Dragon Ball X
Surprise!
I know I said last chapter in DBX that I'd have this down soon-ish, but it took longer than I thought. A combination of laziness and a hell-tonne of exams and assignments has diminished my output, but I've finally managed to come out with this; the very first Dragon Ball X Movie Special! It's going to be split into four (4) parts, and over the next God knows how long I'll be working hard on this as well as the main series. Hopefully. It depends, really.
For those of you new to the series, I suggest you read Volume 1 at least before you read this.
A prequel to the series, Kingdom Crushed takes place hundreds of years before the main events of the story, when the Slavoan Kingdom still governed Haven. But nothing lasts for ever…
On with Part I!
000
"Hey! Hey, Soan! You'll never guess what I found out about!"
Tarack stumbled up the rough dirt, his hands and feet scrabbling against the loose soil. The Slavoan child crossed the crest of the hill and he looked with bright eyes down the other side.
The grass was greener here, waving gently under the breeze. At the base of the hill stood the shore to Fowl Lake, the sparkling blue surface lapping rhythmically against the rocky shore, and beyond stood Mt Fowl, the grandest mountain on all of Haven. As usual, Tarack stopped to gaze in awe at its might, before he ran down the hill towards the lake, shouting all the way down.
"Soan! Look over here, Soan, I have something really cool to tell you!"
Crouching by the water, poking at it with a short stick, Soan looked around. He was a tiny bit bigger than Tarack, and almost a year older. Soan's hair sat flat on his head, much unlike Tarack's messy ginger locks.
"What is it?" asked Soan, as Tarack reached him. "I hope it's not another story. They're never true."
Tarack bent over double, his small body completely out of breath, and his round face bright red. He shook his head quickly.
"Haha, you don't….have to worry…about that. I promise…this one's the truth.
Soan looked a little more interested, and waved his hands impatiently. "Come on, tell me, Tarack! I want to hear what it is! A secret?"
Tarack nodded desperately, but could barely speak. "It's…My uncle…told me about them…"
"About what?" pressed Soan, and Tarack hurried to reply.
"The Dragon Balls!"
As Tarack said the words, he gave a little squeak of excitement and flopped onto the shore, looking out over the lake. Soan was intrigued, and lightly jabbed his friend in the side.
"What, what are the Dragon Balls? Tell me!"
Tarack smiled wildly. "There are seven of them, all over the world. If you can find all of them, a giant dragon appears. And then, you can ask it for a wish, and whatever you want, it'll give you."
Soan nodded eagerly, and he sat next to Tarack. "Wow…anything we want? What would you wish for?"
Tarack laughed. "All of the gold in the world."
Soan laughed too, and for a few minutes the peaceful air was full of the boy's giggling as they bickered over all the things they'd wish for. Everything from food that'll never run out to having amazing powers like the warriors that protected the kingdom from threats.
"No!" said Tarack suddenly, and his face lit up. "I know what to wish for! I'd ask the magic dragon to make me be the king of Slavo. That way I can do whatever I want, and tell people what to do."
"We should both be king," replied Soan. They laughed together, when a mighty gust of wind blew across Fowl Lake, sending small waves lapping against the stony shore. The boys shivered.
"It's cold," whined Tarack as the wind assaulted him. And then Soan frowned. Because before now, the day had been hot under the Havien sun. And it was the middle of the really hot season.
But now, all of a sudden, it was freezing, and getting colder.
"This is weird," said Soan warily, as a cloud covered the sun, casting the lake under a faint shadow. As it did so, the air grew even more chilly, and the boys clutched together for warmth. "I'm scared."
A gust of wind screamed from across the water and blasted into them, knocking the boys right off their feet. Tarack whimpered as he scraped his elbow along a sharp stone, and a drop of blood ran down his arm.
"Ow. Soan, I'm hurt."
Soan wasn't listening, but was cowering as he looked around him. The cloud over the sun was growing thicker and thicker, and the air was getting darker.
And then all hell broke loose.
With a tremendous crashing, the lake swirled into a maelstrom, the peaceful surface tearing and ripping into a terrifying whirlpool. Tarack screamed, and Soan tried to drag him away. But the boy would not move.
"Tarack!" shouted Soan, tugging on his arm. "Come on, let's go!"
Tarack's flaming orange hair blew in the wind, his curly fringe buffeting against his forehead. And below, his eyes stared like blank crystal balls out over the lake, transfixed. His mouth hung open dully, and his limbs froze.
Soan tried hitting him, but it had no effect at all. Tarack was petrified, like he was turned to stone.
And then, from within the vengeful wrath of the maelstrom, a wisp of black-purple smoke bellowed into the sky and hung there, swirling around in the powerful gust. More of the stuff followed, and it began to thicken, until it resembled a sort of spider-web, hissing around in the air above the whirlpool.
"Tarack!"
There was a crack of thunder so loud it almost burst Soan's eardrums, and he fell over, clutching at his ears with his eyes squeezed shut. And then, Tarack's mouth opened as wide as it would go and a dreadful scream tore from his throat. His eyes were ablaze with fear, but the Slavoan boy couldn't move, frozen in place.
DRAGON…BALLS…
The voice came like a deadly whisper, a deep tone that hinted at something beyond nature. Something evil.
And then, the dark substance flying around the lake went against the wind and was sucked towards Tarack in a stream of vile energy. It clung to his face and forced itself into every hole, trickling down his throat and into his ears. The boy's screams were cut off as his mouth was filled, bulging down his windpipe and into his body. It was everywhere. The substance felt horrible against his throat and in his ears, and up his nose, and was ice cold.
"Tarack!" shrieked Soan from the ground. The helpless boy raised an arm feebly to his endangered friend, but was scared out of his wits by what was happening.
Tarack's chest bulged, his eyes bugging out, but then his lids drooped and he lost all expression, blindly allowing the liquid to assault his body and mind. As the last of it disappeared into him, he just dropped to the ground like a stone, and moved no more.
And everything stopped. The lake settled within seconds, and the heavy gusts of wind slowed until it was a fine breeze. And the sun came out again, the thick cloud just disappearing into the air.
"Tarack!"
Soan scrambled over to his friend, who was as still as the dead. The boy lay on his back, arms spread wide, his eyes as cold and lifeless as a dull rock on the mountain above. Soan shook him, shouting his name, but there was no response.
Soan fell silent, tears brimming in his eyes. This was his fault. Why hadn't he run and gotten help? A tear rolled down his cheek, splashing down against Tarack's forehead.
It happened faster than Soan registered. Tarack's eyes flared suddenly, and red cracks shot through the blue pupil of his eye, before turning deepest black. And then, his arm moved like a snake, lashing upwards. Tarack closed his fingers around Soan's windpipe, tightening savagely.
The boy let out a strangled gasp, but Tarack didn't let up, staring at Soan with cold indifference as he slowly squeezed the fear out of his friend's eyes. Soan tugged madly at Tarack's arm, attempting in vain to pull the crushing grip away, but it was fruitless, and a minute later Soan's arms hung lifelessly, eyes dead and blank. Tarack chuckled cruelly, his now black pupils shrinking insanely as he stared upon his friend's dead body.
The Slavoan stood, climbing to his feet with one hand and holding up Soan's body with the other. The corpse's feet dragged along the pebbles of the lake shore, his head slumping back.
"That…felt good," murmured Tarack, but the voice coming from his throat was not his own. It was ancient and terrible. With a flick of his wrist, he sent Soan's body like a limp ragdoll through the air, splashing down into the centre of Fowl Lake and sinking like a stone. The boy was dead. He was eight years old.
Tarack watched his friend disappear beneath the surface, completely indifferent. He had felt nothing, killing his companion. Only a sadistic streak of pleasure.
