Chapter 2; Shaddamite Leader
Camp was made beneath the pines that night. They were a weary lot; weary but efficient. Things were set up in less then ten minutes and a perimeter quickly established. Castaspella supervised her people, lending them council as needed. They were getting along with their hosts, no unspoken tensions, no hostilities, there was in fact a sense of camaraderie beginning to develop; however, she noticed as many of the fighters began taking up positions as guards, none of her people were put on duty. Her dark brows drew together and a frown marred her face. Castaspella walked purposefully through camp seeking the Shaddamite leader.
She found him in conference with three other warriors; a woman, all lean, hard muscle and sinew in a red leather body suit clinging lover-like to her torso, chest and legs; chain mail gauntlets and gloves on her arms and a short skirt of chain mail over scarlet thighs. She wore calf length crimson boots and her long ebony hair hung in a dark braid down her back. Her face was catlike, with a narrow chin and almond shaped eyes of piercing chalcedony, a pert, dainty nose and a wide mouth with an upper lip slightly fuller than the lower one. Two swords were sheathed at her back, idly Casta wondered if she knew how to use them.
The other two warriors were men; dressed in brown wood garb, one a tall muscled blond, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, light and wavy with full lips tilting sensually at the corners- the other could have been a mirror image except his was a harsher colder visage. The four stopped talking as she approached.
"Sir Just, might I have a moment of your time." Her voice was calm, her expression serene, giving him no hint as to the hot flood of sensations she was feeling looking at him, as his penetrating eyes drilled mercilessly into her own.
"Sure thing, runt." He grunted, walking past her. Gritting her teeth, she followed his hard, wide backside deeper into the woods. At least the view was pleasant. Even if the company was not.
Needles softly crunched beneath their feet, a night bird cawed raucously as they neared the end of the radius of light given off by the campfires. He leaned back against a tree, his face shadowed, eyes gleaming as they watched her. Her hesitant voice filled the silence between them.
"I noticed none of my people were put on guard. I was wondering as to the reason why?" His eyes seemed to devour her in the night, famished, yet unreadable. Or did she merely hope they were? His silence was discomfiting. She found herself blushing beneath his unblinking scrutiny; her slender hand rising to touch her throat in a purely feminine gesture of self consciousness. She cleared her throat softly.
"If you hesitate merely because you feel you lack authority over them rest assured I am happy to act as your equal in this matter." He maintained silence as her words faded into the night. Casta shifted, awaiting a response.
Still he said nothing, merely watched her with hungry orbs, gleaming in the evening light. Her lips curved down, temper igniting, she really was trying to establish a rapport with the man and he just stood there dumb as stone looking pretty! Eyes flashing in frustration, she spoke again, her tone mirroring her displeasure, slowly, as if addressing an imbecile and sharp enough to convey her irritation.
"Why aren't- any of- my people- on guard?" He cracked a small full lipped smile as he watched her struggle to maintain composure. Finally, he deigned to answer her.
"It's simple runt. I don't know you. I don't know your people. I do know my people and I know they won't be caught sleeping on the job while protecting my life and the lives of their comrades. I won't trust your people with my life or my friends lives until they prove their abilities, their usefulness and their loyalties." Then he smirked, "now, as for that bit about me not being afraid to take command of your men, honey, you should know, there is only one leader of this camp, it isn't you." Castaspella was floored. This blatant lack of courtesy and common respect was too much. It had to end now or hope would be lost as they would be a camp divided. Heartsick, she knew she would have to demonstrate her power to him now in order to at least achieve a modicum of respect.
Her eyes already liquid pools of mahogany from her angry frustration, darkened still further with pain as she realized her action might forever lose her his affection; but she had little choice: Her people would not follow a man who treated her with disregard, she could not afford to split them up when they knew nothing about the land they were in, they would be lost without him and his people. Bad enough the seasons were in reverse here, summers heat was full upon them in Shaddamite even though she and her people had just left the first chill winds of winter behind in Mystacor.
As Anvil moved to brush past, her arm shot out, lightning quick, the backside of it touching his chest. He froze, unable to move because of the powerful magiks which bound him. Using a small trick she had perfected during her years as an apprentice she made herself appear to loom over him; powerful, tall, noble. A golden light seemed to appear all around her and her voice strong and pure with righteous anger burst through his mind like a foamy white cap bursting upon an unsuspecting shore. Warm, confident, indignant; he thought her powerful before but now he knew, here was a woman to beware of; the currents around her electrified him, her and the land surrounding them.
