt strange to Matoh that he might have to use these weapons in earnest. Not for practice, not for a tournament, but against real people, against the same people, he was meant to be protecting.

  They rounded a corner. A crowd of scared people had gathered and were looking
towards the end of the row of houses from which the roar of angry voices was coming.

  “What’s happening?” a woman cried at him as Matoh marched past, clutching at his arm. It was Mrs Poppinjay, the sweets vendor. She was bleeding from a gash above her eye.

  “It’s a riot. Get inside a house! Lock and bar the doors! Board the windows! And get something to wrap around your head to stop that bleeding,” he called out as he ran by.

  Matoh hoped it was good advice. It sounded right.

  Just then thunder boomed from above. Matoh had felt it before it sounded and his skin tingled.

  Dark clouds had rolled in above them. Thunder boomed once more in the distance, and for a moment he thought he could smell old sand on the wind. He had the impression of falling towards dunes, of sparring with Wayran.

  It’s happening again. He thought as his feet tried to keep time with the drum. I can feel it coming. It was a mixture of excitement and tension, of expectation and dread all at the same time. And energy, a huge amount of energy building and buzzing around them in the air. It was everywhere, and this time Matoh let his mind drill down into the minutiae of what he was feeling.

  Churning clouds, water – hundreds of tons of it hanging overhead – extending up and up into the cold, higher than birds dared fly. And the ground, it was connected to the ground as well – static all around, building up, reaching into the sky, building and building until –

  Zap, Matoh said in his head, and this time he almost saw the lightning streak through the sky, yet it was still a few miles away.

  Ka-boom. The thunder came a few heartbeats later, as he knew it would this time.

  Matoh felt a cold sweat break out on his body, and he looked back up at the sky. He hadn’t believed what people had said to him before. Not really.

  But now he believed it. And it scared him.

  The storm was coming closer. Was it going to happen again? “Not possible,” Matoh voiced the thought aloud. Yet as the thunder boomed, Matoh could almost taste it; a metallic taste at the back of his tongue, one which part of him was eager to taste. His heart began to race. Why hadn’t the lightning killed him before? What had he done to avoid certain death? He didn’t know! He hadn’t even known what was going on the last few times. He had just been lucky.

  This storm was bigger, a massive system rolling in off the sea to pummel the small insignificant nest of humans called New Toeron.

  “What is it?” Naira’s voice said.

  Matoh hadn’t noticed her switching positions to drop in beside him.

  He was so shocked to see her that words failed him. She hadn’t said a word to him since the temple, and now here she was looking more alert and capable than ever.

  “Nothing, it just feels like a big one up there.” Matoh shook his head with one last furtive glance at the sky. The clouds were getting darker. “I’m fine. Are you all right?”

  Naira looked at him. “No, I’m not, but we can’t afford to worry about that right now.” She looked up to the sky. “Are you doing that?”

  “I don’t know.” Matoh tilted his head. He had never even thought that he might also be influencing the storm before it came. Could he be? No, he shook his head, I can’t be. No person could affect a storm? Right? He asked himself, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to wonder. He realised Naira was waiting for an answer and quickly stammered out, “I don’t think so, but I can feel it.”

  “I can feel something too. It’s all around us, lots of latent energy, almost too much, an unnatural amount,” Naira said.

  “Yes.” He nodded, wondering at that last bit. An unnatural amount.

  They jogged beside each other in silence for a while. Matoh didn’t know what else to say. He was confused as to why she was there beside him. There were so many things he wanted to say, but now wasn’t the time.

  Just focus on what’s in front of you, his father’s voice echoed in his head. Focus on the moment. No time to think about anything else. One thing at a time. He could do that.

  “I’m sorry,” Naira said, so quietly he almost hadn’t heard her.

  “You don’t have to be–” Matoh answered. Why did she have to do this now?

  “Yes, I do.” Naira cut him off. “There … are things I need to explain, and it’s not what you think. I ...”

  “Back in line, O’Bannon!” Stonebridge’s voice yelled from their side. It had been noticed that Naira wasn’t heavy infantry and was out of position.

  Their eyes met, and in that instant, Matoh saw the girl he had fallen in love with. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

  “Find me,” Naira said. “When this is over. Find me.”

  She disappeared into the lines behind him, but it had been enough to show she still cared. And that was enough to give Matoh hope.