But then, slowly, his black eyes lightened, colour seeping back into the pupils. Tarack gasped and fell to his knees, and vomited onto the shore. When he looked back up again, he was back to normal. Just a frightened little child with a scraped elbow.
He looked around, wondering dimly where Soan had gone. The last he could remember, they'd been laughing about the Dragon Balls. Shaking violently, Tarack turned and ran up the hill. He wanted to go home.
Behind him, silence fell over the lake, and there wasn't a single sign of what had happened. And below the small waves, a small limp bundle hit the bottom of Fowl Lake. Two blank eyes stared up at the surface, but they would never again see the light of day.
000
Clink…clink...clink…
Heads turned as the man was dragged up the stone stairs and through the stone halls of Castle Slavo. Flanking him were two weary looking guards, each holding a heavy chain. The chains ran between them and snaked around the wrists of the man, fixing his arms behind his back.
The man – known as Derci – sneered at the watchers, walking with his head held high in the air. His silvery-blonde hair hung neatly around his face and down his neck.
"You know," he spat at the guard to his right. "These chains are a little unnecessary. You've found me out, I'm hardly gonna run off. Nowhere to run off to, is there?"
"Shut it," snapped back the guard, as they turned a corner. "Just be quiet. We're nearly there."
"So looking forward to gracing the presence of our noble king," muttered Derci, and was rewarded with a light blow to the side of the head.
As the guards dragged their reluctant prisoner around the final corner, they emerged into the grand throne room. High viewing platforms were around the room, accessible by staircases on either side of the arch leading into the chamber. At the far end was the throne, currently vacant.
"Oh great, he's not even here…"
CRACK!
The two guards marched Derci forward until they stood in front of the throne, and forced him to his knees.
"Don't speak or move," warned the guard on Derci's left. The man rolled his eyes, but acquiesced.
They waited for a few minutes before King Kentus entered, flanked by two men just like Derci was. Only, the king's hands weren't bound by chains. Derci scowled.
"Stop that," murmured one of the guards angrily, and Derci forced his face to remain straight.
Kentus lowered his body onto the throne and looked sadly at Derci. He was heavily muscled, forgoing the traditional royal garb in favour of the leather armour of the kingdom that each and every guard wore. Most civilians thought it made him humble. Derci thought it made him look weak.
The king was clean-shaven except for a ring of beard that ran from his sideburns to under his chin, like a strap of hair framing his face. Kentus' hair was brown and wavy, held in place by a single band. He was tall and powerful-looking, and many considered him among one of the greatest rulers of the kingdom.
"Derci Morimor," intoned the man on Kentus' left. "As a former merchant of the citadel, you've been found selling information to the Norr Tribe. Under the laws of Slavo, this qualifies as treason. What do you have to say in your own defence?"
"What is this, a court?" spat Derci. He glared at the man, a tall blonde-headed warrior. He had a broadsword on his back and several knives hung from his belt. The blades shone. "I'm not on trial here. Under your own laws, Geani, I cannot be tried outside of a courtroom except under extreme circumstances."
"These are extreme circumstances," shot back the swordsman, Geani. "We're at war with the very clan you betrayed us to, and organising a court and a trial costs time and money that we cannot afford. Not only that, we have completely solid evidence that you are guilty, rendering a trial rather unnecessary. You haven't exactly denied what you're being accused of."
"Calm down, Geani," sighed Kentus, and Geani silenced immediately, glaring at Derci. "I am sorry, Derci, but I have no choice. Under the crime you have committed, I must condemn you to the cells."
Derci just rolled his eyes. His chains jangled quietly as he twisted his hands behind his back. "Go on then, King. Do your duty and send me to jail like a good boy, you're doing the kingdom a favour, I'm sure."
"Be quiet!" shouted Geani, but Derci ignored him. Kentus' eyes drooped for a second, but then he regained his composure.
"These are trying times," he said. "I don't believe that you were completely in control of your actions when you betrayed us to the Norr. They thrive on charisma."
Derci just chuckled. "Oh no, good King. My actions were completely my own." And as he finished speaking, the chains locking his arms behind him slipped to the floor in a bundle, clinking against the stone floor. For a second, everyone stared at them, and then at Derci, who flashed a sly grin.
"Whoopsie," he said, and launched forward, slipping a knife from a hidden pocket. Kentus didn't flinch, just signalled to Geani. Like a shadow, he moved forward to protect his king.
Derci raised his knife and came within two metres of Kentus, screaming a torrent of threats and incoherent words, which were cut off quite suddenly as Geani moved in. The swordsman flicked his own dagger expertly, intercepting Derci's and wrenching it from his fingers, before moving in and sinking the steel into the traitor's stomach.
Derci gaped soundlessly, his mouth hanging open. A strangled gasp escaped, and his eyes flickered down to his belly, staring in disbelief at Geani's knife.
"Y-y-y-y-yo-you-you…"
Derci's eyes slowly rolled into his head and he dropped heavily to his knees. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth, running down the man's chin until it dripped onto the floor, joining the blood from the wound in his stomach. Then the light faded from Derci's eyes and he slumped to the ground.
Geani looked down at him in disgust, before gesturing to the guards to take the man away. Kentus was still silent, watching sorrowfully as Derci was dragged from the hall, held between the two guards who had brought him in. Geani looked at him.
"My Lord?"
"He was a good man," murmured the king sombrely.
"With all due respect, sir, you are a terrible judge of character," replied Geani blandly. "He was a liar and a scoundrel. He deserved exactly what he got."
Kentus grimaced slightly. "You know how to be perfectly blunt, don't you? Come."
The king stood and strode from the hall, Geani alongside. Slightly behind them walked the third man, who had been completely silent up until now. He was tall and shrivelled, an old man, and held a staff to support his weight upon. A cream-coloured robe covered his entire body, stretching from neck to feet. Underneath, flashes of purple cloth were visible.
"The Norr are on the move," he breathed, his frail voice withered and quiet. "This war is balanced in our favour, but they have many spies in our ranks and it is devilishly hard to place our own in theirs. I can sense a great evil."
Geani glanced at the king. The old man was Talon, a mystic, and the most skilled spellweaver in the kingdom. Gifted with premonitions and a sharp mind, if he could sense a threat, it was one worth watching out for.
"What can you see?" asked Kentus quietly, but Talon could not answer. It was only a sense. As the old man returned to his chambers for meditation, Geani looked at the king. Lines of worry dwelled around Kentus' temples and eyes.
"How fares the General?" the king asked.
"We received word just this morning. Mataro and his men have reached Musta. They plan to begin the assault tonight."
"Good. The sooner that city is free of Norr control the better."
Geani nodded seriously, and the two turned a corner. The stone walls of the castle were beautifully sculpted, arches and pillars decorating its halls. Even in these confined passageways, the ceilings were high and arched. Castlemaids and noblemen nodded in deference to the king as he passed, but Kentus responded in kind to each and every one of them.
"Do you think, sir," said Geani suddenly, as Kentus left the halls and emerged into the great natural courtyard in the exact centre of the castle, "that the Norr are getting ready to launch a final assault? After all, the war has been very taxing on them and they're getting desperate. Assassins like Derci must be a sign of that."
"The war's been taxing on us as well," replied Kentus thoughtfully, looking out over the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard. The sun shined on the great tree behind it, the red of the fruits that grew on it standing out against the green leaves. "But I can see your logic. It's only a matter of time before that traitor, Lord Kayne, begins the siege of Slavo. The Norr have great numbers, and with their alliance with the Prion, they pose even more of a threat. But we will win. We must win. Slavo is our great nation, and as long as I am king it will not fall to traitors such as Kayne."