"Anvil Just, I am not your enemy. Neither am I your underling. I am, at the least, your equal. I have fought for the freedom of my land and maintained it while yours fell to the Horde. I have powers beyond your ken. I will not be brushed aside or taken lightly. If you are threatened by me and my abilities perhaps a new leader should be chosen. One who's mind is bent on serving the greater good- his people and less on preserving his own precious ego. You will accord me the respect I have earned and the courtesy any person deserves. In the name of the first ones, those who have entrusted me to see their will carried out, I command you- cease hostilities with me!" Her eyes bore down into his, her heart wilting as she saw the angry sparkle in those dark obsidian globes. "I am not your enemy Sir Just." She whispered softly, "Do not underestimate my powers. Do not overestimate your abilities. We are each only as important as the cause we serve, if we fall another will rise up, taking our place and, if necessary, another after that, and another; let it not be said that Castaspella and Anvil Just could not discover a common harmony." She released him from her power and he fell back.
He stood, glaring at her. She stayed where she was, serene and unflappable in the face of his hot rage. He raised a golden finger to her face, his breath coming hard and hot, bathing her face in its moist heat.
"I don't doubt your abilities sorceress, but don't you ever use your powers on me again. If you do, one of us will die. I am a human being. Not some lab rat to be toyed with and manipulated by others! You may not be my enemy, but you damn sure aren't my friend! And you never will be." He hissed through clenched teeth. Angrily he stormed back to camp. He did not see the queen of Mystacor choke back her heartache and bitter disappointment, struggling against the tears which fought to fall a quiet font of sorrow and disappointment. Her duty would have to comfort her, as it always had. Sitting in the cold evening air of the pine forest she wondered what else could go wrong on what was supposed to be the grand adventure of her lifetime.
Anvil was more than a little pissed. That woman had no right using her powers on him. None at all. His mood was black, his mind a haze of anger and unreasoning hate. Memories boiled up in the cauldron of rage that was his mind; unwanted memories, bringing back feelings he was helpless against, fear, impotent rage, madness. Struggling for control he decided avoiding people totally would be a good idea for him right now. He veered south, scouting beyond the perimeter of the safety net camp established. Try as he might he could not bring to heel his mental demons, they exploded across his mind, livid visions serving only to stoke his rage.
At twenty-four the Horde raided his village. Brunston fell to their forces with hardly a whimper, he was captured and taken to a Horde facility. They had him altered. When he awoke he was missing his arms; both of them. He was helpless as they replaced them with prosthetic robotic limbs made of a cordamite, euridium alloy. They tried brainwashing him, to convince him he was a Horde soldier but he only pretended to go along with them; one thing keeping him sane for the four years while they tortured his body and spirit; the idea of revenge. Right before he was captured he watched, helpless, as his parents- both freedom fighters- were slashed to ribbons by Razita, the Horde force captain in Shaddamite. The image and accompanying emotional agony helped him focus on who he really was and what he wanted when the treatment made him forget such things. He did not however escape without soul deep scars, ribbons of madness pulsing through his blood.
Eventually came the day they released him. They were confident in their science, disdaining to use magic for mindcontrol, citing an incident with a force captain that failed before. They discovered soon after their science failed them as well. Once free of the restraints holding him, his powerful horde altered body, rippling with strength and his invincible arms laid waste to the scientists and their labs. He remembered crushing their skulls in his hands, unable to feel the texture of the jellied mass coating his metal palms, he destroyed their massive computers with one sweep of his powerful arms. He was ten times the warrior he had been, but at what cost?
He discovered he had no sensation in his arms and hands, he would never know the gentle touch of a woman, for what woman would consent to have a man who was only half human and could not even touch them with gentle passion? He became a man consumed with destroying the Horde. Revenge was his passion, he ate vengeance six times a day and dreamt about it in the night, revenge was the drive that sustained him and kept him strong when thoughts of a lifetime with no one at his side threatened to cloud his mind with despair.
He organized and revitalized the flagging resistance movement. Men and women flocked to his side, ready to fight with the man with golden arms. Two massive war-hammers became his weapons and anything standing against him fell beneath those iron heads. He vowed to never be made a helpless prisoner again. He would rather die. When that Sorceress used her power on him he was utterly helpless. All the emotional and psychological garbage that went with the feeling threatened to vomit forth into his consciousness and it was only with the greatest of effort that he was able to slam the lid on it and maintain his rage.