  The yelling and angry voices were deafening. It sounded as if they were running towards a massive hornets’ nest. More than a few helmeted heads were looking around nervously.

  They reached the end of a street and rolled onto the main concourse through the Xinnish district. Soldiers led by Captain Miller fell into step beside them, like a tributary of shining metal and weaponry merging into the main course of the river.

  He saw Wayran in the new group, looking at him from down the line in his own mismatched suit of armour. Wayran looked nervous as well, but that look was one they had shared dozens of times before. This is it, the look said, this is happening, but I’m here for you. And it went both ways. Stronger together. Matoh understood and nodded. Wayran quirked his mouth in a slight, reassuring smile.

  And just like that, all the petty squabbling during training, the fight they had about Wayran coming to the Academy, their aggression towards each other during the initiation ceremony and the lingering awkwardness afterwards, all of it was forgiven.

  Over and forgotten.

  They were brothers. And they had each other’s back.

  Because that’s what brothers do.

  “Ah. It is good,” Bastion rumbled from down the line to his left. “Brothers should not stay mad at each other for so long.”

  “How did you know?” Matoh asked.

  “I have three brothers.” Bastion laughed. “I know that look.”

  Matoh grinned and rolled his shoulders. The confidence he had gained in knowing Wayran was there with him was unexplainable, immeasurable and true beyond anything else he knew.

  Bastion nodded at him, “We are all brothers now too, here in this place, we are all brothers.”

  “Cut the chatter!” Captain Miller’s voice snapped at them. “Keep focused!”

  A deafening roar enveloped them as they came to the end of the street. Senior Prefect Stonebridge thrust up a closed fist, bringing them to a halt.

  Something big crashed around the corner as if a whole building had come down.

  “Get some scouts on that roof,” the High King growled at Stonebridge. “We need a path through to Keef’s Tavern.”

  “Bertoni! Take a team and check that out!” Captain Miller ordered.

  Kevin Bertoni pointed to two others, and they sprinted forward, silent as a ghost. They all wore black-dyed hard-leather armour instead of plate.

  Kevin quickly poked his head around the corner. His hands and fingers waggled quickly, and they began climbing straight up the walls of the houses as easily as squirrels scampering up a tree.

  More than a few whistled appreciatively at their skill as in less than a few heartbeats all three were up on the roof and crept around like giant spiders. And that’s why they’re the scouts. Matoh could only imagine the noise he would have made if he had tried that. Not to mention how falling on his arse in front of everyone would be less than inspiring.

  Another roar came from the unseen mob, and Matoh felt the lightning course through the clouds behind him as another flash lit the sky. The storm was getting closer.

  Kevin rolled back onto their side of the roof and waved frantically. “They’re barricading the streets, sir! They just
brought down the central dias and are trying to dig in! They are going to torch it, I think,” Kevin yelled.

  “Frontline! Heavies and Syklans! Form up! We need to push through!” the High King yelled.

  “Remember your training!” Stonebridge encouraged as they went by.

  Armour glinted in the firelight as dozens of metal-clad heavy infantry and Syklans formed at the end of the street.

  “Wheel right! Keep your spacing. We meet them with a full shield wall!” the High King’s voice boomed through the street, and Matoh was sure the Hafaza must be using their powers to enhance his voice.

  Matoh found his position and swung the four-foot tower shield off his back, fixed it onto his left forearm and grabbed the stout wooden grip. He lined up his shield with Bastion’s and that of the woman on his right, then thumped the shield down to the ground. Those behind Matoh reached over his shoulders to place the bottom edge of their shield to the top of his forming a roof over the front lines of the shield wall.

  The High King rode behind them along with the senior prefect and several of the King’s Guard, including Sir Vyktor, Sir Garrick and the two high-ranking Hafaza. They formed a ring of steel and promised violence around the High King.

  “You will not be the aggressors!” the High King’s voice commanded. “These are our people, we are here to protect them. They are confused. They have reason to be angry, and they want to strike out at the injustice of what has happened to them. Keep the peace! Defend the city! But we need to get through!” The High King looked down at them.

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” Matoh bellowed with his fellow knights.

  They turned the corner and saw a mass of angry faces turned their way. Angry shouts filled the night and the few people working on spreading the wooden clutter which had once been the dais scrambled back away from the pile.