000
"Ow, it stings!" whimpered Tarack, and he screwed up his young face until it looked like he was about to cry. His arm was bent backwards over his shoulder, showing off the large scrape on his elbow. Tarack yelped again as his mother gently dabbed another blot of paste onto the wound.
"I'm sorry," she hushed. "It might hurt a little, but you know that it'll make you better, don't you?"
Tarack nodded and bit his lip, screwing up his eyes. His mother, Bridget, smiled warmly at him and ruffled his ginger hair.
"Nearly finished."
Tarack nodded slowly, holding as still as he could. There was a small giggle from the doorway as his little sister skipped into the room, laughing at him. Linke was only a few months younger than him, but liked to think that she was a lot older.
"You're such a wuss, Tarry!" she taunted, and climbed onto the table next to him, perching her bum alongside his. Tarack frowned and looked away.
"No, I'm not," he said stubbornly, and folded his arms. Bridget shook her head.
"Come here, silly. How can I fix you up if you're arms are all tucked away like that?" Tarack allowed her to take his arms, feeling comfortable in her impossibly gentle grip. In silence, she wrapped a light but strong bandage around his arm, covering the paste and sealing it in.
"There we go," she said. "All done."
Tarack smiled, his blue eyes delighted. "Thanks, Mum," he said, giving her a quick hug, before sliding off the table and landing on the ground. Linke followed him, and the two siblings grinned at each other.
"You two run along and play a little," said Bridget wearily, sitting down herself, and Tarack reached over and touched Linke on the shoulder.
"Tag, you're it!" he declared, and then bolted from the house, Linke in hot pursuit. Their home was small, with only three rooms in total, but so were all the houses in their village. Fowledge – named in honour of the giant mountain a few kilometres to the East - wasn't a rich town, but the villagers lived easily on their own crops and ran their own stores. Technically, it was part of the kingdom, but interaction with any of the other towns or cities was rare, and the village council had also declined the offer of a small regiment of guards from the kingdom's fighters. They didn't need them.
Tarack laughed loudly as he jogged through the wonky streets, Linke close behind. He could hear her panting slightly as she ran. Normally, he was a lot faster than her, but he always ran slow to give her a chance. Today, he barely had to slow down at all; his arm was already making him sluggish. It stung as he ran, but the boy pushed aside the pain.
Tarack looked back over his shoulder and laughed again as he watched his sister. She was gaining very slightly on him, her face bright red in exertion. And then…
THUMP!
All of the wind was driven out of Tarack's body as he collided with something, and he rebounded back and stumbled off his feet. The ground was rough and hard, and Tarack screwed up his eyes as his elbow hit the dirt for the second time that day. Linke screeched to a halt right next him, stopping herself from tripping over his outstretched body just in time.
"Are you OK, Tarry?" she huffed, breathless, and Tarack nodded, sitting up and leaning on one hand. Slightly dizzy, he turned to look up at what he'd hit, and went pale.
A tall stranger was standing there, right in the middle of the road. He hadn't been affected by the collision at all, and was staring down at Tarack with burning orange eyes; there were no pupils, irises, or whites. Just three concentric black rings in each eye. His skin was white as paper, and completely smooth and blank. He had not a single blemish.
The sun reflected off a single earring in the man's left ear, a golden orb dangling from his earlobe. His short, jet black hair looked even darker against his pure white skin. He had no eyebrows.
Tarack instinctively tried to shrink away; this man was unsettling. Smirking, the stranger looked lazily down at the boy. As they made eye-contact, he tilted his head in amusement.
"Huh," he said. The stranger's voice was musical and mysterious. "What's up, kid?"
Tarack pushed himself from the ground and took a step back, never once taking his eyes off this strange man. Hurriedly, he shook his head, and Linke did likewise. She inched closer to him, and Tarack took a step so that he was standing in front of her, placing himself between his sister and the man.
"Nothing, mister!" he said quickly. For some reason, he didn't trust himself to say anything more; he was too scared that it would come up as a whisper.
The man just smirked a little more, and strolled closer. Before Tarack could begin to move at all, the man was right in front of him, leaning down so that their faces were level. Tarack froze; two burning orange eyes met his gaze.
"Just a little guy…" muttered the man, grin growing wider. His teeth were a brilliant white, and seemed to be a lot more rounded than they should be. "That's interesting…even more brutal than I remember. Salvete, felio lalvala. Latraus estanghe."
Tarack's bottom lip began to quiver; it always did when something he didn't like was happening. "I don't know what you're saying," he stammered, voice rising in pitch.
The man's eyes flashed, and his grin widened. Without breaking gaze with Tarack, he opened his mouth opened and something ancient came forth, a single sentence in an indecipherable language. It was delicate and powerful, each unpronounceable syllable flowing easily into the next.
Tarack went rigid as he heard it, and his eyes clouded and lost focus. And a second later, they changed. Red cracks fired through the whites of his eyes and stabbed into his blue irises, which darkened instantly, turning pitch black. A terrible rage burned for a split second, and Tarack's lips twisted into a dreadful snarl.
The stranger grinned wickedly, and the evil faded. Blue swirled back into Tarack's eyes and they once again became unfocussed, before sharpening a second later, returning to normal. Fear rose in them, and Tarack's bottom lip quivered. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek and hung from his neck, as the stranger straightened back up to his full height and backed away from the two siblings.
"I thought so," he said confidently. "It's been a while, kind of. Valete. Wydevo Moriti. See ya, kiddiewinks…"
Without another word, he turned tail and strode away. The stranger's skin began to fade and shift from focus, and suddenly he disappeared with a strange hiss-crack noise, leaving the two children alone in the street.
Tarack blinked, and felt his own cheek. It was dripping in sweat, the skin moist and clammy. His sister clutched suddenly at his arm, and he saw that she was extremely pale.
"Linke," he said weakly, and she looked frightened.
"Who was that creepy guy? What just happened?" she whispered, still terrified, and he shook his head.
"I don't know. Let's go home, alright?"
This was turning out to be a very strange day, Tarack was thinking. First he'd fallen over at the lake and Soan had ran off somewhere without telling him, and now this strange man with orange eyes had shown up out of nowhere and literally vanished.
And what was that blank moment in Tarack's memory? It had just happened, when the man had spoken that weird language…it was like he'd blacked out for a second. As Tarack thought back, he recalled the same thing happening at the lake. A stretch where he couldn't remember anything at all…
Linke tapped him on the shoulder. "You're it," she said.
000
The air was dry, and the land was hard beneath one's feet. A dusty wind was almost constantly blowing, sending a gritty wave of loose dirt flying into the eyes of whoever dared to traverse the vast desert. A few kilometres away, the citadel of Musta rose from the sand, more of a fortress than a castle. Surrounding the citadel, domed houses and markets sat sporadically, making up the residential civilian district. An impossibly tall cliff of rocks rose to the sky behind the city, preventing any opposing forces from surrounding it.
Called an advantage, it was one of the main reasons that the city had been built here instead of a few kilometres to the South, where the Mustan River ran through the land, one of the only water sources in the entire desert. Of course, every advantage is also a disadvantage; should someone attack the city, any sort of retreat was extremely difficult. Even if you flew over the cliffs, you'd stand out like a pimple on a pumpkin.
Inside the city's walls, the traitorous Norr tribe had taken over, holding the people of Musta hostage against the Kingdom. Lookouts stationed on the outskirts of the city watched with eagle-eyed accuracy. But there was one threat out there that escaped their notice…
On the banks of the Mustan River, a group of ten men camped, surveying the city from afar. The shade of an enormous overhanging tree helped shield them from the eyes of the watchmen, as well as keeping the sun from burning them alive. It was hot in the desert.