He hated the feeling.
He hated her for eliciting it.
Yet now, looking back in review, he grudgingly realized he may not have left her much choice. Not with her wild temper anyway.
He wasn't blind. He was a leader; he noticed the looks her people were passing as he continued ignoring her. He was inexperienced in sharing command, maybe he was a bit disconcerted with her presence, he felt as if this was his camp, his cause, his people, he had built the resistence from nothing, yet now he was expected to share what was his with this wisp of a woman- she lacked the look of a warrior. She was nothing like Chandra, the sloe eyed, ebony haired Shan tui' Sar sword maiden. And the feelings she engendered when he looked at her were unacceptable. Yet they bombarded his consciousness none the less.
She was a goddess given form. Her limbs were strong and lithe and still utterly feminine, she wore the mantle of power with ageless grace and her eyes were liquid jewels, burning his soul with the heat of her spirit and the passion he glimpsed therein.
Oh yes, he noticed the desire in her eyes as she gazed on him. That made her all the more dangerous. As beautiful as she was he could not afford any personal involvement. It would never work and he could ill afford to lose the forces she brought simply because her feelings got hurt. He had his people to think about. Morale was flagging, recently. The fighting never seemed to stop.
They were always moving, fighting for their lives. Friends died all around them everyday- died or were taken prisoner and subjected to Moduloks hideous experimentation. Modulok was the horde scientist and ruler controlling the capitol city of Dramada and the land of Shaddamite. His laws were hard and strictly enforced by Force Captain Razita and her minions. Any citizen caught in the city without their papers were executed on sight. Anvil knew this because many of his men were dead for this very reason. All citizens were forced to carry identification papers on them in Shaddamite and official stamps changed frequently, making obtaining fraudulent papers practically impossible. His people would be boosted when they saw the warriors the SeaHawk had brought them. His visage blackened, that is if they were warriors. If they were not they would be ejected from his presence. His camp had no place for beggars.
He decided he would give them a chance to prove their worth tomorrow when they raided the Horde Outpost of Valrein. If the woman proved a valuable ally then he would adjust his treatment of her. If not. He'd leave her here.
And he meant what he said. If she ever used her power on him again, one of them would die. He would not be helpless again.
Camp was made beneath the pines that night. They were a weary lot; weary but efficient. Things were set up in less then ten minutes and a perimeter quickly established. Castaspella supervised her people, lending them council as needed. They were getting along with their hosts, no unspoken tensions, no hostilities, there was in fact a sense of camaraderie beginning to develop; however, she noticed as many of the fighters began taking up positions as guards, none of her people were put on duty. Her dark brows drew together and a frown marred her face. Castaspella walked purposefully through camp seeking the Shaddamite leader.
She found him in conference with three other warriors; a woman, all lean, hard muscle and sinew in a red leather body suit clinging lover-like to her torso, chest and legs; chain mail gauntlets and gloves on her arms and a short skirt of chain mail over scarlet thighs. She wore calf length crimson boots and her long ebony hair hung in a dark braid down her back. Her face was catlike, with a narrow chin and almond shaped eyes of piercing chalcedony, a pert, dainty nose and a wide mouth with an upper lip slightly fuller than the lower one. Two swords were sheathed at her back, idly Casta wondered if she knew how to use them.
The other two warriors were men; dressed in brown wood garb, one a tall muscled blond, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, light and wavy with full lips tilting sensually at the corners- the other could have been a mirror image except his was a harsher colder visage. The four stopped talking as she approached.
"Sir Just, might I have a moment of your time." Her voice was calm, her expression serene, giving him no hint as to the hot flood of sensations she was feeling looking at him, as his penetrating eyes drilled mercilessly into her own.
"Sure thing, runt." He grunted, walking past her. Gritting her teeth, she followed his hard, wide backside deeper into the woods. At least the view was pleasant. Even if the company was not.
Needles softly crunched beneath their feet, a night bird cawed raucously as they neared the end of the radius of light given off by the campfires. He leaned back against a tree, his face shadowed, eyes gleaming as they watched her. Her hesitant voice filled the silence between them.
"I noticed none of my people were put on guard. I was wondering as to the reason why?" His eyes seemed to devour her in the night, famished, yet unreadable. Or did she merely hope they were? His silence was discomfiting. She found herself blushing beneath his unblinking scrutiny; her slender hand rising to touch her throat in a purely feminine gesture of self consciousness. She cleared her throat softly.