The men formed the King's Elite. Ten soldiers, the best of the best, they were undefeated in combat when they were together. And they were led by the best of them all - Mataro, the King's Army General and one of the most skilled and powerful warriors in the entire Kingdom. Forgoing the traditional Slavoan leather armour that the rest of the army war in favour of a murky green singlet and baggy martial arts trousers, his massive build and impressive muscles were usually enough to win his battles through sheer reputation.
Despite this, the General had sharp eyes and an intelligent mind, known as a genius in martial arts and boasted a complete lack of fear. It was well-reasoned; he hadn't been awarded his position in the King's Army for nothing. Few people in the kingdom would be able to match him in combat. Mataro was a man to be respected.
The General leaned against the tree, staring in concentration at the city. The attack wouldn't begin until after nightfall, but he was already beginning to envisage the battle. The funnest part was re-enacting in real life.
"Looks pretty normal from here, doesn't it?" grunted one of the men. They were all relaxed, lounging around in the sand under the shade of the tree, and a few with their legs in the water of the river. There was no point remaining tense; it would only unnerve them until the fight began several hours later.
The others murmured in assent, and a few laughed, Mataro included. "Looks can be deceiving. I won't lie to you, boys; Kayne wouldn't have left a weak garrison in a city as big as Musta. He'll have tough soldiers waiting, and plenty of them."
"Bah, you worry too much, General!" said Tobar, an enormous dark-skinned man with blonde hair that ran like a mane down to his shoulder blades. He was Mataro's second-in-command, and the two had been companions since childhood.
Mataro shook his head, scoffing. "I've never been worried a day of my life, Tobar, and you know that full well."
The men all laughed. It would be a long wait until the night came, so they all appreciated a bit of humour to keep their spirits up.
Suddenly, one of the men straightened up, his face tightening. A second later, the others felt it as well, and the General twisted his head around to look to the South.
"Well, isn't that interesting," he muttered.
At least a hundred warriors were moving in, less than a kilometre away. They flew in a large group, with their captain out the front leading the way. Mataro narrowed his eyes when he saw the man, recognising him.
"It's Peil, of the Prion," he declared. "What's he doing here?"
"Probably leading reinforcements into the city," replied Tobar, stepping forward and brandishing his fist. "Should we go meet them? It'll make our job easier later on, and I'm just itching for something to do."
The others chorused their agreement, and Mataro nodded. "It's a date, then. Tobar, you come with me. The rest of you, wait here until I give the signal. Understood?"
They all grunted, and Mataro and Tobar gently lifted off the ground, hovering up into the air to intercept the enemy. They didn't have to wait long. Peil pulled up in the air when he was twenty yards away, and his men stopped behind him. If the captain was worried, he didn't look it, fixing the General with a confident stare.
"Hello, General!" he called. "Fancy seeing you here!"
"Likewise," replied Mataro. "I'd heard that the Prion had joined the Norr in their rebellion, but this is the first I've actually seen. Such a shame. I actually liked your clan."
Peil took the compliment in his stride. The captain wore his clan's grey vest and arm and leg paddings. One of the Prion's most talented members, he was quite young, having risen through the ranks quite quickly. He had youthful blue eyes and tussled yellow hair.
"We've been planning a coup for quite a time," he replied, "so once the Norr began theirs, we figured that we'd join them. And as I'm sure you've noticed, it's going quite well."
The General shook his head. "Not as well as you'd think. The Norr and the Prion combined are quite formidable, I'll admit. After all, you are two of the five noble clans. But our army still outnumbers yours by thousands."
"For now," countered Peil. "But our influence is strong. In time, the other nobles will join us, and your precious Kingdom will fall. Kayne will take the place of Kentus."
Tobar tilted his head. "And the head of your clan is willing to let the Norr be in charge? I thought that this was just as much your coup as theirs."
Peil shook his head. "The Norr share similar views to ours, and our main goal is to upset the balance of power that is in place now. As long as the Kingdom's power is destroyed, it doesn't matter who ends up in charge."
The General exchanged a glance with Tobar, shrugging and nodding thoughtfully, before turning back to Peil, who snarled with rage.
"Do not mock me!" he hissed. "Our cause is rightful."
"What's your goal here?" demanded the General. "Coming to help your new pals defend the city?"
Peil smiled confidently, his boasting eyes completely lacking fear. "He's too cocky," thought Mataro. "Holy cow, the kid thinks he can do anything..."
"You catch on quick," chided Peil, and pointed a commanding finger at the two warriors opposing him. "Destroy them."
"Tobar…" invited Mataro, and his second-in-command moved in front of him to combat the four warriors that flew at them.
Two of them came in front, punching savagely. Tobar didn't even flinch, simply twisting above their arms and coming down behind them. The two directly behind moved forward to strike as well, but Tobar used his momentum to get in first, taking both out at once with identical hammers to the throat, catching them in the crook of each elbow. Then, without wasting a second, he swung around one of them like he was on skates and kicked the first two in the backs of their head, knocking them both at once as well.
Peil flinched as four of his men were eliminated in the span of a single second, and gestured, sending five more. Suddenly, the General was there, moving between Tobar and his attackers. His hands moved like shadows and five men fell to the ground far below.
Mataro raised an arm high above his head. "Boys!" he bellowed. "It's playtime!"
There was a roar of pleasure from below, and the King's Elite sprang into action. Peil pointed wildly at the incoming troops.
"Kill them all!" he shrieked, flying backwards to escape from Mataro and Tobar. The captain's one hundred men surged forward around him, but cries of pain and the sound of shattering bones filled the air as the two groups met.
In the thick of the fight, the General was fighting off at least fifteen at once. They came from all directions, but Mataro's superior instincts and reflexes caught them all off guard, the enemy repeatedly being smacked around while their single opponent went untouched.
The General effortlessly dodged an incoming blow and grasped the man's wrist, pulling his arm tight. There was a loud crunch as he mashed his palm into the man's straightened elbow, which splintered like a twig. The Prion fell forwards in the air as the General spun sideways, kicking and taking out three at once as he did so. Not stopping for a single second, he intercepted an attack from behind and rolled over someone's leg before elbowing them in the face.
With not a sweat broken, Mataro glanced at his surroundings and saw another group moving in to strike.
"You can't defeat the Elite!" he shouted, caught up in the glory of the fight. The General's arms came up, palms splayed. "Boom!"
With a sound like a cannon, a beam of pure energy detonated from Mataro's hands and collided with the incoming enemies, blowing the absolute crap out of them. The men screamed as they were blasted through the air, trailing tails of the smoke.
With his surroundings clear for the moment, Mataro glanced around, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Peil a short distance away. The captain had cleared himself from the swarm, watching from outside the battle. He flinched again when he saw that Mataro had noticed him. Two of the Prion converged on the General from behind.
"No!" Peil shouted fearfully as the General swung his arms back without even looking, smashing them both in the throats. As the men dropped to the desert, Mataro flew forwards. "No, leave me alone!"
"Peil!" growled Mataro, and flew straight forward, fist clenched. The captain backpedalled desperately, but somehow managed to block the General's strike, and nipped past him, flying as fast as he could around the battle, Mataro in hot pursuit.
SWITZCH!
Peil screamed as Mataro shimmered and moved in front of him, moving too fast for him to keep track of. The captain wildly punched out, but Mataro was gone by the time his fist travelled the distance.
"Where'd you go?" he shrieked, and suddenly something tugged at his leg, pulling him up so that his body was lopsided, hanging horizontally above the sand. Half a second later, the General shimmered back into view above him, twisting to gain momentum before driving his hand into Peil's stomach.
Peil folded under the blow and was propelled to the ground, smashing against the hard compacted sand. The man gasped as every ounce of air in his lungs was forced from his body at once, and his limbs went dead for a few seconds.