"If you hesitate merely because you feel you lack authority over them rest assured I am happy to act as your equal in this matter." He maintained silence as her words faded into the night. Casta shifted, awaiting a response.
Still he said nothing, merely watched her with hungry orbs, gleaming in the evening light. Her lips curved down, temper igniting, she really was trying to establish a rapport with the man and he just stood there dumb as stone looking pretty! Eyes flashing in frustration, she spoke again, her tone mirroring her displeasure, slowly, as if addressing an imbecile and sharp enough to convey her irritation.
"Why aren't- any of- my people- on guard?" He cracked a small full lipped smile as he watched her struggle to maintain composure. Finally, he deigned to answer her.
"It's simple runt. I don't know you. I don't know your people. I do know my people and I know they won't be caught sleeping on the job while protecting my life and the lives of their comrades. I won't trust your people with my life or my friends lives until they prove their abilities, their usefulness and their loyalties." Then he smirked, "now, as for that bit about me not being afraid to take command of your men, honey, you should know, there is only one leader of this camp, it isn't you." Castaspella was floored. This blatant lack of courtesy and common respect was too much. It had to end now or hope would be lost as they would be a camp divided. Heartsick, she knew she would have to demonstrate her power to him now in order to at least achieve a modicum of respect.
Her eyes already liquid pools of mahogany from her angry frustration, darkened still further with pain as she realized her action might forever lose her his affection; but she had little choice: Her people would not follow a man who treated her with disregard, she could not afford to split them up when they knew nothing about the land they were in, they would be lost without him and his people. Bad enough the seasons were in reverse here, summers heat was full upon them in Shaddamite even though she and her people had just left the first chill winds of winter behind in Mystacor.
As Anvil moved to brush past, her arm shot out, lightning quick, the backside of it touching his chest. He froze, unable to move because of the powerful magiks which bound him. Using a small trick she had perfected during her years as an apprentice she made herself appear to loom over him; powerful, tall, noble. A golden light seemed to appear all around her and her voice strong and pure with righteous anger burst through his mind like a foamy white cap bursting upon an unsuspecting shore. Warm, confident, indignant; he thought her powerful before but now he knew, here was a woman to beware of; the currents around her electrified him, her and the land surrounding them.
"Anvil Just, I am not your enemy. Neither am I your underling. I am, at the least, your equal. I have fought for the freedom of my land and maintained it while yours fell to the Horde. I have powers beyond your ken. I will not be brushed aside or taken lightly. If you are threatened by me and my abilities perhaps a new leader should be chosen. One who's mind is bent on serving the greater good- his people and less on preserving his own precious ego. You will accord me the respect I have earned and the courtesy any person deserves. In the name of the first ones, those who have entrusted me to see their will carried out, I command you- cease hostilities with me!" Her eyes bore down into his, her heart wilting as she saw the angry sparkle in those dark obsidian globes. "I am not your enemy Sir Just." She whispered softly, "Do not underestimate my powers. Do not overestimate your abilities. We are each only as important as the cause we serve, if we fall another will rise up, taking our place and, if necessary, another after that, and another; let it not be said that Castaspella and Anvil Just could not discover a common harmony." She released him from her power and he fell back.
He stood, glaring at her. She stayed where she was, serene and unflappable in the face of his hot rage. He raised a golden finger to her face, his breath coming hard and hot, bathing her face in its moist heat.
"I don't doubt your abilities sorceress, but don't you ever use your powers on me again. If you do, one of us will die. I am a human being. Not some lab rat to be toyed with and manipulated by others! You may not be my enemy, but you damn sure aren't my friend! And you never will be." He hissed through clenched teeth. Angrily he stormed back to camp. He did not see the queen of Mystacor choke back her heartache and bitter disappointment, struggling against the tears which fought to fall a quiet font of sorrow and disappointment. Her duty would have to comfort her, as it always had. Sitting in the cold evening air of the pine forest she wondered what else could go wrong on what was supposed to be the grand adventure of her lifetime.
Anvil was more than a little pissed. That woman had no right using her powers on him. None at all. His mood was black, his mind a haze of anger and unreasoning hate. Memories boiled up in the cauldron of rage that was his mind; unwanted memories, bringing back feelings he was helpless against, fear, impotent rage, madness. Struggling for control he decided avoiding people totally would be a good idea for him right now. He veered south, scouting beyond the perimeter of the safety net camp established. Try as he might he could not bring to heel his mental demons, they exploded across his mind, livid visions serving only to stoke his rage.
At twenty-four the Horde raided his village. Brunston fell to their forces with hardly a whimper, he was captured and taken to a Horde facility. They had him altered. When he awoke he was missing his arms; both of them. He was helpless as they replaced them with prosthetic robotic limbs made of a cordamite, euridium alloy. They tried brainwashing him, to convince him he was a Horde soldier but he only pretended to go along with them; one thing keeping him sane for the four years while they tortured his body and spirit; the idea of revenge. Right before he was captured he watched, helpless, as his parents- both freedom fighters- were slashed to ribbons by Razita, the Horde force captain in Shaddamite. The image and accompanying emotional agony helped him focus on who he really was and what he wanted when the treatment made him forget such things. He did not however escape without soul deep scars, ribbons of madness pulsing through his blood.
Eventually came the day they released him. They were confident in their science, disdaining to use magic for mindcontrol, citing an incident with a force captain that failed before. They discovered soon after their science failed them as well. Once free of the restraints holding him, his powerful horde altered body, rippling with strength and his invincible arms laid waste to the scientists and their labs. He remembered crushing their skulls in his hands, unable to feel the texture of the jellied mass coating his metal palms, he destroyed their massive computers with one sweep of his powerful arms. He was ten times the warrior he had been, but at what cost?
He discovered he had no sensation in his arms and hands, he would never know the gentle touch of a woman, for what woman would consent to have a man who was only half human and could not even touch them with gentle passion? He became a man consumed with destroying the Horde. Revenge was his passion, he ate vengeance six times a day and dreamt about it in the night, revenge was the drive that sustained him and kept him strong when thoughts of a lifetime with no one at his side threatened to cloud his mind with despair.
He organized and revitalized the flagging resistance movement. Men and women flocked to his side, ready to fight with the man with golden arms. Two massive war-hammers became his weapons and anything standing against him fell beneath those iron heads. He vowed to never be made a helpless prisoner again. He would rather die. When that Sorceress used her power on him he was utterly helpless. All the emotional and psychological garbage that went with the feeling threatened to vomit forth into his consciousness and it was only with the greatest of effort that he was able to slam the lid on it and maintain his rage.
He hated the feeling.
He hated her for eliciting it.
Yet now, looking back in review, he grudgingly realized he may not have left her much choice. Not with her wild temper anyway.
He wasn't blind. He was a leader; he noticed the looks her people were passing as he continued ignoring her. He was inexperienced in sharing command, maybe he was a bit disconcerted with her presence, he felt as if this was his camp, his cause, his people, he had built the resistence from nothing, yet now he was expected to share what was his with this wisp of a woman- she lacked the look of a warrior. She was nothing like Chandra, the sloe eyed, ebony haired Shan tui' Sar sword maiden. And the feelings she engendered when he looked at her were unacceptable. Yet they bombarded his consciousness none the less.
She was a goddess given form. Her limbs were strong and lithe and still utterly feminine, she wore the mantle of power with ageless grace and her eyes were liquid jewels, burning his soul with the heat of her spirit and the passion he glimpsed therein.
Oh yes, he noticed the desire in her eyes as she gazed on him. That made her all the more dangerous. As beautiful as she was he could not afford any personal involvement. It would never work and he could ill afford to lose the forces she brought simply because her feelings got hurt. He had his people to think about. Morale was flagging, recently. The fighting never seemed to stop.
They were always moving, fighting for their lives. Friends died all around them everyday- died or were taken prisoner and subjected to Moduloks hideous experimentation. Modulok was the horde scientist and ruler controlling the capitol city of Dramada and the land of Shaddamite. His laws were hard and strictly enforced by Force Captain Razita and her minions. Any citizen caught in the city without their papers were executed on sight. Anvil knew this because many of his men were dead for this very reason. All citizens were forced to carry identification papers on them in Shaddamite and official stamps changed frequently, making obtaining fraudulent papers practically impossible. His people would be boosted when they saw the warriors the SeaHawk had brought them. His visage blackened, that is if they were warriors. If they were not they would be ejected from his presence. His camp had no place for beggars.
He decided he would give them a chance to prove their worth tomorrow when they raided the Horde Outpost of Valrein. If the woman proved a valuable ally then he would adjust his treatment of her. If not. He'd leave her here.
And he meant what he said. If she ever used her power on him again, one of them would die. He would not be helpless again.