Peil's eyes were wide as he struggled to draw in breath, and everything seemed to be going in slow motion. He could see shattered rocks drifting past his face like they were made of clouds, and when he turned his head dimly to look up at the battle raging over his head, it was like they were moving deliberately slowly.
And then everything came rushing back to speed at once as General Mataro hazed through the sky and somersaulted, slamming his leg down onto Peil's chest. The captain was hurricaned into the ground, sinking at least a foot into the rock below. He screamed in agony and a river of blood vomited from his mouth, soaking the sand next to his face.
At least ten ribs broke in an instant. He could feel them fracture under the impact of Mataro's attack, and then a loud crack rang out and his sternum snapped in two. The intensity of Peil's shrieks doubled, and then were cut off in a strangled gasp. The man's eyes bulged and blood poured from the corner of his mouth.
"I can't breathe!" he choked, chest heaving as he struggled to inhale. "Help me!"
The General crouched down beside him and looked him in the eye. "Calm down, fool. These hysterics won't make it any easier to survive."
Peil flinched, the imminent threat of death apparent to him. Tears sprang in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, but he made an obvious effort to stop his wild desperation, and was rewarded with a shallow and extremely painful intake of air. It felt like a million needles driving into his lungs, but at least he could breathe.
"There," said the General, and Peil looked at him through a wall of involuntary tears.
"I don't want to die," whispered Peil suddenly, and he gripped Mataro's arm, and then cried in pain as the action sent another jerk of pain through his entire body. "Please…don't let me die."
Mataro didn't answer, but the look in his eye was all Peil needed, and he relaxed slightly. They might be enemies, but they were both still Havien, and were both still Slavoan.
"Take this," said the General, and Peil whimpered, blackness seeping around the edge of his vision, and he couldn't look. Gently, he felt his mouth being opened and a tiny wrinkly object was pushed past his teeth. "Eat it quickly," said Mataro. "Before you lose consciousness."
With his last ounce of strength, Peil bit down. The object was incredibly difficult to masticate, and it tasted awful. But as the captain swallowed, the shadows creeping at the edge of his sight withdrew, and the pain disappeared…
…and then appeared again quite suddenly as his ribs reconnected themselves, the shards of bone joining with several loud crunches. A blinding stab shot through him like a hot knife as a splinter removed itself from his right lung, the wound healing almost instantaneously. Finally, his shattered sternum was repaired, and suddenly long ragged breaths were a dime a dozen.
Peil's panic faded, replaced with a reluctant gratitude. All wounds healed and energy completely restored, he began to sit up.
CRUNCH!
Peil was forced back into the sand as a fist mashed into his nose, which splattered like an eggplant. Peil screamed in pain all over again and clutched at his face.
"What?" he yelled thickly. "What was that for?"
Mataro grinned as Peil fell against the dirt, writhing. "Don't forget, you're still one of the bad guys and I still don't like you. Besides, I need you injured so that I know you'll do what I say."
Peil glared at him, his handsome youthful face spoiled by his now-shattered nose. The General laughed airily, and leaned in closer. By now, the battle had been won easily by the King's Elite. Peil's force of one hundred men lay defeated on the sand, and nine men surrounded Peil on all sides, Mataro bringing the total up to ten.
"Now," said the General. "Listen to me, Prion swine. Who's in charge at the fort in Musta?"
Peil was silent, but as Mataro grinned wickedly, he gave in to his fate. "It's Dyun of the Norr. He led in his command a week ago and took over the city, under the orders of Lord Kayne. We were heading in to relieve some of his men, and to deliver an order."
"And that order is…?"
"To hold in the fort and kill any soldiers of the King that came near. We were told to do the same."
Mataro nodded, and sat back, looking at Tobar. "Dyun, huh? I thought it'd be someone like him."
"It makes sense," agreed Tobar. "After all, Kayne can't have a complete idiot controlling the fort…"
He glanced meaningfully at Peil, who scowled. "What are you going to do with me now? Kill me?"
The General shook his head." Now why would I do that when I just used up one of our rather scarce Gaman Peas to save you? No, I have a rather special job for you. We're going to let you go, and you'll go where we tell you. Go to Musta and tell them that the King's Elite are here to reclaim the city, and that they should prepare for battle to defend against us, for we strike tonight.
"I also want you to explain that any attempt to use the city folk as hostages will be met with extremely quick and painful violence in the kneecaps and/or genital region, leaving the civilian unharmed while the hostage-taker quivers in pain on the floor. Understand?"
Peil's eyes were bulging from beneath his fingers, which he was using to try and stem the blood flow from his broken nose. "Are you insane? You overestimate yourself, General Mataro. You can't win against all of them. One thousand men. One thousand men versus the ten of you. It's an impossible venture."
The General flashed his trademark grin again. It never seemed to leave his face. "Well, clearly you don't know us very well. Now get the hell out of here and tell those Norr that we're coming to bust their bloody balls."
000
The night came slowly, the sun passing silently and innocently over the desert. The same could definitely not be said for the events in the desert itself; a flurry of activity could be seen in the city of Musta from where the King's Elite were positioned under their overhanging tree by the river. They did not need to prepare for battle; each of them was trained to shift effortlessly into a life-threatening fight at any moment's notice. The soldiers of the Norr that currently inhabited the city quite obviously did not have this ability, as they spent the rest of the afternoon preparing to counter the assault that was set to take place during the darkness of the night.
One thousand men, Peil had said. A Millennium Corp, as they were known in the King's Army. As the largest and most easily joinable clan in the kingdom, the Norr had over forty thousand members, and with the addition of the Prion that figure was bolstered up to almost fifty-five.
Of course, this led to one simple fact; with so many soldiers, it was impossible to train all of them to a level of skill above moderately average. Only a fraction of the members were given superior instruction by a skilled master, and this led to their weakness. In numbers, they excelled. But in terms of skill, this transformed those thousands of soldiers into a bunch of mooks and cannon fodder.
The King's Elite, on the other hand, boasted a tiny membership of ten warriors.
But their skill was legendary.
Their training was absolute.
And their victory was almost certainly assured.
Each had the strength of a hundred men. Ordinary fighters could not hope to match them in combat, and would break upon the Elite like water upon rocks. They would rip through opposition without delay or fear of retribution.
The sun kissed the horizon and darkness fell over the land. Three hours later, the assault would begin. The fort of Musta was lined with men, one thousand troops ready to defend. Opposing them, standing alone in the dirt of the desert before the city, a bare ten men prepared to retake the fort.
"Ready now?" murmured the General, and as one, the Millennium Corp facing them shifted positions, some of them wielding weapons, some bare-fisted and armed only with martial arts. In reply, the King's Elite didn't react to the threat. A yawn here, a bum scratch there. A fart echoed over the sand, followed by a round of manly giggling.
Mataro struggled to hold his straight face. "Attack!"
000
Tarack whimpered in fear and spun around, but was too slow. The tendril of…something that had trickled past his elbow had disappeared, leaving him quivering.
He didn't know where he was, or how he had gotten here. The cracked ground beneath his shifting feet was a deathly grey, as if all the colour had been sucked from the soil. It smelled revolting, putrid, and was damp. Rolling clouds hung heavy in the sky, an ominous red. Occasionally a fork of lightning would shoot from them and strike the ground in the distance, but none came close to Tarack.
The boy crouched down and wrapped his skinny arms around his knees, trembling. His eyes were stinging and rubbing them was only making it worse. He felt sick in his stomach.
There!
Tarack screamed and lashed out as he felt something brush past him, invisible. His arm cut through the air, but connected with nothing else. Whatever had touched him had disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Tarack was frightened. He had no shelter from the elements, and a fierce wind ripped at his bare skin. He was naked, and the lack of clothes only made him feel more vulnerable. Nearby, there was a ramshackle hut made of rotting wood, but he didn't dare go inside. It reeked of evil. At least when he was standing outside nothing could jump out from a corner. From here he could see for miles. He'd see anyone coming.
Anyone except for the shadow.
Tarack flinched as he felt it touch him again, and he screwed his eyes shut, spinning on the spot and punching desperately around him. But the vapour had gone once more and even if he could hit it, his spindly arms and pitiful strength probably wouldn't do any damage at all.
"Go away!" he screamed, and threw his little body into the stained dirt, trying to dig into the compact earth to hide. The stench of the soil was almost overwhelming, the metallic smell almost making him pass out, but he ignored it.
The tendril seemed to be leaving him alone for the time being, and he scrabbled away at the ground, pulling clumps of dirt up. It seemed to part for him, a moderate sized hole being dug in mere minutes. With tears streaking down his dirty face, Tarack pulled wildly at the clumps, the tips of his fingers quickly becoming bloody and torn. He sobbed, and forced himself headfirst into the hole he'd dug, pulling his legs into his body to make himself as small as possible. He only just fit.
With baited breath, crying silently, he waited, hands pressed against his face. The blood from his fingers was drying, and as he breathed in, he could smell the dark liquid on his skin.
It was metallic, like copper and iron...
With a choked gasp, Tarack recoiled, bile rising in his throat. Now he recognised the smell of the land. The very dirt itself smelled of blood. Before he could stop it, a scream rose in his throat and he struggled to climb backwards from the hole, wanting nothing more than to be away from it and the ground.
The dirt around him was turning wet, and trickles of a rusty coloured liquid were seeping from between the grains. The ground was weeping blood. It surrounded him on all sides, and Tarack doubled his efforts to escape, his shrieks continuous.
And then, just as he couldn't take it anymore, something grasped at his ankle and tugged violently, ripping Tarack from the hole and hurling him through the air. The wind ripped at his eyes and temporarily blinded him, and then there was the shatter of wood as he slammed into the decrepit wooden hut. His body went numb as the wall broke beneath him, and then he was lying in the dark in a pile of wooden rubble.
"Help!" he shouted, but his voice seemed like a whisper. He tried again, but knew that no one would come. He was alone…all alone.
"Give in, boy!" growled an immaterial voice. It seemed to come from all direction at once, and was deep and ancient. "Your body and soul are mine!"
And then Tarack screamed, and screamed again. Something that felt like death itself soared at him from outside the hut where he lay, and his eyes were forced shut under its form…
"Tarack!"
The boy's eyes shot open, and for a brief moment his pupils were blank and dark. He was sweating like mad. It covered him like starch.
He was in his home, under the stone roof. The bed under him was rough and unclean, but he had never given it much thought. That was just the way it was. No one in the village was rich by any standard. A stained and thin mattress on top of a stone slab. Barely a metre away was an identical design. Tarack and Linke shared the room.
"Tarry, wake up!" His sister's voice whispered loudly in his ear again and he sat up, trying to make out his surroundings. Darkness hung like a shroud, the only light being a dying candle. Tarack groaned as he looked at it, feeling sick. The memory of his nightmare was still prominent in his mind, and he was shivering.
"Linke, what are you doing?" he grunted, annoyed. Judging from the length of the candle, it was past midnight. The ginger-haired child finally glanced at his sister, and years of being around her let him know instantly that something was wrong. Linke's eyes were wide and she held her arms across her chest just like she always did when she was scared. He leaned over and grabbed her shoulder. "What is it?"
Her reply came in a high whisper. "There are men," she said. "Outside."
Tarack slid out of bed immediately and hurried past Linke to the kitchen and eating area, where his injured elbow had been healed only that afternoon. Bridget was already there, and she silently pushed him back, finger to her lips.
"Quiet," she was trying to tell him. Tarack's mother leaned in close, and whispered barely loud enough for him to hear.
"Go back to Linke. Don't make a sound."
Both of them jumped as there was an ear-splitting bang from beyond the door, and several shouts of laughter were heard. Tarack glanced fearfully at his mother and she gently pushed him away, back towards his room. Linke crouched by the doorway to the bedchamber, whimpering softly. As silently as he could, Tarack looped his arms around her body and pulled her back up, before half dragging and half guiding her back to her bed. The girl sunk onto the thin mattress and curled up, as Tarack turned back to the kitchen and looked back at his mother.
Bridget had taken up a long knife, the one she normally used to prepare meals with. Suddenly it looked less like a simple tool and a lot more like a deadly weapon. The woman held it tentatively, and it was obvious that she was just as terrified as her offspring. As if to deliberately deter her, there were more shouts from outside, and now they could hear the other villagers.
"Who are you people?"
"Leave here now!"
A shaft of firelight was shining into the house from outside, and it was obvious that whoever was causing all of the ruckus held torches of some kind. The shouts increased, growing louder. Tarack heard one voice in particular, cocky and raspy. It spoke arrogantly.
"You don't order me around, old man. I tell you what to do! As of now, the Norr officially own this village, understand me?"
The "old man" could only be Spole, the Village Head, thought Tarack. And these men…the Norr. Of course, the people of Fowledge knew of the civil war taking place in the Kingdom, but as a separate town and therefore part of no clan, they had deliberately distanced themselves from it. Until now…
Finding new resolve, Bridget stowed her weapon in her clothes and crossed the room, the torchlight from outside illuminating her left side, leaving the other half in darkness. With a final glance at Tarack and a meaningful shooing gesture, she left the house.
Tarack didn't make a sound, not even to breathe, and backed into the bedroom, dropping down next to Linke. She wriggled closer.
"What's going on? Who are they?" she whimpered, and Tarack shook his head.
"I don't know," was all he could say. The boy was tired and confused, but was confident that Spole and the others would be able to resolve the situation. "Calm down a little, Linke, we'll be fine."
"Oh…thanks Tarry," she breathed, and rested her head on his shoulder. Tarack hugged her closer, and they waited together with baited breath. The older brother was listening intently for the voices outside, but it was hard to make out what was going on. There was still a lot of shouting, but so many people were talking at once that he couldn't tell what they were saying.
At least ten minutes passed, and Linke had fallen asleep on his shoulder. And then, something happened that made Tarack sit bolt upright. Linke slipped from his shoulder and hit his lap, jerking her awake. But her brother had barely even noticed. He was too busy listening.
"Take your hands off me! The King will have your head for thi-"
The voice – Tarack recognised it of Rond, the village's blacksmith - was cut off in a strangled gasp, and at once all of the shouting stopped. In the ensuing silence, broken only by Linke's choked breathing, Tarack's blood froze in his veins as he heard the thud of a body hitting the flagstones on the road outside, and the scraping of a steel sword as it was replaced in its scabbard.
Silence again. And then…
"The King won't have my head, but I'll have yours…"
000
Bridget muffled a gasp as Rond collapsed to the ground, bleeding from the horrible wound just below his breastbone. The blacksmith scrabbled at the cobblestones, his strength fading fast.
The scene in the square was split in two; on one side were the villagers of Fowledge. There were about thirty who had come out to protest, Bridget among them. At the front of the assembled crowd was the village head, Spole. His scraggly beard looked wispy under the light of the torches scattered amongst the people.
Opposite stood the "representatives" of the Norr; five men, all muscular and huge, armed with a range of weapons. The leader, a sneering thug with missing front teeth and a large burn on his cheek stepped forward and tugged his sword from Rond's chest, wiping the blade on the blacksmith's shirt.
Rond hacked and gobs of blood splattered against the ground, but that was nothing compared to his front, which was completely covered. Instinctively, Bridget rushed forward to help him, but stopped dead as she found the tip of a sword an inch from her face.
"Stop this," rumbled Spole angrily. "How dare you come here and attack us like this? What do you want?"
"Yeah!" shouted Koni, the village's strongest man. He brandished a pitchfork, its triple prongs catching the torchlight. "We've had enough! You can just get the hell out of here! Take your damned uprising somewhere else!"
"Who are you, anyway?" shouted someone in the middle of the crowd. More and more people were beginning to arrive as they heard the commotion, and there were several gasps as people laid their eyes on Rond quivering on the cobblestones.
The Norr men had a round of laughs among themselves, and one of them cracked the handle of his double-headed axe on the ground loudly. He was the largest of the group, at least six and half foot tall with squinty little eyes that stared in different directions.
"This village is so small," he blared, "I could take it down all by myself."
"We need more members," grinned the leader. "Or slaves, we're not picky. Lord Kayne told us to find some, so that's what we're doing."
"Rond…" whispered Bridget urgently, and inched forward again. This time, the leader lowered his sword and let her kneel down by Rond's side, examining the wound. It didn't look good at all; the blacksmith had already lost a lot of blood. It'd take a lot of healing and a lot more luck to keep him alive.
Spole hollered for Hana, the village's resident healer, and the woman stumbled forward, dropping down beside Bridget.
"Hold him still," Hana said hurriedly and held her hands over the man's face. Green light shone from her palms and Rond's blank eyes began to droop, closing slowly. "There. I've put him into a deep sleep. It'll slow down his metabolism and keep him alive a little longer."
The leader of the Norr party cackled. "Go ahead, try and heal him if you want. Even if he does recover, he'll only live the rest of his life as a slave."
He looked at the villagers and was answered by a sea of hateful glares. Fowledge was extremely close-knit; an attack on one person was an attack on all.
As Hana and Bridget moved Rond aside, helped by a few of the other villagers, Koni muscled his way to the front of the crowd, pitchfork raised. His voice was venomous.
"Just try and take anyone here," he growled, "and we'll all fight back. You'll have to kill us all before we give in to you, understand, asshole?"
Koni wasn't alone. There were several shouts of assent from within the throng of villagers, most of whom had spent their lives farming or building. They weren't weaklings.
But the Norr were trained killers.
"Bring it," jeered the leader.
With a furious cry, Koni charged forward, thrusting his pitchfork directly at the man. The Norr flicked his sword almost lazily, effortlessly catching the pitchfork and deflecting it to the side. As Koni stumbled, grunting, and the leader spun, smashing the pommel of his sword into the side of Koni's head.
There was a sickening crunch and Koni began to fall to his knees, but the Norr wasn't done yet. In a heartbeat, he snatched the pronged spear from Koni's hand and flipped into the air, sinking all three deadly points into Koni's back before landing deftly on one knee, head bowed.
"Is that all you can do?" he said quietly. "I expected more."
Koni slumped to the ground, a snarl on his face, but then the light faded from his eyes and he was gone.
Spole's old face slackened as he beheld the casual murder. "You beast..."
The man straightened to his full height, smiling cruelly. "You've had your warning. So what are ya gonna do? Submit and become slaves? Or fight and become slaves, only with about half of you dead?"
Spole could barely pause to take in a breath before there was a rush of footsteps from behind him. He turned, eyes widening.
"No, stop!"
"I'll kill you bastards!" roared the charging man, Ron the butcher. He whipped up the giant meat cleaver that always hung from his belt and took a swing at the Norr to the left of the leader. The Norr ducked easily undr the blow and struck Ron in the neck, stunning him. A second later, the massive man with the axe stepped up and buried one of its blades in Ron's side. Even though he only held the weapon in one hand, and still almost cut the butcher in half.
The leader grinned savagely, whipping his sword around and pointing it at the gathered villages. "Looks like your decision was made for you, eh old man? Let's have some fun, boys!"
The other four Norr surged forward, and despite Spole's protestant cries, the villager's rushed to meet them. Almost immediately, it was clear who the victors would be; the Norr shrugged off the villager's attacks like flies, retaliating in kind with much more force. Within seconds, the residents of Fowledge broke ranks, running screaming for places to hide. Several were beaten down into unconsciousness before they could make ten steps.
In the commotion, Bridget emerged from a nearby house, having left the dying Rond inside with Hana. She gaped at the scene; all over the square, villager's had fallen, either dead or knocked out. The entire battle was already fizzling out after less than a minute.
In the middle of it all stood the leader of the intruders, who'd stood back to watch the show. Joined by two of his squad members, he pointed at the houses on either side of the square.
"Search inside," he commanded. "These can't be all the people in this wretched hole. We're not leaving until every house has been searched, do you hear me?"
The two Norr nodded, and strode together towards the nearest house to them. Bridget's blood pounded in her ears as she saw that it was hers.
"Linke and Tarry!"
Motherly instinct kicked in like some sort of turbo. She would not let them harm her children. Bridget broke from the shelter of the doorway and sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her across the cobblestones of the square.
"Leave them alone, you twisted bastards!" she shrieked, and pulled back her arm. The knife that she'd hidden up her sleeve was clenched tightly between her fingers as she raised it over her shoulder.
The light of dropped torches flashed from the silver blade as it left her hand and spun across the remaining distance, on a direct course for one of the men so close to her children. He turned as she screamed, saw the knife coming ever so closer…
SWINCHK!
Bridget coughed and stopped running, eyes wide and staring at the man who she'd tried to kill. He stared straight back, smiling eerily.
Slowly, Bridget lowered her chin and gazed at the blade buried up to the hilt in her own chest. Her fingers grasped at the handgrip for a few seconds before her strength faded and the woman dropped against the hard cobblestones.
The last thing she saw before everything went black was two murderers stalking into her house.
"…Linke…Tarry…."
000
"Prepare to defend!"
One thousand men marshalled in Musta as the King's Elite soared towards the city, flying abreast. Positioned in the centre of the line, Mataro glanced over the fort, taking in every detail in a second.
"You know what to do, boys! Don't let a single civilian die, you hear me?"
The others answered as one, and the General took the lead, moving in front of the others as they beared down on the outer wall. Norr warriors waited on top, watching the Elite growing close. In an instant, Mataro cast his ki out, feeling for energy. Once he was absolutely certain that there were no innocents inside the rampart, he shimmered and disappeared.
A second later, he reappeared on top of the wall behind the line of men, catching each and every one of them by surprise. As they spun to face him, the General didn't waste any time playing games. He pulled back his arm, focussing as much energy as he could muster into his fist before slamming it down onto the stone beneath his feet.
"Heaven's Hammer!"
There was a sound like a thousand rolls of thunder as the stone of the outer wall cracked and broke, and a cloud of blinding dust exploded into the night sky. And inside the cloud the wall collapsed in on itself, groaning and falling to the ground beyond. Stone smashed and sand crashed, the rubble caking the street behind. The guard towers every few hundred feet imploded under the pressure, the tall stone towers toppling over like enormous dominos.
Norr warriors fell with the rampart, screaming as they were crushed between layers of broken stone. More followed, as the wave of destruction followed the rest of wall, several kilometres long. At least one hundred and fifty men had fallen in this initial attack, and great echoes of shock rang across the city as the rest of the Norr saw the extent of the damage.
"Attack!" bellowed Mataro, descending quickly to the ground and leaning against a piece of rubble. Above, the rest of his men entered the city threw the brand new stretch of ruin where the wall had used to be.
Despite reinforcing himself with ki, Mataro's hand had still been split open by the blow to the wall. The General gripped at his wrist as he examined the injury; most people might be in pain, but whenever that feeling came knocking at Mataro's door, he kicked it in the face and told it to piss off. He'd never had an injury that he couldn't shake off, at least so far. He just refused to sit out.
Someone emerged from the dust above him and then Tobar had landed. "General, are you OK?"
Mataro nodded. "Of course I am. What's the situation up there?"
"We've engaged the Norr," answered Tobar. "You shook their morale with that Heaven's Hammer, but we still have to take the fort. A lot of them have withdrawn inside, and I bet that Dyun is there too."
Mataro nodded in agreement. "I think you're right. I'll take Dyun; the rest of you focus on the riff-raff."
"Yes, General."
Mataro straightened back up, flexing his fingers. They seemed to be working fine still. It was time to re-enter the battle. Before he could move, three more figures emerged from the dust behind Tobar. The big man heard them coming and dropped, swinging his leg out behind him and tripping the first one over.
As the man collapsed into the rubble, his head cracking against the stone, Tobar finished off the other two men with twin punches. Mataro clapped him on the back.
"Good job, my friend. Now, let us go!"
Ki pulsed at his feet and the General lifted from the ground, arms extended on either side for balance. This also meant that he was ready to counter an attack from either side. Buildings rushed by on either side as he tore down the darkened streets towards the huge fort, zooming past the cluster of houses and emporiums of the town. In other parts of Musta, great skirmishes were taking place, the few hundred men who hadn't fled to the fort moving en-masse to attack the intruders. You almost had to feel sorry for them.
Suddenly, a glint caught in the corner of the General's eye, and Mataro pulled himself backwards, narrowly dodging a jagged curved blade. It slashed at nothing, before its owner - a scrawny man with greasy hair – flicked his wrist to cancel his next swing. The man nervously changed his grip so that he was holding the rusty sword in two hands, pointing the tip at Mataro, who beckoned.
The Norr stabbed clumsily out with his sword and Mataro easily deflected it with his bare hand, pushing at the flat of the blade. A quick blow to the temple and the greasy-haired man was out, falling to the ground without a sound.
Mataro straightened up to his full height and turned his gaze to the top of the fort. It was a perfect cylinder, made of stone. Windows were cut into it every few metres, both horizontally and vertically. The top of the fort was flat, with a chest height wall running around the circumference to protect those who stood behind. Mataro closed his eyes and focussed; Tobar had been right. A good majority of the Norr had fallen back into the fort as soon as the wall had been destroyed.
Mataro grinned his flashy white grin, the moonlight reflecting off those pearly tombstones, and started for the tower. On the way, he effortlessly dispatched no less than thirty-two men.
000
The sounds of the battle rang over the city, clashes of steel carrying on the night breeze, even reaching all the way to the top of the fort. Dyun grimaced fiercely and stalked to the edge of the roof, poking his head over the edge and glancing over the city. His men were falling like flies.
"Sir Dyun! What should we do?"
Dyun closed his eyes in annoyance as he heard the clutter of footsteps up the sandstone staircase. He turned angrily and pointed fiercely at the newcomer.
"Shut up, Peil! You're not helping."
The blond captain closed his mouth reluctantly. His nose was bent and flecks of blood still clung to the skin around his mouth.
Dyun turned back to the parapets, his razor sharp eyes flickering over the city yet again. He was almost unnaturally tall, and like Peil wore the traditional leather armour of the Slavoans. A long fringe hung down the left side of his face, mirroring the cape that hung from the opposite shoulder.
Trained personally by Lord Kayne, Dyun was one of the few warriors in the Kingdom on the same level as the King's Elite. But even he wouldn't stand a chance against all of them. The Norr went through all of his options in his head, and found himself going in circles.
"Sir?" said Peil slowly, taking a step forward.
Dyun twisted his head and looked at him. He was snarling. "Get back down there and tell those cowards to go fight!"
"They won't, Sir Dyun," replied Peil hesitantly, and Dyun froze, his expression thunderous.
"What do you mean, they won't?"
Peil began to reply, but Dyun cut him off with a hand gesture, which then turned into a beckon. "Come here, Captain."
The blond looked startled, and stumbled forward. For all his confidence earlier before his beatdown at the hands of Mataro, he was scared now once he knew how outclassed he was.
When Peil came within arm's reach, Dyun backhanded him across the face without even a blink. Peil shouted in pain and put a hand to his cheek, which was flaming red. Dyun poked his face forward.
"Perhaps you'd like to explain to me, Captain Peil, how we plan to overthrow the Kingdom and raise Lord Kayne to power if we can't even defeat a force of ten men? This is a revolution! Once Kentus is dead and the Kingdom crushed, we'll live a life of luxury over the regular people. Don't you see, Captain, the opportunity you've been presented? You'll be elevated with the rest of us, but that won't come without a price. Now tell those swine to get out and fight, and while you're at it, you can go too."
Peil flinched even more than when he'd been struck. "Me? Fighting out there against Mataro? I'll be killed!"
The sounds of the battle were getting closer as the King's Elite moved across the city. Dyun spat on the ground and turned back to the wall, watching as the scuffle grew closer.
"I don't care, Peil. You'll no doubt fare better than the others. You are a Captain after all."
Peil just stood silently, his mouth slightly open and eyes wide with fear. He was way out of his debt here; Kayne had promised the Prion power, but Peil doubted that any of them had expected something like this.
Suddenly, Dyun stiffened, and that's when it happened. A very large, very muscular shape burst over the edge of the wall, a meaty fist already on its way. And like a shadow, Dyun dodged, leaning right over backwards as if he were a limbo artist. Peil had about a millisecond to appreciate the Norr's reflexes before he realised that he was still standing right behind Dyun. The fist hit him.
For the second time that day, Peil's nose shattered under General Mataro's fingers, and he was blown right off his feet, sailing like a rag-doll through the air before colliding with the wall on the other side of the fort. Peil's eyes rolled into his head and his chin dropped, completely unconscious.
"Bugger," was the last thing he though before everything went black.
Meanwhile, Mataro landed on one hand, using his momentum to flip around and bring himself back to his feet. Just in time.
Like blades from hell, Dyun had instantly drawn four stiletto knives from under his cape, two in each hand. The razor sharp blades glinted under the moonlight. Without even hesitating, Dyun raised them over his shoulder and hurled them at Mataro, who instantly threw his body to the side. Even so, one of them hit, slicing into his forearm as it flashed past him. A spurt of blood sprayed the air and Mataro landed awkwardly. The General examined the wound; it wasn't overly deep, but blood ran down his arm and was staining his favourite green singlet and martial arts pants.
He glanced up and spotted Dyun, who was poised in a bizarre defensive stance that for some reason involved wiggling his fingers like an idiot. It detracted from his former menace.
"Hi," said Mataro. "We made it."
Dyun tilted his head and stopped wiggling. "Go home, General. Or better yet, surrender to the Norr now, you cannot defeat me or Lord Kayne."
Mataro thought for a second. "See, that's not exactly right. That traitorous bastard Kayne might be out of my league, but he's out of yours too. You talk big, but I could pound you like a sack of potatoes."
Dyun smirked, and drew two wicked-looking sai knives from under his cape. "Then prove it, big man. A fight to the death."
000
OMG, this has taken me so goddamn long to get done. I keep on just doing about 1000 words a week or something, including the work on the main series. Sorry it's taken so long.
Anyway, so part 1's finished. Only 3 more to go…this might take a while. Future parts probably won't be as long as this one – maybe only around the 10,000 word mark per part.
So, how'd you all like it? Be sure to leave a review, because I really like hearing your opinions. Tell me which bits you like, which bits you don't like, where I could improve, etc.
See you next chapter ;)